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themand0lorian · 3 years ago

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BEHIND THE MASK // 4 // THE NEW NORMAL

Summary: You deepen your relationship with Dieter Bravo.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: Teen

Words: ~4000 (AO3)

Tags: enemies to lovers, miscommunications, lots of Pandemic talk, lots of mention of illness/vomit/pills/doctors, the scene in the trailer where he’s on the toilet (jfc this tag), the real Dieter Bravo™️, Stardew Valley, a specific reference to a Netflix movie in which a dog dies (nondescript)

no movie spoilers (unless unintentional)

Notes: Wanted to finish this story before the movie, but it doesn’t look like that’ll happen :( I have two more parts planned!

You end up being correct, at least in one aspect.

Right as you get on the mend, temperature approaching normal levels and stomach keeping down solid foods, Dieter comes down with the same flu you had.

You suppose it was inevitable; since the night in the bathroom, he hasn’t been short with his physical affection. He was always laying his hands on yours, pulling you to him on the couch until your head rested on his shoulder and your knees touched chastely.

You’re pretty sure you hallucinated his lips on your forehead, since nothing like that ever seemed close to happening again.

Luckily for you, he had been popping Vitamin C and zinc pills like candy since you were diagnosed, so he wasn’t as severely ill as you were; still mostly capable, not bad enough to warrant his own prescriptions. But Dieter Bravo was a petulant patient.

He was needy, but not in a bad way; not needy like when he wants his pants ironed or his coffee brewed just right. More like needy for human interaction, for an escape from the mental prison he had built up. Needy for something, you think, he doesn’t know.

Still, he had doted on you when you were ill, and so you doted right back on him. His tea and coffee were made perfectly, even when he groused at being awoken; you pulled new sets of pajamas and forced him into a shower—alone, much to his chagrin—when he needed a pick-me-up. Netflix was always queued up to the movies section, some classic or another droning in the background, though you didn’t think he was really paying attention.

When he emerges out of the shower this time, wearing a Cliff Beasts promo shirt with his face over it (which you had chosen for him purely for comedy, finding it stuffed behind some other, nicer items), he sniffs loudly at the air, still congested.

“Are you cooking?” You startle from the kitchenette, your back to the bedroom.

“Oh—yeah. I had Pete bring by some ingredients for my Mom’s famous chicken noodle soup. Thought it’d help get rid of the last of the flu.” He shuffles over, bending down for another whiff and letting the steam clear his sinuses. “Ew, don’t get snot in it—”

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesces. “It smells great—I hate to mess with perfection, but, maybe, could you hold the noodles?” You roll your eyes. Typical Hollywood.

“Dee, you could really use the calories to help you get better—”

“What? No! Not—no,” he sputters, then scoffs. “Not because of that. I—I’m allergic to gluten.” You drop the spoon, narrowing your eyes at him, and when he gives a sheepish grin, you decide to believe him.

“Ok. Get in bed. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” He nods, excitedly shuffling back to the bedroom as you continue the recipe, setting aside the noodles. You suppose it made sense; he didn’t eat Pete’s cookies because he physically couldn’t, not because he’s an ass. None of the candy or food in the room was ever gluten-based. You had even spotted the half-eaten bag of chocolate chips, specified “gluten free” on the package, in the cupboard.

When the soup is done, you bowl it up, moving to walk slowly with the full bowl into Dieter’s room. It still feels strange to call him Diego; part of the fever dream you’re still not quite sure is real. But you were getting used to Dieter.

Speaking of, you found the man tucked into the fluffy white sheets, an awful movie about killer beavers playing on the large tv, though his eyes immediately shift to you with a big smile when you enter.

“Here we go, chicken-no-noodle soup for you,” you offer him the bowl, and he takes it greedily.

“And some chicken noodle for me at the table.” You set your bowl on the little table you’ve setup just outside the room, but he whines moodily when you move to walk to it.

“Come to bed.” “What?” You look at him in confusion.

“Come watch Zombeavers. It’s very bad.” You cock your brow. “You would like it.” “Are you in it?” With that he chokes out a laugh, which turns into a pitiful coughing fit.

“No. C’mon. I’ll restart it.” You think on it a moment. You think about your original list of rules; no getting involved. You think of Hailey’s comments; Dieter Bravo never has the same woman in his bed twice. But then you think of his care when you were sick, his puppy-dog eyes and sickly-sweet smile, and you acquiesce, bringing your soup bowl into bed, too.

Dieter practically cheers, excitedly restarting Zombeavers as you settle. The sheets are mussed, no housekeeping in while you’re quarantined, but it feels comfortable and homey as you both begin eating, and Dieter explains the intricacies involved in the filming of this movie bomb.

By the time the movie’s halfway done, you’ve both settled low in the bed, watching as the idiots on screen essentially set up their dog to get eaten by a beaver.

You turn away before the carnage can show, upset; watching the humans be killed by zombie beavers was one thing, but the poor dog? As you turn, you curl closer into Dieter’s shoulder, broad and warm and perfectly fit to your hiding. When did you get this close? When did his arm snake around you? He holds you there as you mumble into him.

“Tell me when it’s over.” “Okay,” he murmurs. When a bark sounds, you burrow closer into him, and he holds you, seemingly ready to distract instead.

“You know, I never thanked you for your help with the necklace—I chose a simpler one, just a bar with stones in it, but my sister loved it.”

“Your sister?” You mumble into his shirt. “Yeah, Lina? I had her boys’ birthstones put in it, she loved it--”

“Lina’s your sister?” You bounce up as you speak, though you ignore the tv, and he looks to you in confusion. “Why does she have a couple emoji in your phone?”

“It’s not a couple! It’s a brother and sister!” “It’s a couple,” you mutter. “I’m pretty sure they’re holding hands.” His eyes widen, and he pulls his phone from the nightstand, presumably pulling up the emoji and holding it close to his face to inspect as you settle back on his chest.

“Oh, god,” he groans, realizing the mistake and making you laugh loudly, forgetting about the movie. “You thought I was dating my sister!”

“I’m glad you’re not,” you chuckle. He pins you with a look you can’t really place, as you rest your head near his, cuddled in bed and watching shitty movies together.

“Me too.”

You must fall asleep to the sounds of zombie beavers, ensconced in Dieter’s arms, because when you startle again, the Netflix homescreen plays idly on tv, and the moon shines bright and big outside Dieter’s window.

And the bed is empty.

In your hazed confusion, you begin to look around the room, until you hear the sound of what likely woke you up to begin with; painful retching from behind a closed door. You move closer to it, knocking lightly.

“Dieter? Are you okay?”

“F—Fine,” he replies smally, though it’s punctuated by more gagging noises.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound—"

“What—what brand of broth did you use in the soup?” You twist your brow. “Uh—I don’t know, let me see—” you run out of the room, grabbing the carton out of the trash and reading it to him through the door.

“Does it have gluten?” Your eyes go wide as you scan the label.

“Oh my God,” you reply, which is all he needs to hear before heaving again. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Dieter! Let me in!” You hear several more awful retching sounds, seeming to escalate in their fervor as you try to open the door again.

“It’s fine, you didn’t know, just--please—just go,” he pleads.

“Dee, what’s happening? What can I do?” You jiggle the handle aggressively. “Let me in!” “No! Leave!”

“Dieter!” You try to jiggle the handle again, hearing him groan. “Dee!”

“Please, just let me be,” he practically begs. “I—It’s repulsive, and it’s only a matter of time before it starts out the other end, and then I get mean and achy and tired--” “Dee, I don’t care.” After a moment, he doesn’t respond, and you get desperate. “Please. Let me help. I—I did this. I want to help you. I don't care if you're gross.” You hear him sigh through the door. “Please, Diego—" You hear the lock give on the door through the silence, though you push the door open to burst in to a pitiful sight.

Dieter sits in front of the toilet, not unlike you had before, his top soiled with his own sick, which is unfortunate for the Dieter Bravo Cliff Beasts shirt. His eyes are glazed a bit, his bones stiff as he groans. You quickly flush what he’s produced so far, before looking to him.

“I—I’m gonna get you a change of clothes, okay? And some water? What else?” He directs you to some pill bottles at the bottom of his luggage, which you bring back with you along with a comfy grey shirt and sweats. He quickly takes a few of the different pills—all treatments for the symptoms, he later explains, not the cause—and flops back as he attempts to change himself, so you step in, pulling the shirt off of him and replacing it with the new one, which you’re surprised to see is from Target. He thanks you smally before gagging again, though he doesn’t produce anything, and you gently wipe his mouth with the old shirt.

“You don’t have to do this—"

“Dee, I told you. I don’t leave when things are hard. Especially not when I made them hard.” “You’re lucky I’m too sick for a boner joke,” he mumbles, his head resting back against the porcelain tiles on the wall. You sit next to him, and his head heavily swings over to your shoulder instead. “Didn’t want to get out of bed. You looked peaceful.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” you attempt to joke, but he pins you with soulful eyes.

“Why do you do that?” “Do what?”

“Hate on yourself for being strong.” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap, and a broad hand rests over them to bring them to stop.

“It’s not that long ago you were calling me a ‘ball-buster.’” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “That’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called. That’s not even the worst this month.”

“M’sorry,” he offers, squeezing your hands in his.

“Me too,” you reply softly. “For the things I said.” “I know,” he whispers, his head still heavy on your shoulder, though his eyes linger on your face.

“What?” You chuckle awkwardly.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re delirious,” you brush off.

“Then you know I really mean it,” he replies with a goofy grin, his stomach still gurgling. “Even if you did poison me.” The two of you sit in the quiet some more, just the sound of the bathroom fan humming above you, when he breaks the silence awkwardly.

“Thank you for helping me. But I’ll be honest, sweetheart—things are about to get bad in here, and no matter how beautiful you are, I think I need some time alone.” You nod, moving to stand, then pulling him to his feet.

“I’ll be just in here,” you gesture to the bedroom.

“Go back to bed,” he almost pleads, but you ignore him.

“Come get me if you need me.”

Dieter does not come get you.

But you also do not go to bed.

He looks sheepish when he emerges again, the bathroom fan humming, seeing you watching a trashy reality TV show in a chair to the side of his bed. Almost immediately, you shake his embarrassment, standing up and approaching him with a smile that seems to erase any ill-will left in his heart as you enrobe him in fluffy terrycloth. When he finally does get into bed, you move to turn off the light, but he stops you with a hand to your wrist, not unlike you did to him.

“Stay?”

“Dee—”

“Stay. Even when things aren’t hard. Stay.” You search his face for a moment, finding nothing but sincerity there. Hailey is practically screaming in your ear. Dieter Bravo never has the same woman in his bed twice.

But it’s late, and you did poison him, and he’s giving you this look you don’t think you could ever describe, even with all the words in the English language at your disposal.

So you stay. Even when things aren’t hard.

You stay.

After a few more days and some final negative flu tests, you’re quarantine is finally over; it seems most of the cast and crew had been ill at some point, as the set doctor looks haggard, and you get word that it’ll be a few more days still until filming starts up again.

Though you’re finally allowed to travel back to your own room—a page had been delivering some of your items to Dieter’s while quarantined—you don’t spend much time there. It seems most of your time, even unrestricted, remains with Dieter—or Diego.

All the items that had made your way to his room seem to stay there; the Dieter Bravo promo shirt a favorite for pajamas as you exhaust Netflix’s archives. Dieter shows you his favorites—be it for cinematography or acting or costumes—and you see his passion again. You listen to him talk about it with rapt attention, even if the words mean nothing to you. You had never been much into movies before this, but snuggled low in Dieter’s expansive bed, tucked into his side as he tells you about green screens and practical effects and creative vision, it feels like you fit right in.

When the day’s movies are done, he even graciously switches to your trashy reality tv shows, getting more invested than you thought he ever would on whether Natalie and Shane would end up together (“He’s a psycho! Don’t, Natalie!”) or which housewife would end up in jail this time (“Teresa. Absolutely. Just look at her—you know she’s laundering money somewhere.”). You get the feeling he doesn’t often get to indulge in this side of himself; carefree, silly, human. So you do your best to bring it out.

You bake gluten free cookies, asking Pete for his recipe but changing out the flour for rice flour. It ends up with a flour fight and most of the chocolate chips in Dieter’s mouth, but the flour creases around his eyes when he smiles, and you wish you could bake the smile into his face like the cookies. You spend the afternoons out on his balcony—because of course, his room would have a balcony when yours could barely house a tv—the breeze billowing the curtains as you sit around the wrought iron table, Dieter studying his lines as you answer his emails and set up interviews. It all feels normal, domestic--only a little strange, like standing upon ice you know may start melting at any moment. At night, you’ve brought your Switch up to his room, and gotten him very invested in his farm in Stardew Valley, even if he only has a cabin on your main save file. He ensures he pets the chickens every day, and when he pets the dog and the heart emoticon shows up, he tells you all about his childhood pet, Doug the Dog, and how he starred in Dieter’s first directorial debut at age nine.

“It was about a dog trying to be tough like a wolf. Doug did the acting and I did voiceover. Though he was not a great actor,” Dieter laughs. “Was more interested in my treats than following my directions.”

“Of course,” you reply, eyes on the screen as you both move your characters down to the beach. It’s a rainy day, and a man stands in the corner of the sand.

“Who’s that?” Dieter asks, interacting with the man on screen. “Oh, he sells you a pendant if you want to marry one of the characters,” you supply, not looking away from your half of the screen. You make your way down to fish, setting it up before looking more closely at Dieter.

“Why don’t you do that again?” “What? Talk to that guy?”

“No. Direct. With real people and not dogs.” He shrugs, watching you catch a fish before both your characters walk back home to go to bed.

“No one wants an actor as a director.” “Why not?”

“I just—I’m washed up. I don’t know anymore—it doesn’t feel like it used to.”

“Then it sounds like you do need something different. Like directing.” He sucks in air, getting into his bed on screen before turning in on himself. “What if I suck at it? What if—what if no one listens to me? Like Doug?”

“Dee, Doug was a dog,” you chuckle, but he doesn’t return it. “Hey—look at me.” When he does, you see the fear in his eyes, and you grab his hand over the controller. “I listen to you talk about movies all the time. That’s the passion you want; the passion you need. I know it’s scary, but I think everyone would listen to you.” “You never do,” he supplies back sarcastically, watching your character climb into his bed instead of your own. “Get out of my bed!”

“In game or in real life?” You ask with a grin, pushing his buttons with you giggle. That makes him laugh fully, and he tumbles over you, the game forgotten as he cages you in with his body and you both dissolve into laughter. For a moment, you stay there; his elbows holding his body just barely above yours, your breath mingling between you as you come down from the giggles. You see that look in his eyes again; the one you don’t know how to take, and swallow nervously as he scans your face.

“Tomorrow’s back to shooting,” you murmur quietly.

“Yeah,” he offers plainly. You have so much you want to ask—will things go back to how they were? Will more hairstylists and boom operators make their way to his room when he’s allowed to have them? Will he turn back into Dieter Bravo like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?

“I—I should go then. We have an early call.” I don’t want to get hurt when I figure out this isn’t real. I don’t want to be sucked into you any more than I already have. He nods, slowly moving away from you until you can get up around him. His hand traces the bed where you once laid, the warmth still set in the sheets.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah,” he offers dumbly. “I’ll see you then.”

Dieter sleeps in your spot that night, holding on to whatever warmth, whatever scent is left, as he worries himself. Had he gone too far? Did he fuck this up like everything else? Had you finally seen who he really was and fled? It was what he expected all along. People see the glamour, the pomp, the fame. Then they see the real him; the him who can’t eat bread and talks about one shot in a movie for fifteen minutes straight, the messy, human side of him. They see Diego, not Dieter, and they run. Or they get what they wanted, and they run. There was never an option three.

You hadn’t though. You stayed through everything, requested specific flour and listened to his ramblings and encouraged his passions—

You saw Diego.

And you stayed.

And he needs to tell you what that means to him, what you mean to him; if he could only figure it out himself.

He’s never been good at words; it’s why he acts and doesn’t direct. The words are already on the page for him, ready to be said. So when he sees what’s on deck for the day—a specific scene in mind, one they blocked just before quarantining, he has an idea.

The morning goes the same as always, though he’s up and dressed before you even get to his room. He offers you coffee instead of the other way around, and you give him that smile, crooked and endearing an yours, and he knows.

They film a few group scenes first, getting back into the action after time away. When everyone comes back from lunch, Dieter finds you with the other PA’s, waiting to get your attention until you’ve noticed him.

“Hey, what’s up—” “Could you come with me?” You nod, seeming ready to jump in and help however he needs, but he leads you to the other side of the set, hands on your shoulders as he guides you.

“What are you doing?” You laugh gently, moving with him. He doesn’t answer, but mutters to himself.

“Just—riiiight here. There.” He places you to the side of the active set, finally releasing your shoulders. “You see that rock?” He points at a set piece. “When we do this scene, I want you to stand here, looking at that rock. Okay?” “Okay?” you reply confusedly, though he looks thrilled at your acceptance, and you stay rooted in the spot as the various castmates take their places. You’re not sure what’s interesting about the rock; it looks like every other one on set, likely made of Styrofoam rather than earth, but painted appropriately, but you have a feeling this may be another one of his movie making tangents he loves, and you watch it appropriately, hoping to finally provide some feedback when he talks about his interests. As the scene plays out in front of you, Dieter and the woman who plays Dolly, Lauren, move in front of your assigned rock, and you huff in annoyance at losing your intended visual target. Looking up at them instead of the rock, Dieter is standing, facing you, while Lauren has her back to you.

“Status update: We. Are. Fucked.” A glance down at the script in your hands confirms your suspicions; this is the scene you had practiced with him, though Lauren plays a much more believable Dolly. “It looks like this is it. I’m sorry I couldn’t save ya’ll. I’m supposed to know all about these beasts, and they damn near snuck up on me.” You watch on, Dieter looking up to face Lauren; but, instead, he looks past her, making eye contact with you.

“Well—I have to tell you. I don’t know about any beasts. I don’t know about any cliffs. But I do know a beautiful woman when I see one, and I can’t—no, I won’t--let these creatures take you away from me.” Your mouth hangs open slightly as he continues his impassioned plea; he hasn’t broken your stare as he speaks, even though he should be saying it to Dolly.

“What are you sayin’?”

“I’m saying, I think I’m falling in love with you, sweetheart, and that scares me more than these beasts ever will.” His eyes convey that thing you can’t quite place; a quiet pleading, a desperate ache. He has yet to even look at Lauren, holding eye contact with you instead. When he’s done, the director yells cut; Dieter messed up the line.

“Dieter, no, you made a mistake. See here—you say Dolly’s name. Not ‘sweetheart.’” Dieter hangs his head at first, but then looks up at you, though he nods in understanding at the director. You hold his gaze for a moment as he keeps talking. “It was good though—do it again, just like that. Maybe a bit thicker on the accent.” Dieter nods, letting the director walk off set as he sent you a coy smirk that made you think, maybe, the director was wrong.

Maybe Dieter hadn’t made a mistake.

Maybe he meant to say sweetheart all along.

TAGS: @i-love-movies @frasmotic @justanotherblonde23 @nicolethered @buckybarneshairpullingkink @scorpio-marionette @songsformonkeys @pedrostories @littlemisspascal @gracie7209 @fangirl-316 @spideysimpossiblegirl @mariwinns16 @ajeff855 @hungrhay

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x y/n #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction

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purringbookworm97 · 3 years ago

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Chicken nuggies recipe for this coming summer

Hi there kids! It’s me, your estranged uncle! Did you miss me? Yes you did!

Today I’m back with a recipe! Yes, another one! I noticed, through the bars of the prison that is college life, that spring is there! And that with spring will come summer, and with summer, parties! Now, you don’t have to party with people, you can have a nice evening with stuffed animals or otherwordly beings of your liking, I won’t judge you, but! But but but, what are you going to eat?

Yes, you could go for the classics, macaroni and cheese for the americans, or fast food nuggets for people who have access to that, but, you can also make stuff yourself! And what’s better than homemade food? Eating it!

Which is why, let me introduce you to my recipe for tasty homemade chicken nuggets! For that, you will need:

chicken breasts (one per person ‘cause you don’t want your guests to starve, no you don’t)

ginger (fresh or powdered, but I go with fresh ‘cause it fucks super hard)

pepper (white, black, no racism in this house, everyone deserve to be eaten)

flour (use small spelt if you want it gluten free, trust me)

eggs (at least three, you can never be too sure)

breadcrumbs (once again, gluten-free rusks in a blender if you must, but you’ll pry baguette crumbs away from my cold, dead hands)

frying oil (which can be reused, come on, don’t waste)

a pot to pour your oil into (large enough ‘cause this fucker will jump at your throat at any given moment)

Something to grab and move your meat around

lots of patience (yeah ‘cause it takes time)

Then, to make it, you will:

put your oil to heat (at the smallest level you have ‘cause that shit burns fast)

cut your chicken in strips (large like your tumb knuckle or so, and long like my domino *coughs*)

put the strips in a bowl (not on a plate, come on, don’t be shy)

cut up your fresh ginger in flakes and add it (or sprinkle it on, coward) the chicken

add pepper (powdered this time please)

mix with a spoon (or whatever the shit, but not with your hands! you need your eyes and I need my criminal record to stay clear)

let that set for thirty minutes (or so, I neve count anyway)

prepare three bowls

one with flour (not too much, don’t be greedy with that)

one with eggs (scrambled with the force of your meaty arms)

one with breadcrumbs (lots, come on, now’s the time to be greedy)

dunk a piece of chicken in flour

then in the eggs

then in the breadcrumbs

don’t let it fall or you’ll owe me a dollar

dump it in the oil (quick! the fucker bites!)

do that with all the pieces you cant fit in your pot

take them out once they’re orange like the setting sun (or a cheeto, works too)

set them on some paper towel (nobody likes nuggies swimming in oil, yikes)

and they’re done!

you can add some lemon on the plate tho

it tastes amazing

and fry your remnants of eggs cause no wasting food

and voilà!

You can enjoy these under the sun, or in the excruciating cold of the southern hemisphere (kidding, u guys are cool) but don’t microwave them for the love of all the gods!!!!! Soggy nuggets taste horrible!!!! (seriously tho, I’m not your dad but do this to me and I’ll sulk)

Anyway kids! Eat well, drink water, kiss boys, girls and your imaginary friend, hug your local enby or french them in the couch cushions ‘cause ginger can work as an aphrodisiac, and don’t forget to think about your cute little face!

Ciao bambini, and bon appétit!

#grimoire #recipe #summer recipe #chicken nuggets #witchblr #witchythings #witchcraft

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cdroloisms · 3 years ago

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idk why but i imagined vegas 2.0 as two soccer moms (the politics bois) trying to outdo each other while their sons are dragged into it (green bois) in a rlly fvcked way. e.g.

maybe big q reconsidering dream's usefulness by saying sam's enough as protection and has other things to offer to the team as well. wilbur steps in by suggesting a duel between sam and dream then, to prove it then. maybe while it happens, wilbur whispers to quackity a list of what is still physically broken abt dream post prison (so many unhealed bones, barely healed muscle, he can barely stomach food so he had like 1 steak in the past few days, etc.) and of course, he mentions dream's most powerful asset, the revive book :)

-🐇

LMAOO

this is hilarious and also accurate as hell ,, thank you anon because the image of c!wilbur and c!quackity as PTA moms is completely sending me. this prompt (as most vt2 related things are) was really fun !! it also kinda ran away from me, which is why this ended up being almost 6k words instead of my usual 1-2k for asks, but i hope you enjoy it regardless :]

tws: implied torture/abuse, death, violence, blood, injuries, conditioning, dehumanization, panic attacks, emotional distress, trauma, unhealthy relationships (so many unhealthy relationships), smoking, dark contents, dark themes, vt2 au is always really dark so definitely proceed with caution !! dark portrayals of c!quackity, c!sam, c!wilbur, and c!dream

It starts, as many things do nowadays, with a board meeting - which seems to be as much of a sign as any that everything is going to go to shit. Board meetings for Quackity, much like Wilbur’s stupid group therapy sessions, are just a thinly veiled attempt for the two to fight for control of pretty much everything - ranging from the casino schedules to the laws still being written for Las Nevadas to what food to stock in the vending machines. As Sam is still sitting on his false throne of moral superiority and therefore less inclined to indulge himself in the same blatant corruption that characterizes their discussions, and Dream - more than anything - knows his place (which hardly gives him any position to wrangle for power among the likes of Wilbur and Quackity), the fights for control more or less remain restricted between the two. More often than not, they devolve into proving their superiority over the other by using their control of Dream (which naturally never means anything remotely good for him as a consequence) so when Quackity strolls over, all tight-lipped smiles and a cigarette held between clenched fingers, Dream really doesn’t feel anything other than dread.

Still, orders by Quackity are still orders - Dream knows this fact better than he knows that he’s alive and breathing, better than the fact that he’s out of the prison, better than he knows his own goddamn name - and Dream is far too well-trained to ever consider trying to rebel. So when the time comes - 7:30 pm, sharp - Dream is in his chair, spine straight and head alert like a goddamn dog, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long for the others to arrive. Sam comes over first, leveling him with a heavy, distrustful stare as he sits down in the chair across from Dream, the expression nearly enough for Dream to roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fear that rockets through him, still, at the sight of the Warden so close to him. Sam has made it more than clear from the very beginning that he has no trust at all for Dream, that if he had his way then Dream would be locked up for the rest of eternity in a labyrinth of blackstone and obsidian, forever guarded by his ever-present supervision. Dream feels his ears burning with heat as he dips his eyes low to the surface of the table, wanting no more than to curl up and hide under the scrutiny of the Warden’s glare.

Quackity enters next, throwing open the door of the conference room loud enough to make Dream jump out of his seat, looking at him with an upturned corner of his lip when he comes back to himself enough to notice. Dream stifles a shudder at his visible good mood, all-too-aware of what that usually meant for him in the cell, stiffening further with a growing ringing to his ears as Sam and Quackity talk and Quackity sweeps past his side to get to his seat at the head of the table, carelessly brushing his fingers along the back of Dream’s neck in a way that makes him freeze, stock-still, in his chair - feeling his fingertips ease themselves over the ridge present there from a thick band of scar tissue, a deep, jagged thing that had been carved from the blunter back edge of Quackity’s axe when he had lost his temper and let the thing slam against the back of his neck, hard enough that it probably would’ve paralyzed him completely if it weren’t for Sam’s use of almost a full chest of regens. Quackity remains over him for a few more seconds, leaning over his chair to talk to Sam as he runs a light, possessive hand over the topmost bumps of Dream’s spine, before settling over into his chair, watching him with a small smirk as he keeps a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Dream hates the prickling shame and terror that keeps his muscles tense as he stares at the table’s surface, still feeling the ghost of fingers tracing over skin and bone along the back of his neck, keeps his burning eyes trained on the surface of solid wood as he tries to steady his breaths. It’s all he can do to press down his flinch when Quackity, with a frustrated yell, slams his fist against the table a few minutes later, rage simmering underneath his words as he speaks.

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” His glare slides across the room, landing on Dream, making him shrink back in his seat, heart thudding in his ears. Quackity doesn’t stop staring at him even as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket, lighting it and bringing it to his lips and letting the silver-grey threads of smoke fill the room and press against the inside of Dream’s lungs. “It’s ten minutes til 8 - I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Sam digs his fingers into his temples, already looking exhausted. “If you want, Q, we can always start without him and catch him up later. Depends on you.”

“No, then I’ll have to repeat myself and it’ll be pointless and ugh,” Quackity makes a vaguely frustrated noise as he finally turns his eyes over to Sam, making Dream’s shoulders shudder as he finally finds the air to take a breath, “We’ll just have to wait. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have worked with any of these fuckers.”

In true Wilbur fashion, it isn’t until fifteen minutes later when the taller man finally makes an appearance, the entire time tense as hell as Quackity takes slow, steady drags of his cigarette and taps his fingers impatiently against the table’s surface. He offers one to Sam, who goes on to decline, making a short quip telling Quackity to watch his health for the future that promptly falls flat. Dream thinks he’s a fucking hypocrite, considering his whole deal with weednip or whatever Ant has on him, but doesn’t voice the thoughts as he sinks down in his chair, wishing more than anything to disappear. Against the fabric of his shirt, the right side of his chest itches, and he presses his palm against the place where he knows there is a small, irregular grid of pockmarked scars from when Quackity had taken smoke breaks in the middle of sessions.

“There you all are,” Wilbur smiles as he slides into the room, a covered metal tray held in his hands as he kicks the door closed and slides the tray onto the table with an awful screech. “I’m sorry for being late,” he continues, sounding not very sorry at all, “but I made some food to make up for it!”

He takes off the cover with a flourish; underneath, sunny yellow squares, nearly blindly bright, look up blankly under the conference room’s overly harsh lighting. They smell sugary and vaguely sour, stinging his nose slightly, and seem to be coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

“Lemon bars!” Wilbur grins, just left of sincere, “they’re gluten-free!”

“God,” Quackity laughs, sounding slightly incredulous, shaking his head. Dream’s gut rolls at the sound, Wilbur’s smile growing wider, even more dangerous, at the tone. It’s familiar, the way the two of them challenge each other, and in a rare moment of solidarity Dream watches from the corner of his eyes as Sam’s shoulders hunch as well. The two of them always bring trouble, even normally, but when they’re in this mood? Actively challenging each other, toeing the line, trying to find the limits and push them just because they can? Dream shivers in his seat, grip tightening on his own arms; this, he knows, is when they are at their most dangerous - and he has the scars to prove it.

“Gluten-free, huh? Really leaning into the whole ‘PTA mom’ schtick today, aren’t you?” Quackity smirks. “Should I call you Linda from now on?”

“I don’t know, Quackity, I was just thinking that I would make a little healthier treat for all of us, you know?” Wilbur brushes off the remark easily, taking a seat and immediately kicking his feet up onto the table. “If you want it, of course. I would hardly want to get in the way of your professionalism, Mr. President- do you have one of those? Or are you going for a more authoritarian approach”

“Fighting words from someone who rigged an election as President,” Quackity drawls, “and couldn’t even win it, might I add. “

“Oh, Big Q! You fail to understand, I wasn’t criticizing you at all,” Wilbur smiles, jagged, “we agree, I believe, on the failures of democracy. Unless you’ve forgotten our conversation, already?”

“Of course not,” Quackity snorts, and Dream doesn’t miss how his gaze shifts towards the side of the room, landing on Dream and making him curl further in his seat. “I’ll save you from me trying to pick your brain, this time, but don’t worry. You make yourself…rather hard to forget.”

Wilbur claps, seeming satisfied with this round of verbal sparring, and the sharp sound of his hands meeting together nearly has Dream jumping in his seat. “So! Lemon bars- does anyone want any?”

Dream is keenly aware of two pairs of eyes landing on him, Wilbur and Quackity watching for his reaction with bated breath and narrowed eyes. Panic crawls up his throat; he knows the purpose behind their stares, knows that he’s once again become the object of one of their power struggles. Quackity’s orders rattle in his brain, his thoughts a messy jumble of pins all knocked loose from his time in the prison, hopelessly unorganized and running on little more than instinct. Wilbur is expecting him to eat, to give into his sweet pastries and sweeter words; the lesson not to eat, move, think without permission, hammered into him between chunks of potato and battered ribs and blood gathered in the crevices of his skin, keeps his hands at his sides instead of reaching towards the pastries still set in the middle of the table. Even with Quackity at the opposite side of the room, Dream swears that he can still feel the pressure of a hand against the back of his neck, pressing just hard enough to make itself known from the feeling of fingers pressing into either side of his spine - he doesn’t even quite feel himself shaking his head, only really realizes what he’s done when he hears Wilbur sigh in frustration and meets Quackity’s satisfied gaze.

“I’ll take one,” Sam says, sounding exhausted, eyes flitting from Wilbur to Quackity to Dream with an increasingly long-suffering expression. His face twists around the first bite of the bright yellow pastry, nose scrunching as he puts it down, missing a half-moon bite along one corner, and drags his fingers over the table to ease off the remnants of powdered sugar. Wilbur watches him, seeming amused, and Quackity rolls his eyes as he pulls a binder out of his inventory.

“Now that everyone is finally here,” he starts, directing a particularly dead-eyed stare at Wilbur, “we can finally get on with the meeting. I was thinking we could go over the budget, today, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

It sounds innocent enough - which is the first sign of many that this meeting, whatever it is, is going to be anything but pleasant. The grin that steadily grows on Quackity’s face does nothing to assuage Dream’s anxieties, only pushing them higher as the man flips open the binder and messes with it for a few seconds longer before seemingly finding what he’s looking for.

“I think we all know that until Sam finishes with the bank, funds around here are going to be a little bit tight,” Quackity begins, waiting for all of them to nod before continuing, “And we really need to save wherever we can. I recounted the budget yesterday, just to make sure that we’re all on track, and- well,”

Quackity points to a circled series of red numbers that Dream doesn’t understand but can assume mean little good for them. Sam makes a low, considering noise, sounding strangely concerned, and Wilbur actually seems to close his mouth and lean forward in curiosity.

“We have a deficit,” Quackity continues when they’ve all settled back into their seats, “and we’ll get it all back once Sam gets the bank up and running, but for now our funds are...limited. I don’t want to stop progress on Las Nevadas, of course, we really don’t have time to waste. So I thought we’d have a meeting today to discuss the budget and eliminate any expenses that we might find-” Quackity gestures with a smooth twirl of his wrist, “expendable.”

Sam hums. “Do you have anything in mind, Quackity?”

“A few,” Quackity flips to the next page, where he’s seemingly jotted a few notes - different things that they can put off for the moment, it seems, and the money that would be saved for forgoing them temporarily. Dream reads down the list quickly, stilling at the last item.

“Quackity,” Sam sounds twenty times more tired already when he speaks, tone flat and a little irritated. “Why is Dream on the list?”

Quackity shrugs. “Hear me out, now- most of our money right now is going into living expenses for the four of us. Having more people here, until everything becomes more sustainable, is a huge drain on our resources. I’m just listing all our options.”

“So what do you want to do?” Sam huffs. “Throw him back in Pandora?”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Wilbur does have the revive book knowledge, you know,” he says, and Dream’s blood runs cold. He can’t run, can’t move; he’s stuck in his seat, heart hammering faster in his chest as the other three hardly spare him a second glance. Sam purses his lips, a considering expression flashing over his face, as Quackity presses on. “Seriously- listen, Sam. There’s nothing that Dream is really offering, at the moment, that the rest of us can’t handle. Wilbur has the revive book, you can act as security to take out any threats - really, we shouldn’t be pissing anyone off until everything officially opens, and we can always retrieve him then when we need him. He’ll be out of the way, which means he won’t be able to start any fucking trouble,” Quackity laughs, short. “It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know, Quackity,” Sam says, the words slow, but the tone is familiar enough for Dream to know that he’s already mostly given in. “It’s a risk, isn’t it? None of us but Dream have really used the revive book, before.”

Wilbur doesn’t even look at him when he chirps a reply. “That won’t be a problem, Sam. I’d be very happy to test it out, if you want.”

Quackity leans forward, and Dream nearly gags; he’s preening in his spot, eyes dancing as he smiles up at Sam. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I don’t know,” Sam trails off, and Dream looks down, only barely staving off the panic squeezing around his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. It’s nothing he hasn’t envisioned before, nothing he hasn’t expected, but this- he feels like such a fool, for hoping- “If we get ambushed, Q, I really don’t know if gear is going to be enough. You remember what Technoblade did last time.”

Quackity huffs, sounding annoyed, but nods to concede the point. “That is...fair. But then again, we don’t exactly know how good Dream is either, do we?” Quackity finally leans over to look at him, and Dream feels himself choke on his own breath at the dangerous gleam in Quackity’s eyes, all-too-familiar in their scrutiny, looking at him the same way they had pinned him to the floor of his obsidian-walled hell. “Anything to say, Dream?”

“I-” The words shake on Dream’s tongue, and he only barely manages a dry swallow as he struggles through the rest of his sentence, shrinking back from the heavy weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on his own, “I can be useful, s-” he only barely manages to bite down the word, a new wave of shame making him shrink back further past the fear. Quackity’s lip twitches upward.

Wilbur twirls a pencil in one hand, looking spectacularly bored; Dream’s chest shrieks with a harsh spike of envy at his composure. “How about you prove it?” His eyes are laughing when Dream gets a good look at them, amusement clear at the idea. “Put on a show?”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You want to know if Sam can serve as an adequate replacement for Dream’s combat prowess, no?” Wilbur leans back in his chair as he talks, still focused on spinning his pencil over and between his fingers, “Why doesn’t he prove it? Let them duel, one on one. If Sam kills Dream, then you’re right, we’re done, and we can all move on with our days. If Dream wins, then he’s proved his worth, and we can figure out the rest of the budget after. What do you think?”

Quackity’s lips press together, seeming displeased, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Sam, ever practical, drums his fingers against the table.

“That sounds...fair,” Sam purses his lips. “How would we judge this? Equal gear?”

Wilbur only smiles wider as he shakes his head. “I was thinking we would make it a little more accurate to reality, if Dream’s services were truly to be needed. Sam, you can keep your own gear, and Dream should use his own. I guess on your end we can fight until you yield, but for him…”

The words are left unsaid, but Dream flexes his hands underneath the table as he catches onto the implications. For him, it’s a fight to the death.

Sam shrugs. “That works for me. Dream?”

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Wilbur claps, bringing his hands to his chest and looking thoroughly thrilled at the prospects of the potential duel. Quackity glares at Dream but doesn’t say a word, and Dream hunches into himself, nearly folding himself in half as he ducks as far as he can down his seat. Sam pulls out his sword, flipping it around and testing its weight, and Dream doesn’t quite manage to suppress his full-body shudder at the sight. “Let’s get started, then.”

They move out in a roughly single-file line out of the conference room, Wilbur making idle chatter as Sam continues to examine his armor and weapons as they walk. They settle into an open space in the still-unfinished casino that Wilbur looks around for a second and then deems appropriate for the duel. Sam sets down an enderchest to gather his necessary materials, and Dream settles in front of it himself afterwards, shifting the lid open with shaking hands as he tries to work through his inventory.

He’s started the process of building up his gear again in his spare time, but he’s not had the time to finish gathering netherite for both himself and Wilbur - Wilbur meets his eyes with a sly wink before equipping the set of netherite armor that Dream had crafted for him, and Dream stifles a desperate snarl. He doesn’t even have the other set (still a gleaming blue from unplated diamond) enchanted, outside of a Sharpness book that he had slapped onto a diamond axe. He gathers the rest of his supplies with careful hands, trying to press down the increasing trembling of his limbs from his growing panic, flexing his arm around the weight of a shield once again and pocketing steaks and golden apples from his hoard.

He has no potions, no good weapons, not even a properly enchanted crossbow to offer the slightest bit of an advantage. Dream lets his eyes flick up to where Sam is waiting at the opposite side of the room, standing up straight with enchanted netherite covering him head to toe and a familiar axe slung over his shoulder, and tries not to break down right then and there. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of obsidian walls and netherite pressed against his ribs and demands that he behave, and despite the glittering white walls and high ceiling and cold night air he swears he could fall just from the memories alone. Drowning within them, he distantly remembers a duel long-past under a bright blue sky, Sam laughing under a swirl of potion particles on the grass surrounding the Community House lake, and wonders which of the memories hurt more.

“Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream stills in his place, slamming the lid of the enderchest shut as his heart hammers in his ears. Quackity watches him intently, expression twisted in disappointment, and some beaten, instinctual part of him whines uncomfortably at the sight. “Hurry up.”

Dream nods, because of course he does, and stands with the results of his mad scramble to gather anything that could be useful in the duel to come - a few gapples, steaks, a sword, a bow lacking any enchantments at all, and an axe and shield. It’s a rather pathetic ensemble, but it’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

“Ready?” Wilbur takes place as referee, standing off to the side with a smile on his face as Dream stands across from Sam, holding his axe with a white-knuckled grip as the Warden - expression unreadable through the shadow of his helmet and the mask fixed over his face - squares his own stance in preparation for the fight. “Good luck.”

Wilbur’s arm cuts a line in the air as it drops, and the Warden explodes into action, lumbering forward as he raises his axe over his head to bring it down. Dream tumbles in the opposite direction, letting a long held back, battle-trained part of himself take over as he rights himself back on his feet, swinging up his shield to catch on the downward arc of Warden’s Hammer, frantically pressing back the dregs of fear and panic staining the corners of his vision black as he moves.

The Warden hits slow but hits hard, too big and bulky to really avoid any quick attacks but too well-armored to be easily defeated despite that. He’s a classic tank - Dream skitters out of the way of another hit as he reaches for memories of him that won’t leave him gasping, information on his opponent that didn’t come from within the prison and all its horrors.

He’d dueled Sam before, he knows; it wasn’t the same, as Sam was trying out a Turtle Master potion and intent on proving the superiority of Resistance IV against Dream’s own combat prowess. He’d failed, then; Dream forcefully steadies another breath as the sound of the Warden’s armor clanking against the ground almost sends him into another panic. He’ll have to fail now, too.

Fortunately, he’s been allowed food to heal - without it, this fight would probably be near impossible. As it is, even without the potion, the principles of this duel are the same. Dream swings up his axe, catching the blade hurling towards him in the crook where the head meets the handle just long enough to pull himself out of the way and let the Warden’s weapon fall uselessly to the ground. Dream raises his head in the second he has, tracing his gaze over the Warden’s armor in search for places to exploit. Even the best defenses aren’t perfect. All he needs to do is survive for long enough to chip through it.

A fumbled dodge leads to the Warden’s blade skimming past his skin, carving a thin red line in the skin of his upper arm. He hisses as he dives out of the way of the next blow, the twinges of pain from the area almost enough to make his vision unfocused, almost enough to send him tumbling head-first into the part of him screaming submit submit submit if you don’t fight back they won’t hurt you more. He grits his teeth as he swings forward, knocking away the axe coming towards him with his axe long enough to push forward with his shield and knock the Warden further away from him. He can’t afford to flinch, can’t afford to let fear take control of his movements as it has so many times before. The keening desperation running through his veins is familiar, but desperation can fall both ways, can make him fight or flee - and there’s only one real option that will end with him getting out of this alive.

Dream stands and forces himself to meet the next swing hurling towards him dead on, raising his shield to catch the blade and pushing forward past the shuddering shock in his left arm from the force of the blow. His own blade arcs downward in the next second, scraping against the Warden’s netherite armor with a metallic screech. He manages to get in two more blows before the Warden’s next attack has him backing away to dodge, shaking off his arm to get his shield ready for the next attack.

He has to stay on the offensive, keep pressing the Warden back and forcing the other to play defense. He’s still weak from the prison; in terms of brute strength, he’s no match from the Warden, not after months of starvation and torture stuck in a box with hardly enough room to stretch his legs. All he really has going for him is his speed and his experience, neither of which will do him any good if he teeters over the edge into the panic attack he’s been trying to hold off the entire time. Dream runs forward, not giving himself more than a second to breathe as he rushes the Warden once again, switching weapons mid-leap to a sword that will allow for quicker blows in the time that he has the Warden off-balance enough to attack freely. He scores a series of glancing hits on the Warden, none doing any major damage but altogether enough to make the Warden back off, wary, with a gasping note of pain, and Dream shakes his head to force himself to focus before running forward once more.

The Warden pulls out a shield of his own, and Dream switches back to the axe and swings it squarely into the shield, then twists himself around to the Warden’s unprotected back to catch him with another heavy blow that leaves him reeling in the second he takes to recover. He’s clearly untrained with a shield, his left arm clumsy as he tries to block Dream’s blows, and Dream uses the opportunity to score another few solid hits to the Warden’s sides and legs, getting a good blow with the blunt side of his axe into the back of one of his knees, leaving the warden limping when he pulls away.

Dream has hardly come off unscathed in the fight - he wheezes out a heavy breath through his teeth, chest aching from a hit that had broken one of his ribs. The exertion and anxiety still pressing at the back of his throat has left him light-headed, and he bites through a crisp, almost sickeningly-sweet bite of golden apple to close a wound bleeding sluggishly on his side. Neither of them can go on for much longer; the Warden’s grip tightens on his axe, and Dream swallows past the shudder that arises from the sight.

Once again, he raises his axe and runs into the fight, parrying the coming strike and twisting out of the way to strike at a joint of the Warden’s armor with the flat of his blade. The Warden’s arm raises, and Dream bites off a yelp of alarm as the handle of his axe is levied against his unarmored side, knocking him off-balance and falling back onto the ground, too disoriented to catch himself. He lands on his left arm, and his vision goes white as it gives out with a sharp crack.

Through half-lidded eyes, he can make out the Warden stalking closer, axe raised and ready to end the fight - end him. His chest shakes in a pathetic wheeze for breath, arm completely useless from where it’s screaming in pain underneath him. He needs to move, now, if he wants to survive this - fear swells forward, unhindered as his focus is broken by the vice grip the pain has on his skull - he’s shaking, now, the terror so familiar he can taste it - salt and iron and sticky-sweet health potions against the backs of his teeth-

The Warden raises his axe.

No.

Dream raises his sword just in time to catch the blade hurtling towards his neck, uses his foot to kick against the Warden’s grip on the handle. The axe clatters out of his grip, falls forward - Dream rolls away, breathing harshly around the pain threatening to make him black out. Unarmed, the Warden takes a second to grab a sword from his inventory while Dream forces himself back to his feet and kicks the axe as far away as he can.

He’s so flooded with panic he’s choking on it, broken arm hanging limply by his side as he charges forward, sword in hand. He won’t die, not after all this time, not after all this effort - he throws himself at the Warden, batters him with jabs and thrusts that force the other man to back away and parry, snarling wordlessly as he brings his sword to slash forward again and again.

His attacks are messy, uncoordinated, but the Warden is tired and disoriented from the loss of his weapon - he flinches back as Dream hits him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, only barely matching his blows as he continues to push forward. Any hits that he scores on Dream are brushed off with a growl of pain and his sword moving even faster in his fury, and it’s not very long at all before he’s knocked flat on his back with a sweep of Dream’s legs, gasping for air as Dream pins him to the ground with a blade pressed against his neck.

Dream meets his wide eyes with his own, lips curled back in the same desperate rage that had moved him forwards despite the black creeping into the corners of his eyes and the lancing pain tying its strings around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. The sword in his hand bears threads of blood along its edge, pressing deeper into the Warden’s neck and drawing crimson up to the surface - a thousand fearful, angry thoughts swell up to the front of his skull in a singular, white-hot point. It is the Warden underneath his feet, at the end of his blade, cowering beneath him as he had cowered before - the Warden, the cause of his pain, the reason behind the ache in his gut and the stinging pains in his limbs and the piercing agony from his arm and chest. It would be so easy to push just a little harder, to press the sweet blue blade down and down and down until the Warden is gone and the Warden is dead and the Warden can’t hurt him anymore-

“Down, Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream backs off immediately, losing his grip on his sword as the command has him dragged back by the neck like an invisible leash and collar pulling him away. Sam settles back in a sitting position, still wide-eyed, wincing as he moves and bringing a golden apple from his inventory to heal the worst of his injuries.

“Eat,” Quackity commands again, and Dream only barely manages a stiff nod through the nausea and dread curling around his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade away, fumbling with the golden apple he finds in his inventory and nibbling at it to tide off the worst of the pain.

“Bravo, bravo,” Wilbur grins from the side, clapping slowly as he walks back into the middle of their makeshift arena - he’s taken his armor off again, but it doesn’t make the sight of him any less intimidating. “What a show! We should do that more often, what do you think?”

No, Dream almost screams, I can’t- but Quackity beats him to it, glaring at Wilbur with an incredulous expression.

“We don’t have the time to waste on your fucking ‘shows,’” he snaps, crossing his arms as he swings his gaze over to Dream. “Fine. You’ve proved yourself. Now hurry up - we have to clean up all of this shit and then figure out the rest of this fucking budget.”

Dream pulls himself to his feet, watching from the side as the Warden does the same.

“Make yourself useful and clean off all your fucking blood from the floor,” Quackity meets his eyes with a vicious glare, waiting until he stammers his way through an agreement before turning to the other two in the room. “Sam, Wilbur - with me. I want to get this money issue figured out tonight.”

Dream watches them go as he shuffles to the cleaning closet, feeling a shudder crawl up his spine once they’re out of sight. Make yourself useful, Quackity’s voice rings in his head, and Dream bites his lip, only stopping when he accidentally breaks through skin and the taste of blood floods his tongue.

He has a feeling that those words are going to haunt him for a long, long time.

144 notes · View notes

laineystein · 3 years ago

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40 little things I love about Israel (AKA the Israel the media won’t show you):

1. Beach libraries! Bus stop libraries! Colorful, well stocked, pop up libraries everywhere!

2. In Israel, the swings at a playground are spaced in a circle (instead of a line) so children can look at one another. It encourages interaction and community - very Jewish!

3. There were mice/bird issues in Israeli neighborhoods so the government released cats to combat the issue. When they realized it had gotten out of hand, vets started spay/neutering and vaccinating all of the stray cats so they’re all well taken care of.

4. There are flowers everywhere!

5. Beautiful graffiti! A lot of it uses the natural texture/shapes of structures to make art. So colorful!

6. A lot of neighborhood streets are themed. There’s a neighborhood in Ashdod that is named after strong Israeli women - my favorite!

7. The respect for the military. We give to those currently serving, we have holidays for those who have fallen in service, and our rehabilitation centers for those injured in service are top notch.

8. There is art - sculptures, mosaics, paintings - everywhere! We even turn useful things (benches, trash cans) into art. Or exercise equipment…like outside…at the beach. All art.

9. Makhtesh! (Mountains that were washed over with water causing them to collapse into themselves, causing massive crater-like valleys)

10. Trees! Someone is born? Plant a tree. Someone passes? Plant a tree. Just want to plant a tree? Plant a tree.

11. Promenades! Also referred to as “teyelet” in Hebrew. Pedestrians, bikes, flowers, cafes. Not sure where to go? Find the promenade and start walking. You’ll figure it out.

12. Jews are from all over the world - and they bring their food with them to Israel. Moroccan? Italian? Yemeni? Russian? Syrian? Slavic? Polish? German? French? Brazilian? Spanish? We have it ALL.

13. Similarly - Kosher? Pareve? Vegetarian? Vegan? Gluten-free? Israel’s restaurants typically have options for each and/or are very amenable to making changes when they can.

14. Super diverse geography! Mountains? Deserts? Beaches? Forests? Cold weather? Warm weather? YUP.

15. Public transportation is very efficient. You really don’t need a car. It’s also extremely affordable so there’s really no reason *not* to use it.

16. This one will blow your mind: religious tolerance! Does Israel have a lot of Jews? Sure! It also has Muslims, Christians, Atheists, etc. Israel prides itself on being very knowledgeable/aware/respectful of different religions and beliefs and caters toward each in the government, education, military, etc.

17. Museums! So. Many. Museums. Indoor, outdoor, UNDERWATER. All the museums!

18. Free in vitro-fertilization programs! (Healthcare in general is amazing)

19. There will be rosemary and sage that just grow wildly near the road? And you can pick it and cook with it? And we do? Often.

20. Such varied communities of Orthodox Jews. Hasidic Jews are such a small subset in the Orthodox community. They all have different traditions and appearances. It’s really wonderful.

21. Simchat Torah is a party in the streets. Honestly, all Jewish holidays just hit differently in Israel.

22. Salads. Colorful salads! Savory salads! Sweet salads! For those of you who are weary of Salad culture, Israel will change your mind. We eat salads at nearly every meal.

23. We have the best coffee. That’s it. We just do. (Our coffee and cafes are so good that Starbucks doesn’t survive in Israel. Who needs it?)

24. Lemonana. Or lemonade with mint. Just trust me.

25. The Dead Sea. Come see it/experience it before global warming makes it disappear!

26. Prisoners can vote in elections! We even have polling places in prisons to facilitate this. We actually put polling places in many places to ENCOURAGE voting by all Israelis.

27. The siren on Yom HaShoah. How the entire country of Israel comes to a stop no matter what they’re doing.

28. The views. There’s always a mountain you can stand on to see the ocean, the skyline, the desert.

29. There’s always new and old parts to cities and they somehow blend together really well. Israel is full of so much history and the Israeli people continue to build on that without disrespecting the past.

30. Sheirut Leumi AKA an alternative to compulsory military service that allows young Israelis to serve Israel in different ways ie. working at Independence Hall, explaining Israel’s history to tour groups, and any other visitors.

31. So many options to volunteer! Food pantries, hospitals, nursing homes - giving back to the community is a key tenet in Judaism and is common in Israel. (Our bus stops have monetary donation boxes!!)

32. The shuk aka the massive open-air market in Jerusalem. Google it. It’s magical. (There are a lot of shuks throughout Israel but the most well known and largest is in Jerusalem.)

33. Banks are like works of art? They’re architecturally stunning? It’s like being transported back in time. Even newer banks are built in older styles.

34. So many parks and botanical gardens. And they’re all FREE!!!

35. Halva. I could eat pounds of it.

36. The sunsets. Nothing compares.

37. Universities are fun to visit? All are welcome. They often have tours open to the public and they’re designed with that in mind.

38. Our money has braille on it! And we have a theatre that is dedicated entirely to the deaf and blind communities. How cool is that?

39. Light shows. We like to light up buildings and we hold events showcasing lit fountains and other light adorned structures. I don’t know but it’s a big thing.

40. Kosher everything! Kosher glue on stamps! Kosher food fed to animals at the zoo! Kosher McDonalds!

#Israel #Jerusalem #Tel Aviv #Judaism #Jumblr #Ashdod #Israel things #this is everything off the top of my head #trust me when I say that it’s a wonderful country and it has so much to offer #I’m sorry the media has lead you to believe otherwise #Israel is my home and I will protect it until the day I die #so I get I’m a bit biased #but read this and tell me it doesn’t sound magical #my heart my home

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sergeant-angels-trashcan · 4 years ago

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Dean and Sam have to infiltrate the college in Scream Queens, go

oh jesus fuck how do you always do this to me??? this is INCREDIBLE there are 2 options of course: early seasons Sam and Dean and later seasons Sam and Dean

Early Seasons Sam and Dean go undercover as students and rush the Dickie Dollar Scholars frat. Sam is like "I have done the College before, I know and understand the culture" and then promptly fails to be accepted by the Dickie Dollar Scholars. Dean, who was running a prison after being an inmate for a day, is wholeheartedly accepted by the Dickie Dollar Scholars despite actively hating golf. He and Boone are bone buddies. Dean and Chad collectively Do Not Understand Sexual or Gender Norms and they would absolutely have bro sex? It’s OKAY for them to have sex because neither of them are gay! It’s just two straight dudes going to pound town. Enjoying how absolutely ripped the other is. But it’s NOT GAY, Chanel. What, are you saying two dudes, two bros, two completely heterosexual guys can’t have sex with each other without is suddenly becoming a gay thing? That’s Not Cool, Chanel. What man doesn’t want to bone or get boned by his friend every once in a while? Are you saying men don’t want that, Chanel? Are you trying to say that my good buddy Dean Winchester isn’t a real man just because he likes to suck a dick every now and then? Well, then you must not think I’M a real man because guess what, Chanel? I like to suck a dick every now and then, too! That’s really small minded of you, Chanel. I don’t think I can date someone like that.

Meanwhile literally everyone else is just. Staring. Grace is BEGGING you two to take a gender and sexuality studies class, oh my GOD. And Sadie!Chanel (i don’t remember their numbers!!!) is like, no, no, I totally get that. She pulls out her phone and starts googling stuff for Dean and Chad, Meanwhile Chanel is like, GOD, why is everyone so INTO sex, it’s like. Ugh. WhY! WHY AM I NOT JUST ALLOWED TO BE ARM CANDY! WHY MUST I CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS AND ALSO SEX! Sadie!Chanel pokes her head up all “hey, wait, you don’t like sex? have you thought maybe you’re asexual?” “UH NO I’M NOT ASEXUAL I ABSOLUTELY HAVE A VAGINA” “that’s not what asexual means chanel”. and it’s a whole day of Let’s Learn Queer Vocabulary

Sam winds up friends with Zayday and Pete. He and Grace don’t trust one another at all. Chanel is constantly making remarks about how they are Too Tall. Chanel #3 becomes a hunter by the end of it.

I feel like there’s also a lil somthing something between Pete and Dean.

Dean Munch is constantly hitting on Sam.

Denise is constantly trying to teach the boys about self defense (which is hilarious) BUT she knows a lot of obscure lore and winds up doing some hunting of her own. She’s in the FBI later and runs into Sam and Dean on cases all the time and TOTALLY covers for them. She NEVER thinks they are right about what the monster is, but she’s always good at reading people. Also, with as much as Sam and Dean change their aliases, she does NOT ever remember their fake names. She’ll be like “look at these two big white boys, they have to do whatever I say because I’m their boss, ain’t that something? You! Tall one! Sasquatch, i don’t remember your name, go and get me a coffee. Bowlegs, what you laughing for? Don’t you have paperwork to do?” She makes them do paperwork, she thinks it’s only fair if they’re going to pretend to be FBI. Anyway, they love Denise. She’s the one who is like “Dean when are you going to admit you’re in love with that angel?” which prompts a Dean freakout and Sam conference calls Chanel #3 and Charlie to figure out how to talk Dean through his sexuality crisis

The OTHER option is Late Seasons where Sam and Dean go undercover as professors. Obviously it’s easier for Dean to be like, security or cooking with Sam stepping in for a philosophy/religion professor who got killed but I LOVE the idea of Professor Dean Winchester because you KNOW he would be that insane professor that everyone wants in on their classes and every single student is madly in love with him. He doesn’t really want his students to come to class so he tells insane batshit stories from his life experiences as they pertain to the topic of the day, but this OBVIOUSLY backfires and makes him the single most memed professor on campus. He also has a reputation for Big Mom Energy. He sends emails like “hey class, I got thrown into a minivan by a demon-possessed soccer mom so class is cancelled tomorrow. please make sure to do the discussion board questions and come to next class prepared to discuss the significance of cattle mutilations. xoxo Professor Winchester”. THE MAN DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO FORMAT PROFESSIONAL EMAILS, WHEN WOULD HE HAVE LEARNED THAT I ASK. He has snacks in his office ALL THE TIME and when he learns one of his students has a wheat allergy suddenly gluten free homemade snacks start appearing.

At some point Crowley stops by and everyone is like “??? is that Prof Winchester’s ex??” because OBVIOUSLY the guy who wears a trench coat and pops up at the most random times and stands super close to Dean is his HUSBAND (”who was that?” asks a student who sees Cas right before Dean’s office hours. “he’s an angel. he pulled me out of hell”. Prof Winchester is OBVIOUSLY a hopeless romantic!! who knew!!!)

meanwhile Sam is Losing His Shit. He keeps texting Eileen, Rowena, and Jody. Dean Munch will Not Stop Hitting On Him.

I don’t know what the plot is, it’s mostly Shenanigans and soft bois in sweater vests. Claire might pose as a student. With Kevin and Jack. It’s just highkey chaos for them while Dean and Sam are being the most abnormally normal people they’ve ever been

#phoenixyfriend #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #scream queens #chad radwell #denise hemphill #you've got questions i've got answers #my stuff #god but you KNOW they would adore denise #and denise would meet jodie and donna and they'd be the most badass chaotic monster hunters ever #charlie keeps finding memes and going SAM IS THIS ABOUT DEAN?????#dean would absolutely be SHOCKED to find that he loves teaching #there's a whole reddit thread about 'is my professor a serial killer???'#at least one of his students has read the supernatural books and is. losing .their. MIND #obsessed with dean and chad's relationship

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tobyjenny · 3 years ago

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Hetaught me some chords in an after school class, and he also made me love poetry, especially Edgar Allan Poe.

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They will resume cloud seeding in September and October.For more information on izraeli kézműves ékszerek the project, click on the links below:Reaching Out For Alexandra McClung, Newschannel 6Trump exhorts Senate anew to rid US of ObamacareTrump exhorts Senate anew to rid j s authentic vans tibetan red true white US of ObamacarePosted: Wednesday, July 19 2017 4:57 AM EDT2017 07 19 08:57:35 GMTUpdated: Wednesday, July 19 2017 5:50 PM EDT2017 07 19 21:50:53 GMTSenate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell announced late Tuesday that the vote would occur early next week, but several GOP senators have already come out in opposition to the move.Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell announced late Tuesday that the vote would occur early next week, but several GOP senators have already come out in opposition to the move.Trump had second conversation with Putin in GermanyTrump had second conversation with Putin in GermanyPosted: Tuesday, July 18 2017 6:47 PM EDT2017 07 18 22:47:05 GMTUpdated: Wednesday, July 19 2017 5:49 PM EDT2017 07 19 21:49:24 GMTPresident Donald Trump had a second, previously undisclosed conversation with Russian President Vladimir Putin at a summit it Germany.President Donald Trump had a second, previously undisclosed conversation with Russian President Vladimir Putin at a summit it Germany.DPS wants Texans to use caution in the summer heatDPS wants Texans to use caution in the summer heatUpdated: Wednesday, July 19 2017 3:36 PM EDT2017 07 19 19:36:06 GMT.

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Tree House Kisses, Chapter 38 (Adorney) - Scorpio and Veronica

A/N: Click here for previous chapters. And thank you so much to @saiphl for the beta help!! XO!

Chapter Summary: The girls spend a summer apart, but then start their senior year, closer than ever.

Chapter 38: Feelings

Courtney’s dad had moved with his girlfriend to Berkeley earlier in the year, and both of her parents unilaterally decided that she should spend the summer with him for some “quality time.” She’d argued, she’d protested, she’d pleaded with Karen, she’d even cried; but in the end she had no choice but to go along with the plan, sullenly packing her things and boarding the train, defeated. Her only solace was that Roy was doing a summer program in Stanford for a month, which meant that at least they could still see each other on the weekends for part of the time she was there.

COURTNEY: JFC I’m gonna be sleeping on a goddamn fold out couch all summer. This is shit.

ADORE: Awww, so sorry, princess. Xx

COURTNEY: Lol, fuck you. You have no idea what this is like

ADORE: That’s true. I haven’t seen my dad for like ten years

COURTNEY: WAH WAH WAHHH YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO WIN

COURTNEY: ;)

ADORE: lol

The truth was, Courtney hadn’t really spent much time with her dad since the divorce. Sometimes it made her sad, thinking about how close they used to be. She tried to keep an open mind, but a big part of her was still angry about him having an affair, turning their lives upside-down, leaving her mom...leaving her.

Adore was right, though. As far as absentee fathers went, things could be much worse. One night, while he sat on the sofa (the one that doubled as the least comfortable bed she ever had) watching TV, Courtney wandered over and sat down next to him.

He looked up from the TV, surprised, a smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi.” Courtney shifted slightly, tried to shake the horrible feeling that she was sitting next to a grown man that she barely knew. “Whatcha watching?”

“Just the news...if things go well this year, we can take both the house and the senate,” Peter told her. “And in 2008, that fucking shit-for-brains will finally be done and we can get the White House, too.”

“That would be awesome,” Courtney agreed, letting her head rest on her father’s shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, that was for damn sure...but when it came down to it, she supposed she was lucky to have him.

Meanwhile, Adore had gotten a summer job as a counselor at an arts day camp, and soon began spending her days surrounded by loud, attention-seeking child star wannabes. Every day, she came home and collapsed in exhaustion, vowing to never, under any circumstances, ever have children.

COURTNEY: How’s camp?

ADORE: The worst

COURTNEY: I’m sorry

ADORE: It’s all good. How’s the homewrecker?

COURTNEY: Weird

ADORE: Is she teaching you any good stripper moves?

COURTNEY: No, she just like, chain smokes and talks to her birds

ADORE: She has BIRDS?

COURTNEY: Yeah man, I told you. WEIRD

ADORE: What are the birds’ names?

COURTNEY: Something in Russian, I dunno. I just call them Boris and Natasha

ADORE: Lol you’re so corny

COURTNEY: I did meet some pretty cool anarchist guys down the block

ADORE: What’s their band called?

COURTNEY: Who said they have a band?

ADORE: What’s their band called, Courtney?

COURTNEY: Pussy Whisper

ADORE: LOLOLOLOL

COURTNEY: Okay, so...this is going to shock you…

ADORE: ???

COURTNEY: The Pussy Whisper dudes?

ADORE: Oh jeez, what?

COURTNEY: They’re gross

ADORE: Yeah, no shit

COURTNEY: i just really liked what Tristan had to say about late stage capitalism

ADORE: Right

COURTNEY: And Grant said I was smart

ADORE: Well, that was your first clue

COURTNEY: HEY!!!

ADORE: Lol, not because you’re not. Because dudes in a band called “Pussy Whisper” that call you smart are up to some no-good shit

COURTNEY: Right. Ugh

ADORE: Bird lady still a fucking weirdo?

COURTNEY: Yeah. Although she did take me to a yoga class this morning, so that was nice. She’s actually maybe not the most vile person on the planet

ADORE: Awww, look at you, falling in love

COURTNEY: Shut up

Once Courtney got over her initial resistance, she had to admit that Berkely was somewhat cool. Certainly more her speed than the bland suburban wasteland she was used to. She spent most of her days wandering around used book stores, head shops, or combing through racks of cute vintage dresses. One afternoon, sunbathing in the backyard of her dad’s apartment building (which was a converted Victorian house that she also had to regretfully admit was pretty charming), she made friends with a very affectionate marmalade-colored kitten. Turned out, the cat belonged to their downstairs neighbor, and soon Courtney found herself fully enchanted with the older woman.

COURTNEY: Okay I found a much better new friend than the PW boys. She’s our downstairs neighbor and she’s like 70 and so cool. She has pink hair and all her clothes are made of hemp. She’s gonna take me to an Iraq War protest on Saturday.

ADORE: Oh jeez. You’re gonna come back with white person dreads, aren’t you?

COURTNEY: lol it’s a nice look

ADORE: IT IS NOT

ADORE: Abortion should be legal until the kids are like...12 years old, at least

COURTNEY: Campers getting on your nerves?

ADORE: If I snap, will you visit me in prison?

COURTNEY: Of course! I’ll bake a nail file into a cake for you and everything. XOXO

ADORE: Good cake or some bay area bullshit?

COURTNEY: Gluten free agave-sweetened carob cake, courtesy of Patsy

ADORE: Fuck off

COURTNEY: Don’t insult Patsy. She’s been protesting since Vietnam, she’s awesome.

ADORE: HEY CHEERLEADER THIS IS WILLAM! YOU’RE A SLUT AND WE MISS YOU!

ADORE: AND I’M VERY DISAPPOINTED THAT YOU DIDN’T FUCK THE PUSSY WHISPERERS

COURTNEY: Sorry bunny

ADORE: He’s high

COURTNEY: And you?

ADORE: Meeee? Whaaaaaat?

ADORE: Yes lol

COURTNEY: Lol, have fun

COURTNEY: Would it be really bad if I liked Katya?

ADORE: Omg are you gonna start calling her Mommy?

COURTNEY: Shut up!

COURTNEY: But seriously...it would be like, disloyal to my mom if I liked her, right?

ADORE: Are you gonna start adopting birds?

COURTNEY: No, I just think she’s kind of funny sometimes. I’m a terrible daughter

ADORE: Well, your mom IS the one who sent you up there for the summer. So…

COURTNEY: True

ADORE: So. Something happened last night that was...uh…

ADORE: Very

ADORE: ...

COURTNEY: ???

ADORE: Give me a minute...I’m processing...

COURTNEY: Tell me!

ADORE: Well, we started in Violet’s basement, drinking, and I’m not sure how but somehow it ended up being like 10 people

COURTNEY: Aww, was Violet sad I wasn’t there? Did she cry?

ADORE: lol, totally

COURTNEY: So what happened???

ADORE: Yeah, so...I went out to the backyard to smoke and Trin came and like...I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but I think I made out with her

COURTNEY: WHOA

ADORE: Yeah

COURTNEY: Is she gay???

ADORE: No, definitely not. We were just like, drunk and high

COURTNEY: Is everything cool between you??

ADORE: Yeah, I think so. We were laughing about it this morning. But like, I still feel a little bad.

COURTNEY: Why do you feel bad?

ADORE: I mean, I dunno. I don’t want people to think that I’m like, some predatory asshole, you know?

COURTNEY: No one would think that

ADORE: My track record might disagree

COURTNEY: The only thing your track record shows is you’re a ho

ADORE: WOW

COURTNEY: I WAS KIDDING!!!!

ADORE: lol, I know

COURTNEY: XOXOXOXO

As much as Courtney tried, and as much as she made her peace with her summer surroundings, by the time August rolled around, she began to get increasingly homesick. Missing her mom, her bedroom, even Grandma Muriel. But especially, missing Adore.

COURTNEY: I really miss you

COURTNEY: Like so much

ADORE: Me too

COURTNEY: No like SO much

ADORE: Are you high?

COURTNEY: No, are you?

ADORE: A little lol

COURTNEY: I’m not high. I just love you.

ADORE: Aww, thanks babe

“DORY!!” Courtney squealed, practically leaping from her car the second she pulled into the driveway. She’d texted Adore from her last stop for gas, but she was thrilled to see her best friend actually waiting for her.

She wrapped Adore into a tight hug, her excitement causing her to pepper Adore’s entire face with wet kisses.

“Hi, okay, stop it,” Adore giggled. “Nice car, by the way.”

“Oh yeah, I know, it’s pretty great. Peter gets a gold star for that one.” Courtney glanced back at the car, her dad’s old Honda Accord, shaking her new bangs out of her face. He’d surprised her with the keys just last week, and it had almost made her forgive him for leaving in the first place...almost. “It was kind of scary to do that whole drive alone, though. I’m very thankful to have made it in one piece.”

“Me too,” Adore said, with a grin that told Courtney she was home. “Now that you’re back, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ party.”

Courtney laid a head on her shoulder, sighing happily.

“You’re going to Darienne’s goodbye party on Wednesday, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Omigod! Dory! I wanted to make those peanut butter cupcakes that she loves, but you know I’m just absolute shit at decorating, can you help?”

“What on earth makes you think I’d be good at cupcake decorating?” Adore laughed.

“I dunno, you’re better at art than me,” Courtney said. “Plus, it’ll just be more fun with you.”

Adore pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Count me in.”

School was going to be starting back up soon, and as Adore looked around the party at her friends, she couldn’t help but feel a little ambivalent. Summer had just been so nice, and having that small taste of freedom made her long to be done with school altogether.

Tonight, there was a big group at Pearl’s house--her usual friends as well as a bunch of the neighborhood kids, enjoying the pool and the warm evening air. Violet, Fame and Trinity lounged in the hot tub with April, watching the sun set. Pearl was standing at the grill, living her butch fantasy as she cooked up food for her guests, swatting Bob away with as he peered over her shoulder, trying to “help.”

It was a little bittersweet--Darienne had already left for Pepperdine a few weeks earlier, and Jamin for Cal Poly. Even though they weren’t as close as they used to be, it still felt strange, somehow, for them to be missing. Hell, it was even weird for Alyssa to be gone, the loudmouth head cheerleader now torturing people at UC San Diego, probably already sorority president.

A handful of people were dancing, including Courtney and Willam, twirling until they were dizzy and laughing.

“Ugh, I don’t want school to start!” Willam suddenly whined, reflecting Adore’s feelings exactly.

“I know, but this year we’re coming back as seniors, and we’re gonna rule the school,” Courtney said, imitating the line from Grease perfectly.

“Oh really? You think you’re Rizzo?” Adore challenged her.

“Why can’t I be Rizzo?” she demanded.

“Bitch, you are Sandy and you know it,” Adore laughed, grabbing a beer and sitting down on the back steps.

“I can be Rizzo if I want! Fuck you!”

“Yeah, lesbian! How dare you put cheerleader in a box! She can be whatever she wants!” Willam cried.

“That's right,” Courtney added, “I mean, I did spend all summer hanging out with a prostitute. What did you do? Day Camp?”

“I was a counselor,” Adore replied, laughing. She reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle. “Here, have another drink. And I thought Katya was a stripper, not a prostitute.”

“You don't know her. It's a very blurry line,” Courtney explained, taking the offered wine cooler.

Willam grabbed Courtney’s hand and pulled her away, spinning her around and around. “Less talking, more dancing!”

Adore shook her head, watching them with a smile, lighting up a joint. Roy sat down beside her--the last of his class, since UCLA didn’t start for a few more weeks.

“Hey, Delano. How ya doing, man?”

“Good...bro.”

Roy flashed some dimples at her, then just sat for a minute, unusually quiet, as they both watched their friends dancing like fools. Willam dipped Courtney low to the ground and she shrieked and giggled.

“God, she’s so fucking beautiful,” he said.

Adore wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. She nodded, leaning against the banister and sighing slightly.

When Roy spoke again, it was quiet. “I know, you know. How lucky I am.”

Adore looked at him, considering her reply. Finally, she just nodded and said, “Good.”

Roy gave her another smile.

“Make sure she stays outta trouble while I’m away.”

“I think I’m probably the least qualified person for that job,” Adore laughed, then held out the joint.

“Thanks, I’m cool.”

“Debatable,” Adore retorted, taking another hit.

Roy shook his head, chuckling.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Delano.”

“Aww...shut up.”

On the first day of their senior year, Courtney and Adore walked out of their fourth period economics class together, giggling over Laganja’s unfortunate new haircut.

“I feel bad for saying so, but it’s just so...”

“Hideous?” Adore supplied, and Courtney giggled some more.

“Yeah. Poor thing. Although it’s hard to say whether her hair is more or less tragic than Mr. Sutton’s awkwardness. He’s like a baby deer.”

“I know! But like, imagine trying to get the respect of students who are pretty much your age,” Adore laughed.

“How old do you think he is, anyway?”

“Uh, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure he graduated with Kim and Angie. I think I remember him from when Angie did show choir.”

Courtney grabbed onto Adore’s arm, eyes wide.

“Omigod, you’re right! I knew he looked familiar!” she exclaimed.

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hill that Adore noticed Courtney still walking with her. She hadn’t split off to go sit with the neighborhood kids like past years, simply walked beside her towards the oak tree, where Trinity and Willam already sat, sword-fighting with breadsticks.

“Are you...planning to join us?” Adore asked curiously, and Courtney bit her lip.

“Is that okay? I mean...it’s just a little weird without Roy and Darienne, so I thought…you can say no if-”

“Of course it’s okay!” Adore pulled her in for a side hug. “Everyone loves you, you know that.”

“Everyone?” Courtney asked, one eyebrow nearly to her hairline.

“Almost everyone.” Adore smiled ruefully. “And anyway, I want you here, so she can just deal with it.”

As it turned out, Adore was right. Everyone welcomed Courtney enthusiastically with open arms. And even Violet was unusually cool about it, containing her disapproval to some muttered asides to Fame, who promptly thumped her on the shoulder every time, akin to bopping a puppy on the nose with a newspaper.

Courtney didn’t seem to mind either way, cheerfully trading barbs with Willam and letting Fame “fix” her eyebrows, which were deemed “just too pale.”

“Are your pubes blonde, too?” Willam asked curiously, and Trinity began choking on her sandwich from laughter.

“Gross,” Courtney said, wrinkling her nose.

“Actually, are they? I’m kind of curious,” Trinity said.

“Come on, cheerleader, just tell us!” Willam urged.

“You know, I quit cheerleading almost a year ago,” Courtney said.

“So?”

“He still calls me ‘New Girl,’” Pearl explained.

“Why are you stalling? Show! Me! Your! Pussy! Hairs!” Willam said, and Fame put her whole head in her hands, letting out a horrified groan before going back to Courtney’s eyebrows.

“Careful, Bill, or you might get what you wish for,” Courtney sang, staring him down. “You really wanna see my pussy?”

“Uhh...no. Well, maybe...but no. Or…” Willam’s brow furrowed.

“Shit, you broke his little gay brain,” Pearl said, laughing.

“Omigod, that’s so much better!” Fame sat back on her heels, holding up a compact so that Courtney could see her new defined eyebrows.

“Oh wow, that is better! Thank you!”

After snapping the compact shut and handing it back to Fame, Courtney caught Adore’s eye, both of their faces melting into a grin. As Adore buried her smile into her sandwich, she couldn’t help but think about what a change it was from last year.

Maybe a sign of good things to come...or maybe the calm before the storm.

#rpdr fanfiction #tree house kisses #scorpio #veronica #adorney #adore delano #courtney act #bianca del rio #bitney #willam belli #miss fame #lesbian au #high school au #angst #fluff

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thefloralpeach · 5 years ago

Text

Bird Set Free- a Reddie Superpower AU

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier | Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Words:7454 | Chapters:1/?Hits:0

Summary:

Richie Tozier grew up to be a hero. Eddie Kaspbrak grew up without anyone there to save him. What do you get when you cross an angry vigilante with a hero who’s just trying his best?

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335246/chapters/55900111

It started out as a conspiracy, and quickly turned into national controversy.

Nobody’s sure exactly who was the first case- abilities manifesting at a young age, anywhere between seven and seventeen. Videos surfaced of young kids doing extraordinary things, some of which people assumed was photoshop, but some of which occurred on live social media videos. The videos increased in frequency, the reports of strange happenings poured in every day, and eventually the government had to come out with a public statement.

Apparently, superpowers exist now.

It was the only thing anyone could talk about for a solid year. As a middle schooler, all you could do was wait to see if you were next.

The Losers often found themselves in conversation about what powers they hoped to have.

“I hope I get shapeshifting. I’d turn into the hottest motherfucker this world has ever seen and take over the world,” Richie would say.

Eddie never talked about it much, but he thought it might be nice to be immune to sickness. That way, maybe his mother would let him leave the house more… Or, maybe walking through walls would serve that purpose. He just wanted to be able to do what he wanted, and not be forced under her wing.

It was eighth grade when Eddie began to despise this hero stuff.

Instead of continuing his education with his friends, his mom decided to pull him out of school due to the fear that someone with powers would hurt him. She said that his ‘no good friends’ would end up accidentally hurting him, or some ignorant kid would get their power suddenly and Eddie would be a victim of it. Even when he reminded her that ability prevalence rates were pretty low, of course nothing could sway her.

So he said goodbye to seeing his friends in school, and hello to meeting up with them at every other possible moment; until his mother decided that was also too dangerous. So, he remained in his house like a prisoner.

His friends visited though, of course they did. Eddie had a window, and the Losers were pretty good at climbing. Besides, Eddie didn’t think anything could keep Richie from finding him and bothering him.

It’s a gross, rainy night when Richie makes a promise.

It starts with pebbles thrown at his window- Richie’s signature greeting. Eddie tries not to think about how cheesy and romantic it is, but the thought crosses his mind anyway.

He opens the window, and is promptly met with Richie shaking out his wet hair like a dog. Eddie makes a disgusted noise, which only draws laughter from the taller boy.

“You sure your ability isn’t being gross and annoying?” Eddie asks as Richie finishes climbing in, almost stumbling over his own feet. He clutches his hands to his chest, feigning hurt.

“I can not believe you would insinuate something so hurtful, Eddie my love!”

Of all the nicknames in Richie’s arsenal, that one is definitely the worst. Eddie can be annoyed by Eds or the ever-popular Spaghetti, but when he pulls out something so cliche that it could be in a romcom, Eddie’s heart always skips a beat. He hates it. And he also loves it.

Richie’s pulling stuff out from his backpack before he’s even sat on Eddie’s bed. It became a sort of tradition for Richie to bring Eddie some stuff that his mom wouldn’t let him have whenever he visited.

“What’s in the magic bag tonight?” Eddie asks, eyeing the bag of all-pink starbursts Richie already pulled out.

“Candy, of course,” Richie narrates, pulling out a bag of gummy worms and a jumbo snickers bar. “I also got you this cool magazine that talks about abilities and heroes, and this week’s newspaper.”

Richie would often bring Eddie stuff to read, stuff that clued him into what’s going on outside. Eddie’s mom allowed him a computer, but no internet, so Eddie relied on his friends for information about the world. It was a simple act that he cherished so much.

“Oh- I also made you this!” Richie announces, pulling out a CD from his bag. The cover is decorated with some crude doodles, and labelled ‘songs to help spaghetti forgetti his regretti’. He tosses it to Eddie, who immediately bursts into laughter.

“A CD? Isn’t that a bit old school?”

Richie puts his arms up in defense. “Well, you don’t have internet or a damn phone, so what was I supposed to do? Send you a Youtube playlist?”

Eddie shrugs. “Alright, fair enough.” He ignores the way his heart quickens at the thought of Richie compiling a playlist for him. “So, what’s on it?”

“Ah, you need to play it to find out, my deah!” He responds, slipping into a hilariously poorly-accented Voice. Eddie shakes his head, covering his mouth in a weak attempt to muffle his laughter. “I have something else for you, too.”

Eddie calms himself then, and quirks an eyebrow up. “Do I wanna know?” He asks cautiously. Richie was known for following words like that with a wet willy or a pinch to his cheeks. But, the jokester only smiles in response.

“Yes, you do! How would you like to sneak out of here with me some night?” Richie offers, and Eddie’s eyes light up. “We can head over to the clubhouse-”

“God, you guys still have that?”

“Yes! We can go hang out there, and all the others will be there too! And we can get a pizza since we know you’ve been force fed, what, gluten-dairy-nut-free bullshit?”

Eddie laughs, so giddy and over the moon with excitement that he ignores his health concerns. Richie doesn’t think his allergies are real anyway, and Eddie isn’t so sure he disagrees. Regardless, how could he even think to be concerned about such trivial things when he has the chance to escape, to spend some time outside for the first time in months?

Of course, Eddie agrees to go. They make plans for the weekend, when Sonia would be at bingo night. Richie and the others would sneak around and help him out the window, and Eddie could sit on the back of one of their bikes on the way- since his own bike had been given away once he was put on house arrest. Eddie gives Richie a list of his favorite bands so Richie can make a playlist for the night, and together they plan a list of snacks to have. They pick out some choice movies as well, since Ben had said he could rent a projector from the library for the night.

Eddie’s never been so excited for something in his entire life.

Friday comes after what seems like forever, and his mom leaves for bingo, and Eddie waits excitedly in his room. He reads a comic book to pass the time until 5 o’clock comes.

And then 6 o’clock comes.

Then 7 o’clock.

Something probably happened… maybe they couldn’t get away from their parents in time, so they just had to push things back.

8 o’clock.

9 o’clock.

And then Eddie’s mother pulls into the driveway, and he’s pissed. He’s angry, he’s furious, he’s…

Crushed.

Saturday comes and goes, but nobody visits him.

Sunday is the same.

Eddie’s mother asks why he’s spending so much time in his room, and asks if he’s sick- he struggles to invent a lie that she’ll believe. So he tells her the truth- that he’s sad, that he misses his friends. Not that she does anything to help (“Oh honey, you’re so much safer without them anyway”), but she does leave him alone to brood.

This is the first week in months that he didn’t get a word from any of his friends. He’d never gone more than two days without Richie visiting him, but in the coming years, this would become the new normal.

For the next few years, the only company Eddie has is his mother. His overbearing, absolutely psychotic mother, who put helicopter moms to shame.

It’s a month after Eddie’s abandoned that he’s able to catch a newscast while his mom naps in the middle of the day. It’s the 4 o’clock news, the headline reading ‘Superhero Madness: New Ability Registration Mandate to Pass, Increasing Regulation on Enhanced Abilities.’

He’s reading comic books, stories about real superheroes. The media outlets he’d seen were all over calling this new phenomenon the “Age of Heroes” and shit that Eddie finds absolutely ridiculous. So a kid can learn things really quickly or make magnets stick to them- Spiderman is still cooler. Spiderman just wants to save people, he wants to save anyone who needs it, even those overlooked by other heroes. Spiderman doesn’t care about being big and flashy. He’s a real hero- not like these wannabes.

Regardless of his opinions, he tunes his attention to the news for a moment. It’s not often he actually gets to see what’s going on outside of his prison cell of a home.

“… Required not only to register their abilities, but to train at government-approved facilities. Officials say this mandate will assure that these enhanced individuals learn to manage their abilities, thus ensuring their safety and the safety of others. Opposition has arisen as well…”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Government-approved facilities? Please. This is the least cool backstory he’s ever heard. Then he remembers, this isn’t a backstory. Because this isn’t some cool hero story. This is real life, and in real life, his friends left him, and no hero is coming to save him.

It’s two years later when he manifests a power of his own.

The newscasts he’d been able to watch intermittently had reported that abilities seem to appear between the ages of ten and sixteen, as if a part of puberty. It made enough sense, Eddie figured at the time. He assumed after his thirteenth and fourteenth years passed that he’d never manifest anything- but he’d been wrong.

It’s nothing special, of course. He’s watching something on TV, not even the news or anything special, just some reality show, when he notices a weird light. He looks around, thinking at first that a lamp was suddenly turned on, but he quickly realizes it’s emitting from the palms of his hands.

“Huh…” he mutters. Light hands. Some freaking power, huh?

They don’t appear to do anything besides glow every so often. He debates whether or not to tell his mother, but ultimately he decides to hide it. What good would telling her do, anyway? What did he expect, praise? Comfort? No, he knew he would get nothing less than an hour of rambling about how much she now had to worry about, how much it would drain his energy, how much they had to fear from a soft little glow.

So, he hides it.

As much as he hates his stupid glowy hands at first, it starts to become a rather welcome feature.

He no longer has to hide a flashlight in his room for when he wants to read in bed- his own hands suffice now! Well, when he can get them to turn on, which isn’t all the time. He starts to understand all the hype he’d been seeing on the news about controlling abilities- if this were something dangerous, Eddie would surely be in some deep shit.

Every now and then, Eddie gets the gaul to ask his mom about things that he knew he wasn’t supposed to- if he could go out with her when she grabbed something, if he could return to school now that abilities are more regulated, if he could just go for a bike ride like he used to. The answer is always no, of course.

The only time he’s allowed out of the house is for visits to the doctor, which have also become less often for some reason. Eddie wonders why his medications remain the same even though he’s being seen less.

Sometimes, his mom gets tired of his curiosity.

“Eddie, you know why you have to stay in here, you know it! I can’t risk losing you, Eddie-bear. Do you know how many people are being attacked every day by these new monsters?!”

“But mom-”

“I don’t let you watch the news because it’s so terrible, every day there’s more attacks and more people sick and dead , I just can’t bear it!”

Eddie wants to tell her that he sees the news when she doesn’t think he’s watching, that things are starting to stabilize, that crime rates haven’t actually gone up that much and that people aren’t actually being attacked- but of course she doesn’t let him get a word it. It’s part of her defense against Eddie trying to fight back.

“Mom, listen to me, please -”

“Do you want to do that to me? Eddie-bear, you know how hard it’s been after I-” she sniffles for effect, “After I lost your poor father. I can’t risk losing you too, honey, you know that-”

“Mom will you just listen to me?!” He raises his voice, earning a gasp from his mother. The look on her face is almost scandalized. He doesn’t realize why until he gestures in frustration with his hands, and he notices a familiar glow. “I just want-”

“EDDIE!”

She interrupts him, running over and fawning over him until his glow dims and eventually fades. He’s bombarded with questions about how this could have happened, how could she ever let him out now, how they had to make extra sure to be careful, blah blah blah. He promptly loses all hope of ever getting out of there.

She corrals him to the stairs and up to his room, her shrill voice running nonstop the entire time. Eddie tries to tune it out, but it’s hard- she’s persistent, and his hopes are crushed. He hears the lock on his door click as she leaves.

Eddie barely notices the glow of his hands as he punches his pillow. He spends ten, maybe twenty minutes just punching, screaming, doing what he can to get his frustration out. Once he slows down, giving his poor bedsheets a break, he realizes that the glow has spread to just above his elbows.

“Stupid fucking glowy hands…” he mutters, glaring at them as if that would get it to stop. Of course, it doesn’t.

With a sigh, Eddie drags himself over to his bookshelf, grabbing something that sounds mildly interesting so he could distract himself from his stupid emotions and his stupid situations and his stupid hands. As he glances over the other options, his eyes land on something he hadn’t looked at in years- Richie’s mix CD. ‘Songs to help spaghetti forgetti his regretti’. The glow in his hands fades as Eddie traces over the shitty doodles on the cover, and a ghost of a smile settles on his face.

He’s still pissed off that everyone abandoned him. He’s confused, he’s frustrated, he’s angry and he’s hurt- but most of all, he’s nostalgic. More than anything, he misses his friends, and he just wants it all back. He likes to think that there’s a good reason that they left him, and that they’ll be reunited one day and everything will be happily ever after- but he also knows that’s just a lot of wishful thinking.

Eddie breaks his thoughts by popping the CD into the player on his radio, pressing ‘play’, and flopping on his bed.

He closes his eyes, smiling to himself as the first notes of the song drift into the room. The CD plays on repeat until Eddie falls asleep for the night.

The next day, Eddie is horrified when his mother hires someone to install bars on his bedroom window. It’s for your safety, Eddie, she insists. The government is getting involved now, I can’t let them take you away.

But he knows they wouldn’t take him away. He knows he isn’t that lucky.

And he has the sneaking suspicion that his mother would have installed the bars whether or not the government was a concern.

Eddie’s hands don’t glow as bright anymore after that, though he isn’t sure why. Maybe he hated that stupid power so much that it’s in the process of disappearing- he hopes that’s the case. If he can prove he’s normal, then maybe one day he can leave.

In the next year, Eddie catches many newscasts about ability regulation. He managed to convince his mom to let him watch the news a little bit, because current events was something he had to be versed on in order for his home school requirements. She wasn’t happy about it, but ultimately he gets to watch the news more regularly now.

It’s something Eddie never quite cared about, news. When he was twelve and thirteen, the news was the most boring thing he could ever think of watching. But now, it’s a connection to the world he no longer gets to be a part of.

The last he’d heard, a few months back, was how the government had started allowing those with trained abilities to register as heroes. Their official title was something boring, of course- The National Force of Enhanced Individuals or something dumb like that. But everyone calls them heroes. Crime rates had been steadily decreasing since they passed the bill creating the force, and maybe, just maybe Eddie gets his hopes up when he hears that.

He hasn’t asked his mom about going outside in a while, but during this newscast, he thinks maybe he has a chance…

“So, that’s great, huh?” Eddie ventures from his spot on the couch, looking expectantly at his mother.

She’s sitting in her recliner, as she does most of the time, her attention on some magazine rather than the television. In response, she hums in question, not even bothering to look up.

“The- the Force of Enhanced Individuals…” he gestures to the screen. “Seems they’re lowering the crime rate. That’s great, right?” He cautiously explains, wary of the fact that this conversation could go to hell at any second.

She raises an eyebrow, glancing at Eddie for only a mere second.

“I suppose so, yes. It’s about time these streets got safer. You never know what could happen out there.”

Eddie pauses for a moment.

“So… it seems like things are more regulated now. More than they were a few years ago, I mean…”

She puts her magazine down then, switching her focus over to Eddie. “Eddie-Bear, I know you’re not trying to ask me to leave again, right? Because you know we’ve talked about this. You know why you have to stay here.”

And, there goes his plan.

His eyes are pleading, and he tries his best to sound reasonable, to make a point.

“I don’t- I don’t want to go far, just… I want to be outside more than just doctors visits, Mom! It’s not healthy for me to stay in here-”

“Don’t use your health on me! I know everything about your health, Eddie, and I know that you’re much better off in here, safe. ”

“I just want to go- go to the store with you maybe, or the library, or hang out in the backyard- I mean look, Mom, crime rates are down more than they’ve ever been! Heroes are protecting people!”

“Stop asking, Eddie.”

Her voice is so calm, so sure that Eddie feels like he wants to explode. He clenches his fists, and again, that familiar glow is back.

“No! I shouldn’t even have to ask, Ma!”

“Don’t you start this with me-”

“Most kids my age are outside all the time! They go to school, they go out with their friends, they do things! I don’t even know where my friends are!” He yells back, ignoring her retorts.

“Your friends don’t come here anymore, and it’s better for you that way! They were terrible influences, you don’t need them, Eddie-”

“I’d like to know where they went, why they left! I’d like to have the chance to look for them at least! Christ, Mom, this is a prison!” He gesticulates wildly in front of himself, pleading with his hands without noticing that they’re exactly why he won’t win this fight.

“Eddie, do not raise your voice with me. You’re scaring me, honey!” Eddie knew this tone well. “Why don’t you go upstairs and calm-”

“I DON’T WANT TO CALM DOWN, MA!”

As he yells, he swiftly throws his hands down to his sides, and something happens.

He can’t put words to it, but he feels a sort of tingling heat in his hands, and the next second he hears a crash- no, two crashes, one on each side of him.

Everything is silent for a moment, even his mother. Her mouth hangs open, though no words come out, and she’s looking at Eddie with something between shock and horror on her face. She turns her attention to Eddie’s left, and instinctively, he does the same.

There’s a visible dent in the wall there, as if somebody strong had punched it. Almost cautiously, Eddie turns his head to the other side, and notices an equal dent in the cabinet. Each dent is equal height, and Eddie knows what happened.

He’s still processing it, and he doesn’t want to be right, but he knows.

“Eddie…”

Her voice is so low, Eddie barely processes it. His eyes glance between the dents, then to the floor.

“Yeah… I’ll go to my room.”

After that, his visits to the doctor decrease exponentially so, only once every few months. But he’s given more medication than he’s ever had before. Given his little ‘condition’, he’s not surprised. It’s probably messing with his system somehow, and the medicine is helping with symptoms he hasn’t even noticed yet.

He feels tired all the damn time, even though he goes to bed early and wakes up a little on the later side. When he’s not doing his work or watching something completely idiotic that his mom insists he must join her for, he’s either napping or staring into space. It’s annoying- maybe that’s one of the things that the medicine is helping. Or maybe he’s just fucking depressed, who knows.

He’s also confined to his room most of the time, and his mom locks the door when she goes out. After his outburst, he assumes she doesn’t trust him, and he can’t be too mad this time, he knows. She’s just trying to keep him safe, of course.

He doesn’t have much schooling left. He still gets to watch the news for current events, but only when supervised by his mom. And, it’s better than nothing. He does okay on the work he’s given, although he knows it’s all minimum-effort curricula.

He has video games to keep him occupied, and a fair amount of books. His mom gets him things sometimes while she’s out, which is nice of her.

He’s also been trying to control his abilities.

Maybe it’s stupid. All he has are glowy hands… but he knows they’re capable of something else if they were able to mess up the walls that day. And if he knows anything about superpowers from the comics he reads, he knows that it’s much better for everyone if he controls this thing before he accidentally learns more about it.

It takes a lot of work to learn how to make them glow on command. It takes a lot of focus, and a solid month before he actually does it for the first time when he wants to, instead of it just appearing.

Awesome- now he can use his own personal flashlight whenever he needs it. Whenever his mom says “lights out” at 10pm and he still isn’t tired, or when he drops something and doesn’t have a phone flashlight to help him find it.

And it’s cool, it’s a great feeling actually, to be able to have a little bit of control over this shit. But it’s not enough.

Eddie’s mom is out grocery shopping, so naturally he’s locked in his room. He dreams one day of being able to blast the door open somehow, but he’s far from that. He dented the walls a little bit exactly one time, so he’s not exactly the pinnacle of power here.

But… maybe someday he could be.

A stool sits by Eddie’s window as a perch. He sits down as he opens his window, thankful that the weather is warming up, and for a moment he forgets his goal here. The open window is the closest he gets to being outside anymore, and every time he smells the natural air, he finds himself longing for the days he used to spend out in it. He misses biking around town, he misses the barrens, he misses the clubhouse in the forest. But a window is better than nothing.

He physically shakes his head to refocus himself.

Outside his window are several trees- his targets. It’s almost surreal, realizing exactly what he’s about to do, but he knows it’s important.

“Focus…” He whispers to himself, nestling his arm between two of the metal bars that lined his window now. He rests it lightly on the windowsill, spreading his palms as if trying to use the force.

Except, this isn’t the force. He’s not drawing anything to him, he’s trying to push it away .

His hands glow, which is no longer anything special to him. He figures they’ll glow brighter as he focuses more, as he prepares for… well, whatever he’s capable of, but at the moment, he doesn’t notice anything.

Thoughts keep crawling into his mind- how much he wishes to go back outside, to see his friends again, to have friends again.

As his mind wanders, the glow spreads up his arms, gradually becoming lighter. But, he’s not focusing. He’s reminiscing, he’s yearning for what he once had, and what he could have if he wasn’t in this stupid fucking house.

Wait, no.

Eddie shuts his eyes tight, willing the thoughts from his mind.

“I said focus, dammit.”

When he opens his eyes, he stares at the tree in front of his window, aiming his hand at it. He takes a deep breath, thinks of nothing but the tree, and-

And nothing happens.

Clenching his fist for a moment, he takes another breath and decides to try again. Hand through the window, eyes on the tree, focus on power. Mind clear, hand glowing, energy flowing, and…

Still nothing.

Eddie tries this for a solid half an hour before he gives up, slumping over his stool and resting his head against the bars. Maybe that weird blast thing was just a fluke, and there was no way to control it. Or, maybe it’s based on like, what he eats, or what he does during the day. Maybe he has a lot more investigating to do before he can actually make his powers do anything besides give him glowy hands.

The world outside the window catches his attention again, and he spends some time just watching it. It’s a nice day out; he can hear kids playing down the street, birds chirping, he can see squirrels and chipmunks scampering around, and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. Four years ago, he’d have been all over a day like this- riding his bike, relaxing in the barrens or by the quarry with his friends…

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that his front door is locked from the outside, that his own bedroom door is locked to keep him in, and that he’s a prisoner in his own home. It’s not fair that the only thing he wants to do is get out, to run, but he can’t. He’d trigger his asthma anyway.

It’s not fucking fair that he can’t even escape out of a window because there are fucking bars on it, it’s not fucking fair that everyone he knew, everyone who was ever kind to him had just up and left him why would they do that? Why did they do that?

(Eddie’s hands glow brighter, but he doesn’t notice.)

Was he really so forgettable that his friends could move on so easily? Or was that his mom’s plan all along? Had she told them to fuck off one day, and they all just listened? The school district still has to check on him regularly to make sure his mother is following the law- had they really noticed nothing? Or had he just never been worth the second thought?

(His hands are shaking, still resting on the windowsill.)

Richie made him a damn mixtape, for christ’s sake! A mixtape! You don’t do that for people you don’t care about, you don’t do that and then abandon them, forget about them, leave them to their warden of a mother and a lifetime of no real fucking human interaction.

(There’s a faint vibration in Eddie’s palms.)

Eddie clenches his jaw, runs his hands through his hair before placing them back between the bars, and shuts his eyes.

Fuck heroes. Fuck superpowers. Fuck this whole organization, the one that spiked fear into everyone and feeds off of it. Eddie’s mom is scared, now Eddie has to suffer for it, and there’s nobody coming to save him. These people have the balls to call themselves heroes, but who the hell are they saving?

“Fuck…”

(His palms brighten.)

“FUCK!”

Eddie slams his hands down against the windowsill and feels it before he sees it. Energy. Pure energy. And it came right from his hands, he knows it did.

The glow of his hands dimmed to a dull shimmer, and there’s an obvious dent in the tree that had been perfect just a minute before.

Like last time, everything is still for a moment, oddly quiet. Eddie can only stare ahead of him at the injured trunk. He flicks his gaze to his hands, still tingling, still glowing.

So. That’s how his power is going to work, then.

After a few months of “good behavior”, Eddie’s mom stops locking him in his room when she goes out. It’s a start, he figures.

He “graduates” that spring, but there’s no ceremony, no speeches, no cap and gown. He gets a cupcake though, which is nice.

The news is still filled with stories about heroes, about thrilling stories of rescue, about new agencies funding research and training and about crime rates plummeting. It’s all good news in theory, but Eddie can’t help the pings of jealousy he feels for all the happy people he sees rescued.

Rescued.

Nobody’s come to rescue him. Nobody even looks for a situation like his- it’s not a flashy villain he needs to be rescued from. He’s in no mortal danger, not even any physical danger in all honesty. But does that make him any less miserable?

No.

And how many other kids are in similar situations? How many other people need saving, but are ignored for all this flashy hero and villain fantasy shit? Eddie thinks about these things a lot. But it’s not like he can do anything about it.

Something good, he guesses, is that he’s gotten better at damaging that poor tree outside his window. The trunk and some of the wider branches have visible scars, though they still aren’t much. Maybe he’s confined to small blasts or something, but it’s still kind of cool.

So his powers are tied to emotions? Good. He’s got a lot of those. And he thinks about them when he wants to channel his energy- that must be what his power is, technically. Energy.

It makes sense that he’s exhausted after he practices, in that case. He tries not to show it, though- he doesn’t want his mom to have any more reason to worry about him or keep him confined.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon in July when she runs to the store, and Eddie gets a few hours to himself for what he’s been calling target practice in his head. He doesn’t know what he plans to do with his tiny blasts of energy, but he figures it’s better to be able to have some sort of handle on them than to just have the ability to do it and no idea how.

Like always, he’s tired after he fires off a few blasts- both physically and emotionally. He thinks about those news stories, the smug faces of all those self-proclaimed heroes. He thinks about his situation, how he longs to leave, how he may as well be in an actual prison. It’s good stuff to keep in his mind when he wants to practice, but it’s hard to come down from, and it always just reminds him of how fucked his life is.

Sighing, Eddie pushes himself off his stool, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head. A snack and a nap sound absolutely perfect right about now, so he decides to do just that.

He pads out of his room and downstairs, a little tempted to turn on the TV, but he was sure his mom would have some way of figuring out that he’d done it- she probably had cameras or something installed, or motion sensors, or a battery monitor on the remote. Something weird and over controlling, of course. It’s expected by now.

While Eddie rummages through the pantry, he understands why his mother had to go out. They were low on snacks of pretty much every kind, and he was gonna have to make something if he actually wanted food. Maybe pasta, that was an easy choice.

Spaghetti.

The voice of an old friend echoes in Eddie’s head, and he finds himself smiling softly before he closes the pantry door.

If he’s gonna make something, he may as well check to make sure they have cooking spray, and maybe some spices. Not that Eddie’s the best cook ever, since he’s not often allowed in the kitchen, but if he has to make something he’d rather it be edible and not something bland that sticks to the pot.

Okay, so he has no idea how to use spices besides like, salt and garlic, but he can still experiment.

Step one- learn where the spices are.

Eddie isn’t allowed to cook, really. Anything he’d done, he’d done while his mom was out. And it’s not like she’s the lord of good cooking, so Eddie’s also pretty amateur.

Finally, he opens a cabinet and finds some usable stuff next to the nonperishables. Garlic powder, some extra salt and pepper, oregano, basil, some extra baking soda and baking powder… and some old pill bottles? He takes the containers to inspect them, curious.

One of the bottles is labelled Phenobarbital, and the others Lorazepam.

That’s Nembutal and Ativan.

Sedatives.

His first thought is, obviously, that they’re just more medications lying around the house. It wouldn’t be surprising, since his mother seemed to always be going to another doctor, and she used to take him nearly once a week.

His second thought is that they had a set medicine cabinet, one that was organized by need. Why would she move them to a food cabinet instead?

And his third thought is one that scares him to death. Suddenly, he’s wondering if it’s not his powers that are making him feel drained.

Because, what had his mother ever needed sedatives for? Sure, one doubles as an anxiety medication, but there’s no way in hell Eddie is lucky enough for his mom to actually seek help for her paranoia.

Tentatively, Eddie opens one of the bottles, and he recognizes the pills as ones he’s given… often.

His breaths quicken, and he wants his inhaler but it’s upstairs- and is it even an inhaler? Or is there something else in there that his mom didn’t tell him about?

Suddenly the bottle is shaking in his hand, his fist clenched around it as the pills rattle around inside. And suddenly, it’s much brighter in the room than it was before. He feels a familiar vibration in the palm of his hands.

“Eddie-bear!”

He hadn’t even heard the door open. But he heard that voice. Her voice. That grating, shrill, helicopter voice. It only gets worse once she finds him in the kitchen, her footsteps quickening as she rushes over to him.

“Eddie-bear, what are you doing? What’s going on honey, put that down, you need to take your pills and go to your room-”

Eddie’s eyes are glued to the bottle.

Sedatives. Fucking sedatives .

He knew she didn’t trust him, but he didn’t think it would have come to this. He never thought she’d flat out lie to him like this.

His jaw is clenched, and he swallows down a lump in his throat as his mother keeps babbling.

“What the fuck is this, ma?”

She gasps as if scandalized. As if she has the right to be shocked, or to be upset at anything Eddie does after pulling this shit.

“Eddie- honey, you know that’s just your medicine. You’re sick -”

“These are sedatives, don’t lie to me.” He snaps his head up, glaring into his mother’s eyes. She takes a step back, looking at him like he’s some dangerous monster. And, hell, maybe he is.

“Eddie you- you needed them-” her tone is pleading, and it just pisses Eddie off more. “You- you needed something to help you, oh God-”

The fear is evident on her face, and the only thing Eddie feels is rage.

“Help me? You think that was helping me?” He drops the pill bottle then, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You-”

“Eddie, your eyes-”

“You drugged me!”

“God, have mercy-”

“YOU FUCKING DRUGGED ME!”

Eddie gestures in front of him, and watches with not-so-much horror as his mom stumbles backwards with an audible shriek.

There’s a moment where he wants to panic. But the anger takes over again, and he doesn’t care what happens to her. He doesn’t care what he did. He doesn’t care.

He needs to get away, he needs to go be alone. He takes off towards his room, but pauses as he catches a glimpse of his reflection in one of his kitchen’s glass cabinets.

His eyes… his eyes are glowing, just like his hands.

No pupils, no hazel iris, no whites. Just a glow, like a flashlight.

Before he has to listen to more shrieking, Eddie all but runs upstairs, slamming his door with more force than he thought he had in him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he felt the house shake with the action.

He rushes to the window then, his body shaking with how fucking angry he is, and throws it open. Reaching both hands out in front of him, he aims, and it doesn’t take a second thought to fire a blast.

It’s easy when he thinks about everything, and when he feels like there’s so much… so much energy pent up inside him that he could burst.

The dent he makes in the tree is much more noticeable this time.

He grits his teeth, and fires another.

Fuck her. Fuck everybody.

A branch falls.

He fires another blast.

Fuck “heroes”. Fuck this society. Fuck this whole fucking world.

He hears his mom getting up from downstairs. And he’s not fucking sorry. Not one bit.

Eddie doesn’t speak to his mom after that.

He avoids going downstairs, and eventually she starts bringing meals up to him, pills in a neat little pile on the side.

They taunt him, the little white tablets. At first, he’s not sure which ones are the sedatives, and which ones he actually needs. But he’s not sure how much he cares anymore.

He stops taking all of them.

And, surprise surprise, nothing happens.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He takes the medication and hides it in a small box under his bed, covered by comics so his mom doesn’t find it if she ever decides to snoop around. And, after all this shit, he wouldn’t put it past her.

He’s 18 now. Most kids his age are going to college, going to work, moving out, doing something .

And Eddie? He’s making a plan.

He notices his mom trying to slip him more medication. And he’s wary of anything that she might be able to sneak a powder into.

He must be successful in avoiding her attempts to drug him, because he feels more alive, more energetic than he had at any time in the past two years.

The stool near his window becomes Eddie’s new best friend. Now that his energy is back, he’s better than ever at controlling his blasts.

He knows his emotions help it along, and he learns that the brighter the glow of his hands, the stronger the blast he can emit; and he learns that his blasts can be strong. It’s during a particularly intense storm that Eddie tests the waters a little more, and ends up knocking over one of the trees outside his window.

If he can knock over a tree, then surely he can knock out a wall, right?

He bides his time, but it takes everything in him to pretend like things are normal. He waits for winter to pass, paying moderate attention to the news when his mom goes out and storing up some essentials. Nothing too conspicuous- a jar of peanut butter here, a box of crackers there, and a few twenties from the stash in her room.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s gonna do or where he’ll end up, so he does his best to prepare for anything.

He keeps a bag under his bed, right next to the box of discarded pills. His mom hasn’t been too nosy about his room- why would she have any reason to be, since he rarely leaves it anyway. By February, the bag consists of a few comics, the supplies he’d stolen from the kitchen, and the money. By March, he adds more money, two changes of clothes, a bottle of water, and a blanket. He wants to be prepared in case he has to leave early.

By May, the weather has evened out, the days sunny and long.

Eddie barely interacts with his mom, and something tells him she doesn’t much mind. She’ll insist on an “I love you” every now and then, but Eddie obliges in order to keep her at bay. He’s learned to play the part of the perfect, quiet, sedated little boy.

It’s a Saturday late in the month when Eddie decides it’s time.

His mother is downstairs, watching some mind-numbingly stupid reality show. He does one last check on his bag, making sure he had everything. He’d been able to steal about $250 without his mother noticing, which he figured was enough to get him, well, somewhere . Everything else is in place- even his inhaler, for good measure.

He slips on his best sneakers, which didn’t have much wear in them, since he’d been outside maybe ten times in the past two or three years. His clothes are comfortable, with a hoodie tied around his waist and a watch around his wrist for good measure.

He takes a step back, standing in the middle of his room with his bag slung over his shoulder. Soon… soon he’d be out. Taking a deep breath, Eddie raises his hands to the same height as the window, and he focuses his energy-

Until something catches his eye.

Something he spent a lot of nights listening to. Something he wants so badly to hate, but he can’t. It gives him too much nostalgic joy.

‘Songs to help spaghetti forgetti his regretti’

Eddie swallows a lump in his throat as he stands perfectly still, eyes glued to the little CD, sitting besides his portable player.

Part of him wants to leave it, to forget everything about this part of his life and start over, brand new. But, as much as he wants to forget everyone, to forget the Losers club, to forget Richie , he can’t. He can’t bring himself to do that.

With a huff, he grabs the CD, placing it safely in Richie’s stupid little case. He shoves them in his bag, then returns to the middle of the room, facing his window.

He can almost hear his mom’s voice in his ear, urging him to stop, telling him he’s too weak, that he won’t survive out there, that he should just stay safe here with her.

“Fuck you,” he responds to no one.

Again, Eddie raises his hands, angling them towards the window.

“This one’s for you, Ma.”

Boom.

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #reddie fanfiction #it fanfiction #reddie fanfics #it fanfics #it (stephen king)#my writing #my art #uh yeah heres this

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commorsicoclub · 5 years ago

Text

The Commorisco Club (3)

If you were waiting for the real vore to begin, here it is people.

Soft, unwilling, male pred, male prey, belly bulges, teasing, fear play and brief mentioning of peanut allergies.

Chapter three: The Waiting Game

Archeon left them to contemplate their new roles with a promise that food would soon be delivered to them to aid in their recovery. Just before closing the door shut, he paused and peered at them through the crack, his red eyes glimmering with want. “Rest well, morsels.”

Once the teal door had shut closed and they were sealed inside, the velvet drapes fell again and they were left alone.

“If we don’t eat then we won’t get our strength back,” Michael said in a hushed whisper. “And then they won’t eat us.”

“You think that’s really gonna stop them?” James asked, irritated and angry. “That the big-fucking-giant-demon-monster things won’t just get pissed and eat us anyway?”

“We have to eat eventually,” Erin added despondently. She pressed the back of her head against the velvet covered wall. “And what’s the point in playing hunger strike chicken with those things? James is right. They’d just wolf us down anyway.”

“What are we going to do?” Valarie said, her voice trembling. “I-I don’t want to be eaten again...”

“Yeah, fuck that!” Michael said, disregarding his previous volume. “Neither do I!”

“No one does,” James said as he tried to crawl on his hands and knees back to one of the cushions and having a difficult time doing it. “If the plan is escape, we can’t when were all like this...”

“But by the time we’re better, they’re gonna be ready for suppertime!” Michael whined. “What are we supposed to do?”

Erin copied James and began to make the slow crawl back to her cushion. She was so tired and her head hurt and all she wanted was to sleep. By the time she made it to her velvet covered bed, she was crying. She heard the others still talking and their voices were raising and it sounded like James and Michael were arguing. She curled up, wishing she had the covers from her bed back in her dorm room. The room was not cold, but she missed the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin.

I have a math exam I need to study for, she thought inanely. It did not matter now, she supposed. Anything. There was nothing for them to do but wait. Wait for the demons to return, for them to grab them all up, and swallow them down again. She could almost feel the slime covered walls of the thing’s belly and she shuddered at the memory and forcibly shutting it down.

Eventually everyone became silent and she could hear their measured breathing as they all slept. But she remained awake. Despite the bone deep fatigue and the absolute desire to sleep...she couldn’t. Insomnia was not a new experience for her, but it was never this bad. If she had trouble sleeping she would normally go to the college’s 24 hour gym and run a mile or two so she could wear herself and her brain out enough to sleep. But now…she couldn’t even stand.

There was no concept of time in the room and it did not seem long at all after everyone had fallen asleep that the sound of the curtains pulling away could be heard. She sat up abruptly, her heart in her throat and every muscle tensed as she watched the door, waiting for it to swing open. Instead, a secondary and much smaller door set into the wood opened up – almost like a doggy door – and a squat and fat toad like demon waddled inside. It didn’t seem to have a neck, just a wide flat head that immediately attached to a rotund wide body all supported on stick thin legs and long flat feet. It had large yellow eyes draped with bumpy eyelids and stared ahead almost listlessly. It looked nothing like the other demons, there was nothing humanoid about him aside from being bipedal.

“Need to be opennin’ yur peepers, Meat,” it said in a low craggy voice, making its way closer to the cloister of humans with ambling steps. His wide flat feet making slapping sounds on the ground. “Master says I bring ya’s food so’s ya ready fer th’ eatin’. So’s foods I got.”

It’s lip-less mouth stretched alarmingly wide and it tilted it’s head back, revealing rows and rows of serrated teeth and a dark throat. Erin screamed and jolted the others awake and upon seeing the mud colored demon with its mouth agape and it’s hideous teeth, they too began to scream. The drama student who had passed out during Archeon’s vist sat bolt upright with a panicked cry and then looked around confused. Upon seeing the toad demon, his screams of panic joined the others.

The ugly toad hunkered down and with a disgusting squelching sound, regurgitated a metal box that shot up into the air and landed in between the cushions that James and Valarie were occupying.

“Oh my god, that is disgusting!” Valarie shrieked, inching away from slime covered thing.

“What the ever loving fuck is that?” Michael demanded. Whether he was referring to the toad demon or the box was unknown, but both seemed to upset him in equal measure.

The demon closed it’s mouth, sealing away its many teeth. “Likes I says: Master says I bring ya’s food so’s ya ready fer th’ eatin’.”

“Get the fuck away from us!” James yelled before falling off the back edge of his cushion and floundering to right himself.

“If you even think about trying to eat me,” Michael wailed. “I will kick you in your fucking demon nads!”

The toad demon did not seem to care how the humans around him were reacting and his yellow eyes did not seem to be focusing on anything in particular and seemed quite board. “Meat is all a hoolerin’ an’ a hollerin’ fer nothin’. Master says I ain’t supose t’ gobble ya’s ‘cause ya’s special no eatin’ meats. Says he’d be gobblin’ me if I’s be gobblin’ any of ya’s.”

“You mean Archeon?” Erin asked warily, eyeing the box. “Is...is he your master?”

“No’s!” said the toad in the first showing any real emotion. It looked almost insulted. “Archeon no master a’ nothin’. Master Rolland be master a’ Gobbler.”

“...G-Gobbler?” the drama student asked. He was pale and shivering.

“Gobbler is be me,” the toad grumbled as it turned back towards the door and began to waddle away, mumbling in displeasure. “Stupid meats not know nothin’. Archeon no master ‘a Gobbler...”

The smaller door shut with a bang and the draped fell back to their places.

“What...what the hell is going on?” the drama student asked. “Where’s the other guy? D-did….di I get eaten again?”

“No, you just kind of fainted,” James said. “And that...thing apparently was Gobbler. Archeon left a while ago.”

“...A-Archeon?”

“Big guy with horns,” Erin said. “You kind of missed introductions.”

Michael was crawling towards the regurgitated box, his face a mixture of disgust and curiosity. It was a munitions box with faded Chinese writing on the side. He reached out to try and flip the latch open, but pulled his hand back in revulsion as a thick cord of Gobbler spit draped from his hand back to the box. Michael began to fervently wipe his hand against James’s cushion.

“Augh! Gross, man!” James whined.

Michael ignored him and tried once more, using the tips of his fingers to finally flip the latch. It popped open easily and out spilled an impressive amount of prepackaged sandwiches. Despite the saliva and goo covered crate, the packages inside were untouched.

“Did that guy just swallow everything at a 7-11 or something?” James asked, reaching out to grab one of the sandwiches. He tiled the black plastic to read the label and then dropped it. “Ew, tuna.”

Erin slowly stood up, her legs only feeling slightly wobbly, and walked over to examine the pile herself. The others were doing something similar. She picked one up, a ham and cheese on wheat, and looked at the label. “They’re not even expired.”

“Seriously,” the drama student was saying. “We’re dead right? This...this is all bonkers.”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” Valarie said, pealing the plastic apart and tucking into a roast beef. She took a large bite and chewed methodically, tears starting to drip off her chin. “I’m so fucking scared and I’m tired and my head hurts and I’m so hungry...”

The drama student was picking idly through the offerings. “Anyone see any that says allergen free?”

“Why? You allergic to gluten or something?” Michael asked mockingly with his mouth full.

“No, just peanuts. I mean, so long as I don’t eat one I’m fine, but I don’t have my inhaler so if I have a bad reaction I’ll just die.”

Michael had the decency to look shame faced.

“Here,” James said, tossing a green plastic package over to the drama student. “It says allergen free on it.”

The drama student looked down at the label and shrugged tiredly. “Oh well. I guess beggars can’t be choosers...”

Michael was unwrapping a second sandwich, looking around their prison in idle fascination. “You know what?” he asked. “This room kinda looks like a stomach...”

Everyone froze mid-chew to take a moment to look about. After swallowing, they all looked at the remains of their sandwiches, appetites suddenly lost.

“Hey, blue hoodie kid,” James asked. “What’s your name?”

The drama student raised his eyes brows. “Huh? Oh, I’m Danny.”

“I’m James.”

“Michael.”

“Valarie.”

“Erin.”

“Just warning you Danny,” Michael added, his appetite abruptly revived as he took another bite. “Since we didn’t know your name at the time, Archeon said he was just gonna call you Snack.”

Danny scowled and averted his eyes and took a few moments to pick at the wilted lettuce in his sandwich. They ate in silence. Erin felt like she had a good idea of where their minds were at. She could already tell her energy was returning and now that they had food...well It was almost a matter of time now, she supposed. Feeling as though a great big clock hung over all their heads, counting down, they spent the next half hour eating their fill and waiting.

Waiting for the demons to come have their lunch...

…………………………………..

Only Erin and Danny were still awake. The others were quietly snoozing with Michael every so often making a loud snort and rolling over.

“Can’t sleep?” Danny asked her.

She shook her head. “Insomnia.”

“Pre-existing condition or newly acquired?”

Erin felt her face crack into a sardonic smile. “I’ve had it for a few years.”

Danny nodded, staring off into space. “How long do you think it’ll take? For them to come back.”

“Don’t know,” she replied with a sigh. “Archeon said they won’t come to feed on us until we’ve got all our strength back. I wonder how they can tell.”

“Maybe the can smell it,” Danny offered. A thunderous snore from Michael drew his attention and he added, “All I smell is bologna and Michael’s feet.”

Erin cracked another smile. She was beginning to really like Danny. Away from Archeon, he was witty and sweet. Not a whimpering mess that fainted when a giant demon flashed his teeth at him. Though she was sure she was no better. Like her, he was petite for their age, hitting their last real growth spurt before their metabolism could adjust. His blue hoodie was two sizes too big and he had his arms and legs tucked inside.

“If they just suck our energy,” he wondered aloud. “Why do they have to swallow us to do it?”

“Archeon said that’s how it’s done,” she replied, his words echoing in her head. In order for us to ingest your energy, we need to ingest you. She felt a shiver down her spine and the two sandwiches she had eaten sat heavily in her stomach.

“Archeon,” Danny said, the word seemed to quiver on his lips. “He...he’s the guy that ate me, right? So what about the others?”

“He never told us their names,” she replied. “But Gobbler said Rolland was his master. I suppose he’s one of them.”

“Gee, I wonder which of us is the luck meal,” he said sarcastically and then winced. “Ah, ignore me. The weird part of my brain’s kicking in. When I’m nervous I start saying stupid shit.”

“It’s alright,” she said and offered him a grateful smile. “I appreciate the attempt to lighten the mood.”

“So, what major are you?” he asked.

“Biology,” Erin replied and seeing the expression on Danny’s face, added, “It’s OK to laugh.”

“No,” he mumbled, biting his lips in an attempt to quell his amused grin. “I’m good.”

She shook her head. “You’re in the drama department right? Are you a theater major?”

“Nah,” he answered, pulling his arms and legs from his hoodie and standing up to stretch. “Music major. I’m in the orchestra that does all the theater department shows.”

She blinked in surprise and found herself smiling. “Oh really? What do you play?”

“I’m first chair guitar,” he said. “But I play a bunch of other stringed instruments.”

“Too bad you don’t have one with you here,” she said. “Some music sounds really nice right now.”

“When Valarie wakes up we might convince her to sing,” Danny said. “I’m pretty sure she’s a music major too. Vocals. I’m bad with faces since I spend most of the shows in the pit, but I think I remember her playing Fatine in last semester’s Les Miz production.”

She nodded and sighed.

“Man, I miss my ipod,” Erin lamented. “And my bed and blanket.”

“I miss not having to wait for a monster to come and eat me,” Danny said flatly. “It’s like all your worse nightmares from when you were a kid. Except real.”

Erin froze as the velvet drapes began to rustle and pull away. The teal door was already opening and in the blackness of the beyond, peered two glowing red eyes. Her mouth fell open and she flapped her hand at Danny in warning, unable to form words. He looked at her bizarrely and then understanding hit. He whirled around just as Archeon stepped into the room, his eyes glowing with hunger and teeth bared from behind grinning lips. His long coat was gone and he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, jeweled fingers catching the light of the orb above them and sending small flecks of diffused light bounces around the walls. “Snack time, boy.”

“Fuck!” Danny said, scrambling to try and make a run to the covering of the metal shelf, but he floundered and slipped on the plush cushion. Archeon easily stepped over the other sleeping humans to reach down and sweep a many ringed hand under to catch Danny around his middle just as he was about to face plant onto the floor. He was lifted up easily and he began to struggle and yell. The commotion had alerted the others and bleary eyes snapped open and they started scrambling back away from the demon, crying out in alarm. Archeon ignored them all, devoting his attention to his squirming prey as he dangled Danny above his face. The demon licked his lips idly and hummed in anticipation.

“I’ve had you on my mind all day, Snack,” he purred, lowering his hand just enough to flick his tongue out to give Danny’s feet a quick sampling. Danny pulled his feet away as best he could, but there was no where to go where the demon’s seeking tongue could not easily reach him. “The taste of you. The feel of you wiggling on my tongue. The delicious squirms as you settle in my belly...”

To emphasis this, he patted his stomach.

“Fuck!” Danny whined, trying again to keep his feet out of Archeon’s mouth. “Let go of me, man!”

“Heh heh. No,” Archeon replied with a grin and turned back towards the teal door. “You’re mine for the next few hours, Snack.”

From her spot under the overhang, Erin could see Danny still struggling in the large demon’s grip and could only watch and cry out for her friend as Archeon prepared to devour him for a second time. With a dark chuckled, the demon pulled the human closer. “In you go...”

Great jaws parted and threads of saliva hung from sharp teeth as Danny was thrust into the open maw.

“NO! Don’t do it! Don’t – mmph!” His cries were cut off as Archeon practically stuffed the boy inside, his hand pulling away as his lips pressed around Danny’s middle to leave his legs to kick and flail freely. His great horned head titled back and he opened his jaws again, Danny’s frightened cries becoming more audible for all of one moment before the Demon used his tongue to lift and pull more of his meal into his mouth. Just as the teal door closed, Erin heard the throaty chuckle and then a gulp. The door closed, the velvet drapes fell back, and Danny was gone. They were left alone with one of their number gone, on his way down to Archeon’s belly.

………………………………………

The next demon came only a few minutes after Archeon left. No one had moved or said anything as they waited, huddled close under the metal shelf. It was no real protection, but it felt safer than being out in the open. When the drapes pulled back again, everyone tensed up, sucking in shuddering breaths, and trembling.

The door opened and a new demon entered. Her skin was a shade of blushing pink and long white hair fell down around her shoulders and two bone white opalescent horns poked out from atop her head and curled around like a ram’s. He eyes were a brilliant deep blue and like Archeon before her, they glowed with clear predatory hunger. A large blood red jewel was set into a choker around her neck and she wore a short white blouse that exposed her flat belly and form fitting black pants that showed of her elegant curves.

“Hello,” she said, her voice sultry and disarming. “Poor little humans, you look so frightened.”

She knelt down and crawled on her hands and knees towards them, her head swaying back and forth like a snake, but her eyes never left the form of one particular human. Michael looked ready to bolt at any moment, suddenly finding himself face to face with the demon who had swallowed him once before.

“Don’t worry, though,” she said to Michael, shoulders hunching to make her breasts push out and she stared at him in a coy and flirtatious manner. “I don’t bite.”

“It’s not your bite that I’m worried about!” Michael squeaked.

Her eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement. “No? Oh you don’t mean that you don’t want me to eat you, little man?”

“Yes! Yes, that very much, please!”

“Oh, but I’m not so bad,” she said, pressing closer still and using her hands to cut Michael off from escape. Her fingers traced along his chest in teasing circles. “I’ll be much gentler this time. And I’m oh so soft inside, I think you’ll find my tummy to be very cozy.”

“FAT CHANCE OF THAT LADY!” Michael was wild with hysteria and as he tried to run, her fingers wrapped around him. “Oh sweet Jesus!”

“But you look so yummy,” she purred, pulling him closer to her face where she nuzzled him. “You smell good too. I was so happy when we met the other night. You made me feel so good. Fuller than any of those lower ghouls ever did. I want that feeling again. Of you inside me, wiggling. I want to taste you...” her tongue slipped out and drew a slimy line down the side of Michael’s face. “Mmmm…oh you’re as delicious as I remember.”

Michael was incoherent in his panicked ramblings and could do no more than fruitlessly struggle. He was not a small guy and the Demoness seemed to have no trouble at all keeping a firm handle on him.

“Be good for me, darling,” she whispered to him. “I’ll make this quick.”

Her mouth opened wide and in Michael went, her saliva coated tongue peeking out the sides of her mouth as she tasted him with open relish. She kept a firm grip on Michael’s legs and made her first swallow. He sank into her gullet and before he could react, she swallowed again. It only took her four swallows to down all of the broad shouldered athlete and the captive and horrified audience watched as her smooth flat middle sank with her meal’s weight. It began to jiggle and sway as Michael made his protests known. She pressed a hand to her belly and sighed in delight, eyes closing as she concentrated on the delicious feeling of live, wiggling prey. “There we are, my little human. Nice and cozy, like I promised.”

She carefully stood up, one hand cradling her stomach and she licked the fingers of her other hand. “It’s no wonder you humans are so prized. Your flavor is divine.”

“You’re monsters,” Valarie sobbed, covering her face.

The Demoness tuned her head to look at the girl and she smiled sweetly, licking her lips. “And you’re yummy.”

With an energetic sway of her hips, the Demoness sauntered back to the teal door. She stopped and turned back to the remaining humans.

“Oh! And I’m Lyra by the way. Forgot to introduce myself. Forgive me, I can never recall my manners when I’m famished,” she said, both hands leisurely petting her bulging belly, seeming to relish each kick or jerk of her meal. “Egan should be paying you all a visit shortly. Ta-ta!”

The door closed, the velvet drapes fell, and then they were three.

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