#people don't change time does

[jellicle-shifters-au]

Found

for Demelurina Week Day 2: Anniversary and (a little early) @whumptober day 20 people don't change, time does; and day 28 you'll have to go through me

TIMELINE: six years after demeter's first captivity

--

The air tastes different here, on the outskirts of the town, than it does in the heart of it. It’s not the same as the green, there’s still a tinge of smoke and exhaust and restaurant fare in the green, but here in the park there’s less of that, and Demeter can smell more of the greenery and squirrels and other small things lurking in the grass. That, and the hint of ice cream still drifting from the pink-and-white truck parked on the other side of the street. There’s a kind of cold that drifts across the wind, that kind that she recognizes from winter but with something more metallic to it, each and every time the man opens the freezer.

She and Bomba had already been to the truck, and now she sits on a nearby bench nursing a cone—plain vanilla, of course—while Bomba has run off to the bathroom. It’s nice, to just sit there with nothing to do and nowhere to be, with all the time in the world.

The wind blows gently into her face, and with it comes the scents from across the park, the squirrels tucked away in trees, the dogs and their humans, the pines and oaks and the maples. There’s the faint scent of cat, too, others who have been this way but none of them are familiar to her.

None of them except—

“My, my,” she hears, in between the crunch of leaves and the creak of the bench as he sits, and not without a soft, strained sigh as though something about the motion hurts, “it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

The cone breaks under her fingers.

Six years. It’s been six years since she ran off, since she climbed out that window in the dead of night and disappeared into the dark. Six years, that smooth, silky voice has haunted the edge of her dreams, the center of her nightmares, has made her so afraid of her own name she goes by something else entirely.

Six years he had the chance to come after her and he waited until now, six years later, to find her again.

Six years later, when she thought he would have searched the town up and down, every nook and cranny, tore the place apart just to find her—

And all it took was a day at the park.

Cold ice cream runs over her fingers. The taste of it turns to ash in her mouth. The air around her turns bitterly cold, the hint of ice from the truck turns sharp and sour; the cold seeps deep into her bones, not even her compression shirt can keep her warm. The blood drains from her face. She grips the cone a little tighter in her hands, feeling the brittle waffle cone crack under her fingers.

Why? Why did he wait six years? Why now, why not then, why wait so long to come back for her?

And he is coming back for her. Demeter had always known he would. 

It’s a feeling that’s been sitting somewhere so deep inside her she’d almost forgotten it was there, but it had always gnawed at her like a flea when she let it.

She’d known, since the day she ran out, that this would always happen.

Her mouth is dry. Her heart races. She can’t look at him. It’s over already, but if she looks at him, she might never come back.

If he ordered her to, she’d get up and follow him back to his car, back to the rats and the dark and the terror and the sensory assault—to her own death—he wouldn’t give her a choice and she wouldn’t give him a fight.

And Bomba—

She’d never see Bomba again.

“You look…well,” he says slowly.

The park blurs. She can’t remember how to breathe.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t come looking for you. I haven’t felt anything.

I haven’t done anything wrong.

She doesn’t know how she responds, but she feels a sound catch at the back of her throat. Warm tears run down her face when she blinks. The park comes back into view. There are parents and their kids on the other side, at the playground. A pair of joggers passes by. A group of adult women mingles around another bench. None of them look at Demeter.

“Where have you been hiding these days?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, even if she could. Every word she wants to say catches and dies at the back of her throat. She shivers, cold vanilla ice cream dripping over her knuckles, and imagines herself to be a lot like that cone—cracking, cracking, cracking under the pressure of Macavity’s hold until she shatters completely.

Bomba, she thinks—Where’s Bomba?— I’ve been living with Bomba—Bomba—

It feels like Bomba’s been gone for hours.

What if something’s happened to her? What if the rats found her? If Macavity found Demeter, then he certainly could find Bomba, his rats could jump her as she comes out of the bathroom, anything could happen—

If he doesn’t know…she can’t give him Bomba. If he knew, if he knew Bomba had been hiding her all these years, there’s no telling what he’d do to her, what he’d do to both of them. She can’t give him Bomba.

The narrow scope of her world goes quiet for a moment, filled with nothing but cold and the ice cream running over her fingers and the terror in her heart. Then Macavity inhales heavily; Demeter whimpers at the sound.

“I asked you a question, Demeter.” And there it is, that patronizing, prodding tone, I want something from you and you’re failing to give it to me, the tone that’s made her so afraid of her own name.

She squeezes the cone tighter, takes a sharp breath, tears running down her cheeks and gives him another whimper. It’s all she can manage.

She’s forgotten how to speak, how to call for help, how to call for Bomba; she can’t reach the phone in her pocket with the fractured cone glued to her fingers, the only lifeline she has.

Another moment, and then he sighs heavily, hisses softly. She’s in trouble, she’s in so much trouble—Demeter would scream if she could—

“Now you’re being rude.”

Demeter’s head snaps up, there’s something in that tone she can’t resist. She looks.

His eyes are glowing orange, his magic grips her with warm claws; he holds her gaze right where it is, even as he looks her over and takes in her new appearance, now that she’s regained all the weight she’s lost and her clothes fit her and she wears compression shirts and she’s not a grimey, matted mess anymore—

And his face, it hasn’t changed in six years. His fiery red hair has a little more gray now than it did then, but there are no new wrinkles around his eyes or mouth or in his cheeks. His eyes still hold the same intensity they did then, still hold her just as easily.

I’m sorry, she wants to say, but still she can’t. Her voice is gone.

“Yes,” he says, tilting his head, frowning thoughtfully, more to himself than to her, “you’ve certainly managed to do well for yourself.” The light goes out of his eyes, but Demeter can’t force herself to look away.

You’re being rude.

“Where have you been?”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. That note in his voice, he knows, he’s known for years, he’s always known, now he wants her to confirm it. She doesn’t know how.

She can’t.

Hkk, is the most she can manage, a thin, choked sound at the back of her throat. 

“Hm.”

Demeter shivers. Ice cream drips onto her pants. 

It’s not like she’ll have them long, anyway. Her dark jeans will be replaced by frayed gray sweatpants soon enough and the ice cream stains won’t matter then, not that they even matter now, really—

Macavity takes a breath. It’s enough to make Demeter’s head spin; the blood’s drained from her face, the oxygen’s gone from her lungs, she can’t think clearly and yet the way inhales sets off alarms in her head—he’s taking her scent, she smells like Bomba, he’ll know she’s living with Bomba.

He narrows his eyes. “I see.”

Demeter sobs. 

No, no, he can’t know, he can’t know about Bomba, if he knows about Bomba, he’ll come after her, he’ll do worse than the three scars on the back of her leg, he’ll kill her, he’ll kill her and he’ll take his time doing it.

Please not Bomba, it’s not her fault, she didn’t do anything wrong, she didn’t do anything wrong—

“What the hell is this?”

 Demeter squeezes the shattered cone tighter; freshly melted ice cream runs around her fingers. She gulps in air, the tension in her shoulders fading out as Macavity’s hold on her is broken. The feeling and control comes back into her body, a weight finally lifted off her shoulders. She inches back until she’s pressed against the arm of the bench.

He turns to meet Bomba, his eyes narrowed. His lip curls just enough to show the tip of one sharpened fang. “Bombalurina.”

Terror grips Demeter’s heart again. Bombalurina. No one calls Bomba by her full name, it’s either Bomba or Rina, never Bombalurina.

“I didn’t realize Demeter was your…ward.” There’s a hiss in his voice, a hint of displeasure, annoyance. Anger.

He knows now, he knows about Bomba, he was never supposed to know about Bomba, he can’t know about Bomba—

“Yes,” Bomba answers. Her voice doesn’t betray anything; the one word is laced with venom. She crosses her arms as she moves to put herself between Macavity and Demeter, blocking Demeter from his view as much as she can.  “She is. It was my choice.”

For a moment, Macavity says nothing. Then he nods his head to Bomba, and says softly, with careful consideration, “So it was.” He stands, crossing his arms, looking Bomba over with careful thought. “Tell me something, Miss Ford—how much thought did you put into this little…venture?”

“Enough.” A snarl lines Bomba’s words. Demeter looks up. Bomba’s chin is raised, her hair is clipped up at the back of her head in a curly red bun. She stands with her spine straight, looking ever like the Protector she is. “Be warned, Mister Stern, there’s not a Jellicle in this town that wouldn’t fight to keep her out of your hands.”

“Do you really think, Ms. Ford,” Macavity says slowly, “that a handful of Protectors could stop me from taking her again if I so desired?”

He does. He wants her back. But why did he wait six years to do it?

“We'll die trying.”

“Hm. I’m sure.” He takes a step closer to Bomba. “Tell me something else, Miss Ford, since Miss Mayweather is currently incapable of doing so herself—” and it’s not without a sharp glance at Demeter. She shrinks back into the corner of the bench, shivering with fear and cold, the ice cream now a thin liquid still running over her knuckles and between her fingers, the cone a soggy, broken mess. “Has she showed any signs of relapse?”

Bomba lurches forward with a fang-filled growl, her hands forming into fists as uncrosses her arms, only to stop at the last moment, tucking her arms back across her chest. She backs away. “You had your time with her,” she snarls. “If you wanted to be so sure she wouldn’t…relapse—” she spits the word out like a maggot— “then you should have come for her that night. Not six years later.”

“Perhaps,” Macavity answers. His orange eyes flash to Demeter. “But do consider that some symptoms are best measured with time.” 

It’s too much, it’s too—

The cone falls from Demeter's hands as she lurches forward and vomits into the grass, the weight of Macavity’s words finally crushing her, pushing her off the bench. Bomba doesn’t have the time to yell at him, tell him to go away, get away from us, get away from her, don’t come back before the man slips away and she’s on her knees next to Demeter, pulling her hair out of her face, rubbing circles on her back, politely declining help from the few passersby who finally stop to see if Demeter is alright, and it makes her sob harder amidst her retching, she burns with anger, they couldn’t help her before, but they could help her now, couldn’t they? Why couldn’t they help her before? Why couldn’t they help her when she sat there sobbing in terror as the man who ruined her life sat there and threatened to ruin it again?

Where were you? she wants to ask. Where were you when I needed you?

Where was Bomba?

Taking too damn long in the bathroom—

She coughs into the grass. It’s not Bomba’s fault, she can’t blame Bomba—

Bomba was the only one to help her—

“It’s alright, love,” Bomba says softly. “It’s alright, you’re alright. I’ve got you, Metra, I’m here.”

Demeter’s retching turns to sobs. She falls into Bomba, the strength and energy sapped out of her limbs. She cries into Bomba’s shoulder, gripping her with what little strength she has left, leaving a sticky, sloppy mess of ice cream on her blouse. It’s a distant thought that occurs to her, under the terror and the frustration and some symptoms are best measured with time.

She cries until there’s nothing left; and later, when they’re in the car, Demeter will stare at the mess of ice cream and shattered cone on her shaking hands and her pants and the mess she’s left on Bomba’s shoulder, and say with her mouth dry and her voice reedy, I’m sorry about your blouse.

Bomba will sigh, heavy and sympathetic, and reach over to take Demeter’s sticky hand in her own. A blouse can be replaced, she’ll say, her own voice tight, but you can’t.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

It Must Be Difficult (Dealing with the Concequences of Your Own Actions) - Whumptober2023

People don't change, time does

Summer was nice in Hawkins, she thought, staring at the blue sky. Not California nice, sandy beaches, surfboards and ice cream. It was vibrant green trees against the cloudless sky, hiking in the woods and barbecues in backyards. Also Steve had a pool, which helped. 

Black suited a blue sky and emerald trees. So did the church, brown brick with a full garden of flowers out front. Picturesque and manicured. It was a shame it was for a funeral, and not even for anyone good or pretty. Billy didn’t like flowers, or anything that wasn’t his car, himself or heavy metal. Although now she was wondering if he’d even loved himself.

The ceremony had been insufferable. Stuffy air filled the room and not from the heat. There was an arbitrary picture of Billy next to an open casket, they’d cleaned up his body enough that with a suit, his prom suit, it almost wasn’t like he’d been killed by a monster from another dimension that he’d helped to create. 

For day 20 of @whumptober . Also on AO3

Words: 3768

She didn’t know why she was doing this at night, it wasn’t like she’d get in trouble, Neil hadn’t involved her in any of the funeral arrangements, even when he made all the wrong decisions. Billy was going to hate it. It wasn’t exactly all to boost Neil’s ego but it mostly was, make him out to be a loving father who’d lost his only son. Not a dad who regularly beat up his own kid for stepping a toe out of line. 

“Are you sure about this?” Lucas asked behind her. 

The party were on their bikes, they’d been out all day, trying to forget the horrors they’d seen over the past week. She’d have to go home soon, not that she wanted to. Neil was crying, honest to god crying, like she’d never seen. Her mum was frozen in place working automatically as if nothing had changed, but she could see in the way she moved that she was frozen in shock too. 

Max felt sick a lot. Guilt, trauma. The idea that she couldn’t tell anyone how he actually died, Neil just had to live with ‘he saved me and my friends from a mall fire’ and how he went on and on about how he’d been stupid to go in there, they all had. He hadn’t quite stepped over to ‘if you hadn’t gone in there, he wouldn’t be dead’ but she could sense it coming. If she thought the house was tense before, then it definitely was now. 

“It’s worth a try, right?” She said, posting the invitation into the letter box and getting back on her bike.

Lucas just shrugged, “My mom says you can stay around again if it helps.”

“So did my mom.” Added Will, El was on the back of his bike, staying with Joyce until further notice.

If there was anyone who was sharing her grief right now, it was her. Although her relationship with Hopper had been much better and less complicated, they still lost people to the same fight, still wondered if they could’ve done better, fought better to save them. She tried to tell herself that she would’ve died but that didn’t seem too bad at the moment, with how much her mum and Neil were arguing. 

“And mine.” said Mike.

Dustin nodded. It was great to have such supportive friends, sometimes that house felt claustrophobic, but others it was comforting. It was the only place she really had to feel connected to Billy. His things were there, his camaro had been sold off to someone and they were miles away from California, so it was the only place to go if she wanted to remember and grieve without shame. Sometimes she woke up in his bed of all places.

“Thanks guys but I think I’ll go home,”

“As long as you’re sure,” Lucas added.

She nodded. She’d gotten most of Billy’s things after he’d died, all his music and books and random shit filling up the spaces. They weren’t sure what to do with his clothes. That had made her break down, because she could always keep the music, she actually liked some of the heavier stuff he played, and he didn’t have many books. But his clothes were so uniquely him that didn’t know how she could get rid of them, even if they were of no use to her otherwise. 

She just nodded and began to cycle away. She couldn’t look back, she knew she couldn’t because they all looked so worried. Worried about her, worried about the fact that she just sent off that invitation, worried about her going home. They didn’t need to worry, she told herself, she could handle herself. 

Summer was nice in Hawkins, she thought, staring at the blue sky. Not California nice, sandy beaches, surfboards and ice cream. It was vibrant green trees against the cloudless sky, hiking in the woods and barbecues in backyards. Also Steve had a pool, which helped. 

Black suited a blue sky and emerald trees. So did the church, brown brick with a full garden of flowers out front. Picturesque and manicured. It was a shame it was for a funeral, and not even for anyone good or pretty. Billy didn’t like flowers, or anything that wasn’t his car, himself or heavy metal. Although now she was wondering if he’d even loved himself.

The ceremony had been insufferable. Stuffy air filled the room and not from the heat. There was an arbitrary picture of Billy next to an open casket, they’d cleaned up his body enough that with a suit, his prom suit, it almost wasn’t like he’d been killed by a monster from another dimension that he’d helped to create. 

Neil had cried more. Maybe all of those tears he’d saved up and put out as anger had finally come out in waterfalls. Her mum had stayed still, as per usual when it came to Billy, she wasn’t sure if it was some kind of guilt or relief that he was dead that made her so statue-like but something was making her more and more absent recently, even to her. 

They’d sang some hymns that Billy would’ve hated. The Priest talked about forgiveness in the kingdom of heaven and how sometimes god worked in mysterious ways. Yeah, he did, psychic powers, other universes and Lovecraftian monsters were a weird way to work. It was something else that Billy would’ve hated. 

Half the people in here barely knew him. There was some of Neil’s family that Billy never talked about, his Nana, his Uncle and some cousins. Some of his ‘friends’ that survived Independence day, Tommy and Carol sat at the back looking uncomfortable. Then there was Max and the Party, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, Joyce, even Robin. She didn’t expect them to come with how Billy treated all of them but they’d all insisted on coming for her. She tried to hide how that almost made her cry, she knew that didn’t matter. 

They’d buried the body, threw dirt in and watched him get covered up. Any chance she had to try again and connect were gone. Even though she hated him, there was always a chance they could try again and get closer. Now he was dead, there never would be.

The rest of the crowd had either dispersed or were hanging around their cars. There was a small gathering happening at their house, Max would have to go even if it was all fake and the memories of Neil screaming at Billy and throwing him against walls were everywhere.

Steve came up behind her and sat down on the grass. Billy’s headstone, void of any personal notes, was behind them. The party sat scattered around, keeping their distance but close enough that she knew they were there.

“I didn’t know Billy was Catholic.” He said.

She looked up from where she was pulling up pieces of grass and sprinkling them back down again. “Yeah, I think Neil is, or was, and his mom.”

Her dress was getting scratchy now. The humid summer was making everything awful. It wasn’t just the humidity making her uncomfortable, of course, but it was nice to blame something else for once. Nothing supernatural, just annoying. 

“I don’t think she showed, though,” she said. “Either that or I got the wrong address.”

“Who’s that then?” Dustin pointed to the lone woman standing near a tree behind them all.

The party followed his point and stared at the woman with long, fluffy blonde hair and a black pantsuit. They knew who it was by the way she stood, the tense way she held her body. Sunglasses covered her eyes, she wondered if she was crying behind them or just felt ashamed. 

She knew they’d noticed her. Her body jolted upwards and she turned to go. But Max wasn’t satisfied with that. If she’d walked out on Billy, left him to become a piece of shit with Neil then she could at least give him some closure, or was it her getting closure?

“Hey, are you Billy’s mom?!” She shouted across the graveyard. 

She stopped and nodded, turning around to them. After a moment of hesitation, she came closer and took off her sunglasses. That’s when they could really tell who Billy looked like out of her and Neil. It was the eyes, the clear blue piercing through you, going steely with that gaze. Her nose too, that was the same, the way her skin wrinkled around her eyes, her facial structure. Billy was kind of a spit image of her.

“I was a bit surprised when I got the invitation,” she said, she didn’t talk like Billy though, it was too gentle, too sure of herself. “I mean, Indiana? I bet Billy hated it.”

Max huffed and nodded. She’d hated it too before she met her friends. She didn’t think Billy got that far.

“I was a little scared that Neil knew my address, or I guess I should be comforted that he knew and didn’t do anything.”

“I sent the invitation.” Max spat out. “Neil doesn’t know you’re here, I don’t think.”

She stepped back a bit, gulped and collected herself. Was that a wash of relief or a touch of hurt? If it hadn’t have been for Max seeing her name on Billy's birth certificate, and finding her in the yellow pages, then she wouldn’t have even known her own son died. 

“And you are?”

“Max, Max Mayfield, Billy’s-” she looked back at the grave. “Step-sister.”

“Oh, you must have really cared about him, to try and find me for his-” She didn’t say the word. It must be difficult dealing with the consequences of your own actions 

“That’s debatable.” Was all she said. 

Flashes of when he almost drove into her friends, when he grabbed her arm and left her at the arcade. All the times he gave Lucas shit just because of the colour of his skin. When he barrelled in and hit Steve so hard he almost passed out.

Then the time when he showed her how to drive. When he said ‘fuck this’ at a family reunion and took her to get milkshakes instead, when he let her play that mixed tape labelled ‘M’. She’d never been sure if that had been a mixtape for her or someone else, but she did like it. 

“Debatable? How?” She stood in the middle of the group now and seemed to shrink under their watchful eyes. “What was he like, now?”

“A piece of shit.” Steve said, not looking at her. 

“What?”

“He almost killed me once when we fought, just kept punching-”

“-he targeted me because of who I am-” Came Lucas.

“-he almost ran us over with his car-” That was Mike.

“-he took his anger out on me for a while,” Max added as a final statement to their bundle of explanations. 

Again, Billy’s mum seemed taken aback. This time something broke through her steely gaze and reddened the white’s of her eyes. Was this guilt?

“That doesn’t seem anything like the Billy I knew,” she said.

The one you left behind, Max corrected mentally. Instead she opted for, “Well that’s what happens when a kid’s left with an abusive father and no one else, you get angry and take it out on the closest thing to you, so in his case, literally everyone.”

Her hand covered her mouth. “I thought-”

“That he stopped? No, he definitely didn’t.”

She looked down. Away from them and at her hands. Max did feel sorry for her, she’d wanted to run too, run away from Billy’s abuse and Neil’s manipulation, but she knew that without her for Neil to use as a pawn to hurt Billy, her mum would be next. And she knew that her mum could turn a blind eye far too easily than she thought she should, but she was still her mum, she was still someone stuck underneath an asshole’s thumb and she couldn’t abandon her. She’d seen what that had done to Billy, and she didn’t want her mum chewed up and spat out, angry in a world that didn’t have a clue.

That’s what Billy’s mum had done, though. So while she could understand, it didn’t mean she liked what she’d done. 

“Neil didn’t just hate you,” Max said. “He was angry and turned to the next thing he could hurt, Billy, and he got hurt and confused and must have guessed that this is how the Hargroves dealt with their emotions, that this is what love was and this is how the world worked, so when I came into his life, I was the next thing he could hurt.”

She didn’t go any further. Everything about Billy was this confusing, conflicted mess deep inside. She wanted him back because of how bad everything was now, because everything seemed peachy in comparison, she wanted to see if he really meant that sorry and if he would change, get out from under Neil and just be himself away from their shitty home. 

But there was that other voice that reminded her of what Billy was like the entire time she’d known him. She didn’t entirely believe that if he’d lived, he would’ve changed. What if he’d only apologised because he’d been dying with a dirty conscience? If he’d have lived, all the evidence suggested that he’d be the same, now even more traumatised by being possessed by some monster he didn’t know anything about. They’d had good moments but they’d been few and far between.

“He hurt you?” Billy’s mum was just looking more and more horrified by the second.

“Not for most of the time we knew each other, for most of it he was a super dickish older brother, distant, cold, uncaring, but that was it, you know? It wasn’t until we moved here, in ‘84, that he really turned on me.”

With a deep breath, she asked, “What happened? It must have been something big for him to turn on you and for you to move to California, right?”

She was smart for connecting the two. It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out. She just hadn’t told anyone the truth, the full truth anyway, of why the Hargrove-Mayfields had moved to Indiana in the first place. 

“It was because of your dad, right?” Lucas said. He was the person she’d been the closest to telling, he was a good listener, I guess you had to be when this was your reality, fighting demons. 

“Kind of.” 

“What do you mean, kind of? That’s what you told us!” Mike added.

“Well people can not tell you things, you know, omit stuff!” She turned to say to him.

Billy’s mum cleared her throat, “Why did you then? Really?”

Max thought back to that night. Her last summer in California. Rays of sunshine, waves crashing on the beach, meeting her friends at the skatepark and occasionally seeing her dad. She would’ve appreciated it more if she’d known it would be her last. Maybe she would’ve done something differently.

“It was the middle of the summer,” She started, everyone now looking at her. Even Billy, she could just tell. “Billy had been more distant than ever, would always be in a rush to get somewhere, anywhere out of the house but never with me. I didn’t care. Any time away from Billy was time well spent in my book, so what if he barely told me when he’d pick me up before speeding off with a wheel spin and speeding fine? It didn’t bother me.”

“Until one day, it was July 11th and I wanted to go to the skatepark, Neil and my mom were at work and he usually got told to do something with me or take me somewhere in the morning but I guessed that that day he just couldn’t be bothered, because he told me to walk and slammed his bedroom door, turned up his music. I was tempted to just steal his car or some of his money as revenge but I ended up calling my dad, we went for milkshakes and he took me to the skatepark instead.”

It was one of the last meaningful times they spent together. All the rest was arguments with her mum, not Neil, never Neil, and letters that got more and more distant.

“And when I got back, Billy wasn’t alone, I didn’t think much of it because it made sense, he wanted to be alone with a girl, big deal, he always wanted to be alone with girls.” She remembered it exactly. While most of her memories of California were terrifyingly fading after the dramatic events of the past year, this one was like a movie seared into her brain. “But he wasn’t with a girl. When I looked through the crack in his door, he was kissing a guy.”

Mumbles of ‘whats’ from her friends rippled. Billy’s mum didn’t budge. She was his mum and probably knew him before he shielded everything below ten plus layers of emotion. 

“I was shocked, but didn’t think about what it would mean, I just knew I had ammunition now. So at the dinner table that night, I told Neil that Billy left me on my own to go kissing boys and I spent time with my dad, two things he hated.” She said. “And I expected him to blow up but he didn’t, he told Billy to be a respecting brother and to not do that again.”

“I was disappointed but Billy, he was nothing like I’d seen him before. Still, quiet, wide eyed and terrified. And he was like that for days. Did everything asked of him and more, didn’t make a sound, almost like he was trying to make it so he wouldn’t exist or something. The tension was horrible.”

Tears pricked in her eyes at this part. Like a lot of things lately, all she could think was all the ways she could’ve done things differently, better. Guilt making her throat stick, eyes sting and hands go clammy. She hated it yet was getting used to it all at the same time. 

“On that Saturday, though, all the tension came crashing down.”

She wiped her eyes and felt Steve’s hand on her shoulder. Lucas was sitting next to her when she looked to her right. And Billy’s mum’s red stained eyes bore into her back.

“Neil told me and my mom to go to the movies while he and Billy ‘had a talk’. We saw the Karate Kid and got pizza afterwards, I just thought that they were having another fight, they had them all the time, almost every night they were screaming at each other.” She said. “When we got home there was an ambulance outside the house. Billy was being loaded into it and Neil was talking about him getting into a fight with some other kids on a Saturday night.”

She could see the flashing lights now. Hear Neil’s structured panic and the deathly calm underneath. It fooled the paramedics, and the cops, and her too, for a while at least. 

“I believed it, Billy got into an argument and got into a fight because he was mad, he did it all the time. But I realised afterwards, seeing his injuries, the fact that they had to glue his skull back together and the bruising on his chest for a few weeks after, that it wasn’t a fight, he and Neil didn’t just have talks. Neil put him in the hospital, Neil decided that there were too many distractions in San Diego and moved us to Hawkins. And Billy blamed me for all of it, so he turned on me.”

This was too much. Seeing her face, being forced to tell her biggest secret because she too felt like this was her fault. Her hands clenched again as she squeezed her eyes shut to fight back tears.

"But if you'd have stayed or taken him with you then Neil wouldn't have treated him like this, so he wouldn't treat me the same, but he did and we never got close and he died protecting me in a-" she took a breath, she couldn’t tell her about the upside down now. "Mall fire before I got the chance to properly talk to him."

She stood up, brushing of Steve and Lucas' comfort. Firey, just like her hair, as she stopped trying to be careful with this woman she'd never known and tell her how it actually was - to an extent.

"So this is all your fault!"

Billy's mum looked taken aback again. She squinted her eyes and tightened her jaw again. 

"Why did you invite me, then? If you seem to hate me so much?" She said.

Max looked at Billy's grave. If he was watching this, she'd love to hear what he thought. Although, saying that would probably cause the upside down to make her see ghosts which she didn't want, so she stopped that chain of thought there.

"Because I thought he might like it."

Max turned around. The tears couldn’t be held back now. They flooded her face as she clenched her hands and walked over to Steve's car at the bottom of the bank. Lucas slipped his hand into her’s, stopping her nails from piercing her palms, and smiled.

The rest of the party joined in,  all going into their cars but not pulling away as Max found herself alone with Billy’s mum. She didn’t exactly want to leave her alone, she didn’t hate her with her entire heart and soul. It was just the knowledge that if one little thing had gone differently then most of her life would be different. Well, you could say that about anything to be honest, so it didn’t hold much weight.

“There were good times, you know?” She said, not turning around. “When he taught me to drive his car, or took me to the movies instead of making me study.”

“If things were different, he could’ve been the Billy you knew, again, at least a little bit.”

She was silent behind her. Max went to get into Steve’s car, she could see everyone looking through the windows.

“Thank you for sending me that invite.” Was all she said as Max got into the car.

She watched her turn back to Billy’s grave and kneel down, her hand on her mouth. It was weird, this woman who’d missed so much, was grieving more than anyone. Perhaps you could mourn the living after all?

----

If there's one thing that I really appreciated in Stranger Things 4, it was that it showed Max's comflicted feelings, and part of me does know that Vol 2 was solely written by the Duffer Brothers who probably wanted to just make Max hate Billy, but I like to think that she holds both feelings in her heart. Billy was horrible when he was alive but he died before they could've been close, what if he'd gotten a chance to change? And her time before he died seems so much better compared to her life in Season 4 but it's all nostalgia so was it really better? I love it! Also Billy's mum, I basically put all my thoughts on her in here too, she was hurt and ran but she also left her kid behind to become horrible. I tried to foreshadow something for a future Stranger Things fic I've been planning for a while here with Max talking about seeing ghosts because I would love for her to be able to see them as she's died and also is blind so what if she can only see ghosts?

Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive

[bamsara]

I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[ariaste]

Me: [sees everyone talking about how Assad Zaman was "literally" coming up with RPF about himself and Eric Bogosian in an interview]

Me: ah, fandom's doing its little "interpret an innocent comment in Some Kind Of Way" thing again, let's go find the video and do our own critical thinking about what was actually said here--

Assad: What would happen if I said-- [words that cannot be interpreted as anything but RPF fanfic]

Me:

Me: ok fandom gets a pass on this one actually

[uncanny-tranny]

Periodic reminder that unless a person specifically and clearly tells you it is okay to tell others they are trans or queer, you should err on the side of caution and assume they do not want you to tell people (especially random people!) about their transness or queerness.

You have no idea, generally, why somebody doesn't talk openly about their trans or queer status, and you have no idea, truly, how somebody might react to that information. The most progressive person out there is still capable of harbouring incredibly negative thoughts about somebody's queer status.

[sebille]

Oh the little change in his expression

[raiiny-bay]

Love, Dhes

Parker,

It's unfair how time with you feels so short. How the last 10 years have felt like no time at all. I like to think there are other versions of us out there, somewhere. Maybe in another timeline, another universe. I like to think we find each other no matter where we are or what we're doing. That we're together and happy and I get to love you in a dozen different lifetimes. That's what I hope, anyway. And I hope when this lifetime ends, we get to start over and do it all again. Because once just isn't enough. Not for me. Not with you.

I hope the next 10 years pass slower.

Love, Dhes

[regina-del-cielo]

Maybe it's a 'study finds water is wet' type of thought, but

considering it's an action movie whose overall plot is "immortal warriors Fuck Shit Up™️", I think it's significant that in The Old Guard the thing that makes Copley pull red strings through his Murder Conspiracy Board and say "[Merrick] doesn't care what [Andy]'s done with [her immortality]" is the people they save, not the ones they kill

Most of the Conspiracy Board is him circling random newspaper headlines and faces on old photographs to (more or less realistically) follow the immortals' treck through the world and big historical events. Which is, in-canon, not much different than putting portraits from different centuries next to a picture of Keanu Reeves and saying "they look the same, clearly Reeves is an immortal!"

But then there are the connections. A little girl holding Joe's hand in WW1 becoming the youngest (and first) woman to be awarded a Nobel Prize for Medicine (suck it, Kozak). Or the grandchild of a family that Andy saved from [something] helping people escape from the Khmer Rouge genocide in Cambodia.

They are warriors. They have fought and been in the midst of countless wars, major or minor, throughout history. They must have killed as many people as they saved... and yet.

It's not them taking out a random warlord or dictator or rabidly hateful politician that has tangible repercussions in history. It's the children and families they get out of war zones, save from accidents, protect from natural disasters. People to whom they give a second chance at life, and grow to change the world (or even just their own world), like a mysterious stranger once changed theirs just by holding out a hand or patching a wound.

I don't know I just think it's particularly neat

[uniiiquehecrt]

Voice actors are NOT the same as actors.

It takes a specific kind of skill-set and training to be able to warp and meld the voice. It takes a certain kind of talent and dedication to hone that talent into the ability to meld the voice and invoke emotion with one's voice alone. Actors are used to using their voice secondarily to their body language and their facial expressions. It's all mirrored back on camera. They do have nuance. But it's a different kind of nuance and a different kind of training to produce that nuance.

Voice actors might get their likeness transposed on their character's design, and maybe their mannerisms might seep into the character's animation. But when it's all said and done: their presence is in their voice. They are bringing a character to life, showing that emotion in their voice, trying to keep a specific accent, drawl, pitch, tone in that voice and keep it consistent for their recording sessions.

The voice actor is like a classically trained musician who can play first chair in a competitive, world-renown orchestra. The actor (who fills the voice actor's role) is like a moot who played violin in beginner and intermediate high school orchestra and thinks they can get into Juilliard with that 2-4 years of experience.

This doesn't mean that the HS orchestra moot can't play. They can even be really good at it. Maybe they won competitions and sat first chair. But they are not in the same league as the person who's been training their whole lives and lives and breathes to hone their craft using the instrument and all of the training they've ever acquired to perfect it. They are not meant for the same roles. They are not in the same caliber. You do not hire the HS equivalent when you want to play complex music in a competitive orchestra.

Actors are not the same as voice actors.

And furthermore, actors - especially big name actors - taking the roles of animated characters for big budget films or TV pilots makes no sense anyways when - at least in the case of TV pilots - there's not a point to hiring a big budget actors anyways. That money could be used elsewhere (like paying your animators), and the talent that is brought onto the screen for X character could then be hired on to voice said character no recasting required.

I wouldn't say voice acting as a profession is in danger exactly, but it's certainly being disrespected and overlooked for celebrity clout, and this has ALWAYS been an issue. Shoot, even Robin Williams knew that much - which is why he tried so hard not to be used as a marketing chess piece for Aladdin and got royally pissed off when it happened anyways. People shouldn't go to any movie (but especially not animated films) because "oh famous actor is in it". People should go because it's a good movie and the voice acting is good.

People who honest to god think that voice actors are replaceable because "oh well anyone can voice act" or "I like xyz celebrity so naturally it'll be good" ... Honestly I just wish you'd reassess your priorities because you're missing the point and are part of the problem.

Voice Actors ≠ Actors.

[pokimoko]

The fact that Main-verse Ooo is as good and as kind as it is (relative to the other universes shown so far, at least, it's obviously not perfect) all because of the same character that starts off as the OG series' antagonist, the person we were made to see as the bad guy (albeit an often ineffectual one) for several seasons, is making me lose my mind.

Imagine finding out the guy you spent your childhood beating up and saving princesses from is in fact a driving catalyst behind you being able to exist, and not only exist but also live in a world that knows what kindness is. All because that man, the same man who you've witnessed do terrible things, once met a little girl and taught her how to be good.

Simon's story really shows us that even if you lose your way and forget how it is to be good yourself, the world keeps the memory for you. That act of love Simon showed Marcy by protecting her and seeing her as more than the monster she thought herself to be created ripples upon ripples, small at first but eventually enough to help give their wreckage of a world—a world that easily could have been forsaken, its goodness overlooked because of its inhospitable remains—a chance to grow into something beautiful. Because of those very same ripples Simon created, the people of Ooo grew up in a world where they know enough about kindness that they were able and willing to spare the 'bad guy' some, to see beyond the wreckage and allow him to grow too.

In saving Marceline, Simon helped to not only to save the world, but also himself.

[aalghul]

to me, tim and duke occupy a similar position in the batfamily where they're clearly not (or previously weren't, in tim's case) bruce's sons but also clearly have a connection to bruce's children that separates them from barb, steph, helena, jean paul, etc. none of the latter three are dick's siblings, but tim nearly always has been, and then he's cass' too. even if he hadn't been adopted, this would be true. duke is jason's brother, and is implied to have a sibling relationship with cass and damian, and has even shown up in tim's picture of his brothers. this is not changed by the fact that duke should never be adopted.

[cairafea]

stupid dungeon meshi au where laios is an unexplainable eldritch monster thing that constantly eats anything he can get his hands on. everyone in the party treats him like a slightly disorderly raccoon. everyone outside the party gets a fastpass to heaven from just seeing him.

[starry-bi-sky]

i have... ✨Danyal Al Ghul Headcanons✨ but specifically for my yaelokre danyal oneshot

There's also the tumblr post here but I recommend the link in the title because its the ao3 version, and that one is edited and has some stuff in it that's not in the tumblr post, and will be the version I'm using.

So for summary: this Danyal is also from a Demon Siblings Au where Danny is five years older than Damian. However, things turned out a bit differently, and Danny and Damian had a fantastic relationship with one another. Danny loved music and regularly came up with songs to sing to Damian with. Specifically the folk band Yaelokre's EP "Hayfields" (seriously go fucking listen to it its sooo good. Harpy Hare is the second song but its my favorite. Special shoutout to @gascansposts for introducing the band to me)

He falls off a train when he's twelve and Damian is seven while the two of them and Talia are on mission. He ends up with magically induced amnesia and wakes up in Arkansas while the Fentons are on their yearly Divorce-iversary visit to Aunt Alica, and since he can only remember his name, he ends up being taken into their care.

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

Yaelokre Danny has the same facial scar as Things in Threes Danyal, since he was initially another version of him where things turned out better. I'm debating on whether or not I should take it away however, and give him a different scar (maybe from when he fell off the train?), just because the scar is a pretty key identifier for Ti3 Danyal.

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

Danny frequently visits Aunt Alicia in Arkansas! Well, only after he gets settled in and stuff. He doesn't really like the city that much and prefers the countryside where Alicia lives. I know she lives in a cabin but I'm changing it to a farm, so she puts Danny to work and gets him to help her.

I don't want to confine his hobbies to only being star stuff, because people tend to have more than one hobby and I feel like it reduces him to one-dimensionality, so he likes to garden, and learns guitar. His room becomes filled with plants, and he turns their roof into a rooftop greenhouse right below to OPS Center.

He has a complex relationship with the weapons from his past, but he's not... like... appalled by it? When he finds his weapons in the Fenton attic all he thinks is that they're his weapons, and he starts carrying a knife on him afterwards. Essentially he becomes fascinated with weaponry because its one of the few physical ties he has to his past, and while he's not training like he is in the League, he allows his strong muscle memory to guide him through his katas.

Danny likes climbing things. This causes Problems For Everyone Else.

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

Danny was not the "kinder Al Ghul" in the League. His kindness extended to his brother and family, and that's it. To everyone else he had high expectations out of them, and the pride you'd expect from the grandson of Ra's Al Ghul and trained by its top members. While he wasn't like, unnecessarily cruel or anything, he wasn't merciful either.

This transfers post-train fall as him coming off as no-nonsense and unforgiving. He's not fond of the idea of giving people second chances, and is skeptical of the idea. He's disgusted by incompetency and views it as an unforgivable offense, especially if he thinks that the person should know better, although he's not sure why. Some egocentrism for the soul.

He doesn't like being touched by anyone who isn't family, and gets irritated when anyone grabs him or holds onto him for extended amounts of time. Dash has gotten hit so many times. With Jack Fenton's tendency for abrupt physical affection, it doesn't make it any better. I'd argue it'd make it worse because Danny doesn't want to be touched more often than not.

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

Danyal had a red scarf in the League that he wore on his last mission, it came off before he fell off and caught itself on the roof. Damian still has it and took it with him to Wayne Manor. He's got it locked in his room and takes it out when he's alone and missing Danny the most. One time he forgot to put it away before leaving his room, and Dick was visiting the manor for something and found it. Damian found him holding it and freaked out.

Dick could only say "I've never seen you wear this, Damian, this is really pretty--" before Damian shoved him to the floor and stole it out of his hands, before screaming at him; "Don't touch this! You don't ever touch this! This is mine! You hear me!?"

It caused such a commotion that the rest of the family present came to see what the fuss was about, and Damian kicked them all out of his room. Dick is the one brother Damian's the closest with, so the fact he reacted so strongly shocked them all.

This is likely what leads to the "Danyal" conversation.

[chiropteracupola]

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine / Whatever it costs I will pay / So be easy and free, when you're drinking with me / I'm a man you don't meet every day...

[lithium223]