#they literally were just treating him as the second son. and they didn’t ducking have to

[thot-son-of-odin]

it really seems like the main reason neither frigga nor odin were going to tell Loki about being jotun was because odin was in fact telling the truth when he said “those plans no longer matter” like it really just seems like they were going to treat him as a normal nonadopted aesir second son forever, and why would they needlessly bother their child with being “different” if they never actually had to. Which is problematic and wrong in other ways than what fanon seems to think is the reason - that odin and frigga just wanted to use him as some sort of puppet king they could control with feelings and loyalty to them.

[blackenedwhite97]

Coming Out [Poly! Erasermic x {Fem}Reader]

Hello! this was a requested fic from like before Christmas. I'M A MESS I KNOW I'M SORRY! I’ll be catching up at some point, I'm in my final sem at uni and have MAJOR senioritis. Me no do unless me have to. Instead, now I just spend my time staring at the existential abyss the threatens to swallow my ceiling and think about everything I'm procrastinating. But I digress...

Content Warning: This story is of a negative experience coming out as poly to your family, this deals with rejection from the reader's mother, father, and a grandparent. This story demonstrates Homophobia, xenophobia, traditionalist and conservative values and attitudes and may be triggering to some folks.

This story includes a Polyamorous relationship

Polyamory: the practice of engaging in multiple sexual relationships with the consent of all the people involved.

Word Count: 3.7 K (A baby story)

Y/N --- 4:06pm

Hey can my roomates come to dinner?

DAD --- 4:06

You mean the gays?

Y/M --- 4:08

Please don’t call them that. Neither of them are gay anyways, there’s more than just gay or straight.

DAD --- 4:10

Yeah whatever. Let your mom decide.

MOM --- 5:12

Sure, they can come.

Mom --- 5:23

Gma might be coming dinner tho. Maybe talk to them?

That conversation should have been enough of a warning for how the evening was going to transpire. At news of your grandmother attending dinner, you panicked and tried to back out of your plans. You had been growing steadily farther apart from your parents anyways, barely seeing them more that once a year if that. It’s not like they didn’t have their suspicions anyways, to them you were a single woman living in the big city sharing an apartment with two gay men. Not that they’d ever been to the apartment. If they had they might have notice that one of the two “bedrooms” was being used as an office. Earlier on in the relationship you were so deeply uncomfortable being around your parents alone, that you had Shouta come with you every visit because you were so paranoid you were just going to come out on the spot.

At first your parents were sure that you and Shouta were together. He had subconsciously cleaned up quite nice the first few times he met your parents anyways, wanting to make a good impression on them if you finally did tell them about your polyamorous relationship. Then as time went on you got busier and started to see them less. Shouta’s parents lived in the suburbs and you saw them on holidays, plus Shouta had come out to them as being bisexual a long time ago and hadn’t felt much pressure to hide the polyamorous nature of your relationship to begin with. Hizashi’s mom was still a city dweller in her 60’s and on top of doing the cute mom things like baking fantastic cookies and handing down family jewelry to the daughter in law, she’d also taken Hizashi and Shouta to their first pride in Tokyo and had an in-home recording studio where she recorded for local punk bands. She was, quite literally, a cool mom.

You gnawed vigorously at your thumbnail, not quiet biting the whole way through, instead riddling it with dents and cracks. Chewing your nails wasn’t a habit you’d always had, it became a sort of silent worry thing you started to do when you got to your agency and had to remain still and quiet during briefings, no matter how terrible the news was. Your ruined nail beds were an atrocity to Hizashi, who had paid several times for you to get a manicure to get your nails short and evenly trimmed so you could manage them on your own. You still somehow found a way to gnaw on the short squared off nubs of your nails though, and it drove him nuts. Shouta cared less, his hands were in ridiculous shape, he was callused and bruised, cracked and flaking all over the place and Hizashi would regularly force moisturizer on them. Shouta cared more about figure out the root stress, it’s not that Hizashi didn’t, he just didn’t know how to, so he settled for pampering you.

“It’s dead.” Hizashi huffed from the bedroom door. “Obliterated, actually.”

“Hmm?” You looked up from your phone, you hadn’t been reading any of the messages in the chat for a good few minutes and just let your eyes unfocus instead. You yanked your thumb from your mouth and hid it below the table like a child caught with a sweet they’d snuck from the kitchen before dinner, you knew he saw.

“Your nail.” Hizashi gently patted the end of his hair with his special fluffy towel that he’d convinced you and Shouta he needed to control his frizz (which he didn’t have) and padded towards the kitchen table where you sat. He placed a kiss on the top of your head as he strode around you.

“What’s up, love?” he murmured softly, leaning against the table next you. One of his legs propped up on the chair to your right and leaned down to look at your phone screen.

“This is going to go horribly.” You breathed, panicked as you set your phone down on the table.

“You don’t know that.” Hizashi looked back up at you and smiled sweetly.

“Not everyone’s mom is a cool rocker lady in her 60’s who lives in the heart of downtown still and is fully supportive of her child’s bisexual polyamorous relationship with their childhood best friend and an ex-small-town girl with an ultra-conservative family.” You huffed out in one long breath.

“That was oddly specific.” He chuckled softly. “What about Sho’s parents, they’re conservative?”

“Yeah, but his parents are at least polite and send us both Christmas gifts every year and keep any and all of their shittier opinions to themselves because they want their son to be happy.” You groaned dramatically, dropping your head onto his thigh, using the extra meat to muffle the noise.

“Y-your-” Hizashi’s leg twitched from the vibrations of your groan. “Your parents want you to be happy too, Y/n.”

You groaned into his thigh, trying to explain the difference between your parent’s and Shouta’s. Hizashi laughed and gently grabbed the side of your face, lifting it so you were no longer muffled by his leg.

“Try again.” He instructed.

“They only want me to be happy if it fits into their rigid frame of what acceptable happiness looks like.” You explained again.

“Hey,” Hizashi ran his thumb back and forth across your cheek, “have faith, baby. They’re your family, they love you.”

If only he’d been right.

Shouta was the know it all, the one that way always right. Hizashi on the other hand was quiet used to being the one that was not always right, he had no hubris about his intelligence what-so-ever. So much so that sometimes you and Shouta had to remind him that he was intelligent and offered a lot of knowledge and wisdom in many many ways: public speaking, social relationships, radio scripting, he spoke two languages fluently as well. However, this one-time Hizashi wished dearly that he had been right, that he was an insufferable know it all who never got it wrong. It was a different twisted feeling in his gut, sitting the back seat watching you try to keep it together in the front seat, than the usual mild embarrassment that faded after a couple of minutes when he was wrong about something. That was damn near luxurious compared to the painful knot tearing into his stomach.

The silence in the car was so dense and absolute that it almost physically gagged Hizashi and Shouta, the two of them were too afraid to say anything and break it. It felt as though the heavy silence was keeping you from breaking, as if it were applying enough pressure at all sides to keep the thin veneer of composure you were managing together. You felt it too, along with the heavy weight that was nearly crushing your chest, the thick doughy lump clogging your throat and the tremble in your lips. You took a deep breath, it getting caught halfway and freezing in to an unrealized sob that you pushed down.

Shouta huffed and pulled off to the side of the dark country road, slowing into the gravelly shoulder. He turned in his seat to face you, undoing his seat belt so he could fully turn his body. You kept your eyes out the window, trying with all your might not to let the tears that clouded your eyes to fall. You knew you’d need to cry about this, about your parents and their conditional love. You knew that this was something you would need to deal with, but you didn’t want to at this moment. You wanted to go home, take some sleeping medication and go to sleep, you wanted to wait until the open wound in your chest had stopped bleeding to begin treating it.

Your father was being facetious about your living arrangement as usual, whenever he was faced with Shouta and Hizashi his first reaction was to constantly point out that fact that you were a woman living with two men and that if they weren’t gay that one of them should have married you by now. Shouta and Hizashi had taken these comments like water rolling off of a duck’s back, Hizashi even grinned and mumbled something about your father tempting him. You could have kept your mouth shut, you could have kept your cool but Shouta’s hand was brushing against your thigh and you felt it tense into an annoyed fist. Something about Shouta’s minimal reaction lit a fire in you, more like an explosion. It was a surge of very sudden and very ferocious courage that lasted a split second and no longer. You’d practically shouted it, the ringing in your ears drowning whatever words you’d used out.

You were met with complete and utter silence, shock and fear thick in the air. You’d almost believed for a moment that you hadn’t done it, that you’d just shouted randomly and just scared everyone. But then your dad stood up, his shocked open mouth flattening out into a hard straight line, this jaw swelling as he clenched it.

“W-what?” he growled, stepping back from the table as if you were a threat.

You were ready to backtrack, you were so ready to just laugh and pretend you were fucking with him. But you spared a glance to Shouta and Hizashi, their faces pale and guilty. They, regardless of what you could say in an attempt to cover up what you’d just said, were basically admitting to it already. You instinctively shrunk back into your chair like you’d do when you were younger at the dinner table whenever something uncomfortable would come up. You could tell everyone was at a loss for words, the difference was that you were scared and at a loss for words, Shouta and Hizashi were shocked and at a loss for words and your father was steaming angry and at a loss for words.

Your mother, who had always been the least confrontational of the two turned away from you and almost in a show of disgust immediately went to comfort your grandmother. It was as if you were an afront to goodness, an act of moral atrocity being committed in front of them. Your father began to barrage you with passive aggressive questions and accusations towards Shouta and Hizashi. He was trying to understand while at the same time refusing to give you a chance to explain. You stopped listening after the first few sentences that came out of his mouth, falling back into an internal monologue filled with regret. He must have said something exceptionally terrible because in an instant Shouta was standing, his arm reaching out to separate you from him and he was shouting. Shouta never shouted, he barely voiced any form of annoyance or frustration in general when it wasn’t a learning moment for his students, but here he was on his feet volleying harsh word with your father.

Hizashi, you realized was attempting damage control, his hands raised and his voice lower than either of the other two men’s. You blinked back into the present, as noise filled your ears, you mother was crying, your father and Shouta were shouting and Hizashi was rambling panicked. You took a couple of deep breaths and stood up on shaky legs, gripping Shouta’s protective arm for support, and looked your father in the eyes. He faltered at the direct eye contact and you saw an opening where there was less shouting to contend with.

“Stop,” you hissed through gritted teeth. “this is why I never wanted to tell you! Why I was perfectly okay with living away from you guys for the rest- This is why I haven’t been home.”

Your mother gasped a ragged, tear-filled breath. She’d expressed before that she’d wished she could see you more often, that she’s noticed you’d been coming home less and less. You’d been good at covering it up, saying you were busy with work and simply couldn’t get the time off. You knew that what you’d just said hurt her, not in the way it should have. It hurt her because you’d just told them it was their fault that you felt unwelcomed here and not because you were afraid of your own parents.

“How long?” she breathed.

“Three years.” You sniffed, hand tightening around Shouta’s wrist.

“THREE?! THR-” your father bellowed in disbelief. “For three years they’ve been brainwashing and forcing themselves on you?!”

Suddenly you understood why Shouta had leapt up, you had just now caught up with the conversation. Red hot anger flared up in your chest, the mere insinuation that you were being forced in anyway to be with your partners filled you with utter rage.

“No!” You growled, for the first time in your life matching your father’s volume. “For three years they’ve been by my side, showing up at the hospital when I got hurt at work, celebrating my promotions at the agency, helping me make a home that I feel safe in and actually fucking caring about me!”

There was silence again, this one was thin but not light in anyway, like it was a delicate thread barely holding a great weight from falling and crushing you.

“We care for you.” You mother said darkly.

“No,” you swallowed hard, “you haven’t for a long time.”

“Get out.” You father growled.

Hizashi was already moving, grabbing your coats from the back of the chairs and pulling Shouta by the arm away from the table. It took you a good long second to move, even then it was because Shouta latched onto your shoulders and Hizashi tugged him along.

“I’m sorry.” Shouta whispered, his hand finding yours in your lap. You kept your eyes focused out the window at the pitch-black fields with barely visible for off golden dots of light. You couldn’t talk.

You heard Hizashi shuffling around in the back seat, scooting closer to you and his hand joined Shouta’s, pulling up onto the storage compartment between the seats. It was cracking, that veneer.

“It’s not your fault.” Hizashi murmured.

You sniffed hard, biting int you bottom lip. Of course, it wasn’t your fault that your parents didn’t accept you, that you weren’t good enough or right for them, that you weren’t on par with the apparent morality of the rest of the family. It wasn’t your fault that they were backwards people with terrible ideas of how a person should be. It still didn’t hurt any less that you couldn’t meet those backwards ideals, that you couldn’t be the right kind of person for them.

“Y/n,” Shouta whispered, gently grabbing your chin and turning your face towards them.

They were looking at you the way a mother looks at her crying baby in the first few months, the desperate need to connect and nurture glowing in their eyes. They were filled with worry, with pity, with understanding but also, with fear. No doubt, what had just happened had been traumatic for them too. Looking into their emotion filled eyes you felt that veneer shatter, falling away and unleashing that mournful sobbing that had been trapped inside.

Shouta pulled you towards him, holding you firmly to his chest placing his head atop yours. You vaguely felt Hizashi disappear from you for a moment, but you were too preoccupied with the trembling muscles seizing violently in your chest. Then you felt him sliding in behind you, only now realizing he’d stepped out of the car and slide in through your door as he shut it behind him. He draped himself over you rubbing circles into your back.

“It’s not your fault.” He murmured into your hair over and over again.

At first you didn’t really focus on it, thinking it idle words of comfort but the more he said the more it sunk in. The more your realized that you were holding onto the hope that there was something about this, about you, that you could fix. With every repetition of those four words that false hope chipped away and that heavy weight in your chest began to fall away. It was still painful, it still felt like you had a pen festering wound that you’d never fully heal from, but it also felt lighter. It felt as though a burden you’d believed was yours to bear was suddenly the responsibility of the many.

“You don’t have to change,” Shouta whispered softly as your sobs ebbed into weak beaths, “they do.”

That reignited some tears, to hear what you needed to said so plainly. Shouta was good at that, putting those intangible thoughts and feelings into plain words. You cried until the tears and the worry and the late hour caught up with you, until your head felt heavy and waterlogged and you slumped backwards into Hizashi sniffing. You cried until your wavering breaths evened out and your tired mind fell to silence. Hizashi pulled you into his lap and cradled you against him like a parent holding and oversized child, running his hand slowly through your hair.

When you awoke you were swaddled thoroughly with the fuzzy blanket from the couch Shouta hated because it shed and sandwiched between the two men who snored away. As you blinked in the early morning light that just barely peaked through the blinds you noticed the red rims around Hizashi’s eyes and deep-set circles under Shouta’s as if they both been awake all night. Shouta was still in his dress shirt and Hizashi had stripped down to his boxers and pulled his hair back into a sloppy bun. Neither were properly snoring which told they hadn’t been asleep for very long.

You tried to ignore what had happened last night, what had led to the heavy feeling in your head and crusty dry eyes and tight cheeks. You tried to pretend that they had stayed up for work, that they you had swaddled yourself up in the blanket nor because you were sad but because you just wanted to be cozy. Then you heard a phone vibrate on the nightstand and any and all work towards denial washed away as you dreaded checking it. It could just be a work thing, it could be Hizashi’s phone even though he’d never had it on silent even once since you’ve known him. It could have been Shouta’s vibrating against the wooden table even though you could see his slightly peeking out of his back pocket.

You sighed and sat up, daring the smallest of glances at the nightstand. It was your phone screen that was lit up, several notifications on the screen. You groaned and laid back down, scrunching your eyes shut begging for sleep to suddenly and miraculously take you. It buzzed again and you huffed. Fine. You’ll check it. I guess someone could be dying. I do stop that from happening for a living.

You very cautiously crawled over Hizashi and reached to get your phone, electing not to look at it until you settled back between your boys. You scrolled though your notifications, weather, news, a work email, a second email from a contact that made your blood run cold and three missed calls and two answering machine messages from the same contact. Grandma. Your hands trembled at you unlocked your phone and typed int your voicemail password. You held the phone up to you ear and listen to the first message which was more or less just some frustrated grandma noises and mumbles about the inconvenience of technology, followed briefly by a set of hellos. If you hadn’t been ready to shit yourself, you’d have laughed. Then the second played and you had to take a deep breath to hold yourself together enough to keep listening.

“Hello? Hello? Y/n? Oh shi- well this is just ridiculous. Y/n, I don’t know if you can hear me, or maybe this is your answering machine, I don’t know I can’t hear too well but-” her soft worn voice said into the phone, “I want you to know that I love you. Your parents love you too, even if they did not act like it tonight.”

She paused and your eyes welled up with tears, a lump forming in your throat. It was this strange feeling of pure sadness but also happiness and relief.

“Those boys,” she continued, “probably would have killed your father last night if they had the chance. I’m not saying I get it, but they sure do love you, sweetheart. I quite like the blond one he is very-”

The message cut off and the automated voice asked you what you wanted to do with the message. All you could do was laugh, laugh and cry. You were still sad, still in pain, but it was already starting to feel less life-ending.

“Hey,” Shouta mumbled blearily, “S’okay. I’m here.”

He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close, trying to pull himself from sleep. You hugged him back and massaged the back of his scalp gently.

“Listen to this.” You sniffed.

He nodded and you pressed repeat, listening to the whole second message through again. You watched as a smile spread across his sleepy lips and he laughed softly. He pouted suddenly when it ended, his eyebrows pulling together as much as his drowsy state would let them.

“What?” you asked, worried he’d heard something you‘d missed.

“Why does she like Zash more?” he grumbled, barely awake now.

You smiled and curled into him, electing not to answer knowing that he wouldn’t like being told that Hizashi is more sociable than him. Besides, you smiled to yourself, he’d be asleep in a matter of seconds.

You were still hurt; you still had that big open wound in your chest. But with Shouta and Hizashi at your side you knew you’d heal; you knew they’d give you anything you needed. You knew that your grandmother was right, that these two boys loved you very much.

[stxphxn-strange]

playing pretend

a/n: hello hello hello! i have a prompt fill for this Dark!Stephen AU from @ironstrangeprompts and im just gonna post it before i can start second guessing my writing lmao

tw: mentions of torture, injury, implied past abuse

Prompt: Dark!Stephen AU. The avengers never really notice Stephen’s pacifist to-a-fault superheroing style until one day a magical incident corrupts him/magical entity possesses him. They’re treated to a completely unhinged and lethal Stephen, the avengers realize just how much Stephen was holding back, what with his quick work dispatching all of them, resulting in very heavy injuries. However, he takes special interest with Tony Stark, whom he has been dating for a few months now. He has Tony all strung up in the middle of the battlefield in front of the other broken and beaten avengers, he taunts and tortures him. “Being a doctor and a sorcerer is so very useful, I can break you in very precise manners, put you back together and then do it again.” When he gets bored of Tony’s screams and decides to end him permanently, Stephen suddenly snaps back to normal. The real Stephen has been battling internally to gain back control, knowing that he’s about to kill the love of his life gives him the final push to break free. He portals them all to safety and to receive medical help. Cue heavy angst and Stephen trying to make it up to them but especially Tony, who insists that everything is fine and that he knows it wasn’t the real Stephen. However they both know that Tony is just putting up a brave front and is undoubtedly traumatized by the incident. Up to the author on if they want to end it in a bleak or hopeful tone.

It took Tony a few minutes to register his surroundings when he woke up. He wasn’t lying in a makeshift coffin of bent metal, broken bones, and the ruins of the building. The familiar baritone, the melody of his waking world, wasn’t hollow and cruelly taunting him. Stephen sounded like himself, soothing and loving and reassuring but worried and tired all the same. Tony heard guilt in his partner’s voice, delineating his dream, his memory, from the present. He wanted to follow that voice, the real Stephen’s voice, and leave the past behind them. Guilt was eating away at Stephen as he tried to calm Tony down and wake him up. He defaulted to the standard promises and phrases when Tony had nightmares, but this time was different. This time Stephen was the cause of the nightmare, and he knew it. No matter how much Tony said it wasn’t his fault, that everything was okay, Stephen knew he had to repair the pieces of Tony’s trust he’d obliterated.

Tony thrashed again in his sleep, feebly kicking the air in front of him just like he did on the battlefield. “Stop!”

“Sweetheart,” Stephen began, unsure of what to say. “Tony, wake up. You’re safe, no one will hurt you.”

“Stephen!” Tony groaned and thrashed again, his eyes still shut as he fought to wake up. “This isn’t you… don’t do this.”

Stephen barely held back tears as he spoke again. “It’s over Tony, I’m back. I’m me again. I won’t hurt you, I promise I’ll never hurt you as long as I live.”

Tony was shaking when he finally woke up, unsure if he was even breathing. He opened his eyes hastily, studying the look on Stephen’s face. Stephen looked concerned, even worried, but unsure of himself as he murmured soothing nonsense to Tony.

“Breathe, Tones,” Stephen said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’ll be okay, I promise. Just breathe, we’re alright. I’ll leave you be once I’m sure you’re okay, and—”

Tony wrapped his arms around Stephen and hugged him tightly. “Don’t you dare. Don’t go… please don’t go Stephen.”

“I can’t risk scaring you again Tony. I’ve already hurt you enough, it’s not fair to keep putting you through this,” Stephen argued, fighting his urge to hug Tony back.

Tony only held on tighter, determined not to let Stephen leave.

Stephen still wanted to disappear, but he quickly understood that Tony wouldn’t let him go that easily. The mechanic was still shivering and trembling, slowly starting to calm down as Stephen hesitantly hugged him back.

++++

They both woke up at the same time, almost four days later. Stephen woke up slowly, feeling like he was underwater or in a fog, while Tony started awake across town.

It was pitch dark in the room, the heavy curtains drawn shut to keep out any intrusive light. It was the middle of the day, judging by the clock Stephen kept on his nightstand, but he couldn’t feel the sun on his face, or see any light from his window. He was bathing in pitch black. At first, he thought he was dead, doomed to an eternity in darkness, when something red bloomed and came to life beside him. Even now, his Cloak was always dramatic, comforting as it covered him like a blanket.

As his eyes adjusted, Stephen registered Wong and Christine on the other side of the room, just studying him.

Christine was the first to meet his stare, rushing to his bedside. “How do you feel?”

Stephen grimaced in pain as he shrugged. “Not great, thanks.” There was something else on his mind, but he was too afraid to ask. He was almost too scared to hear the answer.

Luckily, Wong spoke up before Stephen could ask. “You slept for three and a half days, Strange. How much do you remember?”

“Something attacked the Compound… I think it was me,” he mumbled.

“Not exactly,” Wong began, gentler than Stephen had ever heard him.

“Possessed or not, I still attacked!” Stephen sat up, paying the price as he rose quicker than his body could handle. “It doesn’t matter if I saved everyone, not if I almost killed them first.”

Neither Wong nor Christine spoke, and the cloak simply wrapped tighter around Stephen’s shoulders.

“You did save everyone,” Wong said finally. “And you banished whatever entity possessed you. We still haven’t figured out what it is, but…”

Wong’s voice trailed off as Stephen stopped listening. His head started to hurt as he remembered, in searing detail, more of what happened and what caused him to snap out of the state he was in.

Tony was near silent, his voice failing him after hours of tortured screams. Somewhere, somehow, Stephen knew that he was the one hurting him, the one causing Tony so much pain even though he promised never to hurt the hero. He wanted to stop, to end all of the carnage he’d brought to the Compound, to his friends who were starting to feel like family, to Tony… but he couldn’t. The hand controlling his impulsive strings was strong and steady, and it wouldn’t rest until Stephen finished its bidding.

His movements were mechanical as he strode, like the marionette he’d become, to stand in front of Tony.

And Tony just looked at him with a defeated, almost calm look on his face.

Stephen’s voice sounded distorted when he spoke, preening with a twisted smile as he bent to look upon the man of iron. “Accepted your fate?”

“You won’t be the first person I’ve loved who’s hurt me,” Tony said, between pained breaths. “There’s nothing to say.”

Stephen tried to back up, to keep himself still, but he couldn’t fight the influence of his controller and struck Tony again. “Arrogance is unbecoming.”

Tony inhaled again, deeper and more pained this time but somehow even calmer. “Go ahead and finish the job. I won’t hold it against you, Stephen.”

Stephen was hyperventilating when he heard Wong’s voice again, pressed against the headboard of his bed like he was backed into a corner.

Christine approached him tentatively, resting her hand on one of his shoulders.

Stephen recoiled away from the touch and curled up on himself like a turtle retreating in its shell. He ducked his head under a pillow, shaking in fear and pain from moving too quickly. “Did I… did I kill him? I remember everything until I was about to… please tell me I—”

“You didn’t.” Christine cut him off, hoping to keep her friend from spiraling further. “Wong said you saved everyone, and that includes Tony.”

Stephen sobbed just hearing his partner’s name. Guilt wracked his entire body as he cried harder and harder, his magic running through his veins. Was he not this exhausted, he’d probably set fire to something from his high levels of stress and fear, but all he could do was cry until he fell into painful sleep.

++++

He didn’t finish it.

He didn’t listen.

Tony remembered the horrified look he saw on Stephen’s face, the remorse in his eyes as he sent a vaguely corporeal figure of dark energy through a portal.

Tony remembered the way Stephen apologized again and again as his eyes started closing, overwhelmed by the pain seizing his mind and body. A part of him hoped that Stephen had listened, that maybe the last thing he’d see in this life would be the face he’d come to absolutely adore…

… But he’d woken up sometime later in the MedBay, wanting to see Stephen more than anything. In spite of everything that’d just happened, or maybe because of everything that’d just happened, all Tony really wanted was to go back to sleep, preferably in his partner’s embrace. That really didn’t seem like too much to ask for.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Stark?”

Tony almost didn’t notice Peter pacing around on the ceiling, in fact he didn’t know his pseudo son was even in the room until he suddenly landed a few feet away. “I feel great, Kid. Definitely not like I took a ton of bricks to the face.” He didn’t remember the gory details of the fight, so Tony couldn’t say whether or not he was being literal.

“Welcome back, Boss,” FRIDAY said, a hint of worry in her voice. “And good morning. It’s currently half nine on Tuesday. I’ve been asked to inform you that Col. Rhodes has returned from Washington and has volunteered to lead all reconstruction projects for the Compound. He’s also asked me to keep you updated and will be coming to see you this afternoon.”

Tony sighed. “Thank you. Wait… that means Rhodey came back early?”

“He did,” FRIDAY replied simply. Her voice sounded like what a nod looked like as she continued. “Would you like me to tell him that you asked about him?”

“Sure, but don’t bother him. He doesn’t have to rush to see me,” Tony replied, knowing that Rhodey would probably come anyway. He was maybe the one exception to what Tony had told Stephen earlier, before…

“Col. Rhodes will be here within the hour,” FRIDAY announced.

“Thanks Fri.”

Peter, who had started pacing on the ceiling again, asked what Tony had been wondering since he woke up. “Where’s the Doc?”

“I dunno, Pete. I’ve been wondering that myself,” Tony admitted. “Fri, you wouldn’t happen to know… would you?”

“As far as I can tell, Doctor Strange returned to the Sanctum following the… altercation… on Thursday,” the AI reported.

“What? Altercation? What happened?” Peter landed on the floor again, looking more worried than Tony thought he deserved to.

“There was just a small wizarding mishap, don’t worry about it,” Tony said. He shrugged, trying to reassure Peter as much as he could. “Not even an emergency, Underoos. We would’ve called for you if it was.”

Tony also didn’t want Peter to see what happened. Maybe he was sheltering the kid, but he didn’t want Peter to ever find out about the attack on the Compound. It was bad enough that the team, even in their varied states of consciousness, saw what they did. They saw the fear in Tony’s eyes, saw him slowly surrender to Stephen’s ruthless attacks until he just stopped trying to fight the sorcerer. Tony knew he couldn’t parry these magical attacks, couldn’t break the spelled restraints… but he didn’t want Peter to see how easily he’d given up.

If Peter had more to say, he simply chose not to ask about it. Instead he just shrugged. “Glad you’re okay, Mr. Stark. May heard from Pepper that you got hurt, so I wanted to swing by… no pun intended.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that calling me ‘Tony’ is fine?” Tony asked, rolling his eyes warmly. “I’m fine, Pete. Not up for working in the lab today, I’m afraid, but—”

“That’s okay! My suit isn’t going anywhere, we can upgrade anytime,” Peter replied. “I promised May I’d be home for movie night, but I just wanted to come see you.”

Tony smiled softly. “You’re a good kid, Son. Get home safe, and I’ll give you a call when I’m back in working condition.”

“Thanks IronDad!” Peter was gone in a second, leaving Tony in the quiet with his thoughts.

“Fri?” He asked after a few minutes.

“Still here, Boss.”

“Will you… will you tell Stephen I want to see him?” Tony asked.

Maybe he was the spoiled brat everyone believed, or maybe he was exhausted and touch starved and showing signs of an addictive personality. Tony didn’t know, he didn’t care, and he just wanted his sorcerer back.

“I’ll let him know,” FRIDAY replied, softer than normal.

++++

“Stephen, it’s been days. Days since the attack, days since you holed yourself up in my library like you’re going into hibernation—”

“Good morning to you too, Wong.”

Wong may have laughed at Stephen’s attitude if he didn’t feel so bad for him. Stephen was completely out of it, so much so that he didn’t even realize how late in the day it was. “It’s almost eight, Strange.”

Stephen just sighed. “Did you need something from me?”

“Stark is asking for you again. I think you should see him.”

“You said that yesterday,” Stephen muttered.

“I’m saying it again now. I know you, Stephen, I can read you like any book in here.” Wong began. “You’re trying to outrun your guilt but you know it’s not that easy. Ignoring Tony isn’t going to make things go away, and it’s not going to make either of you feel better. He misses you, and I know you miss him too.”

“I don’t know how I can even look at him after what I did… he trusted me,” Stephen whispered, looking down at his lap. “I broke his trust.”

“Not willingly, and he knows that,” Wong reminded him. “It wasn’t you, Stephen.”

Stephen ignored him, beginning to tremble as he thought back to what Tony had said to him. “He told me he wouldn’t hold it against me… that I wasn’t the first of his loved ones to hurt him. I don’t know what I could do or say to prove to him, let alone to the team, that I’d never hurt them again.”

“Hiding away in here isn’t helping to prove that,” Wong said.

“You just want your chair by the window back,” Stephen accused him.

“Of course I do! But I also care about you and your happiness. If you need anyone to vouch for you, I’ll be here,” Wong replied.

“That sounds like you’ve made up my mind for me.”

“I have. Go now, before it gets too late.”

Stephen opened a portal to the tower, just outside of the lab. “I doubt Tony would be asleep, he’s always awake.”

His suspicions were confirmed as he closed the portal. Tony was in his lab where Stephen thought he’d be, a mug in one hand and a pen in the other.

Stephen’s entire body trembled with nerves as he opened the door, the cloak knocking loudly and dramatically to make his presence known.

“FRIDAY, Quiet Place Protocol please,” Tony said. He looked up and smiled sadly at Stephen as the lab’s usual blaring music shut off. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Stephen suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He was too scared to get any closer to Tony, afraid to hurt him, but at the same time all he wanted was to hug him.

The cloak made the first move, flying off of his shoulders and resting on Tony’s.

“Aww, hi Levy.” Of course Tony had a nickname for the relic, he had nicknames for everything and everyone.

Stephen found it annoying in the most heartwarming way, and he couldn’t help but smile as Tony sat down at his workbench.

“You can come over, you know?” Tony asked, half teasingly. “I told you I don’t bite, Steph.”

Stephen felt like a marionette again as he walked towards his boyfriend, but his heart was in control this time. He wanted to protect, to cherish, and to spoil the man in front of him with nothing but love and attention. He was just afraid, still unsure of himself as he studied Tony’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey… I know.” Tony opened his palms on his lap, silently asking to hold Stephen’s hands.

Stephen let him, trembling harder as Tony held him gently. “I don’t know what happened, Tony. Something took over me, and I couldn’t stop it. I’ve never been overpowered like that before, and I didn’t know what to do. But please listen when I say that I promise it’ll never happen again, I mean that’s a given if you leave me, but—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Tony said firmly. “I know you weren’t voluntarily doing all of those things.”

“I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I still don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Tony…” Stephen took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Tony I could’ve killed you. The entire time I was trying to break the curse, to get that thing out of my system, I almost killed you. And you almost let me do it.”

“I did.”

Stephen didn’t know what to say. Tony had that calm, accepting look on his face mixed with a kind, trusting expression. It was the same look he’d given Stephen in the ruins of the Compound, and it hurt. It didn’t feel like an apology would be enough to make things right, but what else was there to do now? “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony slid his arms around Stephen’s waist and pulled him into the hug they’d both been needing. “I’m fine baby, it’s okay. It’s over.”

Stephen knew it wasn’t just over, and he knew Tony knew it too. But in the moment he was too fatigued to fight about it and let Tony hold him closer. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Trying to,” Tony replied. “Not to be cheesy or whatnot, but I do sleep better with you next to me.”

“May I take you to bed?” Stephen asked, sounding even shyer than when he normally asked that. “Please? I know it’s early, but I wouldn’t object to a nap.”

Tony nodded, shifting to press a chaste kiss to Stephen’s lips. “That sounds nice. FRIDAY, save and shut everything off please.”

“Engaging ‘You Shall Not Pass’ protocol, Boss,” FRIDAY reported dutifully.

Tony scoffed. “Remind me to never let you and Peter give Fri name suggestions again.”

“You could just change it if it bothers you that much.” Stephen chose to remind Tony of that instead, even though they both knew Tony was secretly fond of the movie references hidden in his protocols. “Besides, that serves you right for calling me Gandalf all the time.”

“If the shoe fits, babe,” Tony said. He stood up, keeping an arm wrapped around Stephen’s waist as they left the lab and headed for the elevators.

Despite feeling safe and loved in Tony’s arms, more than he could have ever hoped to be and probably more than he deserved, Stephen was still anxious. He felt out of place in the Tower, never mind the fact that he usually spent half of his time there, and he felt even more out of place amongst the team.

“How are the others?” He asked quietly, afraid to hear the answer.

“They’re getting better.” Tony saw no point in sugarcoating the truth. Stephen would see right through it, and that wouldn’t help him process everything. “Carol and Thor are both bored of training with each other, but no one else wants to spar with either of them yet. Or with Natasha, for that matter.”

“Does anyone ever want to spar with them on a good day?” Stephen asked, trying to keep the mood light.

“You’re all a bunch of sore losers who can’t rise to a friendly challenge” Natasha quipped, suddenly materializing in front of the couple. “Tony, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is he here?”

“Natasha, I—”

Natasha pointedly ignored Stephen. She never disliked the sorcerer, she was actually indifferent and had no issues telling Tony that, but Tony’s trustful, rather soft nature was a concern of hers. It worked in her favor, sure, but she was really trying to be a better friend to Tony and look out for him more. It was this concern that motivated her to look at Stephen with disgust. Natasha wasn’t scared of him, she took heavy damage in the attacks but it was more minimal compared to some of the things she’d put his friends and family through.

Tony was acting as if none of that happened, and that couldn’t stand.

Natasha frowned and glared at Stephen as she addressed Tony. “Tony what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t play dumb and tell me you’re not following. What are you still doing with him? You barely sleep more than an hour without waking everyone up screaming from phantom pain and nightmares! Do you think we can’t hear you yelling and begging for Stephen to stop torturing you and just kill you? Because we all do!” Natasha took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And after all that, you’re holding him like nothing is wrong? I don’t understand how you can be so forgiving sometimes.”

She stormed off before Stephen could defend himself or before Tony could respond. Her words echoed in Stephen’s head as Tony continued to lead him down the hallway, into the elevator, and into the penthouse.

Stephen sat dejectedly on the bed as Tony shuffled around the room, grabbing a few blankets from the closet. He didn’t say anything as Tony made a little nest of pillows and blankets, the cloak joining the haphazard pile the minute Tony curled up under a throw. Eventually Stephen allowed himself to lay down, offering no protests as Tony hugged him again.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again, mumbling into the soft fabric of Tony’s shirt.

“I know,” Tony said simply. “Relax sweetheart, it’s okay.”

He was still tense, curling up smaller in Tony’s arms. “Are you okay?” The sorcerer asked.

“I’m fine,” Tony reassured him. That was half true. He was fine, to a point, but there were things bothering him that he had no idea how to tell Stephen about.

Eventually they would have to face the music and talk about everything, and they both knew it. For now, Tony was somewhat okay with ignoring it, clinging to the hope that having his Stephen back would keep the memories at bay.

Tags: @stark-strange-love2 @salty-ironstrange-shipper @funkylittlebidiot @richieleeparker @chocopiggy @hatakehikari @taruyison 

[scarletemeterio-thesecond]

I admire your work so much!! Can I request a zuko x reader where they recently just got into an arranged marriage and zuko is very cold and closed off even though the reader tries really hard to make him warm up to her. So she finally gives up and accepts her sad fate. But she does something that reminds him of his mom and he realized he’s been a jerk this whole time but realizes he’ll have to work hard to gain her love and trust back because he notices that she’s been acting a lot different T.T

Omg you admire my work!? I'm- 🥺 Thank you so much, it really means a lot! I really liked this idea and I'm already saying this: omg the angst! Also, yes, I named your friend Lee because we all know it's a very common Fire Nation name and I couldn't think of anything else. Hope you like it!

•••

Failed Expectations (Zuko x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: None.

Genre: Angst.

Fandom: Avatar, The Last Airbender.

Summary: See request.

Word Count: 1225

part 2

Life in the Fire Nation had been hard during the last years, but it seemed to be even harder inside the palace. You felt so out of place there and even though you were happy that Fire Lord Ozai was gone, being married to his son wasn’t perfect either. He wasn’t a bad person, everyone could see that, but for some reason, he was very distant with you. Well, distant was an understatement, he barely talked to you and whenever he did, he was always cold. It had been a little over a month since your marriage, so you were still hopeful that things could change, but at the same time, you were tired of the situation. Still, you always tried to exchange conversations with him, hoping he would eventually warm up to you, but it seemed to be useless. 

With every passing day, you convinced yourself that it just wasn’t worth it, no matter how much you wanted it to work. In the first week, everything was a little awkward, but you thought it was only because you’d just met. However, during the second week, you realized that he didn’t really like you. You were both at some sort of party and, of course, you were together, but you barely even talked to each other, and at the end of the night, he informed you that all your belongings had been moved from the guest room to your new permanent room. You thought it was weird how he’d worded that phrase, but you didn’t pay much attention since you were sure you two would share a room, but you were wrong. The new room was beautiful, but the fact that he didn’t want you near him made you feel a little sad. Of course, you understood, you were complete strangers even though you were married, so you didn’t say anything about it.

The last two weeks were the same, you shared a few words with each other and you were by his side most of the time pretending to be a happy couple, but it was all fake. You wanted to be happy with him and you wanted to feel welcomed, but it just wasn’t the case. Loving him seemed distant for you, maybe you’d never do, but you wanted to at least be friends with him, and he had a completely different mindset. Once you understood that, it seemed logical to be realistic and acknowledge that probably things would never be the way you wanted to, you had to accept that; and so you did. You started to become a little more distant and less cheerful than usual and at first, he didn’t really notice, but after a few days, he realized you were acting differently. He didn’t think much of it, though, and things remained that way since then. 

Zuko had a meeting that morning and one of your friends told you that they were going to visit you, so you were almost done getting ready when one of the guards told you that your friend had arrived. During your time at the palace, you’d had enough time to wander around, and the minute you saw the turtle duck pond, you fell in love with it, so that’s where you and your visitor were meeting. The minute you saw them you wrapped your arms around their neck and then you both sat on the ground. You talked for a few minutes, trying to catch up after what felt like an eternity and having breakfast when suddenly he asked how were things were with your husband.

“It’s a bit complicated,” you stated. Your friend looked at you a bit confused so you kept talking. “I swear, I’ve tried everything to make him like me, but he just seems to hate me. I don’t know, I miss my friends and my family and I don’t feel very welcomed here, you know?”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“No, Lee. Of course, I haven’t.” You said almost in a whisper. “We haven’t talked much but I already feel that we won’t be happy together,” you said with sadness in your voice while letting out a sigh. “I thought that maybe we could at least be close friends but he clearly doesn’t want that. If I could go back in time, I would’ve begged my family to break the engagement and stop me from marrying him,” you admitted with tears in your eyes. You didn’t want to feel like that, but you couldn’t help it. 

You wiped the tears out of your face and realized there was some bread left, so you got closer to the fountain and started feeding the turtle ducks. Your friend joined you and a few moments later, it was time for them to leave. You said goodbye and you were surprised when you saw Zuko a few meters away from you. What you didn’t know though, was that he’d been there for quite a while already. He wasn’t spying on you, but he couldn’t help it when he heard you two talking about him, so he stayed. 

When he heard what you said, he just couldn’t believe it, and he realized that he hadn’t been treating you well. There was no real explanation for his behavior, but he knew it wasn’t right. Additionally, the moment he truly became aware of his mistake was when he saw you feeding the turtle ducks and you reminded him of Ursa.  He hated himself for making you feel so bad, and he couldn’t help but think that he was acting the same way his father probably acted towards his mother. He was repeating the past, the same past he always tried to run away from. You said goodbye to your friend and suddenly he saw you approaching him and remembered why he was looking for you in the first place.

“Did you hear anything?” You asked worriedly.

“No, I didn’t, (Y/N). I was looking for you and got here just now,” he lied.

“Did something happen?” Your voice was calm but at the same time very monotone and he could tell he’d messed up.

“Yeah, well, nothing bad but I came here to tell you that we’re having lunch with our guests from the Earth Kingdom in a few hours.” He was a bit nervous and if you’d had been paying attention to him, you would’ve realized.

“Oh, okay. Is there something else you wanted to say?”

“No, that’s all, (Y/N).” It was a bit weird hearing your name coming out of his mouth, especially since your interactions with him were practically nonexistent and he rarely said your name, but you didn’t really care anymore.

“Then I’ll just go. I’ll meet you later by your room if you want to,” and you started walking away but he stopped you, grabbing your hand. “What?” You asked, very confused, and even tired of everything. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I don’t… But maybe-.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be waiting in my room until lunch, Your Majesty,” you interrupted him. You quickly turned around and started walking towards your room, not giving him any time to stop you again. He stood there for a while, thinking about everything that had led to that moment and realized that, maybe, he had already lost you.

•••

Hi! I literally just finished writing this but I didn't want to wait to post it since I haven't been posting that much lately. School is a bit stressful right now, so probably I'll start updating more frequently in the weekends, but I'll try to post things mid-week. Hope everyone has a good day/night!

-Mica

[kohanayaki]

Caught in the Middle (Steve Harrington x Reader x Billy Hargrove) Ch 8

Holy shit, it’s been so long since I’ve looked over this story! I found a half completed draft of this chapter in my old files and had a sudden influx of inspiration to finish it. At the very least I wanted to release this chapter, even if I don’t end up continuing or finishing this story. Thank you to everyone who’s read this trainwreck so far <3

LINKS: CH 1  CH 2  CH 3 CH 4 CH 5  CH 6  CH 7 CH 8

_______________________________________________________

Ch 8 .:Three Runaways and a Russian:.

“Hopper?”

The surly man turned to you with a look of equal surprise.

“(Y/n)? What are you doing here?” Hopper asked, eyes narrowing, “Hold on, aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“Aren't you supposed to be at the police station?” you countered.

He sighed in exasperation and shook his head.

“Listen, kid, I don't have time for this,” he said.

“Well what are you doing?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said crossly.

“Uh, that doesn't look like nothing,” you said, pointing over to the Slurpee machine where a man with dark curly hair and glasses was inspecting it in wonder. He was handcuffed but still held a large empty cup in his left hand, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the frozen drink move in circles on the inside of the machine.

“He's an extremely dangerous criminal,” Hopper said, “I'm. . . transporting him.”

“Okay, then why is Joyce here?” you asked. She was standing next to the unfamiliar man trying to show him how the dispenser worked. At that moment she turned to Hopper only to make eye contact with you.

“(Y/n)?” she said, eyes wide.

“Hi Mrs. Byers,” you waved awkwardly. What the hell was going on here?

“You got her mixed up with this too?” Joyce chided Hopper, her expression hardening as she walked over.

“I didn't get her mixed up in jack shit,” Hopper said incredulously, “She just doesn't know how to mind her own business.”

“Yeah, I'm right here, guys,” you said in annoyance, “And sorry if I 'intruded' but you're in a 7-11, not your office, so if I see a guy in literal handcuffs I'm going to poke around because that's suspicious and you know it.”

Upon seeing you point at him the man in glasses smiled at you, waving as much as he could while his hands were restrained. He then went back to fiddling with the Slurpee machine and you walked over to him, taking the cup from his hand.

“You have to press down on it,” you said, holding the lever down and filling his cup with the cherry flavor. You stuck in a straw and held it out to him which he accepted with a wide grin, nodding his head.

“What's your name anyways?” you asked him.

He just tilted his head, spluttering slightly as he turned to Joyce.

“His name is Alexei,” Joyce clarified.

“Hold on, does this guy not speak English?” you asked in disbelief.

“Uh, n-no,” the man said, able to read some context from the tone of your voice, “No English.” His words were followed by him speaking in a foreign language and making gestures with his hands.

“I'm sorry, where the hell did you find this random Russian guy?” you turned to Hopper for an explanation.

“Top secret police business,” he said, frowning, “Butt out.”

“So I'm not allowed to know about this 'top secret police business' but Joyce is?” you crossed your arms.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hopper raised his voice.

“I'm just implying that some favoritism is being applied when it comes to breaking your precious rules,” you scoffed.

“Trust me, kid, you have no idea what the big picture looks like right now, okay? A lot of shit went down when you were gone that you couldn't even begin to imagine. This is dangerous.”

“I'm not a kid anymore so don't call me that,” you glared, “And if this is so dangerous then don't I deserve to know?”

“No,” Hopper said coldly, “Now listen to me and drive your ass back to Hawkins High before I have you turned in for truancy.”

His words made the situation painfully ironic when you all turned towards the front of the gas station as the roar of an all too familiar engine rang out. Billy's blue Camaro skid to a harsh stop as he climbed out of the driver's seat, running over to the door as he saw you through the glass. Once you got over the initial shock your mood soured as Billy made his way inside.

“(Y/n) I have to talk to you-”

“Save it,” you glared at Billy, cutting his sentence short, “Hold on, did you follow me?!”

“Please just hear me out,” he said, a rare crack of desperation in his voice, “Listen I'm-”

“What? You're sorry?” you scoffed, “You're not sorry. You clearly didn't give a shit about me from the beginning, so if you think everything's going to go back to the way it was after some half assed apology then think again.”

“What the hell is this?” Hopper asked Joyce off to the side.

“Lover's quarrel,” Joyce whispered back, “Just let them talk it out.”

“Well if you won't let me apologize then what the fuck do you expect me to do?” Billy said in frustration.

“Nothing!” you shouted back, “Don't talk to me, don't talk about me, just move on to your next little conquest and you'll forget all about this in a week.”

You felt a sharp pang in your chest as the words left your mouth. You didn't want to believe them but you felt like it was true. There was no changing Billy Hargrove, and even if there was, why would you of all people be the one to be able to do it? You weren't anything special, but Billy felt the exact opposite.

He didn't get the chance to say anything back, though, because at that moment the sound of a second car engine was heard as you saw Steve's car pull up to the gas station.

“Oh, you've got to be shitting me,” you groaned.

Steve was panting as he ran inside to the gas station, barely catching his breath before speaking.

“(Y/n), I wanted to-”

“I'm sorry, I thought I made it clear that you two are the last people I want to talk to right now,” you said coldly.

“Wait, hold on, what's going on here? Why aren't any of you at school?” Joyce asked, coming to the realization it was 12:34 on a weekday.

“I broke some stupid guy's nose, it's a long story,” you mumbled, “What I didn't expect was these two idiots following me.” You glared at them, trying to put as much distance between you two as you could.

“I was worried about you,” Steve said, causing Billy to roll his eyes.

“Oh please,” Billy scoffed under his breath.

Steve's expression hardened as he turned to Billy.

“Hey, you don't get to say shit,” he said, “You're the one who led her on and made her cry in the first place.”

“Led her on?” Billy's voice rose as he go in Steve's face, “Listen, pretty boy, if I remember correctly I beat the shit out of you a little less than a year ago. You asking for a rematch?”

“Yeah, maybe I am,” Steve glared, “Because I'm sick and tired of you treating my friend like shit.”

“Oh, 'your friend', huh?” Billy chuckled, “Bet you wish you were more than that, don't you, Harrington?”

“Both of you cut it out!”

Something in you snapped as you forcefully separated the pair, keeping them on opposite sides of the isle. Silence blanketed the rest of the convenience store as you spoke.

“I never asked for either of you to follow me here,” you said, feeling a wave of emotional exhaustion take you over, “As a matter of fact, I asked to be left alone, so you two need to get that through your thick fucking skulls because this is seriously the last thing I need right now.”

Alexei just stood innocently by, wondering what all the yelling was about and if he could do anything to help.

Through all the commotion none of you noticed the way Hopper was staring out the convenience store window, his stomach dropping as he saw a tiny figure on the road drawing nearer. Upon closer inspection he could see the silhouette of a man on a motorcycle.

“Get down,” Hopper said suddenly, not taking his eyes off the man.

His words made you freeze, all your senses on high alert as you could feel something was wrong.

“Wait, what?” Steve said in confusion.

“I said GET DOWN!” Hopper shouted, pulling you and Joyce to the floor just as a gunshot rang out and the windowpane shattered into pieces. Shards of glass fell onto your shoulders as you ducked behind one of the isles and panic quickly settled in.  

You could feel Hopper dragging you further away from the door, your body frozen in fear.

“Listen to me, you need to get the hell out of here, all of you,” Hopper said.

“Hopper, what the fuck is going on?” you asked, your hands shaking.

“I don't have time to explain,” he said quickly, “Joyce, get them to Murray's house as fast as you can.”

“What about you?” you said, “If you think we're leaving you here like some shitty action movie you've got another thing coming.”

“I'll buy you some time,” he said, “And besides, he's after me, not you, but that doesn't mean he won't shoot you if you get in his way. Do you understand? Get out of here!”

Before you could say anything back Hopper was thrown back against the wall by a muscular man in a leather jacket. Joyce immediately grabbed you by the arm and started pulling you away along with Steve and Billy. You could hear them yelling but it felt like you were hearing things underwater. Your heartbeat pounded rapidly in your ears as you turned around, every nerve in your body shouting at you to run.

Your heart nearly stopped as another gunshot rang out in the store and the tile cracked beneath your feet as the bullet landed a mere few feet from where you'd been standing seconds earlier.

“Don't you dare, you son of a bitch!” Hopper growled as he tackled the man to the floor, getting a few solid hits in. The man grunted as his back harshly met the ground, his head slamming into one of the shelves. As Joyce turned you around again to get out you could only pray that Hopper would be okay.

“There's no way we can fit everyone into one car,” you said as you neared the exit to the parking lot, “Where's Hopper's police van?”

Joyce looked off to the side.

“Oh, um, it's. . . on fire in the middle of the woods.”

“It's what?!”

“I promise I'll explain everything to you once we're safe,” Joyce said, “Right now we need to figure out how to get everyone out of here.”

You turned over your shoulder and winced as the man landed a solid hit to Hopper's gut, knocking the wind out of him and making him stumble back into a rack of chips. Hopper grunted in pain but immediately fired back with a punch of his own, his right swing hitting the man square in the jaw. Hopper took the chance to follow up a knee to the man's gut, knocking him down with one last hit, although he knew he wouldn't stay down for long.

As Hopper struck him down you caught a flash of silver fly out of the man's jacket pocket and skid across the floor. You stared at the keys for a moment before your gaze flew up to the Harley parked outside the gas station.

'This is a stupid idea,' you told yourself, but in the moment it was the best you could do.

“Take my car,” you said to Joyce, tossing her your keys, “I'm jacking his ride.”

Joyce, Steve, and Billy looked at you like you'd just sprouted wings.

“Oh no you're not, it's way too dangerous,” Joyce said, incredulously, “He'll be close enough to shoot you if you make a run for it now.”

“I'll go around the outside,” you said, “If Hopper keeps him distracted I can make it.”

“Have you ever even ridden a motorcycle before?” Billy tried to reason with you.

“As a matter of fact I have,” you said, your eyes narrowing. You didn't mention the fact that it was just one time with your dad years ago but hey, you were a fast learner.

“Just trust me on this,” you said, “Think about it, even if we do manage to get out of here he'll catch up to us in no time on a motorcycle. If we take his transportation away he won't be able to find us again, or at least it'll make it harder.”

Joyce swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“I can't believe I'm about to let you do this,” she said.

“I'll see you in ten seconds,” you promised, “Get everyone in the car and we'll pick up Hopper on the way out.”

“Be careful,” Steve said, and despite you still being mad at him the life or death situation compelled you to say:

“You too.”

And with that, Joyce started to lead everyone outside to the parking lot towards your car.

You forced down any doubt you had in your mind and took a deep breath before running towards where Hopper and the man were fighting. You slid to a stop as you snatched the keys off the ground and made a break for the front of the store.  

The man seemed to notice what you did as he snarled and reached for his gun, but Hopper was too quick. In one swift movement he knocked the gun out of the man's hand grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, throwing him as far away from you as he could.

You thanked Hopper silently as you put the keys in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. Your heart pounded in your ears as you leveled yourself on the motorcycle. You spotted Hopper out of the corner of your eye as he sprinted towards the store front, Alexei practically flying behind him in his grip. The Russian let out a small yelp as Hopper threw him unceremoniously into the backseat of the car, his body sprawled across Billy and Steve.

“Floor it, Joyce,” Hopper huffed, scrambling into the passenger's seat.

She didn't need to be told twice. The smell of burning rubber drifted past you as the tires squealed, all the passengers forced backwards at the force of the sudden jolt of speed.

You leaned into the turn as you moved to follow the car, daring one last glance over your shoulder at the man in the leather jacket. He threw what remained of a shelf off of his shoulders as he staggered to his feet, his expression terrifying as he stared you down. With a deep breath you turned to the road, quickly catching up with your Jaguar and leaving the infuriated man behind.

“Woah woah hey, my fucking car is still back there!” Billy shouted as you sped away.

“Really, that's what you're concerned about right now?!” you shouted over the wind, tempted to reach around the car and slap him. Your focus was forcefully pulled back to the road as you felt the cycle waver, quickly adjusting your weight as you tried to get use to the feeling. You were suddenly acutely aware of the helmet you weren't wearing. You took a long draw of breath in through your nose as you tried to calm your buzzing nerves, your knuckles white as you gripped the handlebars.

“Alright, Hop. You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?”

Taglist: @in-my-dreams-2000 @ggclarissa @iris1697 @5sosxgrethan @ohnoniella @sarcasticalphaofthelooserspack @aspiring-fangirls-world @wow-im-so-tired @hopesxxhigh @justanothercrazyassfangirl @too-many-lanes @whimsylavender @bish-ima-clown @amarachoren @mosiacbrokenheartstf @mcuvlxgs @xapham @metuel18 @immirandaq @nellaphine @multi-madison @gingertalksshit @jojo-buttercup @kyberhearts @mvdelaine @minnie-marvel @caitlin-rose28 @zandaleekrz @r3inventedd @void-fire-rose @macymafia @wanna-be-idle @newtsshelbys @kimmydespell @weyheyokay @r4ttusr4ttus @cynthianokamaria @spookyartisanmuffineggs @youcanstandundermyamberella @ashadowoftheforest @shrektiledysfunction @arithatonegirl @banannie25 @daddyuwuss @truthdaze @supervoldejaygent @gigi-maria-argu @dolan-mendes @mavix @reflectionsofyouruniverse @angelsarefalling @billyhargrovescigarette

[saby-chan]

Fire Lord Ozai: A blood thirsty monster or the less fortunate “Zuko” of his generation?

Hello again and thank you as always for clicking and allotting some of your time to read my humble post! Since I’ve happened to notice quite an increase in posts lately regarding the controversial character and nature of the former Fire Lord, the now imprisoned fallen prince Ozai, and I’ve personally promised in my previous post that I will share my own analysis on him if people asked me to do so (which actually happened), I am here to deliver my own take on this very intriguing man’s character, while also building a potential past for him based on stuff gathered from the show’s cannon.

I would like to start this essay with what I find to be my favorite quote ever: ”Monster’s aren’t born, they are created.” ~ Naruto Uzumaki (Naruto) What I like about this quote soo much and find very inspirational is the truth it holds within its short, yet powerful message. We are often fast to judge a “book by the cover”, to reduce others to what we assume of them by their appearance or latest actions that we’ve seen them do, but never actually take a moment and wonder where they come from, if this person we soo harshly look down upon really has been this way since their very beginning?

I’ve come across many comments on social media related to ATLA, especially on YouTube videos on which people would throw with harsh comments such as “Aang being a coward for choosing to spare the villain just because they saw a dumb baby pic of them” or “Ozai is the essence of evil and even as a baby he’d been a monster”. I can’t help but wonder who hurt these people to make them be so cruel? Like, how messed up must you actually be to say that a baby, a friggin baby, is the embodiment of all evils? Or that a child was a coward for choosing to see his opponent’s last bits of humanity and opted to spare them?

Aang was soo morally conflicted about the idea of killing Ozai not only because it contradicted the morals of his people, but because he himself understood that this man hadn’t always been the cruel beast he came to met in their first and final showdown. It’s important to note here the fact that upon finding that picture, Aang was actually convinced it had to be Zuko as a baby since it looked so innocent and cute and was actually surprised to learn it was Zuko’s father. And that’s the thing, Ozai was born like us all as an innocent and sweet baby. Babies aren’t in any way evil or twisted, they don’t even have the notion of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ defined in their small, still developing minds. In fact, the very choice of the creators to add this picture in the show is meant to tell us this very thing: this man wasn’t always like this. But if he wasn’t always like this, then what happened to make him become this way?

Well, in order to find out the reason, we must go back in time to the very beginning: Ozai’s childhood and upbringing. For this next part I am going to solely focus on the show cannon, as the comics aren’t the products of BryKe and have a lot of inconsistencies to the source’s cannon (you can go and read my other post on why they fail when it comes to Zuko’s character and his family).

 From what we know and can easily deduce by ourselves just from their appearances, Ozai and his brother Iroh have a huge age gap between them (somewhere between 10 and 15 years). This has to be our first red flag: isn’t it soo odd that this family opted to have their children at such a long distance between pregnancies? It almost feels as if Ozai hadn’t actually been part of his father’s actual family planning... In other words, he was a ‘mistake’ child (I actually hate having to use this terminology, but it will become relevant to when we expand on Azulon’s relationship with his sons). Sure, some may argue that Azulon actually decided to have two sons in case something were to happen to his first born, but wouldn’t it have been more logical to have his second born at 2-3 years max distance from his first? Why choose to have your second child when you are much older and thus risk having a baby with issues, if your sole purpose of this child is to serve as an insurance that you don’t ‘run out’ of heirs? It just doesn’t make much sense, so let’s go for the moment with the possibility that Ozai was an unplanned pregnancy.

This perspective actually gives way to another very interesting aspect: remember the infamous “Born lucky...Lucky to be born” quote? What if I tell you that there is a possibility that this quote wasn’t Ozai’s personal wicked invention, but actually something he himself heard from his very own father? It had been puzzling me for a long time why he choose to say “You were lucky to be born” to Zuko, which implies that Zuko wasn’t supposed to exist. I mean, it’s soo odd that Ozai went with something implying that Zuko was an unplanned pregnancy, since Zuko was the first born. So my theory is that maybe Ozai wanted to convey a different message to Zuko when he said that quote, but due to his anger he ended up replicating the same line he received from Azulon at some point in his childhood. We never got the exact flashback when the line was delivered from Ozai to Zuko, so we don’t have the exact context that lead to it (remember, we are excluding Yang’s take on the matter from the comics).

I mean, this feels like something that wicked old Azulon would have said to his least favorite child. Okay, so let’s go with the scenario that Ozai was an unwanted child, to which we could also add the possibility that Ilah’s health deteriorated after the first birth, which makes plausible the family’s initial decision of stopping at 1 kid.

Moving on, we know from the old ATLA character wiki’s that Ozai’s character design was made with Zuko in mind, being meant to be a grown up version of Zuzu, without the scar. An interesting choice indeed and even Iroh’s letter to Zuko on Ozai from one of the ATLA books describes Ozzy in a similar way to teenage Zuko in book 1: stubborn, feisty, determined and with a volcanic personality (easy to anger and competitive), so it means that these were intentional choices to imply that Zuko and his father are more similar than we were led to believe at first glance. Maybe Ozai was the “Zuko” of his generation. Also, in one of the interviews on the royal family, BryKe stated that Ozai worked very hard to get where he is in book 3, referring to his firebending specifically (we all know how Ozzy got the throne, so clearly, he didn’t “work hard” for that), so maybe he wasn’t always the strongest man alive, with the most exceptional firebending skills out there, like Azula who showed ease in her learning, but rather someone closer to Zuko’s weaker performance as a child, building his way to success through endless hard work until he became the prodigy we know today.

Continuing with our theoretical scenario, after his birth, the second child show’s lesser skills compared to his brother Iroh (by that I don’t mean that he wasn’t gifted at all, but that maybe Ozai wasn’t as fast and great of a learner like his big bro), so Azulon opts to just ignore him and continue focusing solely on his golden child. In my headcannon I actually think that Ilah survived the birth and so she was left in charge of the younger child’s education and upbringing. At this point Iroh is already 10 or older, so he is forced to focus on his development, which prevents him from spending time with his lil brother, but just for the sake of being positive, let’s assume that Ozai still had both his mother and his big brother to keep him sheltered from Azulon’s darkness for a small portion of his childhood.

I choose to believe that Ozai had his mother’s love for a small bit of his childhood due to his willingness in the show to allow Ursa (who mind you, as the granddaughter of Roku was considered a treacherous individual) to spend a ton of time with both Zuko and Azula and share her philosophy with the children, as seeing his wife playing with their children probably reminded him of his own bitter-sweet memories he had with Ilah. They also probably spent a lot of their time near the turtle-duck pond since that pond’s existence prolly dates long before Ozai and Ursa married and had their own children.

Unfortunately, Ilah dies and little Ozai remains all alone, to be influenced negatively by his father (and even by his grandpa Sozin, we don’t really know for certain when the old man died, so he prolly was there for a short time when Ozzy was still a child). Azulon most likely blames Ozai for his wife’s death as the second birth might’ve really had a huge toll on Ilah’s already fragile body, bringing her closer to death, so he still neglects and ignores the child, if not straight out bullies and abuses him for not being on par with Iroh. This prolly leads to Ozai becoming jealous of his brother since Iroh has their father’s love, pushing them further apart. I headcannon that this jealousy between the siblings led to Ozai complaining to his dad when he finally had too much of their father’s discrimination (at a similar age to when Zuko prolly did and got the infamous line, if not younger) only to get the “Iroh was born lucky, you were lucky to be born!” line with the sole purpose of hurting him since now the child knows that he was never wanted.

When Azulon scolds very furiously adult Ozai in Zuko’s memories for daring to ask to be named crown prince, he literally says something like “What, you dare ask me to betray MY own son?!” (this is like red flag number two), line that pretty much testifies how Azulon chose to pretty much treat Ozai as if he wasn’t his son too, showcasing how much he despised his second born and favored the first child over him. Since we are on the topic of their last conversation, the punishment Azulon gave to his son alone proves this man’s level of sadism, which leads me to be believe that Ozai’s childhood was full of this type of punishments for bad behaviors that could be easily corrected trough a long serious lecture or a lesser punishment focused more on teaching him an actual lesson. 

The old wikis also mention on the page about the hall with portraits of the previous Fire Lords that it was the place where Ozai chose to spend most of his time in his youth, seeking advice from his ancestors. I mean, seriously now, if he had a good and supportive father and a present brother in his life, would Ozai had chosen to seek guidance from the dead instead of his living family? That piece of information that was easily overlooked by many proves how lonely this man was in his youth.

So for the most part of his life, Ozai grew up under the toxic influence and abuse of his tyrant father who refused to acknowledge him. Yet he managed to grow up still full of determination to one day prove his worth to Azulon and gain his acceptance (just like we saw with Zuko in book 1, who was desperate to regain his honor and be accepted by his father). But unfortunately, no matter how strong he became or how good of a firebender he was, Azulon was unmoved and unphased by his second son’s performance.

From what we could gather from the little info we received in the show, it seems that Ozai was never sent to the battle field to aid his older brother, being kept as a stay home prince, with the only occasion he actually left home being to search for the Avatar (I don’t think Iroh was sent to do his part on searching the Avatar since he strongly believed that there wasn’t going to ever be one, so it’s safe to assume Azulon assigned Ozai with this mission just to get rid of him for a few years) and the only purpose he ever served to his father was to become part of the old man’s genetics experiment in order to create strong unparalleled firebending offspring (which I am pretty sure were meant to be ‘biological war machines’ used by Azulon in the war, as he didn’t really seem to give a shit about Ozai’s children compared to Lu Ten). So just imagine the level of disappointment and dishonor Ozai must’ve felt as a man and young aspiring soldier to find out that he was going to be used like a ‘non-bending daughter’ in a strategical marriage and never get to serve his country in what he’d been taught was the greatest and most important war for their Nation.

All in all, this marriage didn’t really end up that badly because it seems he and Ursa were actually very compatible. The old wiki for Ursa states that she was a noble woman and the perfect match for Ozai, which leads me to believe that show Ursa was intended to be a very strong willed and determined woman who earned his respect. The show never stated that Ozai never wanted his first born or that he was disappointed with Zuko from birth like the comics say, so it’s safe to assume that Ursa and Ozai actually ended up falling in love at some point since they had not one, but two kids with relatively a short time in between pregnancies. 

There are actually many signs in the show that actually prove that these two loved each other and Ozai didn’t abuse his wife: from the fact that they went every year to see Ursa’s favorite play despite Ozai hating the poor performance of the Ember Island Players (I mean, what man would do such a sacrifice as to endure the same torture every single year just to make his wife happy if he never loved her?), Ursa’s undeniable and sincere love for their children (in the show it was never stated that Ursa saw Zuko and Azula as someone else’s children, so if she were indeed an abused woman who was forced to have these children, she wouldn’t have ever loved them to such an extent, especially Zuko who resembled his father the most physically), the fact that Ursa had equal rights in their marriage and raising of their children (her even scolding and grounding Ozai���s favorite child without hesitation), to the most significant scene to the Urzai ship in Zuko’s flashbacks: Ozai sitting troubled all alone in Ursa’s favorite spot by the pond, in a sad and brooding atmosphere, after he lost her, instead of celebrating what had to be the happiest day of his life since he was finally crowned Fire Lord (it’s clear who had more importance in his heart: Ursa meant more to him than the throne, so losing her outshined his achievement). In fact, Ursa must’ve been the only thing that still kept him outside of the darkness that threatened to swallow his heart and once he lost her, Ozai had nothing else to keep him on the right path.

And even as a father, it seems that Ozai wasn’t always cold and distant to his children, as his true self depicted in Zuko’s memories on Ember Island shows him caring for both of his children, even holding Zuko close to him with a protective arm on the boy’s shoulder. Except the Agni Kai, there don’t seem to be any instances in which he was physically violent towards his son before the banishment (Iroh literally let Zuko in to join that faithful war meeting willingly. Would’ve he done that if he knew his brother to be very violent towards his children in case they disobeyed? If yes, then it would make Iroh actually very questionable on a moral standpoint) and even on an emotional level, I don’t really think that he was actually abusive to him (at least while Ursa was there) because from Zuko’s conversation with Zhao, he’s adamant that his father will take him back and even states "You don't know how my father feels about me. You don't know anything!", meaning that the father he used to know showed him a level of respect and genuine affection (if Ozai were to bully Zuko since the boy’s very early childhood, do you think this kid would grow up to be so sure that his father wants him around and would he defend this bully when someone badmouths them in front of him?).

Even with Azula, despite people demonizing her from early childhood and saying that she was manipulated since birth by Ozai to become a war machine, I do believe that she shows genuine love and affection towards her father. I do choose to believe that back in the good times when the family was happy, Ozai spent quality time with his daughter, filling in the gap left by Ursa’s neglect. I theorize that the reason why kid Azula badmouthed her grandpa and uncle was because she was being very protective of her father: since she used to like spying and eavesdropping, it’s safe to assume that she prolly witnessed many instances in which the old man bullied or insulted Ozai, favoring Iroh over him. It’s a bit harder to see it that way since her snarky comments involve dark topics, but since they live in a society governed by power and war, I see them as something similar to if Azula would’ve said “Uncle sucks and he will surely be fired from his job!” or “Grandpa is old and weak, he should leave the family business to dad!”. Even the fact that the only thing capable of shattering her to pieces was her father leaving her proves how much she cared for him. Ty Lee and Mai’s betrayal was a big blow on Azula’s control and sanity, but she didn’t breakdown until Ozai discarded her after his coronation as Phoenix King. There’s nothing more painful in this world than to be left behind by the person you loved the most and was there by your side your whole life, whom you wanted to follow to world’s end and back. That was the moment Azula finally realized that the father she used to know and love was actually gone and had been in fact, long gone for years at this point.

But if Ozai cared for his family what made him change? Easy, it all comes back to the fact that his father never acknowledged him. The throne doesn’t seem to be his ultimate goal in life since Ozai discarded of the Fire Lord title very easily, tossing it to Azula without any remorse or hesitation. It was more about the meaning behind getting the crown: replacing Iroh in the line of succession was the ultimate proof of his father’s acceptance, that he wasn’t only a “mistake” and “failure” in his father’s eyes, but since Azulon ended up saying and doing what he did, backfired Ozai and made him understand that no matter how hard he tried, the old man will never see him for what he is. So yeah, for a proud man like Ozai this was a hard defeat to swallow, which in turn sparked his strong desire of winning the war and becoming the king of the world: if Azulon wouldn’t accept him even in death, then Ozai will prove to the whole world that he was above his father and his “perfect” brother by accomplishing what they never could and even better and no one was going to stop him, not even his own family.

This is what differentiates Ozai from Zuko: while both had similar upbringings, Ozai never broke away from his obsession of gaining his father’s admiration, allowing himself to fall prey to the darkness left by Azulon in his heart and abandon his true self, only to become the copy of his abuser, while Zuko stood up to his dad and chose his own destiny. If Aang were to come back around 20 or 30 years earlier, then he might’ve actually been able to save Ozai just like he saved Zuko, but unfortunately it wasn’t this way.

Do I think that Ozai could still be saved and redeemed even after the events of book 3? Definitely! Since he’s actually a broken man and still has a tiny bit of humanity left within, I think he still has a chance to change his heart. The only thing is that it’d be a long lasting process: first off he needs to spend a long time in solitude and reflect on his life’s choices and his past, understand where he went wrong and that what happened to him in his childhood is called abuse, which he ended up replicating on his own children. After he understands his wrongdoings and becomes willing to rediscover his true self, he needs to understand the truth about the war, that everything he’d known was fake propaganda and that there was nothing glorious in what he, his father and Sozin did under the excuse of “sharing their Nation’s greatness with the rest of the world!”. But most importantly of all, the only remedy that could possibly save him is love. It sound cliche, but by responding to hatred with more hate like Zuko did in the comics would never change the world “for the better” or bring it “to reality”. The only way to save both Azula and Ozai would be trough showing them the power of love, hope and empathy, how they don’t have to struggle alone and push everyone away. And especially by redeeming Azula, she would be a very important piece in Ozai’s redemption: since he had a closer parent-child relationship with Azula and cared for her the most when he did care, realizing how much he made her suffer through his actions, that would probably break Ozai enough to make him admit that he was wrong all along.

So yeah, this is my analysis on Ozai’s character using the cannon information from the show and old wikis and why I think he is just the product of a very bad environment and an abusive parent who never showed him love (if there’s a reason for why Ozai might be uncapable of showing a healthy parental love to his children is because you can’t show what you’ve never learnt yourself), being the Zuko of his generation who never got to experience the positive influence of an “Uncle Iroh” to guide him on the right path. 

You can agree with me or not on this one, but this is what I choose to believe. Maybe I am way too good by choosing to see any potential good in anyone, but I feel it’s a better way than to counter hate with more hate like Yang did in his monstrous portrayal of Ozai in The Search.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments and if you agree with anything I’ve said, feel free to leave a like and to reblog this post.

See you next time and stay safe! Bye-Bye!

Saby out.

[rosesgonerogue]

I Didn’t So Much Fall in Love - It Kicked Me in the Face

Chapter Nine

Masterlist

Tim hadn’t been sure about meeting Marinette so early in the morning - would he be able to wake up in time? But he wouldn’t miss this for the world, so obviously the solution had been simply not to sleep at all. Tragically his body was used to it at this point, but as long as he had caffeine he would be just fine.

He knew he was stupidly early to their date, but Tim wasn’t willing to waste a single moment with Marinette. He also didn’t have anything to do until his scheduled nap between the coffee date and his first meeting of the day. So, he ordered his coffee - he didn’t even have to speak to the barista, he just gave her the money. Every barista in Gotham knew his order by heart at this point.

The wordless interaction was perfect for so early in the day. Tim paid and sat down to wait for an hour. He hadn’t even gotten his coffee before he spotted Marinette and Leo skipping towards the shop, hand-in-hand. The intense flood of emotions just from seeing the two left Tim flustered - part of him wanted to look away, temper those feelings, but the larger part of him couldn’t, especially when she spotted him and waved. Like the fool he was, Tim flapped his arm back wildly and without abandon. 

“Bonjour!” mother and son called in unison the second the shop door opened. 

“Bonjour!” Tim greeted back before informing the barista, “I’ll be paying for them.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Marinette exclaimed. “I asked you out, this should be my treat!” 

“I’ll let you pay for the next date,” Tim offered with a smile. He immediately regretted saying it, blushing lightly. Was the sleep deprivation really getting to him that badly already? 

But, to his pleasure, Marinette just smiled from across the room. “Well, I suppose that means I’ll have to make sure that we have a second date. You know, because I need to make sure we keep everything even.” 

Tim honestly couldn’t bring himself to care about the barista staring at them - if anything went public that they didn’t want to, he had lawyers he could call. Dangerously close to making a fool of himself, Tim turned his attention to Leo and asked in French, “What would you like? I can order it for you.” 

Clearly thinking deeply, Leo said in perfect English, “I would like one small hot chocolate, please.”

“Which muffin do you want? You need something other than hot chocolate for breakfast,” Marinette said, also in English.

“Blueberry, please.” 

Marinette placed her order as well, and Tim was attempting to reel in his shock as they moved to the table.

“So you can speak English already, Leo?” Tim asked. 

“A little,” he said, ducking his head. 

“He likes to practice when he’s alone,” Marinette mock-whispered. “The fact that he used English in front of you means that he trusts you a lot.” 

Something almost felt like Tim got stabbed through the heart, but in a pleasant way. For once, Tim could understand Bruce’s compulsions to adopt every spare child. 

The three settled into a comfortable conversation. Leo was largely content to nibble at his muffin while observing the adults with luminous eyes. Tim somehow got on the subject of his brothers, which Marinette was incredibly curious about as an only child. (If the stories ensured that Marinette could never see any of his brothers in a romantic light, so be it.)

“-and so Dick was trying to get Damian off of Jason, but if we just pulled him, Dick would take a good chunk of Jason’s arm with him. Dick tried tickling, poking, bribing, all to no avail. Jason was convinced that he was going to get rabies from Damian, and we just knew that this all needed to get resolved before Bruce and Alfred got home. Literally two seconds later, Alfred walks in-”

The story was interrupted by a loud crash and someone shouting, “This is a holdup! Everyone cooperate and no one gets hurt!” 

It was just Killer Moth - he was such a joke in Gotham that the barista just kind of looked bored. His garishly purple costume was as atrocious as ever, and Tim even heard the sound of sirens coming closer already. He turned to Marinette with a wry smile and a snarky comment about the man’s costume, but looking at Marinette froze him. 

She had crowded Leo up against the window, body positioned like she was shielding him from something. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her chest was heaving with erratic breathing. 

Looking at her, at the lines of panic in her body, a piece of Tim shattered. All the light and joy he’d been feeling with her was gone, confirming the thought he’d been suppressing for a while.

Marinette didn’t belong in Gotham. It was too much violence and darkness for her to withstand, let alone Leo. Tim’s entire world was poison to the girl he was beginning to love. 

*********

Marinette crushed Leo to her chest, all of her worst nightmares flashing before her eyes. She couldn’t let Leo be exposed to Hawkmoth, he wouldn’t know the horrors of-

His small hand touched her cheek, grounding her the slightest bit. “It’s not him, Maman. We’re safe.”

Deeply inhaling, Marinette though fort a few moments - the butterfly miraculous was securely locked away in the Miracle Box, and Gabriel Agreste was similarly locked away in a maximum security prison. When she opened her eyes, the villain in a frankly offensive costume was being hauled away by the police. She moved away from where she was crushing Leo, and slowly, hesitantly she met Tim’s eyes.

What could she say after having a full-blown PTSD episode? How was she supposed to explain her reaction? “I-”

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice lined with concern. Even though it seemed genuine, he was already looking at her differently. His blue eyes were shuttered, and a part of him closed off from her, likely forever. 

Of course he wouldn’t want to deal with that much baggage on top of a child. Tim was a truly good man, but he was also a CEO with a limited amount of time in his day. They finished their breakfasts, but what little conversation they had was stilted. Leo kept glancing between the two of them, obviously upset by the way the adults were acting. 

When it came time for them to leave, Marinette met Tim’s eyes and offered a feeble smile, even though she felt her heart fracturing in her chest. “I insist you go home and take a nap, Monsieur Tim. You’ve certainly earned it at this point.” 

He smiled back, but it wasn’t without pain. “Don’t work yourself too hard. If I don’t see you before then, I look forward to showing your suit off at the gala. I’ll see you there, won’t I?” 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Marinette said, attempting to renew her pasted-on grin. “Now come, Leo. We need to say goodbye to Monsieur Tim so he can get a nap in before he has important business to tend to.” 

Leo’s face creased as he glanced between the adults. “Why are you both acting weird? What happened?” 

“Nothing happened, it’s just time for us to leave Monsieur Tim alone,” Marinette said, her smile beginning to collapse. 

Glancing frantically between the adults, Leo looked genuinely distressed. “But you’re supposed to love each other.”

Marinette felt like she was going to pass out right there until she realized that Leo had spoken in the language of the Guardian. Tim couldn’t have understood him, but Marinette already felt exhausted. 

In the same language, she said, “Sometimes it isn’t that easy, Leo. We can talk about this later. Say goodbye to Monsieur Tim.”

The goodbyes were brief, and Marinette felt like she was suffocating as she had to drag her obviously upset son away. She didn’t look back to see him, partially occupied with Leo’s uncharacteristic disagreement, but mostly because she didn’t want to see whether Tim’s sad eyes lingered on them or not. 

Taglist: 

@ii-fox-demon @queen-in-a-flower-crown @novaloptr @saphiraazure2708 @iamabrownfox @smolplantmum @redhoodedtoad @loysydark @slytheringinger300 @finallyaniguana @brokenwordsarehard2 @abrx2002 @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @moonlightstar64  @marinettepotterandplagg @black-streak @purplesundaze @maribat-is-lifeblood @the-fusionist @river9noble @chocolatecatstheron @darkthunder1589 @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @dast218 @k-poplunardreams @meanids @changelinggarden @ladybug-182 @pawsitivelymiraculous @zotinha456 @tumbling-down-hills-and-stuff @spider-person95 @zestyzealot @toodaloo-kangaroo @kokotaru @kurogaya913 @tis-i-beanbandit  @annapointone @casual-darkness @pheony1882 @tbehartoo @kris-pines04 @thesunanditsangel @constancetruggle @thequeenofpotatoeunicornss @rosalineandrosemary @novicevoice @momothefemur  @theymakeupfairies @casual-darkness @the-one-woman-army

Note: 

Sorry for the long wait on this chapter! Most of my time was spent writing for Jasonette July, and then I had to move back to college and start my new program, so it's been a little hectic. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! If you want more mominette content, take a look at my submission for Jasonette July, How to be a Dad 101!

[ericsonclan]

Stop and Smell the Stew

Summary: Duck goes down to the kitchen to see if dinner is ready and ends up helping his mom cook.

Word Count: 1759

Read on AO3:

Duck lay on his bed, his legs lazily kicking as they dangled off the edge. His eyes focused on a weird dot on his ceiling for a second, wondering how it got there before his attention was stolen by the TV as Final Fantasy music began to play on the title screen of the game. He had just finished an intense gaming session of grinding his weaker team members, cheering for them when they leveled up and laughing with Tidus as he did the laugh alongside Yuna.

It was a ton of fun but his stomach had been growling and sadly all he’d had was some Batman fruit snacks. Well, not some - one pack. He had inhaled that like it was nothing and now his stomach demanded more. It gave its usual pleas and angry cries, making Duck wonder if dinner would be ready soon. He knew it was only four but still maybe his mom would have started dinner early tonight or maybe she had made some treats.

With that thought in mind Duck swung his legs off his bed and swayed up to his full height in one awkward movement. Strolling forward, he walked past his bookshelf filled with nothing but comics and mystery novels. Batman, Spiderman and Scooby Doo figures stood proudly by the great reads he had collected over the years. His eyes stuck on the Shaggy figure who was definitely a bit worse for the wear due to being such an old toy. Still his goofy expression was still as strong as ever. With a small smile Duck reached out to grab the figure but accidentally knocked over Daphne in the process.

“Shit, sorry, Daphne,” Duck apologized with a smile and leaned down to pick up the toy when his eyes locked onto a Rubik’s cube. Oh, so that's where it had ended up. He could’ve sworn he had lost it in his pants. Eh, no use thinking about it too hard. Snatching up the Rubik’s cube, Duck began to flick around the colored sections while he put Daphne back on the shelf.

With a grin he turned and began to solve the cube. He had always had a love and a knack for puzzles and this one was one of his favorites. Spinning around the different sections, Duck quickly solved it then blindly reorganized it. His mind was easily distracted by the thought of a new puzzle game coming out and after a few minutes Duck had no recollections of how many spins he had done or what order it was in. The Rubik’s cube would remain a puzzle to solve later. Still holding it in one hand, Duck walked down the stairs with a smile and headed towards the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom, what's going to be for dinner?” Duck poked his head in the kitchen and noticed that Katjaa was busy getting out the dutch oven, carefully placing it onto the stove. The sound of her son’s voice made Katjaa look over with the brightest smile.

“I’m just getting started on it: carbonnade flamande,”

The name of the dish brought back fond memories and made Duck’s stomach growl.

That caused a laugh to leave Katjaa’s lips.“Want to help me?”

“Sure!” Duck beamed and placed down the Rubik’s cube in a spot he would most likely forget about by this evening. Rolling up his sleeves that immediately fell back down, he went to work grabbing all the ingredients. His loud footsteps rang around the kitchen as he grabbed the chuck roast that had been marinating overnight in the sour ale, bay leaves, garlic and some salt and also snatched up the bacon, beef broth and way too many other ingredients to try to carry all in one trip. Yet he still tried.

“Duck!” Katjaa exclaimed then bustled over, helping her son out.

“I wanted to carry it all in one trip,” Duck grinned at his mom who shook her head good naturedly before setting down the ingredients on the counter.

“I can see that and that was a very kind thought but you have to be careful,” Katjaa pulled Duck close to her and placed a gentle kiss on the side of his head.

“Okay, I’ll be more careful. Promise,” Duck gave a smile to his mom then turned his attention to the stove. “So, what’s step one?”

“We’re going to drain the beef and pat it dry,” Katjaa leaned down and grabbed a food strainer from the lower cupboard.

“On it!” Duck was off like a shot after snatching up the food strainer from his mom.

“Wait!” Katjaa called out, making Duck pause. “We have to reserve the marinade,”

“Oops, okay. I’ll do that,” Duck corrected his action and soon the beef was safely drained. Passing it over to his mom, Duck watched as Katjaa patted the beef dry with paper towels.

“Can you get the olive oil heated up in the dutch oven?” Katjaa smiled over at Duck as she sliced the onions. Duck nodded excitedly and was off once more, preparing the dutch oven.

Once the oil was piping hot Katjaa began to cook the beef in batches, careful to not let the oil splatter when she did so, and told Duck to do the same. Even though he was  a young adult sometimes he still got too excited for his own good and forgot things. The two of them worked well together, making sure the beef was golden brown on all sides as the smells started to permeate the air around them. It was a warm, comforting smell that made Duck nostalgic as his stomach continued to growl.

After about ten minutes they removed the beef cubes and went on to the next step. It was time to cook the bacon and Duck had volunteered to take the lead on this one. Being ever vigilant, he made sure the bacon was cooked to crispy perfection while Katjaa hummed a Belgian tune that made Duck bop his head. Both of them shared a soft smile and soon Katjaa was back over beside him giving him hugs and ruffling his hair.

“Great job. You’re such a wonderful cooking helper,”

Duck gave a light laugh at that and grinned. “I had the best teacher,”

Katjaa gave his head another kiss then gave the instructions for the next step. After the bacon was taken out and put to the side, the onions were thrown in with some salt. The smell cut through the deep, meaty air that the beef and bacon had made, adding notes of onions that complemented it greatly. Soon some flour was added to the dutch oven to coat the caramelized onions and after that the beef broth was used to get any scraps off the bottom. Once all of those had been snagged, Duck gave a thumbs up and Katjaa added the reserved marinade, beef, bacon and thyme.

“Is that everything?” Duck asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation for dinner.

“For now, yes. It needs to cook for an hour and a half first before we finish up the last few steps,”

Those words made Duck’s eyes grow big and his smile faltered. “An hour and a half?!? I thought it would be like twenty minutes. I can’t wait that long!”

Katjaa laughed at that; patience wasn’t her son’s strongest suit. “Don’t worry, you can have a snack to help tide you over,”

“I guess,” Duck mumbled, looking a bit defeated.

“Y’know, Duck, sometimes you just have to stop and smell the stew,” Katjaa placed a hand on her son’s arm and smiled, hoping he would get the twist on the saying. He didn’t. Instead he took it literally and began to smell the stew.

“It smells good,” Duck’s nose scrunched up when he saw his mom laugh. “What?”

“Nothing, it's just I was trying to put a twist on that saying. Y’know the one that talks about stopping to smell the roses. Duck, sometimes you need to slow down and relax, okay?” “Okay,” Duck nodded then tried to think of what to do to pass the time. “Wanna watch a movie while it cooks?”

“I’d love that,” Katjaa smiled and watched in amusement as Duck scampered off to put on Knives Out . He knew that his mom hadn’t seen it yet and he wanted to see if she could guess who the killer was.

It was a fun experience. Duck was on the edge of his seat as he munched on apples and peanut butter while Katjaa threw out guess after guess on who the killer was. Many laughs were shared, gasps given and their attention was captured. The hour and a half flew by in no time and even though they were both reluctant they paused the movie.

Duck repeated his same action from the beginning of dinner prep, his sleeves rolled up for three glorious seconds before falling back down as he helped add in the last few ingredients. Katjaa quickly added in the brown sugar, parsley, mustard and fresh pepper, giving the contents of the dutch oven a quick stir before putting the lid back on. The warm, deep flavors stayed in the air though, overwhelming Duck’s nose in the most wonderful of ways. His steps had a bit more pep to them as he guided his mom back to the living room, excited to finish the movie and then have a feast.

It didn’t take long for both of them to get swept up in the movie again and the reveal of the killer made Katjaa gasp. She gave her commentary as the credits rolled, Duck listening with a big smile as he added his own thoughts here and there. The two continued to gush about their favorite parts of the film as the fries cooked and soon dinner was ready. Duck eagerly set the table for three then looked over at the luscious Belgian stew that held a depth of flavor. The crisp smell of the french fries complemented the stew, adding another layer to the smells that danced around the kitchen.

Just as the table had been set and the food placed down the front door opened, revealing Kenny. He gave a big smile as he shifted his jacket off. “Hey there, Kat, Duck, it smells delicious,” He strolled forward and gave Katjaa a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Alright!” Duck sat down a bit too quickly, nearly slipping off his chair but gave a grin to his parents to show that he was a-okay. “Let’s eat!”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.11 (spicyhoney)

Summary:  Stretch finally has Edge's address, but as always seems to happen in this town, answering one question only makes two more spring up to take its place.

Read ‘Unconventional Wisdom’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

The dog spent all morning napping behind the counter, not rising for broom bristles nudging him nor Stretch stepping over him awkwardly so he could grab a few boxes from the top shelf to fill up the front racks. He did snore loud enough to be heard over the radio, but eh, so did Red so Stretch was used to it.

It wasn’t until the jangling cowbell over the door heralded the arrival of a group of kids that the pup gave up on his snoring and wandering out to inspect the new arrivals, tail already happily wagging. Predictably, the kiddos were enamored of their newest employee, although guard dog might be overstating things a bit. Okay, maybe a lot; it looked like Red hadn’t been able to get back to sleep last night because the once-filthy dog with a mess of tangled fur was now freshly washed and brushed, and he smelled a lot like the shower gel from Red’s bathroom. Cleaned up, he was a handsome dog, looking as fluffy as an enormous toasted marshmallow. Not exactly threatening, fluffykins here was probably gonna spend most of his shift on moral support duty.

The little girl who was currently the main recipient of the dog’s enthusiastic face licking giggled and asked, “What’s his name?”

“uh.” That gave Stretch a pause. He shrugged. “doesn’t have a name yet, i’ll have to ask red what he thinks.”

“Should name him Rover,” one boy put in helpfully.

Another boy chimed in, “Or Bingo!”

“Cheeseburger!” A little gal firmly declared as though no other name would do and Stretch couldn’t help laughing.

“is that a name suggestion or a lunch request?” he teased. All the kids giggled, including the one who’d suggested the name and Stretch gave one of her pigtails a gentle tug. “tell you what, here.” He pulled out a pad of paper from under the counter, flipped past the pages filled with inventory lists and cribbage scores to a blank one and wrote carefully at the top, ‘Name Our Dog’. He set it in one corner of the counter triumphantly, “there! now anyone can suggest a name and red can choose the best one.”

All the kids seemed in agreement that this was the best course of action, each taking a turn to scribble their suggestion on the sheet. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if ‘Cheeseburger’ was at the top of Red’s picks.

The kids eventually abandoned the dog and started a round of intense negotiations over what penny treats to buy today. Stretch left them to it, settling to sit on the stool to wait for them to bring up their selections to the register. His mind wandered idly back to newest side quest: getting to 637 Wood’s End Drive.

He’d already tried to look the address up on his phone’s GPS and wasn’t too surprised to see that it didn’t come up, naw, that would be too easy. So, first was figuring out how to get there and second would be figuring out how to get there. Not like he had a car and somehow, he doubted that Backwater had a thriving Uber economy. Maybe he could hitch a lift with someone? People were always coming into town in those big ol’ pickup trucks and the folks around here were pretty friendly, plus Edge seemed to be pretty well known. They all probably knew exactly where Edge lived and stopped by for pie and tea all the time. Surely someone would be delighted to help out, particularly if they were one of the lookie-loos from Mama’s who wanted to see Stretch and Edge on another man date, thank-you-but-no-thank-you.

That would probably be the easiest way to go about it, but Stretch found he was strangely reluctant to take that route. It felt a little like cheating, considering the roundabout way Edge went about handed out his address.

Anyway, if he’d wanted to go down that path, he could’ve simply asked Red days ago, but that right there was an entirely different can of worms that he didn’t want to share with any of the early birds. Red never forbade him from hanging out with Edge, but he’d been pretty clear time and again that he wasn’t too keen on it, either. Might be best if he kept any mentions of Edge to a minimum unless Red brought him up first.

He’d just figure it out himself, thanks, and he wasn’t any puzzle master, not like his bro was, but he had a little pride buried around here somewhere. Edge set him a challenge, damn it, and he was gonna see it through.

His absent gaze strayed down to the pile of bicycles outside the store, kid-sized, sure, but hey, wait a second—

“hey, guys,” Stretch said slowly, and the debate on whether to get two packs of everlasting gobstoppers or three paused as a half-dozen heads perked up like prairie dogs from a sugary plain. “if i wanted to buy a bicycle around here, where would i go?”

Heads ducked down again in a hastily whispered conversation, then the spokeskid popped up again and said, decisively, “Try over at the thrift shop. Miss Maggie always has old bikes for sale.”

“thanks.” He should’ve known. The only other option right in town was the tractor supply shop and while driving up on a John Deere would make a hell of an impression, it was probably well out of his price range. The kids crowded over with their handfuls of spoils and Stretch dutifully rang them up and if he tossed in a dime of his own to cover them, eh, wasn’t like they’d ever know. He handed over a paper sack of treats to a chorus of thank yous and the divvying began before the kiddos even got out of the shop.

“Oh, Edgar Allen said to tell you hi!” One little girl called back to him. She was gone out of the door before he could even think of a reply, all of them clamoring onto their bikes, their faces chipmunk-cheeked with their spoils.

Edgar Allen, shit, yeah, that was right. He’d pretty much been the first stop on this questline and Stretch’d been meaning to do something for him. He’d already rethought the magazine idea; what if it turned out that scarecrows couldn’t read, kinda insensitive there. He’d have to think of something, though, owing someone didn’t sit well with him even if that person didn’t qualify for traditionally alive.

In the meantime, the dog, bereft of childish companionship, wandered back behind the counter and flopped down with a huff, sighing deeply.

“yeah, go on and take a break,” Stretch told him, “you were working pretty hard there.” He stretched out a leg to pet the dog carefully with his foot and wasn’t too surprised that it didn’t care one bit about his shoe, only pliantly rolled over to give him better access to the belly region.

Stretch obediently kept petting, hell, he obeyed better than the dog. But his thoughts were still on the upcoming journey to 637 Wood’s End Drive.

~~*~~

Red relieved him in the shop a little later than normal, looking a lot like he’d just hauled ass out of bed. His shirt was the same one as earlier, only with a fresh crop of wrinkles and his eye lights were still bleary with exhaustion.

Almost, Stretch offered to stay later and let Red get a little more sleep, considering it was his fault Red got woken up in the middle of night. But the baleful glare Red sent his way was an unspoken warning that such an offer probably wasn’t gonna go over well. He kept his jaw shut tight and took the paper sandwich bag Red handed over before heading out the door. Time to get this side quest rolling, literally, he hoped.

The few times he’d met Magdalen May he’d figured right from the get-go that she, like Red, was a partaker of the Sheriff’s son’s prize cannabis crop. Not only because of her dreamy demeanor but also whenever she came into the store, she was surrounded by an almost visible cloud of pot stank so strong that Stretch got a contact buzz while she was shopping through the meagre selection of yarn that Red kept. By the time she left, Stretch would have a craving for Cheetos so strong he’d be ready to start gnawing on his fingerbones for a cronch.

Stepping into the thrift shop was a little like hot boxing in a hoarder’s closet but Stretch soldiered on, squinting as his vision adjusted from the bright light of day to a dimness barely above attic-levels. He went past shelves of gewgaws and boxes of dusty records, old clothes hanging from racks that looked like they’d been commandeered from a lot of remaindered furniture. There were tables piled high with ancient radios, cameras, electronics that Stretch didn’t know the name of and surely didn’t work, existing only to be parted out by an amateur scientist or an electrician in search of cheap parts. Antique glass was set high on the shelves, catching dusty light and sending a kaleidoscope of color to scatter over the room, freckling it in greens, reds, and yellows.

The entire store radiated a glorious sort of chaos and if it weren’t for the fact that he already felt a little woozy, he would’ve stayed for a while and poked through some of the wares. Maybe even find a new book for Red buried in the nearby piles, see if he’d be willing branch out into cowboy romance for a change.

He heading to the back of the shop where Miss Maggie was sitting in a rocking chair surrounded by boxes and shelves, knitting with flashing speed despite the foggy miasma hanging in the air. Her long white hair was smoothly braided and pinned up on top of her head, her weathered skin tanned dark and leathery. The weave of bright yellow yarn trailing from her needles was spread across her lap in an incongruous contrast to her dark, billowing skirt and the light sweater she wore against the chill of the air conditioning.

“Hello, Papyrus,” she greeted him with the sort of rough, croaky voice made over the years by a thousand packs of Marlboros. She didn’t look up, her attention completely focused on her knit and purl.

That gave him one hell of a pause. “how did you—” Stretch stopped. Great, he was in the soothsayer chapter and hadn’t even had time to prep. Yeah, okay, he didn’t really have any room in his life for another side quest, maybe let this one go. He didn’t actually want to know where she got her intel, not really, especially not with his head already spinning a little. He stuck his hands in his pockets to hide the way they wanted to curl into fists, rocking back and forth on his heels. “heya. i haven’t gone by papyrus in years, it’s stretch, thanks.”

“A wise choice,” Miss Maggie said. She sounded…different, somehow. He’d talked to her a few times now and strangely, today he couldn’t seem to place her accent. It wasn’t like the other townsfolk, all of them had a certain warm, down-homey charm, and usually so did she. Her words today were crisp, sharp-edged, nothing like the dreamy peace he was familiar with when she came into the store for coffee creamer and vanilla wafers. She glanced up at him over the wire rims of her glasses, her gaze as sharp as her tongue. “Names have power. A wise man keeps his true name to himself.”

“um. sure,” Stretch couldn’t stop himself from giving the door a longing glance. This was starting to seem like a bad idea, Miss Maggie seemed to be having a personality crisis, maybe he should come back after lunch. “that’s some very handy wisdom, but i’m here about a bike?”

She ignored that. “You have issues with names,” Miss Maggie told him. She kept knitting, needles flashing furiously in a rhythmic clickity-clack as steady as a metronome. “don’t you.”

“huh?” Stretch didn’t exactly have any flesh to get goosebumps with, but he felt a chill nonetheless, prickling maddeningly over his bones. His head was whirling, everything around him seemed to blur except the old woman in front of him. His tongue felt strangely thick as he whispered a question he didn’t want to ask, “i don’t…what do you mean?”

“Mmm, yes,” Miss Maggie sighed out, “so many names you’ve had and rejected. Had and left behind when you ran away, far, far away.”

“stop,” Stretch said weakly. His soul was starting to pulse with aching intensity behind his breastbone. The room filled with an electric heaviness like a coming storm, the rich green smell filling the room suddenly nauseating. “please, don’t.”

“Brother, lover, yes, but never father, not even once.”

“shut up,” Stretch said thickly. Or tried to, the words seemed to clot and stick at the back of his throat, refusing to travel over his useless tongue.

“And now you’re taking on new names,” she raised her head, and here in the dim, her eyes seemed like dark pools of pure blackness that reflected nothing of the flickering overhead lights. Her grin seemed unpleasant and wide, showing pale pink gums in an endless maw. “Is it friend you seek or something else, I wonder?”

As she turned towards him, her sleeve caught on the sugar bowl set on the table next to her, sending it tumbling to the floor. The burst of sound as it shattered pushed through his dazed distance like the snap of dry twig broken over a knee. Stretch jerked, blinking hard, and all the nebulous emotion in him surged forward, gathering and coalescing into real anger. He was starting to get sick of this shit, if everyone in town wanted to act like this place was Sleepy Hollow’s second-cousin, that was fine by him. He was happy to play along, but not if they were gonna keep sticking their shovels into his past to see what other skeletons they could dig up.

“look, fuck you,” Stretch snapped out. He turned back to the door, tossing over his shoulder. “never mind, i’ll figure out something else!”

“Wait!” And he didn’t want to wait, he wanted to push on through the door, but his stubborn feet suddenly refused to move. Miss Maggie clumsily thrust aside her knitting, hardly noticing her teacup wobbling, spilling tea and leaves out into her saucer in a wild splash. That funky weird woman vibe abruptly eased and so did some of the stench in the air, flavored instead with lavender tea. She waddled over to him, her long skirt dragging on the floor. Even bent over with age, she was impressively tall, hardly shorter than Stretch was, and he was a mini-skyscraper to most Humans. She looked up at him, her eyes a watery, pale blue, surrounded by a sea of wrinkles, how could he ever have imagined they were anything else?

Miss Maggie reached up to touch his cheekbone with fingers nearly as thin as his own.

“Oh, sweet child,” she said with mournful gentleness, and her voice was the smoky-sweet, grandmotherly one he recalled. “S’all right. Ain’t nothing wrong with setting aside a name you’ve outgrown, nor in taking on a new one.”

All his bright, burning anger collapsed inwardly, a card house with the center support removed, and hurt welled in him instead. He was crying, he realized distantly, tears stinging in his sockets, running down his cheekbones to gather on wetly his chin. He didn’t realize he was going to speak until he did, choking out, “it feels wrong.”

“How you feel and how things are don’t always match,” she agreed. She held out her arms, her gnarled hands open to him and Stretch leaned into them, burying his face in the soft, knitted shawl draped over her shoulder. She smelled like weed and lavender, a strange, exotic mixture. “i’ll get you all wet,” Stretch mumbled, muffled into the cloth.

She petted his skull gently, “It’s all right, child. I’ll dry.”

He held on tightly for a long time and when she finally drew back, she lightly touched his forehead with the tips of two dry fingers.

“You can get to his home through the forest,” she said, and it seemed to Stretch he could almost see it, clear as a picture someplace behind his sight. “Follow the exchange down about a mile, you’ll see a turnoff on the left. Don’t you stray from the path, you hear me, sonny?” Those pale, rheumy eyes searched his face for understanding. “Easy to get lost out there.”

“i won’t.”

“Good.” She let him go and shuffled back to her chair to picked up her knitting again. “Now, you mentioned something about a bike.”

For a moment, Stretch stood there, practically wobbling on his feet. He felt like he’d woken up from an unexpected nap, still floating in between the sleeping and waking worlds. Then he blinked, snapping awake, and looked around almost wildly. Until his gaze snagging on one of the shelves, or more specifically, something sitting on it, and held.

“a bike, i did.” Stretch walked over to the shelf where a bandana was sitting, a bright turkey-red plaid, and picked it up, holding it out for Miss Maggie to see. “how much for this, too?”

By the time he left the shop, he was in a fine mood despite his savings being a little lighter. He was pushing a rattly old bike with a squeaky chain and a horn that let loose with a hoarse ‘awhooga’ when the dusty rubber bulb was squeezed. The bandana was stuffed into his short’s pocket and the first thing he was gonna do was deal with that, then he’d worry about some maintenance. Probably better to find out if his new bike was streetworthy before taking his act on the road.

He used the walk back to the store to draw in a few deep, refreshing breaths of the heat-smoggy air, letting it clear his head.

“miss maggie sure smokes some strong shit,” Stretch muttered to himself. He left the bike leaning against the porch around back and headed over to the main road, taking his normal walking route down towards the corn. There were no kids on the makeshift baseball diamond today, looked like they’d headed off somewhere else to enjoy their penny candy.

The grass was yellowed and dying under his sneakers as he went off the beaten path, heading towards the rustling corn. Was it his imagination, or did those whispers get louder as he approached, even eager? The corn got lonely sometimes, Edgar Allen had said, but it didn’t mean any harm.

Somehow, he didn’t think the skeleton they’d found in the fields back in Doris’s day would agree.

“um, hi?” Stretch tried. There was no one around to see him and he still felt ridiculous, talking to the damn corn. “look, i dunno if you can understand me, but if you do, could you see that edgar allen gets this? i wanted to thank him for helping me out and i thought it’d look good on him.”

Carefully, he laid the bandana over a crux of green leaves and stalk, tugging to make sure it wouldn’t simply blow away. He left it there and turned back to town, hoping that the scarecrow got the message; as much as he wanted to thank the guy, he really didn’t feel like taking a second go in the corn maze to do it. He didn’t look back until he got back to the side of the road and there he paused, frowning. The splash of red should’ve been vivid against the sea of green but there was nothing, not so much as a glimpse.

He craned his neck, searching, but it hadn’t fallen to the ground and the wind wasn’t strong enough to carry it off. Maybe the corn had gotten the message after all? Yeah, he was going with that, and he headed back to take a look at his new bike, hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully, which was a heck of a trick for someone without lips.

Yeah, he felt pretty good today and why not? He had a place to stay, a job, someone looking after him, and a dog. And now he had a bike. Things were looking up, Stretch decided.

Things were looking up.

~~*~~

tbc

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 1/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: For @silver-colour

Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt "Creepypasta format story (like a found footage or witness statement kind of thing)" by silver-colour. It is a mild reworking of an older fanfic of mine, but that goes tongue in cheek with the ending of this story sort of. XD I would put this between Spooky Level 2 and 3, with 3 being "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." But there's only minor mentions of blood/body horror. But the whole undead thing is a trigger for some people and I lean into that imagery a bit. I wanted this to be a sort of leveled up Goosebumps tale. Tl;dr proceed with caution <3

Chapter 1

 I am going to die.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.

I have to keep repeating it because I have to come to grips with it.

I am going to die.

Not in sixty years.

More like sixty minutes.

Oh, Amanda. I am sorry.

If you ever hear this … I never meant for this to happen.

My name is Warlock Dowling and I am 34 years-old. Devoted son and husband, I’ve spent over a decade working towards achieving my dream of following in my father’s footsteps and entering politics one day.

It’s a dream I don’t think I’ll be seeing through to the end.

I am telling you this because after reading what I’ve just read … and hearing what I’ve just heard … I am not certain I’m going to make it through the night.

I broke the rules.

There were four. Only four. And I broke them.

I didn’t break them by accident. I absolutely did it on purpose. I’m not suicidal or anything, but you only live once - am I right?

For the record, I don’t regret a single thing.

…

That’s not entirely true.

I’ll regret dying before morning if that’s the way things play out.

Today happens to be October 31st - Halloween night. I’d been tasked with clearing out the attic above a cottage in The South Downs which once belonged to a pair of old family friends. Technically, they were ex-employees of my parents from back when I was young, but I thought of them as surrogates. They practically raised me, educated me, taught me everything I know about coping in this cruel, pathetic world.

I held them in the highest regard.

They were the only people in my life who treated me as if I could become more than what I had been born into, that fate had something else in store for me. Because of them, I met the best friends a boy could ever have.

I will forever be grateful for that.

Cleaning out this attic was the least I could do to repay them, but to be honest, I don’t know who summoned me here. I assumed it was the executor of their estate, but now I’m not so sure. Looking over the letter in my hands, there is no legible signature. And the gold embossed emblem at the top that I took for granted as belonging to some upscale legal firm is, on closer inspection, gibberish - a mess of fleur-de-lis underscored by Latin words that roughly translate to “the cows shall rise”.

Ludicrous, right?

How did I miss that?

But more ludicrous - and confusing - are the rules.

I had been given rules about cleaning this attic.

The first rule on the list was to touch only what I could see. Under no circumstances was I to open any of the boxes or chests.

So, naturally, I opened every single one.

The second rule was not to put anything on. Fine by me. The only clothes up here are old lady outfits and a pair of white satin shoes.

But …

There was an awesome vintage leather jacket hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner and … well … it had my name written all over it! I had to try it on, see if it fit.

And it does.

Rule number three - keep to my torch. Don’t light any candles.

Nuh-uh! It’s Halloween! And torches are lame. So on the candles went. Jeez, there are a lot of them. Enough to burn down the whole place if I’m not careful. It actually seems like they’ve multiplied since I’ve been up here.

I won’t lie - it’s unsettling.

But according to the list, rule number four is the most important:

Don’t read any books I find. And definitely not out loud.

The first thing I saw when I entered the attic was a stack of leather-bound books. I scoffed at the sight of them, piled up to my chin, right inside the entryway. Isn’t that a bit like putting a huge bowl of candy front and center on your dining room table in the middle of dinner with a huge sign saying, “Do not eat?” If the most important rule about going into the attic is, “Don’t read anything!” why not put all the books on a high shelf?

Or the moon?

I’m not a book lover. I read hundreds of pages a day for work. I definitely don’t do it for fun. So this shouldn’t have been a hard one for me to follow.

But they looked like diaries.

And diaries hold secrets.

That made them a different matter all together.

I couldn’t resist.

But once I opened the top one, I knew I’d made a mistake.

These weren’t just any diaries.

They were the diaries of my two friends - Aziraphale and Crowley.

There had always been something odd about those two. I didn’t believe for a second that they were a proper nanny or gardener, not even when I was a young, impressionable child. But they were funny - a distraction from the dull as dishwater life of an attache’s son.

Yes, I was a spoiled little rich kid with everything I could ever ask for handed to me and, on top of that, diplomatic immunity.

Woe was me.

I realize how much of a douche whining about that makes me sound.

My life was still dull.

I was still lonely.

I never knew for sure what happened to them after they left us. I made assumptions - erroneous assumptions. I thought they lived happily ever after at least.

Now I know … that wasn’t the case.

I’m recording this in the hopes that someone will find it, so that you might know the true story of what happened to them …

… and why you might not be hearing from me again.

***

The Diary of Aziraphale Fell - Reluctant Widower

January 14th-

“Please, sir,” the decrepit woman hissed, but not unkindly. She came about her speech impediment by a mixture of symptoms - her thick accent coupled with her indeterminable old age caused her to talk that way. “Please, reconsider this decision.”

I glared at her regardless. I knew my eyes were bloodshot; my hair a mass of tangled, wayward strands; my lips quivered from constant, unrelenting crying.

“You said you had it!” I screamed, bypassing her arguments. “You said you would sell it to me! Wh---why else would I come here!?”

“You need to understand,” the woman implored, opening her hands in a pleading gesture. She fixed me with one clear blue eye, the other eye clouded – a useless, milky white lump of tissue bulging inside its socket, “what you ask for … it is unnatural.”

“But your granddaughter said it was a done deal!” I persisted, shooting a steely glare at the simpering young woman who ducked behind her grandmother to hide from my volatile stare. I wasn’t about to leave without the item I came for. At this point, I was willing to tear the place apart and everything inside - including the two of them - to get it.

They must have sensed that.

Even as the woman continued to defy me, she looked slightly more afraid than she had a minute ago.

“My granddaughter is foolish!” The woman directed the comment over her shoulder to the girl cowering there. “But she means well. We need the money. She was thinking with her head and not her heart.”

“I can pay you twice what you’re asking!” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “Three times! I’ll give you whatever you want!”

The girl, intrigued by my proposal, peeked over her grandmother’s shoulder, but the woman turned and barked sharply at her in a language I could not understand.

That was when I began to think I might be in danger.

I’d spent my entire life studying languages, so hearing one I didn’t comprehend, not even an inch, sent a shiver down my spine.

“Mr. Fell …” The old woman reached out, I presumed to comfort me, and took my shaking hand in hers “… your husband is dead. And I am more sorry than I can ever express at your loss. You carry your love for him like a beacon. I see it in your eyes. It shines from every part of you. With him gone, it is up to you to carry it. It will never fade as long as you remember him.”

Those were, without a doubt, the kindest words anyone had said to me since my husband passed. I crumbled, new tears falling hot down my cheeks. But regardless of her sympathy, sincere though it might be, I refused to relent.

I refused!

“I don’t want to remember him!” I whimpered, my anger renewed at the sound of my voice fracturing. “I want him here with me! I need you to help me bring him back!”

The woman sighed in pity but shook her head.

“The effects of life are varied, Mr. Fell. Our fate … it changes every day, with every choice that we make. But the effects of death should remain permanent.”

I flinched at that word as if she’d struck me across the face.

Permanent.

Crowley dead … my husband gone … and nothing for me to look forward to in life but emptiness. We’d had every moment of our lives planned together.

One arsehole drunk driver later and now I was alone.

I literally had no one.

I had lost contact with my mum early in life, never knew my father, didn’t have children of my own. My boss and mentor was an abusive prick who tormented me throughout the span of my career until I found a way out from under his thumb.

Until Crowley helped me discover a life where I didn’t need the man’s guidance or control.

But now I was going to lose him!? The only one who had stuck by me, who defended me, loved me through thick and thin!?

No! That was beyond cruel! And I wasn’t going to roll over and accept it!

I let the sorrow within me curdle, turn sour as I yanked my hand out of the old woman’s grasp.

“Your granddaughter said there are other methods of getting what I want!” I snarled. “Dangerous methods. Methods that might require payment in sacrifice … even blood. And not necessarily my blood. Innocent blood, if you catch my meaning.”

Both women gasped.

Despite the conversation at hand, I smiled.

Good, I thought. We were finally all on the same page.

Up until a few days ago, I never considered violence to be the answer to anything. But I had since come to a crossroads where an exception had made itself clear.

I was prepared to annihilate my humanity to get my husband back.

The old woman snapped her head over her shoulder, scolding her granddaughter in a harsh, guttural voice. The girl, who had started to brave coming out of hiding, shrank down once again.

“Be reasonable,” the woman begged, “please, and think about what you are saying. What you are willing to do.”

“No,” I said, my calm more potent than my anger … or so my husband used to say. “The time for me being reasonable is over. I will get what I want, no matter what the cost. The question is whether or not you will be the one to give it to me.”

The woman looked down at her gnarled hands and sighed a long, exhausted sigh. “Alright, Mr. Fell. I will sell the potion to you at the promised price.”

I stared at her for a moment in shock. I was relieved, of course. I hadn’t thought I would get this far. It frightened me how much I had begun looking forward to throttling her with my bare hands, imagined her neck snapping within my grasp, effortlessly like a twig.

That couldn’t be me though. I wasn’t that kind of person. It was this place - this shop and all of its trinkets, their age and professed magical abilities amplifying my grief, turning every rational thought I had into rage.

I had to get out of here and fast before I did something I might regret.

I opened my wallet with the onset of happier tears and thumbed through the bills, pulling out extra for the joy of getting what I wanted. I handed the money over, but the woman refused to touch it. She waved it away, her granddaughter popping up long enough to grab the money and then scurry off again. The woman reached into the folds of her skirts and retrieved a leather pouch that hung from a thin belt around her waist. From it she fished out a tiny blue bottle with a cork stopper sealing the mouth. She gave it a long, troubled look, then handed it to me.

For the first time, her hand trembled.

“Pour the contents of this bottle into your husband’s mouth, Mr. Fell,” she instructed, “and your husband will return.”

I held the bottle up to the dim candlelight of the musty Soho shop. The blue glass glimmered, a thick liquid inside swaying back and forth, shimmering like sun-tossed sparkles across a dark, foreboding sea.

“There are some rules that go along with that potion,” the woman said, her voice weeding into my head, summoning me back from my momentary trance, “and a few warnings you must heed as well.”

I sighed. I had hoped it would be a simple matter of giving my husband the liquid and living happily ever after, but I knew in my heart that nothing was ever that simple.

“Okay,” I said, slipping the bottle carefully into my pocket and patting over it twice to ensure its safety. “Tell me. What are the rules?”

“First of all, you will give that to your husband, but what will come back …” she paused, swallowed hard “… will not entirely be your husband.”

I nodded. I had expected her to say something along those lines, like a scene straight from an old time-y horror movie.

The woman locked both eyes, one clear and one clouded, on my face as I waited for her to finish her speech, eager to go back home and get on with my life. She realized, with regret, that I had every intention of going through with this, and took on the heavy burden of allowing this to continue.

“Be there to look into his eyes when he wakes,” she said.

I hadn’t dreamed of leaving his side, but since the woman made such a point of it, I asked, “Why?”

“He is being reborn, in a sense. And like other simple-minded creatures, he will imprint on the first person he sees.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “That person needs to be you!”

My gulp was audible, the weight of her words and of my plan suddenly settling within me. They pressed in on me, like that moment when the police came to my door. Their words – “Mr. Fell? I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but … it’s about your husband …” had turned me inside out, left my heart out in the cold.

I felt that cold now.

“Once the potion absorbs into his tissues, it will restart his heart,” she continued. “Then the potion will replicate. It will begin to take the place of his blood. It will make him calm, easier for you to control.”

I nodded again. I wanted to say something, assure the woman that I understood, but she didn’t pause long enough for me to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered. I saw the trepidation in her one, clear eye. I had no clue what to say to make this better.

“It will be a slow process, and you must learn to be a patient man!” She raised her voice, letting go of one hand to waggle an emphatic finger in front of my face. “You will be teaching him, raising him as you would a child. Remember, even if only a small portion of his soul returns, that soul belongs to your husband, and you must love him or this will not work!”

The woman stepped back, out of breath from her outburst, and her granddaughter (whom I had forgotten about) returned, pushing forward an ornate but dusty antique chair to catch her in. I held the woman’s arms gently and helped her into it, feeling strangely protective. The woman sat and waved us both off, not wanting us to make a fuss when she still had more to say.

“But most importantly,” she labored on, barely missing a beat in her speech, “do not let him taste blood.” I knelt down so that she didn’t feel the need to yell for her words to reach me. “He cannot eat meat, but most of all, don’t let him bite you or lick your wounds. Or anyone else’s – human or animal.”

“Will … will I become a zombie? If he does bite me?”

I’m not quite sure why the word ‘zombie’ leapt to my mind. In every interaction I had had with the woman’s granddaughter before tonight, she had been so careful not to use that term. She used other, more romantic euphemisms such as ‘bring back to the land of the living’, ‘re-associate with life’, and the most used - ‘rebirth’. But that’s what he would be, right? When we moved past the flowery vernacular and got right down to it? This potion I had pocketed would turn my husband into the walking dead, - a simple-minded creature that was once deposed from this Earth.

And that meant ‘zombie’.

As if I had nothing more pressing at hand, I suddenly recalled the Walking Dead marathon Crowley had convinced me to watch (against my better judgement). Crowley thought the show was hilarious, but I could barely make it to the middle of the first season. I had started watching with my hands over my eyes, then with my arm locked around Crowley’s, anxiously smacking his shoulder, and finally with most of my body lying over his lap and my face buried in his shirt.

It wasn’t just the gore in the show that skewered me, made me nauseous, unable to breathe. It was the fear and the pain those characters felt, being chased by a relentless enemy that needed no rest, constantly running into people they couldn’t trust, people who were so out for themselves they no longer believed in the sanctity of life, with nowhere to hide, nowhere safe at all, even behind thick, concrete and metal walls.

Watching your loved ones get turned into soulless monsters - still there, but everything about them that you had once loved out of reach.

And this ‘illness’ or whatever these people had - it spared no one. Even children had become zombies. And in the game that was survival for the remaining uninfected, children had become pawns.

Everything about it seemed so horrendous.

And while I suffered through my existential crisis, Crowley laughed at my antics.

I fought not to smile at the sound of his teasing voice.

“Uh … a little squeamish there, are you, angel?”

Angel.

From the first day we met, that’s what he called me.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me that again!

The old woman chuckled, bringing me reluctantly back from my daydream. “No. Not in this case. That’s not the nature of this spell. No, blood will give him back his memories.”

I looked at the woman, bug-eyed, and shook my head. “I … I don’t …”

“It will ignite his brain. He will begin to feel. In many ways, he will become more the man you married than in any other.”

“Wha---?“ I stuttered, baffled as to how that could be a bad thing. If drinking blood could make Crowley more Crowley, I’d set up an IV drip the minute I got home! I would serve him cups of blood with every meal! I’d make donating blood a requirement for entrance into my bookshop! (That one would definitely kill two birds with one stone. In fact, I might consider doing that anyhow.) “And why wouldn’t I want that again?” I asked, trying not to sound like turning my husband into a blood-sipping fiend was the greatest idea in known history.

The old woman smiled, but it wasn’t fond. It was shrewd, as if she could read every one of my thoughts.

And she didn’t approve.

“Once he has his memories back, he will start to crave it. Soon, drinking blood won’t be enough for him. It won’t work as well. It won’t keep the memories as fresh. He will have to go further, do more. He will become a killer.”

My face must have gone as green as I felt because the woman laughed again, this time with a touch of wickedness. A killer? My Crowley? My sweet, kind, compassionate Crowley?

Okay, maybe I was going too far with the endearments. He’d been a bit of a bastard, after all. Which was why I could picture Crowley becoming a full-fledged bad boy. With that leather jacket he wore like a second skin and his gleaming classic car, he’d been well on his way.

But a killer? No.

Then again, I was willing to become one myself a second ago, so maybe I wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“You are playing with the laws of nature, Mr. Fell,” she said, patting me on the cheek. “You are responsible not only for your own life, but for the lives of those around you.” The woman leaned in close, those eyes – one alive, one dead - more menacing than when I had walked into the shop; her face no longer that of a frail old woman but of a powerful witch.

This time, it was my turn to feel afraid.

“So don’t fuck it up.”

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - Friends, Falls, and Close Calls

Notice from the RAF: This letter has been scanned and sensitive information has been removed for the safety of our nation.

Mum and Dad,

The British, Americans, and Canadians are planning an offensive for next spring, and training has already started. After four years of war, it’s about time we start to actually push back. A few towns in the south of England have been evacuated for us to stay and I feel badly sleeping in someone else’s bed while they are forced out of their homes. However, I must admit that it’s much more comfortable than the bunks on base. Charlie and I have met a few American soldiers here as they came over for training too. Their officers feel much more intimidating, but I suppose that’s how the work gets done. After four years it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with harsh orders and demands. Charlie and I are still flying our same plane and it’s nice to have that consistency. Not that it’s a terribly big deal to keep flying the same plane but it makes us feel like better pilots!

Anyway, I have to go. We have a drill in a few minutes and they wait for no one! I love you both lots.

Your son,

Richie

April 30, 1925

“Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr- good weather for a flight today.”

“Very good weather, Pilot Charlie.”

The boys were in the Besson’s front lawn in the spring afternoon with their toy planes in hand, running around with them held up to recreate their path of flying. They were mimicking the sounds of engines with their lips as they ran in circles around the perimeter of the yard. At seven-years-old, pretending to be pilots was their way to escape their little hometown and let their imaginations truly soar. It was their favourite little game.

They tried to speak over each other as they dialogued back and forth, making up a story as to where they were flying and why. The adults sat on the front porch with their tea, talking amongst themselves while the kids played, unphased by the boys’ shouting and little engine noises as they ran in circles together.

However, the two seven-year-olds weren’t terribly coordinated or good at looking where they were going and they ended up running right into each other in the middle of the yard, smacking together hard and both toppling backwards onto the grass. The impact stunned them into silence and they stared at each other with wide eyes, Charlie’s only going wider as he saw the blood trickling down his best friend’s chin.

Neither of them spoke for a moment and Richie finally lifted his hand to his mouth, finding his front tooth knocked out and his gum bleeding down his lips and chin. The boys just stared at each other, unmoving, their seven-year-old brains too in shock to even know what the heck to do next.

“Are you boys alright?” Corbyn asked from the porch as the four adults looked over at their sudden silence.

The boys turned to their parents with wide eyes, Richie’s blood dripping onto his shirt and the adults gasped at the state of him.

“Richard!” Christine gasped and jumped up to tend to her injured son.

Richard only broke into a grin and shrieked with laughter, “That was so cool!”

Christine stopped at the edge of the porch as the boys literally rolled on the grass in fits of laughter, obviously unhurt by their crash. Corbyn stood beside his wife as they watched their son wipe his chin with his shirt before turning to the grass to look for his missing tooth. When he found it, he jumped up and ran over to his parents, holding it up to them.

“Look! My tooth fell out!”

“I think your best friend knocked it out.” Corbyn laughed, holding out his hand to take the tooth from Richie.

“I’m sorry.” Charlie mumbled from a few feet back.

“Accidents happen. It was going to come out eventually.” Corbyn assured him.

Charlie nodded and shuffled up the porch to his mother’s outstretched hand, a small pout on his lips while Richie was taken inside to clean himself up and get a new shirt. Elizabeth pulled Charlie onto her lap and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he leaned back against her and Daniel passed their son a little tea biscuit from the table. Charlie smiled softly at his father and munched the treat gladly as he waited for his friend to return.

Moments later, the front door burst open and Richie came running about outside in clean clothes and a washed face and jumped down the front steps of the porch, “Come on, Charlie!”

May 20, 1943

“Come on, Charlie! Pull up!” Richard shouted from behind him.

The empty bullets flying around them only rose their anxieties as Charlie tugged hard on the joystick, but the plane wasn’t responding.

“It won’t fucking budge!” Charlie swore loudly, slamming his hand down against the dashboard as if it would help. “Piece of shit fucking plane, go up.”

“Well bloody well do something! They’re coming up behind us!” Richie ordered, panic apparent in his voice.

They chose a sharp dive instead, ducking out of the way of the next round of empty shells. Eleven thousand metres above the earth and under training fire from their officers and their controls were malfunctioning. They could only thank God it wasn’t real enemy fire or they would be done for.

Even still, the skies were filled with other RAF pilots deep in their training for dogfights that were to be expected once Operation Overlord was sent into action the following year. There was a lot of be done. Training was pushing them harder than normal and running drills in the dead of night to keep them on high alert at all times. It seemed the lack of sleep had caught up to Charlie and he had forgotten about the routine check of the plane that morning, missing the obvious malfunction in the wing.

To say he was panicking was an understatement and his anxieties only made Richie worse too, the two of them struggling to dodge their officers’ training fire by weak seconds. They were honestly yelling at each other in the cockpit, speaking over each other and arguing over directions and orders and the fact that no matter what they did they couldn’t go up.

“Did you not check the wings, Charles?” Richard shouted angrily.

“No! I forgot! We were in a rush! We were already late because you-”

“I didn’t do shit! It’s your job to check the plane before training! Fuck! What the hell do we do now, huh?! We’re going to crash and it’s going to be all your fault!”

“Stop fucking screaming at me for a second!” Charlie yelled. “Let me think!”

Richard grumbled unpleasantries under his breath as he glanced around them to make them aware of their officers’ ‘enemy’ planes in relation to their location. A flick caught his eye and he turned to the left to see a small flame sparking on their wing.

“Oh…shit. Charlie, we’re on fire. We’re on fucking fire, mate!” Richard said quickly, literally reaching forward to tap his best friend’s shoulder.

Charlie looked out the left side window and his eyes went wide as the small spark easily caught into a larger flame, “Christ. Okay. We gotta fucking land, right now.”

Charlie flicked a few switches on the dashboard, and they pushed down into a dive. The wind whipping past them only seemed to make the fire larger and Charlie turned on their radio to alert their squadron of their emergency landing as they made their way back towards the training base. Richard watched with wide eyes as scraps of metal flicked off the plane as the fire was eating them bit by bit.

“Oh God.” Richard whimpered, looking down to the dashboard in front of him to check their location. His eyes caught on the photographed painting of Saturn taped to the side of the display and he bit hard at his bottom lip, “Come on. Come on. Come on.”

“I see the base. Unbuckle, Richie. We’re gonna have to run. This thing’s gonna fucking explode.” Charlie said, keeping one hand on the dash to steer while his other unclipped the straps keeping him in as well as his large parachute in order to get an easy exit.

The plane was nearly shuttering and the cockpit was getting hot as the fire grew bigger and they were almost sure the wheels were about to snap off with how hard they hit the field beside the town they were training in.

“Pull back!” Charlie shouted loudly and both of them yanked hard on the controls to screech the plane to a stop.

The moment they were still, they clamoured out of the cockpit – Richie nearly falling right off the opposite wing as he jumped out and made a run for the town to get as far away from the plane as possible. Charlie stopped and turned back.

“Charles! Get the fuck out of there!” Richie screamed after him as he watched his best friend run back to the plane. “Are you mad?!”

Charlie held his hand over his mouth behind the smell of burning gas as he reached into the cockpit and snatched the photograph of him and his father from where it was taped to the dash. He then ran after Richard, toppling right into him with a startle as the plane exploded seconds later into a huge burst of flames. The two best friends hit the ground together, hands over their heads in fear they were still too close but after a moment they looked up to their safety. A few crew men were rushing over to tend to the destroyed plane as it sat in the middle of the field and burned black smoke high into the bright blue sky.

Charlie rolled over onto his back, panting, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Richard followed, giving his friend a hard shove to the shoulder.

“Bastard. We could have fucking died…and not even honourably: in training, for Christ’s sake.”

Charlie let out a deep exhale and held his face in his hands for a moment, the sweat dripping from his hairline making a trail down his cheek and across his jaw, and he took a few breaths before looking down at the photograph he ran back for. He held it to his chest and looked up to the sky through his breathlessness. “I’m sorry, Richie. I should have checked the plane. I’m a fucking fool.”

Richard sighed and tucked his knees up towards his chest as they watched their plane burn, “Nah, you’re not. Accidents happen.”

Charlie sniffled and nodded lightly, glancing back down at the picture in his hand, “I didn’t grab your photograph.”

“That’s alright.” Richie assured him. “Real thing’s hanging in my bedroom back home anyway. One more second over there and they’d be pulling you out of that mess of flames.”

Charlie didn’t answer, just stared down at his picture.

“You didn’t grab any of Mary’s things.” Richard noted.

Charlie sniffled and shrugged, “This was the only thing I could even think of, truthfully.”

Richard smiled at his best friend and they looked back to their plane. There was a moment of silence as they sat on the grass together.

Richie spoke up first casually, “What was that Mary said about this being a ‘lucky plane’?”

Charlie cracked a small smile at his best friend’s teasing joke and nudged him playfully with his elbow. Richard draped his arm around him and they leaned together quietly, watching their once beloved plane destroy itself into flames. 

Taglist: @randomlimelightxxx​ @hopinglimelight​ @hiya-its-amber​ @chanelwonders​

[imlostinsantacarla]

How do the gang (individually) react to a SO who's affectionate and supportive

heya hun! i’m so glad you’ve requested this, it was fun to write. i added tim and curly too bc they deserve some love also. i hope that you like what i came up with! - admin kat 🌙❣

HOW THE GANG REACT TO HAVING A S/O WHO’S AFFECTIONATE AND SUPPORTIVE:

Darry: doesn’t always seem like it but he doesn’t ever take your affection and support for granted, although he may come across as cold. he’s a tad bit overwhelmed when he comes home and you plaster yourself to him like glue, he can even appear irritated but he knows that you’re just showing you love him in the only way you know best. he just wishes that you’d give him a minute to get through the door and shower first before you latch onto him. nevertheless, darry is genuinely over the moon when you support him, his brothers and the gang. his hearts wells up like the grinch when he finds the meaning of christmas! it’s in the little things like when you patch steve and soda up after they’ve gotten into a fight with soc’s. helping ponyboy and johnnycake study on the living room floor. talking dal out of some real dumb shit. even by sitting at the kitchen table with him and sifting through all the bills. he turns into the biggest sucker ever when you do this stuff. all the little things you do never get’s overlooked by him. it definitely helps ease his stress knowing that his partner supports him no matter what.

Sodapop: genuinely loves you even more for both of these endearing qualities, if that’s even logically possible??? he loves that your affection and attention is on him 25/7 and when you give it to him... boii is like !!!!!!!!!!!!!! he just knows you love him so much and he’s so excited by it. your support really reinforces it all the more if i’m honest. soda actually balled once about you supporting him bc he opened up to you about a dream of his which was to open up an auto repair shop with steve and you were like “cool stuff man let’s do this!”. and he was believing you’d knock his head in like dar would, but he just was star struck with you. steve had to calm his ass tf down bc soda’s a gREASER AND GREASERS DON’T CRY IDK WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!!! but yeah, he thinks he’s so dumb and stuff, but to have you support him and lift him up makes him unbelievably happy. 11/10 a happy boiii.

Ponyboy: totally gets all blushy when you get affectionate with him in front of others (namely the gang) bc they tease tf out of him. those boys never let him live shit down like that. it only makes you pinch his cheeks and wiggle his face in your hands and that’s when two-bit can’t stop laughing and has to tell the others. he’s a bit sour afterwards but there’s no hard feelings. boii is  s o f t  as hell for you and loves your affection and support. you never fail to brighten his day tbh. he wants your attention on him 25/8 like soda and becomes a pouty baby when you don’t give him it. and your support? *chef kiss* makes his whole world better bc despite the fact he’s not tough and all, but more sensitive, you’re there for him through it all. did i mention he get’s butterflies and his heart gallops- pls don’t shoot me it had to be said!

Steve: loves it even when he says he hates it. steve loves your hugs, kisses, the way you play with his hair when you cuddle, you name it. just not when the guys are around. gotta keep up the greaser image *finger guns*. you tend to show up at his work with lunch and he’s got complete heart eyes bc you’re all over him. there’s no way in hell soda lets him live that ish down lmaoo. you support him more emotionally and mentally though, which he’s so grateful for because things with his old man can get pretty bad at times and he needs someone like you to bring his big butt down to earth when he’s all high on anger and frustration. like, he’s super hurt when it comes to his dad, so he’ll be ranting and raving up a storm and you’re listening but bleary eyed bc he woke your ass up as 3 in the gODDAMN MORNING and he’s talking about how his life is so shit and you come out with “well i’m not going anywhere but if you don’t get into my bed and let me sleep i’m gonna beat your ass with my pillow”. he’s stunned? bc first of all, you’re a freaking pip squeak compared to him who can’t even hurt a fly, but there’s another part of him that’s taken aback bc you’ve literally opened up your world and door to him for anytime. would 10/10 recommend this joyful boi.

Two-bit: honestly, can’t seem to get enough of you, particularly your affection, but namely your support. it’s kinda a tie can’t you see?? he’s not even annoyed or abashed when you go heavy on the affection, even in front of the guys, if anything, he’s gloating about it and hanging off of you just as much, if not more! if anyone teases you guys or makes a comment he’s got some snazzy comeback, two’s riddled with them. i swear they fall from his mouth like casual small talk. kinda starts fist fights with steve a lot when he does bc our stevie-boi is a bit sensitive. he literally somehow falls in love with you even more bc you’re supporting him positively to cut down on his drinking, get on with his school work a little more, etc. like how can he possibly deserve this literal angel that is you? he probably cries when you’re not looking. i’m not even kidding. probs just bursts into tears and pony and johnny are like you ok mannn???

Johnny: blushes the most out of everyone when you give him affection, especially when anyone’s around. he’s such a happy smol bean and he just loves you with his whole heart and universe like omg! your support means the world to him, he’d cry and be so messed up without you. but you still make him cry nonetheless. but they’re happy tears, i promise!! like he’s so astounded bc you let him stay at your’s bc your parent’s understand the situation and let him come round whenever he wants. you make sure he’s well fed and get’s a good amount of sleep in a place that’s not the lot? you complete him. you make him see that he’s more than just some kid with a bad home in a bad neighborhood... he can be anything and anyone as long as you’re by his side. the little butterflies he get’s when he sees you- !!!

Dallas: not so happy about the affection part in front of others (unless he’s jealous and wants to prove to everyone you’re his) just bc it’s uncomfy for him and he ain’t used to it. but that’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy having you all over him! bc if it was up to him he’d have you all over him every second of every day if he could. ;) in private though he’ll gripe about how mushy you are, reluctantly leaning into your embrace or letting you kiss him. like you’ll want to cuddle or hold his hand and he’ll eventually relent, muttering about broads and stuff. he only makes it seem like he hates it but he actually loves it to pieces. and when you play with his hair??? mmmmmmmm boi is putty in your hands. but seriously, your support means a lot to dal, it shows that you’re loyal to him and if you’re loyal to him he’s loyal to you. like the way you show up at the cooler to visit him brings such a huge smile to his face. no broads done that for him before. treat dally with care bc this boii is sensitive. 12/10 a happy duck.

Tim: kinda iffy about the affection. he’s a tough son of a gun and can’t have everyone knowing he’s got a partner that hangs onto him like a fly does to honey. he loves it though, really, especially when people are looking at you in interest, it serves a purpose then. he’s also in love with when you do it to freak out curly. it honestly made him cry of laughter once bc curly was about to yack in a garbage can. fun times man... fun times. anyway... your support is super wonderful for him. you visit him in the cooler a lot when he goes in, which he didn’t expect bc most people he’s dated never did that or were too mad to even show up. but here you are. you also take care of curly and angela like your own, opening up your door to them and him. he’s got a soft spot for you okay? it’s especially so bc his home life is so bad with his step dad and mum chucking things left right and center, then everyone else joining on in. it’s a tiring place. if he looks back... he doesn’t know how in the hell he survived without you before you came along and wouldn’t know how to go on without you by his side to help. but tell no one that okay?  s o f t  b o i  v i b e s 

Curly: mad happy like. until someone fucking mentions it that is. then he’s all talk and trying to get you off him. you roll your eyes bc curly’s really more talk than action and most people know it. but nevertheless, he wants everyone to know you’re his so loves it when you hang onto him like a vice. he’s not really had much affection in his life, so it’s new but he can’t seem to get enough of it. deffo a happy puppy when he gets the affection and attention. and curly’s not all that smart either, but having your support helps him to see that he just see’s things differently from other people and that school isn’t everything. and that’s okay tbh. however, you don’t support his bad behavior but you also know that you can’t change him unless he wants to change himself. he’s only just starting to get these boundaries, just give him a chance. loves your cuddles bc he can fall asleep and he always has a tough time falling asleep bc he doesn’t feel like he can trust anyone other than his brother and sister. and now he’s got you. thank god! literally the sweetest chick ever

If you enjoyed this please heart, reblog and follow for more. 🌙❣

[stuffwedoistotallynotillegal]

A Different Kind; Norman Bates x Male!Reader

Could you please do a Norman Bates x male!reader where the reader doesn’t think that Norman would ever like him because he’s a guy? (Reader is also unaware of Norman’s blackouts, like the half of the town that got straight up murdered)

Warnings: repressed sexuality, homophobia/biphobia, slurs, bullying, profanity, sex, mention of sexual assault/harassment, some minor OC characters for plot

Author/ A/N: this has a long build up, and is kind of bad and angsty until it isn't (and by 'bad' I mean most of the trigger warnings are in the beginning.), in fact, if you are interest in reading this, but don't want to read the parts with all the traditionally bad triggers mentioned, then under the asterisks is the fluffy love stuff. This might be the longest thing I've ever written.

It started when you were young, the toxic air around anything other than heterosexuality. You remember the kids on the playground yelling the godforsaken word at you. The 'g' word. No rhyme, no reason. You didn't understand what it meant until the summer you were fourteen, when you were sitting in the backyard at Jacob Smith's birthday party. By then most kids didn't care what sexuality anyone was, but there were still kids who felt the opposite. You had sheepishly asked what it meant when the discussion was on former president of the mid-1800's James Buchanan's potential homosexuality. It was an odd topic, but somehow that's how the conversation had flowed naturally.

You sat quietly in thought, knowing deep down you had some sort of attraction to boys. Or at least, you weren't repulsed by the thought of kissing one, or marrying one, or... more.

The next school year brought you into the cold grips of highschool, where you found yourself on new, unfamiliar ground. Second semester of freshmen year was your first experience with another boy at a senior's house party. The senior was a Saint of a girl, a cheerleader with the popularity of a popstar, but heart of an elderly neighbor who bakes all the kids on the block cookies.

You had been in the backyard with a sophomore named Connor O'Reilly. The conversation had been fairly deep, you were comfortable talking to him. As you sat in the cool, crisp spring air you dared to look at Connor through the dark. His eyes were on you, and before you knew it you were both leaning in until your lips touched.

Just as you were getting further into the kiss the door slammed open. Out walked the Varsity Quarterback, only a junior. He yelled inside to his friends, then at you and Connor. That was the first time ever being called the 'f' word.

Connor, who happened to live just down the street, bolted, leaving you to deal with the football players on your own. However, the was no way Steph, the cheerleader, would allow one of her freshman babies to deal with the football team on their own. After being ripped a new one by Steph, the jocks shuffled back inside with tails between their legs and blushes stained on their necks and cheeks. You cried in Steph's room the rest of the night.

The next day you were pushed around, but only in places your couldn't be protected. In the lockeroom you were spanked and whipped with damp towels, and one of the seniors made another freshman steal your underwear. The message was clear, so, like any logical kid with nowhere else to turn, you repressed your sexuality.

It didn't stop the abuse.

That summer was one of the best you've ever had. Your family went across the country to visit family, there you met many people like you, forming a few causal relationships. The first time you truly let yourself free, and god it felt great. And when you got back to school you stopped caring. Their words didn't matter to you, didn't cut like they had. You started seeing things for how they were, and how surprising to find that many of you oppressors were people repressing their own issues: sexuality, emotions, homelife. You started responding to their hate with love, and it worked. It worked well on the Quarterback, too.

His name was Mark Thatcher and it was one of his friend's parties where you saw him across the room. Summer had treated him well for his final year in highschool. Earlier in the week he had shoved you into the locker, yelling in your face. You had just muttered back a quiet, calm "It's ok, you'll be ok." He had blinked at you before letting you go and walking away, glancing back once before turning the corner.

He looked good leaned up against the wall, chatting with the coach's son. Mark shifted his eyes around the room before meeting yours and quickly looking to the side. Nearly half an hour later you had walked out of the bathroom and straight into a muscular arm. Mark had stopped you.

"So," he paused "are we doing this or not?"

You looked at him before pulling his face to yours, you let him push you up against the wall and deepen the kiss. It wasn't long before he lead you both into a bedroom. It started off desperate and hot and quick, but as it went on something deep within Mark broke and his actions got rougher. He was muttering slurs that were more self-directed, and you were telling him to stop. You felt tears hit the skin on your back and you pushed him off. He stepped off of the bed and backed himself up against the wall, head in hands and breath erratic as he slid down onto the floor. He was shaky as he sat on the floor and cried.

You got off the bed and walked to him, offering your hand to hold. He pushed you away, not in anger or disgust, but in pain. Pain with himself. You got up and cleaned yourself off, before getting dressed. By the time you were done Mark had calmed down and you helped him clean up and get his clothes on. You offered to let him walk out first and he just shook his head, grabbing your arm and pulling you out of the room. He didn't walk back to the crowd with you though.

The next school day there was a rose taped to your locker with a note reading 'I'm sorry". You never hung out with Mark again, and he never bothered you for the rest of high school.

After that senior class had graduated everything began to run smoothly, you had made new friends, paved new roads for the other kids who were different.

It was an overcast day as you walked down the sidewalk in front a couple shops, ducking your head down as your thoughts swirl through. You glance up to catch eyes looking at you.

After realizing it was Norman, you look back down and tense up, trying to ignore the feeling of your stomach twisting and fluttering with butterflies. You keep walking, not letting your head think too much on how his lips curved upwards when you met his eyes. You continue on your way. 

There’s no need in longing for something that will never happen. 

The next day is when you quite literally run into him. Norman steadied you with a small grin. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” he chuckled. 

“Oh, no!” you interject “I wasn’t either, its just as much my fault.” 

Norman’s smile only grew, “I guess both of our minds are elsewhere, huh?” 

You look down and lick your bottom lip, “I guess.” 

“Nothing wrong with that.” you hear him say, voice soft. 

You bit your lip and look up at him, shaking your head, cheeks pink. “Absolutely not.” 

Norman nodded and stepped to the side, releasing his delicate grip on your arms. You moved on, telling him to have a nice day. He wished you the same. 

You saw him a week later while he sat on a bench at a park just a town over. 

After a day of following Steph around while she was back from University, you finally ended up on a swing with her on another while she talked about her life in higher education. 

“And I just don’t understand how he could think we’re the issue when the entire class is doing poorly! You know? Like, I understand you’re considered an expert in your field, Dr. Smith, but no one else in your class is, so maybe you should consider teaching us better.” Steph ranted on as you looked across the landscape to find Norman’s nose tucked in a book. 

“Anyway, I’m just ranting, I’m so frustrated! I’m sorry, how are you, Y/n?” Steph’s empathetic voice moved your eyes back to her as she lightly swing back and forth. 

You feet were planted under you as you swayed left and right. You nodded to the bench across the way. 

“That’s the guy I was telling you about.” 

Steph’s head shot to the direction, hair whipping in her face. 

“Oh?” her eyes darted to find a person before landing right on Norman, “Oh.”

She slowed her swinging to a stop and stared for a moment, “Okay, I see.” 

You snorted, “What does that mean, Steph?” 

“I mean he’s cute! I understand why you like him.” 

“Yeah, right? It’ll probably never happen, though.” you sigh, kicking a rock to the side. 

“Um? Why not?” Steph had her eyebrows raised as she looked at you.

“I don’t think he like guys.” you shrug. 

Steph stared at you a moment, slack-jawed before laughing. “Dude, he’s literally been sneaking looks at you since we got here. He definitely like you, at least.” 

“Wishful thinking, but thanks.” 

“Are you joking?” Steph reached over and pushed you. “Who wouldn’t? You’re fucking hot!” 

You leaned forward, giggling as Steph nearly lost her balance and fell out of the swing. 

“I’m serious, Y/n! Anyone would be lucky to be with you; you’re a catch.” She said it like it was a straight fact. 

“I miss you, Steph, why’d you have to leave me here? My ego misses you even more!” you jape. 

Steph rolled her eyes and stood up, walking toward Norman. 

“Steph, where are you going!” 

“To the car, loser. Luckily, you’ll have to pass the love of your life to get there.” she walked away cackling. 

You were able to get back to the car with little issue. In fact, you managed to have a brief, pleasant conversation with Norman along the way. Steph couldn’t stop giggling the entire way back, muttering smug “he likes you”‘s to you throughout the whole ride. You just rolled your eyes until you got home. 

Weeks had passed since then and Steph was gone again, but you had managed to have many more pleasant--and not so brief--interactions with Norman in those weeks. You were finally in a place where your face wouldn’t get too red from the interactions. It was fantastic. 

Then the day that changed it all happened. The day Norman asked you out. On a date.

You had nearly spit out your drink when he did it, looking over to him with wide eyes.

“Why?” you asked.

Norman’s brow furrowed, “Because I like you. And I thought that maybe you might like me?” He opened his mouth to speak again, but you beat him.

“I do! And I will! Go out with you, I mean.” You look over to Norman and saw his wide grin, brow still furrowed.

“I just,” you pause a moment before continuing “I didn’t think you, you know. I didn’t think you liked men like that.”

Norman moved closer to you, “Well, I like you, Y/n.”

You looked back to him, eyes drifting about his face before smiling back and speaking.

“Okay. So, what are we going to do on our date?”

[asht0ns-world]

Penalty Shots (a.i.) part 2

It’s me again. Back with part 2. This is basically 3.7k of pure yearning so like … you’re welcome. Please let me know what you think, so I know that you guys enjoy it and I’ll keep writing more for it. I really enjoyed writing this part tbh, I could’ve gone on forever lmao.

word count: 3734

Part 1

It’s game day. Ashton is on his way to the stadium with Calum. He’s ranting on about something unimportant, so Ashton doesn’t feel bad for zoning out for the whole car ride there. They get to the parking lot and Ashton immediately searches to see if your car is there before Calum even parks the car, his heart skips a beat when he sees it standing there near the entrance. Calum sees him staring at it “Ash have you actually talked to her about what happened yet?” “I tried to man, but she won’t exactly talk to me privately. What if I fucked all this up for real now?” he says rubbing his neck with his hand. Cal shrugs “I don’t know man, you’ve been friends for a long time, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just talk to her”.They get out of the car “Yeah, friends and now I’m fucking it up by being in fucking love with her and making it weird” Ashton replies harshly. Cal takes a step back and raises his hands in joke defeat “woah no need to attack me ok, I’m telling you, talk to her, tell her how you’re feeling. There’s a really good chance she feels the same way about you, you two have been dancing around this topic for so long now. But you’ll never know if you don’t fucking talk to her”. And with that the conversation is over and they get their bags out of the trunk of Cal’s car and head towards the entrance.

You promised yourself you’d stay strong a whole week and not contact Ashton, but being in the same tight knit circle doesn’t really make that easy and you ended up seeing him three times over the last week. You went out to a bar together with your other friends two days ago and there he was, looking gorgeous as ever with his dumb effortlessly gorgeous hair, and smile and just general aura. You hate him. But you love him. You avoided being alone with him, and having to actually confront your feelings about him and the whole situation. At this point you do feel like you’re making a way bigger deal out of it than it needs to be, because let’s be real all he actually did is beat someone up. But then again, he shouldn’t walk around beating people up just because he’s jealous, even if it is kinda hot. It’s just all so messed up. Why can’t you just have crushes on people that are easy to date. Ashton has been one of your best friends for years now, and you feel so comfortable around him but you also know that you can’t break your rule of not dating within the friend group. It ended badly last time, you lost people you loved a lot and it just fucked you up for a long time. But Ashton was one of the reasons why you started feeling better sooner than you expected. Still, it just can’t happen again. And then Ashton’s image pops back up in your mind, and the way he looks at you when he thinks you can’t see, and the way he gets around you, and the way he treats you, and the way everything is just easy with him. And with that you question your stupid rule, because Ashton makes you question everything, he does that and you don’t know if you love or hate it. He makes your head spin, makes you want to be with him every second of every day, makes you feel warm & fuzzy inside, makes you want to say fuck it to your rules and just run up to him and kiss him with all the pent up emotion from the last couple of weeks. But you can’t. But you also ended up here, at his game the week after the incident, you’re not even surprised. You’re standing near the entrance waiting for him to arrive, with Calum no doubt since his car is being fixed at the moment. You’ve been waiting for about ten minutes when you see Calum’s car pull into the parking lot and your heart immediately starts to race. You panic and go inside the building, but turn around after the door closes behind you what are you doing? and head back outside. You start to nervously pace back and forth biting your nails. “Why the fuck am I so nervous” you whisper to yourself, annoyed at your heart racing and your stomach turning just at the thought of seeing Ashton again. “Calm down” you say again, trying to calm your breathing. And then you see the two guys get out of Calum’s car and you contemplate going over there to greet them, but decide against it and just awkwardly stand there with one leg in front of the other, hiding your hands in your coat pockets to try and occupy them in some way as to not seem even more awkward than you already must be. Calum and Ashton head towards you, and you know Ashton saw you when he looks up and comes to a halt making Calum basically run into him. You hear a muffled “Dude!” from Calum. He also looks up and sees you, but instead of just stopping like Ashton he actually waves and keeps walking towards you, turning around to give Ashton a head shake. “Hey there stranger, missed you at practice the other day” he says while hugging you tightly. “Didn’t feel like getting up from the couch to be honest” you chuckled, now looking back to Ashton, who has apparently regained his composure, and see him slowly make his way towards you. You scream at yourself to not make it weird, and try to act as naturally as possible. Ashton is now standing in front of you, and the two of you just kind of stare at each other in silence. Calum clears his throat and starts heading towards the building but not before turning towards the two of you and saying “figure it out, I’m tired of being the middle man and you guys making it awkward to go out drinking together”, leaving you and Ashton alone, in silence, even more awkward than before. “Hey, how are you doing?” Ashton asks carefully. You know he thinks you’re still pissed about what happened last time, and you are, but also you’re not because you can’t be mad at him, which isn’t a good sign. You don’t even know yourself, but you can’t just say that to him, because it’s not fair and you haven’t had time to think about your feelings for him. You so badly just want to hug him tightly, and then look him in the eyes and say “you’re an idiot” and just kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. “I’m fine, what about you? You nervous for the game?”, you internally slap yourself for sounding so stiff. He’s your best friend, stop making it so weird.

Ashton tries to stop himself from showing her how sad he actually is on his face, but it’s hard to hide it, especially when he can sense that you’re acting different than usual towards him. He knows it’s his fault, and he knows he shouldn’t have done what he did, but fucking Caleb just pissed him off so much. “Listen, I’m sorry for what happened ok, I know beating him up was not the answer but I just got so jea..- mad at him.” he hastily says, adjusting his bag strap and shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He wanted to add that Caleb is an asshole that didn’t deserve you because you’re so much better than him and he wished it was him you ran to after games to kiss, but it wasn’t and it won’t be. He carefully looks at you, to see your reaction. You contemplate what to say, which is throwing him off. But before you get a chance to reply you’re interrupted by the rest of Ashton’s team arriving rather loudly and pulling him away from you “you can make-out with your girlfriend later Irwin” Spencer, one of Ashton’s teammates, says rather loudly, which makes you blush uncontrollably and Ashton just ducks away and storms inside. 

Ashton gets inside to the dressing room and gives Spencer a wordless shove and a glare while walking to one of the lockers and get ready for the game. “Hey, it’s not my fault you don’t have the balls to just fucking kiss her. If you don’t hurry someone else will, you do know that Irwin?” Spencer says while leaning against the locker next to Ashton. Calum pulls him away “fuck you Spencer” and turns towards Ashton to try and calm him down, he doesn’t want a repeat of last weeks game but with his own teammates. Ashton quickly gets dressed, and ignores Calum’s questioning glances. Before he leaves the dressing room to go get warmed up on the ice he says “Don’t worry Cal, I won’t do anything stupid, not when I know she’s watching. I don’t wanna fuck it up even more than I already have. So please stop looking at me like that, it’s annoying and your face looks weird like that”. And with that he leaves Calum standing there perplexed and leaves. 

You’re walking around the outside ring of the ice rink, to the makeshift food and coffee stands set up by volunteers every game. You greet several of the regulars, while getting a coffee and talking about the upcoming game. “You didn’t come to watch practice this week?” Gabe’s mom asks you while handing you your coffee. You nearly drop it, but catch yourself and play it off as the cup being too hot “uhm.. Yeah. I had some … work to do and Jake was using my car. Why? Did uh something happen?” you come up with a random lie on the spot. “No, not really. Coach had them run more one-man disadvantage plays than usual though, so I’m guessing they’re expecting Ashton to still be carelessly aggressive during this game. He really needs to control his temper more. We were lucky that Glendale isn’t as strong as our boys, but next time we might not be as lucky. Even though I don’t like to admit it, Ashton is one of our best shooters, so him being reckless doesn’t do anyone any favors”. You had to quickly take a sip from your coffee to stop yourself from saying something stupid to her about her choice of tone when talking about Ashton, because you know she’s right. Ashton was being a dick. He gave the opposing team unnecessary advantages because of the fouls he kept playing. Still, she shouldn’t talk about him that way, especially when her son does literally nothing to add to the team’s ability to win. And it’s not like Ashton is the only one getting penalties, it’s still hockey, it’s still an aggressive game. Everyone does stupid shit, she shouldn’t put it all on Ashton, just because he started a fight. But you hold your tongue and refrain from punching her and bid her farewell. You tell yourself to not get too heated about the fact that probably half the people here to watch are pissed at Ashton, you are supposed to be pissed as well. You are. Are you? Yes you are. Just for different reasons, and more complicated. And you’re also in love with him, so does that really count? You don’t know. You can’t think about this right now. You head to your usual seat and grab your phone from your purse to text Jake and ask when he plans to arrive because you don’t want to have to talk to another parent that asks stupid questions. You instinctively look up when you sense the guys walking onto the ice. And you spot Ashton skating across to the team bench with his helmet and chest protector still in his hand, and you can’t help but admire him. He looks so good in his gear. So effortlessly cool skating across the ice, stopping before the barricade, throwing his stuff over it and hopping onto it to open the door from the other side. Ugh, you need to get yourself together or you’re gonna end up drooling on the floor. Ash looks up towards you while he’s still sat on the barricade and gives you a smirk. He knows you love the way he looks in his gear, you’ve told him multiple times. He takes his sweet time getting down again. He’s wearing a baby blue tight sports shirt that literally does not leave any of his muscles unseen and it’s making you sweat, especially because you bought that shirt with him. You try to hide the fact you’re clearly turned on by him, by taking your phone out again and texting Jake, this time with more urgency for him to get here.

Ashton sees you shifting in your seat, and he can tell his outfit had the intended effect. He smirked thinking maybe he should milk it even more, but Calum pokes him in the side and tells him to hurry up, so he gets down and puts on the rest of his gear to start running drills as the opposing team started to arrive as well. 

It’s the second period and the game is tied, it’s a rough game from both sides. The teams have been rivals for ages, and it’s the first time in 2 years that they’re playing in the same league again. They both started in the same league when they were all just kids, but beat each other out every couple of years, so it’s bound to be full of tension. Your throat already hurts from screaming and Jake is in the process of almost losing his goddamn mind because the opposing team keeps going for the goalie, Sean, and everyone knows that’s a big no-go, and also, probably the bigger reason, because that’s Jake’s boyfriend. In addition number 9 has been doing unnecessary shit the whole game, like tripping players, jabbing Sean, holding, and the ref is doing nothing about it. Jake just got done insulting number 9’s face in full scream, when he body slams Ashton, skates away and pretends like nothing happened. You wince, and immediately grip Jake’s hand because you know what’s gonna happen now. And as predicted, Ashton loses his cool and races across the ice to push Number 9 from behind. While this is happening on one side of the rink, their team scores a goal on the other, but the ref calls it a no-goal because of the penalty on the other team’s player. To which the whole team starts yelling and the crowd goes insane. Ashton gets a 5 minute penalty for checking from behind, and heads to the penalty box, undoubtedly letting a couple of swears slip past his lips. He shakes his head at the call, and looks up to you. You know he’s looking for any sign of you being mad at him, but he can’t see one. He knows you know that he deserved it. The rest of the game is filled with penalties left and right, but in the end Ashton’s team wins by 2 and as the final second counts down on the scoreboard the fans and the team go crazy. The buzzer sounds to indicate the game being over and they throw their sticks and gloves in the air and all throw themselves on top of Sean in a big pile of celebration. You turn to Jake and enthusiastically hug him while you’re both cheering. 

You and Jake are in a conversation about where to go tonight to celebrate, when the guys come out of the building and Jake’s boyfriend comes up behind him to give him a kiss on the cheek. You turn around and look around for Ashton and Calum while Jake and Sean are busy making out. You spot Calum and run up to him and give him a big hug “congrats on the win!” you giggle-yell as he picks you up and spins you around. He puts you down, and you look back behind him to look for Ashton, Calum catches on and tells you he’s still inside. You contemplate going inside to look for him, but Jake pulls you back into the conversation about where to go tonight to celebrate. After another 5 minutes Ashton arrives and stands beside you, joining in on the conversation. He puts his arm around your shoulders like he usually does, and your heart starts racing, like it usually does. You look up to him and softly smile, he returns the smile and pulls you a little closer. Jake suggests actually going to a nightclub for a change, earning a groan from everyone. “Ok, fine then we’ll end up going to the same irish pub we always go to because you guys are all boring” he pouts and crosses his arms. Someone else suggests a new bar they heard some people talk about the other day, and after a heated back and forth everyone agrees to go to the new bar downtown. You, Ashton and Calum agree to meet up at their place to pre-game and take an uber there together. Everyone goes to their cars and you follow Calum back to their place. 

Once at their apartment you all head upstairs and Calum shoots for the bedroom to go and change so he can start making drinks. He’s been annoying everyone with wanting to make extravagant drinks from his new cocktail book he got from the bookstore he works at. Every week he comes back with at least 3 or 4 different books about cooking or bartending that he then makes everyone try with him, and this is his latest one that they have to test out tonight. Meanwhile, you and Ashton get on setting up the sound system and picking out a playlist that fits the mood, which according to Calum is going to be “the best pre-game in a long time”. After you suggested 4 different ones and Ashton giving you a disbelieving look for every single one, you huff, telling him to just decide. He chuckles, reaching for your phone and brushing your hand while doing so. He’s standing opposite of you, but so close you can basically feel his breath on your face. His head is tilted down concentrating on Spotify that’s pulled up on your phone, and he has a cute frown set on his face. You have the urge to put your forehead against his, which is only a couple of inches away from yours. You ignore the urge to do that, and intently focus on his fingers scrolling through your playlists, which doesn’t really make the situation any better for you. Finally he settles on a playlist and clicks shuffle, locking your phone afterwards. He hands your phone back to you, and the screen lights up again showing your lockscreen, which is a picture of Calum, Ashton and you on vacation at the lake house. The Spotify Pop-up is blocking some of the picture, but you still blush because you chose a picture where Calum and you are admiring the sunset while Ashton admires you, and you don’t know if Ashton know that you have that as your lockscreen. He softly looks you in the eyes and does one of his cute half-smiles and you nearly melt on the spot. You hastily turn to the coffee table to escape his stare and put your phone down.

 Finally Calum returns dressed and heads for the kitchen to start mixing the drinks. Ashton pulls you towards his bedroom so you can help him pick out what to wear, your usual going-out ritual. Which normally includes you hyping him up so he’ll get laid tonight, which you have a feeling is going to be different today, because the only person you want him to sleep with tonight is you, but he doesn’t need to know that. Ok you need to calm down you think to yourself don’t do anything stupid that might mess this up. You head towards his dresser and open the door where all his shirts are hung up. Ashton stands next to you and starts pulling out random shirts that are hung on your side, obviously wanting an excuse to have physical contact with you, but you’re not complaining. You agree on three different ones, and tell him to try them on with the black ripped jeans you like so much. He takes his current T-Shirt off and puts on a black short sleeved button-up, and you look him up and down. Yeah, this is going to be a long evening if he looks this good, fuck. “Yeah, I like that one” you say with a small voice. Ashton raises one of his eyebrows at your failed attempt to stay calm. You go to the box on his nightstand to get 2 of your favorite necklaces of his and walk back over to him and place them around his neck, while never breaking eye contact. You take half a step back to admire your work. “Do I look presentable?” he chuckles. You mock him “Do I LoOk PrEsEnTabLE? Of course you do, you always do, you know that. But ….” and you take that half step back towards him and your hands reach for the shirt to unbutton the first 2 buttons so the necklaces are better seen. You fiddle with the second button and Ashton watches you closely “let me help you” he says, almost in a whisper and lays his hand on top of yours so he could do it himself. You clear your throat and look up at him, he minimally tilts his head to the left and looks at you making your breath hitch in your throat. Slowly he leans towards you, letting his eyes wander to your lips and back up to your eyes, and you do the same. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, you can feel his breath on your lips. He’s so close now that you can almost feel his upper lip brush yours, when Calum storms into the room screaming “LET’S GET FUCKED UP TONIGHT” with their drinks in his hands.

that’s it for part 2 ! Lemme know what you think and also lemme know if you want a part 3 ! I will probably start working on that once I’m done with exams, so please be patient with me !

[hoodoo12]

Ménage (10/13ish)

Mature due to violence. Holy disappointment; protection.

@thewolfisapartofmysoul @janitor-boy @yogsathot @dilfyjuice @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice

Enjoy! ~

The relief in the two corralling him was palatable; Beetlejuice hadn’t known that they’d been anxious to have his answer, or that they had obviously been concerned what it may have been.

Molly relaxed into his side, curling her hand under his arm and smiling beautifully. Dewey’s soft hand squeezed his back, and maybe he was reading into it, but he’d have sworn it was with more than a simple friendly intent. He saw the warm delight in the angel’s dark eyes as they moved from him to her.

Then, even as Dewey himself reacted to whatever new arrival made itself known, a golden light bright enough cause him pain blinded him. He squinted and ducked as Dewey released him, and he felt Molly scurry behind him, still gripping his arm, asking who that was. A deep thrumming pressure took up residence in his skull and with his free hand he grabbed the side of his head as if pulling his hair would relieve the pain. It didn’t.

Molly seemed to peek out from behind Beetlejuice, looking frightened and asked softly who this newcomer was. In a voice that nearly shook, Dewey answered.

"That's . . . that's my boss."

With effort, Beetlejuice wrenched open his eyelids as Dewey answered Molly and through watery eyes and with a low moan from the pain, he saw the trespasser.

The corona surrounding the being lessened; he figured it was more for Molly’s benefit than his own. It did serve to release some of the pressure in his head.

This was an angel as to be expected: heavily winged, androgynous, golden, exuding righteousness. He couldn’t exactly see their face, and he didn’t know if that was because light still blazed from it, or if they simply didn’t have one.

Dewey had stepped between them and what he called his boss. The other angel towered over them all, even standing several feet away, but Dewey looked determined to stand his ground, even as Beetlejuice could see the faint tremble in his hands.

As the new angel continued to tsk their disappointment in Dewey, he bristled. He kept Molly behind him, of course, but stepped closer to Dewey. He realized he’d lowered himself, his chin down, watching the angel warily, and that his lips were lifted off his teeth in a silent snarl. His reaction to this celestial was markedly different than when Dewey had arrived; he’d unpack all that later.

Right now, this was a threat, and he didn’t like that one bit.  

His . . . his boss? Molly nearly threw up her hands in exasperation, if they hadn't been pinned to her sides with fear; just how many supernatural beings were going to show up in her house over twenty-four hours? Then she saw how Beetlejuice crouched in front of her, lowered into a defensive position as if to protect her, and her heart dropped to the floor. Clearly, this angel posed a threat that Dewey hadn't.

Molly blinked rapidly, trying to clear the purple spots from her vision. Behind them, the new angel seemed to stare at Dewey disapprovingly, despite its apparent lack of facial features. How was it that a holy being could look so . . . unsettling? Out of nowhere, she was hit with a sudden wave of dread, of abject fear, and she blurted without thinking,

“What do you want?”

The angel turned their focus to her, head cocked almost curiously to the side, as if surprised that she had spoken. That surprise quickly vanished, as they seemed to sigh and dismiss her.

“Quiet, child. You have done enough damage.”

Then, their focus shifted back to Dewey.

“I had such hopes for you, fledgling. You showed such promise. And to throw it away for demon and its pet human.” Its tone was chiding, as if scolding a misbehaving child. “It seems you’re in need of retraining.”

Dewey didn’t look away from the higher being, wasn’t sure if he could actually tear his eyes away from their radiance if he tried. He should have known better, should have done better; even a small act of rebellion, that single kiss with his charge, a touch and a smile given to a profane presence, it was enough to send his entire future crashing down. He had risked it all, and now, he was about to lose it all. On instinct, on blind obedience, he began to walk toward his superior.

But wait . . . why? Why give it up so easily? Dewey stalled, hands clenched into fists. He had already rebelled, and who knew what this angel would do to the other two once he was out of the way? He didn’t have to put his head down and do as he was told, he didn’t have to obey.

“No. I’m not leaving.”

Again, that almost condescending cock of the head. “Oh? You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that you have a choice in the matter. Haven’t you done enough, fledgling? Your charge went to bed with the enemy. Despite her obscenities, you’ve lusted after her. You have failed.”

Dewey dug in his heels, wings flashing as he moved to better shield Molly and Beetlejuice.

“If this gets messy,” he whispered over his shoulder, “take her and run. I can at least get you a head start.”

Maybe their voice was supposed to sound melodious, but to Beetlejuice it grated on his ears. Then again, maybe it wasn't the voice, but what they were saying.

The superior attitude was one thing; he'd expect nothing less from a being that spent their days licking the feet of their god. But the distain. The utter scorn that dripped off them was palatable. This angel that was supposed to be forgiving and the embodiment of love treated Dewey like a toddler. Worse than that, they dismissed Molly as if she was nothing.

He growled so low in his chest it was more a vibration than a sound. The flexing of Dewey's wings covered the slight noise of it. He liked that Dewey had made a stand, and although it was noble to hear the guardian angel offer to take the brunt of whatever was going to come next, Beetlejuice had doubts the match up would be even remotely fair.

He'd give the trespasser a run for their money, though. No way a snotty angel was going to come in here and throw their weight around when Dewey'd made it clear he didn't want any part of celestial bullshit any more.

In three steps he was at Dewey's side, still slightly crouched. If it made him look more dangerous, like a snake coiled to strike, all the better.

He stared the angel directly in their shining face, and snarled,

 "Fuck. Off."

Take her and run? Molly groaned, nearly rolling her eyes despite the bizarre situation. What an archaic, chauvinistic response. She wasn't about to allow herself to be escorted away like some fragile maiden, especially not now. Life had taken everything from her, everyone she had loved or cared for, and after ages of loneliness and solitude, Death gave something back. An angel and a demon. It wasn't what she had expected, but it was hers. They were hers. And she would be damned--quite literally in this case--if she'd let them go without a fight.

Physically, Molly knew there was nothing she could do against a divine being. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she scrambled to her altar, flipping through her grimoire. The spell she had been looking for when Dewey had first arrived specified that guardian angels couldn't be banished. But an angel with no ties to her? She might have a chance.

Fortunately for her, the angel's focus was centered on the two inhumans, not considering for a moment that the girl might pose a threat.

"You dare speak to me, demon? I should have stepped in the moment you polluted the air here with your presence. Perhaps then my subordinate would have not been tempted to rebel.” They raised a hand, their fingers long and slender and glowing, aimed like a weapon straight at Beetlejuice’s chest. “No matter. I’ll suffer your impertinence no longer.”

A golden spear, or at least concentrated light in the shape of one, appeared in their hand, then with an air of one swatting a pesky fly, they loosed it directly at the demon.

Dewey’s eyes widened as he saw the bolt gather in their hand, knew what an attack like that would do; angels like this didn’t aim to wound or incapacitate, they went straight for the kill. Without a thought, with only a split second to act, he jumped in the path of the spear, taking the brunt of the hit, though a fragment broke off and struck the eastern wall, the glass in the window shattering as bits of drywall scattered across the floor.

To him, that attack wasn’t fatal, but that didn’t keep it from hurting like a son of a bitch, and he dropped to his knees, wings drawn tight to his body as he cried out. His mouth filled with fluid, and he coughed, a bit shocked to see bright blood spatter across the carpet. Frantic, he looked up to make sure nothing had hit Molly, was relieved to see that she was unhurt, and got shakily back to his feet.

“How did I ever believe you douchebags were righteous?”

How had he never seen it before, the hypocrisy, the snobbish air of superiority, the disdain for anything that wasn’t them? Humans were to be guarded, protected, but they’d just spoken to Molly as if she were . . . as if she were nothing. They’d launched an attack with her in the room, uncaring for her safety. If she had been hit . . .!

“Get out of here,” he said softly to the demon, his wings slowly unfurling again to hide him from the angel’s wrath.

He couldn’t fight, wasn’t built for it nor trained for it; aside from his bare hands, he had no weapons to speak of. However, when it came to celestial fury, he was a bit more durable than a demon would be. There was no doubt that he didn’t stand a chance against his superior, and would more than likely be killed. But if the two of them escaped, it would be worth it. He could at least die knowing the truth, that these higher celestials simply didn’t give a damn.

“Beetlejuice. Get Molly and go.”

Pushed off balance by Dewey throwing himself in front of him and taking the hit intended for him, Beetlejuice was shoved back and, on all fours, caught himself by digging his nails into the carpet, leaving furrows. Dewey had saved him--that fact echoed through his brain. The celestial weapon obviously hurt. The guardian angel had curled tightly on himself, and Beetlejuice didn't miss seeing the blood that fell from his mouth.

He almost grinned hearing Dewey deride the being still looking over the three of them with contempt. But when Molly's guardian's wings opened again, and the order was given to go, it was plain he'd planned to sacrifice himself for the two of them. The start of the grin was replaced with a shake of his head, which Dewey couldn't see.

Through a mouthful of teeth that had become sharp points, Beetlejuice replied quietly to the angel,

"With all due respect, baby, that's not going to fucking happen."

Without waiting for a response, Beetlejuice scrambled forward on all fours, skidding under Dewey's wings--the feathers left soft burning trails where they touched skin--and launched himself at the taller angel.

A flash of pointed teeth and an inhuman murmur was all the warning he had before Beetlejuice lunged for the angel, loping forward on all fours like an animal. Dewey winced as he healed, the injury sustained from the burst knitting together as he stumbled forward toward the grappling pair. He had to help, had to do something, angels like this were trained to kill demons without mercy or hesitation. It was his duty to protect his charge, and unfettered by the chains of angelic bureaucracy, he could now extend that protection to the things she held dear. Despite the dire situation, Dewey had to admit that it felt good to act as he wanted for once. Beetlejuice rushed the trespasser and had the satisfaction of surprising them, springing forward and knocking them off balance. This fucking angel wanted to loose holy weapons? He'd bring infernal ones. Tentacles, black as pitch, erupted from him, immediately engulfing the angel, doing their best to squeeze the life out of them. Their shadow mass added to his weight, bearing the angel down; Dewey had appeared into the fray atop his boss--ex-boss!--and that helped too.

The demon’s pounce had knocked the angel into the northern wall, and Dewey couldn’t tell which shrieks belonged to who. It was clear that they hadn’t been expecting such a bold attack, but that surprise would only buy them a couple moments’ advantage. Dewey leaped onto the angel’s back, wrenching at the joint of the wings, doing his best to hold on despite the writhing of his adversary.

In rage, the angel’s face seemed to melt into a pillar of white flame, a tremulous, ululating pitch warbling from their form. One hand, similarly sheathed in holy fire, reached back at Dewey trying to pry him from their wings, while its twin closed around a writhing black mass that had seemed to spring from the demon’s back. There was a sickening squelch and the acrid smell of something burning, then the mass was torn from its source, the angel taking advantage of the loosening of the demon’s grip to fling him backward, trailing dark blood.

When the angel dislodged their summoned weapon at Beetlejuice, Molly jolted forward, trying to get to her feet and stumbling over her altar. She cried out, sick with fear, desperate to do something, anything, but Dewey beat her to it, taking the majority of the blow. When a splinter of light ricocheted away from the rest, she screamed, ducking her head as it burst into the wall, leaving a decent hole in the drywall and blowing out the window. It had bounced away from her, thankfully, but she couldn’t have cared less about her own safety, feeling bile rise into her throat at the sight of Dewey spitting blood onto her carpet before getting to his feet, following Beetlejuice’s leap into the fray. She had to do something, and do it fast.

Shaking hands struggled to find the correct page, and it was hard to focus on the words when there were grunts, pained cries, and ear-splitting shrieks sounding from across the room, the house shaking on its foundations as her living room was turned into a biblical battleground. A thread of blood trailed down her lip as she gnawed at it, the pain helping her focus through the terror. The ingredients, while not common for her normal spellwork, were nonetheless easy to find in her stores. All but one. It listed "blood of the enemy" as the catalyst, the binder, the agent that would give the banishment spell its power. At least the book helpfully specified that she would need demon blood. At the top of the page, it specified that this spell was mostly a theory, that angels were wholly benevolent presences and could simply be asked to leave, and that the risk to obtain demon blood was too great. Lucky for her, she had a source. She just had to pray that the spell would actually work.

Beetlejuice laughed, a feral scream of a laugh right in the angel's not-quite there face. Attention divided by trying to dislodge Dewey, who was doing his damnedest to remove a wing, it seemed, and Beetlejuice himself, he leaned forward and bit where anything remotely human would have lips and a nose.

The light he encountered burned like a motherfucker and he threw his head back, regretting his mistake. It served only to draw all the angel's focus on him, and even wrapped so tightly his limbs looked like they'd been dipped in tar the angel managed to twist multiple tentacles in their grip. Wretch mightily, his tentacles were torn from him. He screamed at the pain and automatically curled a little, giving the angel enough leverage to throw him off, to the floor. Blood, darker than what had dripped from Dewey's mouth, splattered on the floor.

A third of his tentacles were still in the angel's grip. From the floor, Beetlejuice watched them wither and turn to dust where there were held by the angel’s hand.

"Please," the angel invited, "do that again so I can absolve you of more of those abominations."

The taunting sneer in their voice made him snarl wordlessly again, and despite feeling slightly crippled, Beetlejuice pushed himself off the carpet and rushed forward again.

Dewey’s grip almost went slack at the sight of those wriggling black shapes that sprouted forth from Beetlejuice’s back, torn apart like party streamers as they threw the demon back, but he tightened his hold, grabbing and twisting until he felt a series of pops within the joint. The angel let loose a shriek of pain that shattered all the glass in the house, bottles of liquor bursting in the cabinets, windows blowing out as one golden wing went horribly askew.

For a moment, Dewey was worried about Beetlejuice, his appendages severed and thrown like a rag doll across the room. But he had to admire the demon’s tenacity, shaking himself off with a snarl and rushing forward again, undaunted. Who would have guessed it, that a guardian angel and a demon would fight side by side against a force of heaven?

However, when Beetlejuice lunged again, the angel held both hands in front of themself, as if to ward him off, and a burst of the same white flame that flickered across their body knocked him to the floor, pinning him there, burning through his shirt and searing the flesh of his chest. Similarly, something grabbed Dewey around the neck and flung him to the ground, pinned right next to the demon, the two of them trapped, powerless.

Beetlejuice rushed forward and suddenly found himself on his back again, held like a moth on a pin. No amount of struggling, even anger and pain fueled struggling, made a difference. He watched Dewey dislocate the fucker's wing and tried to shout something triumphant but the pressure on his chest increased and nothing could be exhaled.

It didn't matter anyway; in the next second the guardian angel was slammed to the floor beside him. The superior angel, their voice dripping with disappointment, contempt, and a little smidgen of glee, produced the implements that would decisively end this fight.

“Enough!” The angel’s scream was piercing, its wing moving back into place with a nauseating crunch. “Enough of this.”

The holy fire ebbed, leaving their featureless form to somehow glower down upon their two pinned adversaries.

“I did hope it wouldn’t come to this, fledgling. It pains my Father to see the underlings fall.”

The tongues of fire that pinned them clinked and rattled like chains as they tightened.

“But being complicit to this stain? Allowing your charge to continue its path into damnation? That would have been disgraceful enough, but then you had to succumb to the sin of lust. You were all too happy to join it on its journey into Hell so long as it looked at you. Pathetic,” it sneered. “Still clinging to the last shreds of your human self. No more. We are well rid of filth like you.”

Those spears appeared in their hands again, aimed at their throats, poised to strike with deadly force. Dewey did the only thing he could think of, and reached over to take Beetlejuice’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

To his surprise, Beetlejuice felt Dewey grab his hand and squeeze. He returned it, and would have smiled if it didn't feel like his chest was about to be crushed.

Molly screamed when Beetlejuice screamed, her fear echoing his pain as he was thrown back. She reached for him, yelling for him to stay put, that she needed something from him, but he either didn’t hear her or ignored her entirely, plunging back into the madness. Damn! She still needed his blood, without it the spell was useless.

Then, she saw the severed, twitching end of one of his tentacles, something she hadn’t even known he’d had. Though, as she watched him fight, she began to notice more and more demonic attributes. Sharper teeth, longer nails, increased agility. And that wriggling mass, bursting from his spine, like a mockery of angelic wings. Thinking quickly, she darted forward and nabbed the bit of flesh, cold as ice in her hands and covering her fingers in a slick, greasy ichor.

“Sorry, Beej,” she muttered as she pulled a small penknife from her keyring, slicing into the severed limb and squeezing as much blood from it as possible, the viscous liquid dripping into the bowl with the rest of the essential herbs. Molly muttered a prayer over it, then used the penknife to prick her own finger, adding a drop of her blood to the concoction and stirring it with her fingers, wincing as it started to sting.

She looked up to see the angel pinning Dewey and Beetlejuice the floor, spitting venom at the two as they conjured the death-dealing weapons to their hands.

“No,” she whispered, dipping her hand into the bowl and sprinting across the room to the angel, which was so focused on its prey that it took no notice of her.

Like an Amazonian warrior, Molly appeared, carrying a bowl that had liquid sloshing from the rim.

“Hey,” she yelled, the featureless face lifting just in time for her to smear the handful of herbs and blood all over it. Baring her teeth, with as much venom as she could muster, she hissed,

 ”Go to hell.”

They screeched as if burned, then in a brilliant burst of flame, they vanished, thrown from the house, leaving the space hauntingly quiet in its absence.

It was gone.

The force of the spell sent her hurtling backwards, landing on her back in a patch of broken glass. She winced as she felt the shards slice through her shirt, hissed at the sting of drawn blood, but she didn’t care about her own pain at the moment, getting to her feet and darting back to them. Molly immediately fell to her knees beside the two, her heart lurching in her chest when she saw scorch marks on Beetlejuice’s chest, similar marks ringing Dewey’s throat.

Beetlejuice didn't release Dewey's hand. He tried to sit up, found that he was too weak, and flopped his free arm towards Molly. He managed that smile when she took it.

"Go to hell," he croaked. "Good one, baby. Sounds like you've got your own action movie catch phrase now."

She took his hand when he reached for her, lifting it to her lips to kiss it briefly. It was a relief to hear him speak, to see his lips quirk up in a smile; if he could make jokes, he was going to be okay.

“Every fight scene needs a Schwarzenegger moment,” she replied, returning his smile with one of her own.

 tbc . . .

[riverboundao3ff]

Riverbound, Chapter 2

You open your eyes, and the first thing you see is a city.

It’s not just any city, that you conclude within a second of assessing the familiar shape of the uptown skyscrapers. This is Thrashthrust, the hellhole you called home for the better part of seven months. From your vantage point, you can see some poor bastard’s hive is on fire, and sirens are going off in the distance. A billboard with Trizza’s sneering mug lights up the entirety of some ghetto-ass looking street in Outglut.

You’ve never been so happy to be home.  

The first thing you want to do is march your butt down this hill and find the first person you know. Tact be damned, you need a friendly face and a hug.

But that wouldn’t do. If the wrong troll saw you, word would get back to the Heiress that the alien is back and you'd be dead faster than anybody could say “culling drone”. You aren’t just here to hang out and get high with Cirava, not anymore. No, you are back to help start a revolution. Everybody knows what happens to revolutionaries on Alternia.

Upon scanning the horizon, a familiar mountainside greets you, and even from several miles away you spot the conveniently dense forest that could probably hide a whole other city in it. Or a fleet of drones.

Or a cave.

Perfect. I’ll be there soon, guys.

You set off, navigating the Alternian thicket like you’d never even left in the first place. You don’t want to teleport out of fear you accidentally end up ten sweeps in the future and on one of the moons or whatever.

The lightness in your heart only lasts for so long, however, when you realize you have literally no idea what you’re going to tell your friends. What, you got kidnapped by a god? You accidentally got kicked out of reality as everybody who’s normal knows it and got forced into another time in place to befriend a bunch of human kids? Holy hell, did you think you could just waltz back into everybody’s lives like nothing ever happened?

“I fucking hate myself,” you mutter.

But seriously, what was the plan? Show up at the entrance and hope that whatever jade was on guard duty didn’t kill you on the spot? Granted, you’re pretty sure you can’t die permanently, but it would sure throw a wrench in your plans if Wanshi showed up to see what the fuss was all about and saw your dead body on the ground.

Well. If somebody other than one of your friends was there, you’d just have to do what you do best and sweet-talk them into letting you live. The cloister was pretty tight-knit and you’d spent a lot of time down there helping with the grubs, so as long as you didn’t do anything stupid…

Five minutes turned into twenty, then forty, and before you knew it a whole hour had passed, according to the watch John gave you not too long ago. Another rotation of the minute hand passed after that one, and at last you found yourself looking up the path that led to the main entrance to the caverns. You’d walked up this trail more times than you could count on both hands.

Your legs were killing you from the hike, so you took the opportunity to park your ass on a nearby boulder to take a breather. Despite how badly you needed to go to your friends, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just yet.

Maybe some rehearsal would calm your nerves. 

You cleared your throat and took a deep breath. “Well, hey, guys… I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave, I promise. I was kidnapped. No, I’m okay. Sort of. I missed you, I missed all of you so damn much. I’m sorry.”

Even in the quiet forest, your words sounded empty. A lump grew in your throat.

God damn it. Just go up there. Go to them!

Your hackles tingled again, but unlike when you were with Vriska on her ship, this wasn’t the gaze of someone you knew and (mostly) trusted that was on you.

Everything happened in the span of a second.

A snarl ripped the air as something huge, white, and furry lunged out from the cover of the forest. Vriska’s dagger was out of its sheath and in your hand before you could even breath. As you ducked and the animal sailed past you, you lashed out with the blade and yelped when the force of it dragging through thick hide and flesh nearly ripped it from your hand.

You turn as the animal lands and whips around to face you, terrifyingly agile for its size. Your heart nearly falls out of your ass when you recognize that familiar broad head and beady black eyes. Oh, fuck me.

The cholerbear snarls in rage at both having missed its prey and having a decent cut across its shoulder. It charges again, and something you learned about bears a long time ago flashes through your brain.

Stand your ground. Make yourself look as big as possible. Scream and yell.

Praying to the Mirthful Messiahs that this wasn’t going to end with the cholerbear just chomping your ass in half like a steak, you jump up on your boulder and scream so hard your throat hurts.

Amazingly, the huge beast slows. Rearing up to its hind legs, it looks you dead in the eye and sniffs at you. You stare back at it, teeth bared and hopefully conveying that you were definitely not on the menu for tonight.

You didn’t want to kill it in case this was some kid’s lusus, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t.

There wasn’t enough time to zap out of the way. One second you’re eye-to-eye with this massive son of a bitch, and the next a giant paw is coming down at your head.

The world spins around you. You hit something hard, a tree, before dropping to the ground with your left side on fire. The sensation is familiar enough for you to instantly know you’ve broken a rib or five.

You’re going to lose, sure enough as the moons will rise again tomorrow, but before you can die you lift your head and screech at the cholerbear in rage. When you come back to life, you’re going to yeet that thing into the nearest black hole.

The cholerbear thunders towards you like a tank, and you brace for the tear of fangs through skin and bone.

One second passes, then another.

A loud whine pierces your eardrums. You roll your head over to see the cholerbear staring at you-- no, something behind you.

Somebody screams. The voice is familiar. The cholerbear hauls furry ass back down the mountainside, followed by a gangly figure in an ankle-length skirt. The figure, a girl(?) skids to a halt at the edge of the clearing before turning back and sprinting towards you. She falls to her knees; you hear the impact through the ground. Strong hands turn you over.

A spectacled, tear-stained face is the last thing you see before you lose consciousness.

<>

Your name is LYNERA SKALBI and

oh, oh shit, no, no, nonono, this isn’t happening, not now!!!

Please, please stay alive, you have to stay alive!!!

please

The girl who alerted you to the smell of cholerbear is still standing at the entrance, probably still surprised that you just took off on her like that, but when you stumble back into sight with a bloody alien in your arms her eyes go very, very wide.

Shock, wonder, and then recognition. She knows who this is.

“Go,” is all she says before you take off running.

The alien’s tiny frame feels like nothing against your chest, like at any moment they might slip away. You hold them tighter and force yourself to run even faster. No, you weren’t going to lose your friend again. Never again.

Three tunnels down, one to the right, two lefts, down four flights of stairs. You all but bust down the door to your study and grab a blanket with one hand, supporting the alien with the other arm, before tossing it over the loungeplank. You pull off their backpack and set them down as carefully as you can. They’re still unconscious. They’re not moving. The coppery reek of their blood is growing stronger and stronger every time you breathe.

With your bloodpusher in your throat, you lean over and press your ear to their chest. The steady thumping of a pulse helps you to breathe, even though there’s no color in your friend’s already pale face. Fuck. You’d helped them treat injuries in the past; their species wasn’t as durable as yours and they got banged up a lot, but you know nothing about how to help with something like this. For all you knew, they were already dying.

Something like ice freezes in your guts. No, that wasn’t going to happen.

You suck in another huge breath and analyze what had just happened. You had found them underneath a sprucesteel tree, and they weren’t unconscious yet but getting close. Cholerbears liked to toss their prey around before eating it.

Silently begging your friend’s forgiveness for the invasion of privacy, you yank up their hoodie to expose their bare torso. Unfortunately, you find what you’re looking for on their left side. Everything from the armpit to their hip was a mess of blood and black and purple bruises. Yep, they’d been thrown against that damn tree.

Good news: you knew that ribs mostly healed on their own, or at least troll ribs. Bad news: they were still bleeding their strange alien copper-blood, a lot of it, and if the wrong troll saw that then the both of you would be in trouble. You’d gladly stab a bitch to protect your best (platonic) friend, but still…

They need stitches, you conclude.

You do not know how to do stitches.

But there is somebody you know who can.

Any other time, you’d be cringing away at the thought of going to him for help, but this was your friend’s life on the line. If you needed to, you would drag that bastard down here by his horns.

“I’ll be right back,” you promise the alien, and then once again you’re running like your life depends on it for the door. Flying back up the stairs, you take a right on the next level and sprint down the corridor to the last room on the left.

No time for hesitation. You ball your hands into fists and rail on that door like it insulted the Mother Grub. “LANQUE! Lanque, open the door! I know you’re in there!”

Something bangs from inside the respiteblock, and a muffled curse is all the warning you get before the door swings open to reveal a very pissed-off Lanque Bombyx, looking like he just woke up from a nap.

Any other time you’d feel a prickle of victory at catching Lanque in his sweatpants, no signature eyeliner to be seen, but now was not that time.

“I need your help,” you get out.

“What the hell? Why me?” he spits. “You know I’m on duty first thing tomorrow-”

“I don’t care! You know first aid, right?” you hiss, shoving your face right up against his.

He jolts back, lips peeling back to reveal wickedly sharp fangs, but then his eyebrows furrow. Something on your face must have told him what he needed to know, because he signals you to wait with one pointer claw before darting back into his respiteblock. Not three seconds later he emerges with a mediculler kit and an ice pack.

You take off, trusting him to keep up with you. You’ve never been more grateful for everybody else to have been off doing whatever. If Bronya saw you two right now, actually working together she’d probably go into bloodpusher failure and die on the spot.

The second you open the door Lanque stiffens, and you know he’s smelling the blood. You shove past him and rush over to your friend. The blanket you’d tossed over the loungeplank has a decent-sized blood stain underneath the alien.

You hear him cautiously slink inside, and then a shocked yell reverberates off the walls.

He’s on his knees beside you before you even have the time to jump, eyes wide with horror. “What-- how?! Fuck, why is there so much blood?”

You’re completely taken aback. Lanque had been close with the alien, too? How come you had never heard about this?

“Their left side,” you say. Lanque pushes the hoodie up and growls. Setting the mediculler kit and the ice pack down, he shoves his arms underneath the alien’s shoulders and legs and picks them up, before rotating them around so that their injured side is facing you and Lanque. With a surprising amount of precision, he then proceeds to wiggle their arm out of the hoodie sleeve and tuck it out of the way.

“Hand me the scissors, I need to get the sports bra off,” he orders.

“You what?”

“The gash goes underneath the fabric.”

You splutter something incoherent, feeling your face heating up, but you pop open the mediculler kit and hand him the scissors. He takes them from you and cuts through the sports bra in two clean swipes. Then, he grabs a rag from the kit and starts cleaning away the blood from the gash.

“Go ahead and bandage that other cut below it. That one doesn’t need stitches,” Lanque mutters. Keeping the rag pressed against the gash on the alien’s upper torso, he grabs a small container with the needles in it. Somehow, he holds the needle steady between his fangs, and with his free hand he threads the string through the top and ties it off. The small part of your thinkpan that isn’t losing its shit over your injured friend is a little impressed (how on Alternia did he learn how to do that?), but you decide you’d made him teach you how to do that later. Thankfully, by the time you clean the other lesser wounds they aren’t bleeding nearly as much, and you bandage them up without a problem.

It takes several long moments for Lanque to stitch up the gash. Ultimately, you decide it’s for the best that your friend is unconscious at the moment, because that really looks like it hurts.

You can’t help but wince when Lanque tugs on the thread to tighten the bonds. Immediately you expect him to taunt you for it, but when you glance up at him it looks like he’s in pain, too. It’s such an unexpected sight you nearly freeze in place.

He finally ties off the stitches, tapes a cooling bandage over it to numb the surrounding skin, and grabs another blanket to throw over them.

Then, you just… sit together.

The longer wand on the alien’s timeteller moves several ticks to the right before Lanque breaks the silence.

“Where did you find them?”

“... Natiri said she smelled cholerbear and blood. I went outside to investigate and found them half-unconscious underneath a sprucesteel tree, with the cholerbear about to kill them. I chased it off and brought the alien to my study. Then I went to go get you because I don’t know how to do stitches,” you tell him.

Lanque nods and then presses his forehead to the alien’s shoulder.

Again, you’re stunned by how much Lanque seems to care about the alien. “Were… are you two close? I didn’t realize you kept in contact with them.”

“... I did. Up until they disappeared a few perigees later we’d hang out and go to parties. Bronya liked that I was friends with them because she was under the impression they would keep me out of trouble.” He snorts.

“Did they?”

“More than I’d like to admit.”

You’re tempted to scold him for dragging your beloved friend into his messes, but Lanque is still holding on to the alien like a lifeline, and so are you, and so for once you keep your mouth shut.

“Daraya and Wanshi are going to be so happy,” you whisper.

A smile makes Lanque’s fangs flash in the light of the bioluminescent fungi growing on your ceiling. “Our friend is back.”