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moralesmilesanhour · 4 months

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piece of cake

summary: meeting miles g at a bakery, and other happenings. wc: 3k+ warning: blood, grief (more at the periphery, not a major theme), and lightly implied mommy issues a/n: ngl i was hungry asf when i wrote this. why can't i ever write normal fluff fics anymore. first fic of 2024!!

Brooklyn Middle is closed for winter break. The basketball court where the snow-covered hoop no longer has a net is empty, save for the blinking Christmas lights strung across the chain-link fence.

In a few years, the pizza place across the street where students would linger after school will be demolished, replaced by a shiny new Oscorp building that reflects the sun from all angles of its glass exterior. But for now, the place is just closed early for the holidays, a few blocks away from a bakery.

The tall, bear-like frame of a father dressed in a long black overcoat can be seen entering with a wiry young boy in a red hoodie and bomber jacket tailing close behind. He has an afro as opposed to his father’s closely-cropped hair. The boy keeps trying to straighten his posture - as if his spine would suddenly lengthen and his shoulders would broaden from the act alone. He wants to make himself look important today, because he is on a top-secret mission:

Operation: Get Mom a Cake.

“I think mom’ll like that one.”

The boy points at a slice of tres leches cake sitting behind a glass display. It’s not as flashy as the other decorative cakes drizzled with chocolate and strawberries or encased in pink frosting, but those wouldn’t melt on the tongue the way tres leches did.

His father raised an eyebrow at the plain slice, but the boy looked at him with a certainty that he’d never seen before, through eyes nearly identical to his mother’s. The man knew then that he was getting an expert opinion.

“Alright, if you say so,” he chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll take that one, Val.”

The boy smiled proudly at the older woman as she handed him the pink box containing the cake. Mission accomplished.

Now, he looks up and frowns at the Oscorp building blocking the view of where his old school used to be as he picks at a slice of cake with a plastic fork.

The ‘Employees Only’ door behind the counter swings open, and Valeria Cruz hobbles out, removing her apron.

“It’s almost your shift, Miles, hurry up and finish that cake.”

Miles takes one more bite before rising from his seat near the entrance and pushing the paper plate and half-eaten slice into a small trash can.

“You got it, Miss V.”

“Did you take out the trash?”

He pauses, and his eyes widen.

“I’mma get that done right now, Miss V!”

The woman sighs, running a hand through gray and white-streaked curls as the teen sprints out the door and back outside.

A forest green puffer jacket rushes past you on the sidewalk. It’s the same one you had seen shuffling out of the back entrance of Val’s bakery the other morning, lugging two black garbage bags with a purple hoodie obscuring the stranger’s face.

He probably works there, then, you think. Good. She could use the help.

The place had been packed the week before Officer Morales’ funeral, and for several weeks after. But over time, business began to slow down to a trickle. Hipster cafés and towering condos sprang up and choked out the little pizza shops and restaurants that took their owners’ last names, like when an invasive species of plant grows taller than the local varieties and smothers them, blocking out the sun.

You had been seeing Val’s face since you were in diapers. Families used to go there for birthdays, for elementary school graduations, middle school graduations - or sometimes just to grab something sweet to eat after church on Sundays. You continued the tradition–even if just to buy a tiny bag of cookies–in the hopes that the place might still be standing for your high school graduation.

The bell above the door rings to signal your entrance. The once baby pink wallpaper has begun to fade, but the late-afternoon sun makes it feel as vibrant as it did when you were twelve. Valeria is standing in front of the display of freshly-baked pastries with her apron folded neatly over her arm.

“Oh, were you about to close up shop?” You begin to take backward steps. “I can come back later–”

“No, no, sweetie, it’s fine!” The woman waves her hand, beckoning you to stay. “I was just about to go on my lunch break. I have someone about to take over for me.”

“It’s cool, I can wait. I saw somebody taking out the trash, that him?”

She sighs wearily, “That’s him, alright. He’s a good kid, but he’s always–”

“Sorry I’m late!”

In rushes Mr. Green Jacket through a chilly gust of wind, who turns to nod in greeting towards you before weaving past Val and behind the counter, where he disappears through the ‘Employees Only’ door.

“That boy, I swear. Never on time!”

He reappears sans the jacket, wearing a white apron identical to the one Val is holding. The name tag on it reads ‘Miles’.

Miles. Where have you heard that name before…?

The hood on his sweater is no longer pulled over his head, revealing two neat cornrows that cascade all the way down his neck. The surrounding hair has been shaved and faded at the nape of his neck and hairline. He’s the sort of brown-skinned that looks golden when the sunlight hits his face as he approaches the cash register.

“You gonna be alright for the next half hour?” asked Val with an eyebrow raised.

Miles drummed his fingers on the counter and grinned. “Yup, I got it.”

“Don’t destroy anything while I’m gone!”

“I won’t, promise.”

She pushes the door open with a skeptical look and leaves.

With this new stranger temporarily in charge, you carefully approach the counter. He looks up at you with curious brown eyes.

“Whatchu want?”

“Um…” you blink before remembering what you were here for. “Just sugar cookies, please.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

He turns to grab a paper bag, then bends to drop the desired amount of cookies into it with the pair of tongs that sit on the inside of the display.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what school you go to? I haven’t seen you around here before, feel like I’d remember you if I had.”

Miles pops his head over the counter and tilts his head with a cheeky grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You avoid eye contact, shifting from one foot to the other. Suddenly it’s not so cold anymore.

“I-I don’t know. You just seem memorable.”

He laughs a raspy, breathy laugh and hands you the bag of cookies over the counter. His hand is much larger than yours with slender fingers at the end of it, but still manages to appear almost clumsy-looking. Big enough to be a man’s, but with only half the dexterity.

“I go to Visions.”

“Fancy. You like it over there?”

“It’s aight. Kinda uptight, but my dad always said it was a ‘good opportunity’, so I stayed.”

You hum in consideration.

“Can't do everything for your parents, though. They'll have you living their dreams before you know it.”

The smile fades a bit, and Miles averts his gaze.

“Well my dad passed, so I just figured I’d just do this one thing for him.”

You cover your mouth with your palm.

“I'm so sorry, I–”

“It's fine,” he snorts without any humor. “You might be the only one that doesn't know who my daddy is. Kind of a relief.”

Miles encloses the money you just gave him in the slot beneath the cash register with a loud snap.

“You need anything else?”

You chew on your bottom lip in embarrassment and clutch your bag of cookies.

“No. Thank you.”

He doesn’t look up from the register.

“Have a nice day.”

Your mother is leaning on the window sill, nibbling on a granola bar when you get back home. She’s silent, which means she is observing. You’ll need to tread carefully.

“I brought cookies.”

She gives you a sidelong glance.

“Val’s cookies?”

“Yup, same as always.”

“That lady still working there all by herself?”

“She hired somebody to help out, actually - I saw a boy working the register.”

She notices the upward inflection in your voice at the mention of a boy, which interests her more than the cookies.

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s got, um,” you make a gesture over your head. “Twin braids–cornrows–and a green jacket? Kinda tall, too.”

Your mother nods, thoughtful. The description rings a bell, but she needs to confirm.

“You catch his name?”

“Miles, I think.”

“Lord,” she gasps, fully turning to face you. “That’s that Morales boy! I used to work with his momma, bless her heart. Barely saw his face after the funeral.”

The image of Miles’ face at the mention of his dad makes you cringe at your comment earlier. How could you not recognize him? He practically stole his face from the mural that was plastered above the precinct. You had only heard the boy’s name uttered once by your mother over the phone at 2:00 A.M., whispered like a secret.

“I can’t imagine how it must be for Miles. Didn’t he just get into that nice school down there? Of course they’ll have to let him go home. He should be with his mother.”

“He was such a sweet little boy. Then I saw him the other day?”

She shook her head, “Look like a different person. He had them flashy studs in his ears, nose pierced and everything.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he had tattoos under that coat as well. Damn shame.”

“He seemed nice when I saw him,” you remark quietly in a weak attempt to defend his character, despite having known him for all of five minutes. “Sweet, like you said.”

Your mother’s face hardens, all of her attention now focused on you as she folds the wrapping of the granola bar.

“That’s why you’re not bringing no boys home ‘till you’re eighteen,” she sharply reminds you. “‘Seems nice’ - How you know if he’s really nice or not?”

Again, Miles’ face appears in your mind’s eye. He didn’t seem to want your pity - rejected it, even. And what of his apparent chronic lateness?

Still…

“You don’t know that, either,” you say despite yourself. “I spoke to him while I was there.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow.

“Girl, I know that look. I better not see you runnin’ around with that boy, understand me?”

She looks set on not changing her mind now, so you only nod in defeat.

“Yes, ma’am.”

In your head, you’re already making plans to hit up the bakery tomorrow - both to apologize and to see the sun kissing Miles’ face again. Maybe tomorrow he’d even have the piercings in.

But when you get there the next day under the guise of ‘a trip to the corner store’, Miles isn’t at the register.

The sky has turned a pale shade of gray, and it has begun to drizzle. Pulling your navy blue coat tightly around you, you consider turning back around when–

Boom!

The sound of something hitting a trash can from behind the establishment catches your attention. It could be him taking out the trash at the last minute again.

Your assumption is proven only halfway correct.

Stepping over discarded boxes and tin cans, you find Miles doubled over, clutching his side. “Are you okay?”

Startled, bloodshot eyes glance at you before focusing on the ground.

“Fucking fantastic,” he grunts painfully.

As you get closer, you can see a dark stain blooming from where his hand is. A sick feeling swirls in your stomach.

“Oh my God, do you need me to call somebody?”

“Nah, I’m…I’m straight,” Miles says through labored breaths. “I just gotta…patch myself up before I get home.”

You whip out your phone and frantically unlock it.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Hell no–”

“You are bleeding!”

He tilts his head towards a duffle bag lying near his feet.

“I got First Aid in there…that’ll do me just fine.”

When he tries to reach for the bag, his knees give out, causing him to collapse right next to it.

Miles shivers as you gingerly wrap white bandages around his waist, the flat expanse of skin on his stomach partially exposed to the elements. He fades in and out of consciousness, between your face and black nothingness. When he’s awake, he stares up at you in disbelief.

“I didn’t call 9-1-1, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you tell him with a grin. “This should stop the bleeding, but I can’t help you beyond that.”

“Wusyaname?” he mumbles, head lolling towards you. He’s on the brink of passing out again.

“Call me (Y/N).”

“Wasn’t gon’ call you anything else.”

“Shut up, I just saved your life.”

“Mmmm-hm,” Miles hums with a lazy smile that makes you wonder if he’s becoming delirious.

“Eeeeverybody loves sayin’ that. Everybody always…”

His eyelids get heavy before he can finish the thought, and he finally blacks out again in your lap.

There’s a short line inside the bakery that weekend, and you wonder if Miles has anything to do with it.

Word seemed to get around mysteriously fast that the former teenaged recluse had come out of hiding after that conversation (if you could even call it that) with your mother. From where you’re sitting–by the window, nibbling on a sugar cookie, observing–Miles does not seem to enjoy the attention.

Or maybe you’re just imagining the strained smile on his face as the line of customers becomes a Greek chorus of gasps and squeals.

“You got so big!”

“What did you do to your hair?”

“Oh, you look just like Jeff.”

“How’s Rio?”

“Good to see you out and about again.”

The sparkling curiosity is nearly drained from his face by the time he joins you at the end of his shift with a slice of cake. He does not have the fabled nose piercing in, but two diamond studs sparkle when the light hits them every time he moves his head.

“So?”

“So…?”

“Are you alright after I found you the other day? I saw you limping back there.”

Miles rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine. My mom’s literally a nurse. She got me straight.”

“What’d you tell her? Looked like you broke a rib.”

“Far as she’s concerned, I fell off my bike.”

“I’ve never seen you on a bike.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”

You shrug. Touche.

“What did you have to say to me that was worth stalking me after my shift?”

“Stalking?”

“You buy the same thing every time, you think I ain’t notice?” Miles smirks, like a detective who’s just gotten a confession. “Who goes to a bakery and only gets cookies?”

“Lay off me, man, these are excellent,” you take another bite for emphasis. “Anyways, I actually came to apologize.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “For what?”

“For what I said the first time I saw you. I didn’t know you were that Miles.”

The corners of Miles’ lips pull downwards into a frown.

“That’s it?”

“Mm, well…”

You bite your lip by force of habit.

“I also wanted to talk to you again. Under better circumstances. That your favorite type of cake?”

Miles looks down at his plate when you point to it with your fork, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

“Yeah, tres leches. What about it?”

“I dunno, I just always see you eating that and nothing else. Is there a reason?”

You expect to say something about the sweetness, or the texture, but instead he answers:

“It always tastes the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like…” He puts down his fork and starts to construct an analogy in his head.

“It’s like when you see an ice cream truck. You run up to it before it drives off, and what do you ask for? First thing that pops into your head?”

“Vanilla?”

“Exactly. You could try one of the other ones, but what if it tastes like ass? Now you stuck eating something you don’t like–”

“And it’s a waste of money.”

“Exactly!” Miles laughs. “You get it. My mom makes fun of me because I’ve been eating the same thing since I was five. But it’s always good! And the same amount of good.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

You tap your nails on the table, thinking.

“But what if you find a new flavor that you really like?”

He shrugs, “Then lucky me, I guess. But that doesn’t tend to happen.”

“It could happen, though.”

He watches the strange way you eat. Slowly, teeth-first, as if you’re afraid to make a mess. It’s weirdly dainty, which makes him chuckle beneath his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-uh, don’t do that. What’s so funny?”

Miles gives you that same head tilt again.

“It’s cute, the way you eat.”

Your hand freezes just as it’s about to lift another cookie to your mouth, and you stare at him blankly.

“That’s…”

He pauses too.

“...Weird, yeah. Sorry. I dunno why I said that.”

A beat of silence passes that’s so heavy with awkwardness, that the two of you can’t help but burst into poorly-stifled laughter.

You lean forward with your chin resting in your hand. “That’s fine. I kept coming here just to spy on you, so I guess I’m weird, too.”

“Ah, so you admit it!”

“Hey, if I wasn’t bein’ a total creep, you might’ve bled out next to the garbage dump. Val can’t lose a valuable employee, right?”

“If you put it that way.”

You can see the white of some of Miles’ teeth peeking out as he smiles. One of his canines is charmingly crooked, and sharper than the others. When the smile fades, he suddenly looks uncertain.

“Can I ask you a question this time?”

“Ask away.”

“Do you wanna make this,” he gestures between you, “like, a regular thing? Y’know, ‘meeting under better circumstances’.”

It’s your turn for a smile to spread across your face.

“We should. Whatever you did to end up bleeding out in the rain, I guess I’d be a witness now.”

“M-hm. Can’t have you yappin’ about that to my customers,” He plays along, then winks. “I’mma need your number too, just in case.”

Just before you reach for your phone in your pocket, you hear your mother’s voice in your head, casting a shadow over the whole thing and giving you pause.

All jokes aside, Miles had never explained what had landed him in that predicament behind the bakery in the first place. He’s always late. He lies to his mother. You’re about to lie to your mother.

But the sun is hitting his face again, and with the light bouncing off of his pupils, he looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly. The shadow remains at the corner of your eye. Just the corner.

You grin and hand him your phone.

“You got it. Just in case.”

#miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #prowler!miles #moralesanhour

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fallenangelics · 26 days

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Hiding From The Missus

PAIRING | Alastor/Angel Dust

WORD COUNT | 1456

SUMMARY | After seven years of silence, Angel Dust had finally gotten word of a familiar someone showing their face again. Going to where all clues point, he's met with some surprises before finally finding what he had been after.

RATING | Teen And Up Audiences

WARNING/TAG(S) | No Archive Warnings Apply, Overlord Angel Dust AU, Established Relationship

A/N | @rubra-wav created the beautiful banner below so go check out their content since they have some amazing stuff. @minidust093 loosely inspired this fic. I had already had the idea when I saw some of their amazing art so I just wanted to tag them so that anyone reading this could go and check them out.

EVENTS | @eclipsingbingo | Grabbed By The Chin

AO3 LINK | Read Here

The suit that Angel Dust wore was fitted to the curves and extra arms of his body. Though it wasn’t uncomfortable, as he walked across the pentagram it made him miss the loosness of his favoured dress. It didn’t matter though as he didn’t plan on spending too much time out, just a quick stop by one of the new establishments under the guise of scoping it out before he could return to his luxurious house.

Treading up the small hill near the end of the pentagram, Angel’s eyes fell on the large building at the top of it. Ghosting his eyes across the overly red building, he took in all of the extra renovations it had undertaken, such as the pirate ship that stuck from one side of the building and the radio tower that was spiralling out. His eyes stayed locked on the radio tower for the remainder of his walk, all the way up until he was knocking on the door and could hear the footsteps of someone coming to greet him.

“Hello,” A short blonde woman cheered excitedly as she threw open the door, staring up at Angel with stars in her eyes. Something in the back of Angel’s mind was itching at him, telling him he had seen her face before but he couldn’t quite place a finger on it. “And welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! You’re Angel Dust, the Mafia Demon, right? Are you here to begin your path to redemption?”

“Ehh, not quite,” Angel spoke with as little enthusiasm as he could muster, having seven years of excitement sucked out of him just from the display he witnessed. Deflating slightly, the blonde woman still looked at him with a radiating sense of joy that Angel couldn’t help but wonder where she stored it. “I’m here for other reasons. Think of this as a business opportunity.”

“That’s great,” She exclaimed, shoving the door open wider to invite him in. With a hand reaching out, one of the blonde woman's hands latched onto Angel’s making him flinch back at the sudden contact. It wasn’t every day that people came running at the opportunity to grab onto Angel, not when they realised who he was at least. The woman took his reaction in stride as she beckoned him in, trying to show him the way. “Let me introduce you to our hotelier. He’ll be so happy to meet you.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Angel muttered as he stepped into the hotel for the first time. Taking it all in, just like the outside, there was an excessive amount of red, the colour coating almost every surface. All the furniture and wallpaper was old, fabrics peeling and stuffing spilling out of surfaces. Angel wouldn’t be caught dead staying in a place like this or even wandering near it if he was certain they were harbouring something he was looking for.

“Angel Dust?” A voice called out, sceptic as they called for his attention. Turning to face whoever had caused him, Angel’s face brightened a minuscule amount before he even faced the Sinner, recognising them from their voice alone. Just as every other time Angel has had the pleasure of running into the Sinner, he wore his usual tophat, bow and suspendered pants, all of which were laced in red. “What are you doing here?”

“Just lookin’ for some new investments,” Discarding the blonde woman momentarily, Angel Dust gave his full attention to the much shorter Demon. “Didn’t know I’d find you here, Whiskers.”

“Wait,” Their attention was then pulled away from a new voice, one Angel didn’t recognise this time. Spotting a woman even shorter than Husk adorning a lot of grey and a glare on her features, Angel couldn’t help but sigh as more time was wasted. The scowl on her features twisted as her eyes flicked between them both. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, he also knows Niff,” Husk supplied for him, filling in the two unnamed girls in the room. Both of them gave him a confused stare, unaware as to how Angel could’ve known the both of them. Just by Angel’s looks alone it was clear that he was well off since coming down to Hell. Trying to connect the dots as to how he had met two Sinners who had sold their souls just wasn’t adding up. “Wait, do you two not know who he is?”

“He’s the Mafia Demon,” The blonde woman repeated, though there was a spec of hesitation in her words now as she examined Angel’s tall figure.

“What?” The shorter one exclaimed, her eyes widening as she took in Angel’s calm and put-together appearance. Marching over to the blonde woman, she grabbed onto her arm and pulled her in close, whispering in a shouted way, “You let another Overlord in here, Charlie?”

“He wanted to invest in the hotel, Vaggie,” Angel was guessing Charlie spoke to who she had called Vaggie. Again, the name Charlie rattled around in Angel’s head but he was still yet to put a title to the name or the face. “This could be really good for business if everyone knew we had two Overlords helping out.”

“Or it could scare them all away,” Vaggie rebutted, letting go of Charlie to instead glare at Angel. The heat in her eyes did nothing to get under Angel’s skin, just making the Overlord let out a huff in annoyance as he was subjected to this bickering until Charlie was able to move on with this little tour and take him to the hotelier.

“I don’t think that’s going to matter,” Husk cut in, stopping Vaggie from going even further down this over-paranoid rabbit hole. “Not when he’s Al-”

“What’s all this commotion about?” A static-filled voice sliced through the room, putting an end to any discussions. Chills broke out along Angel’s spine as he turned to face the newcomer to the conversation. Setting his eyes on him, Angel was glad he decided to give this rundown hotel a look since it was in fact harbouring the Sinner he was in search of. “My, what a wonderful visitor we have here.”

“Alastor,” Angel mused, voice sweet and sultry as he left his spot to saunter over to the Radio Demon. The deer smiled up at Angel in a genuine display, the sight blocked by Angel’s being as he got closer. Lifting one of his many hands, he slowly placed it on Alastor’s cheek, giving him time to back up if he needed to. When he didn’t, his head tilting to rest in the gesture, Angel trailed it down to where he was grabbing Alastor’s chin and tilting his head up so their eyes could properly meet. “Smiles… Where the fuck have you been these past seven years?”

In seconds, the sweetness that had been previously wafting around Angel dropped and a cruel and harsher tone took over. Grip tightening on Alastor’s chin to the point where his nail dug into the flesh and almost pierced it with his claws, blood ready to begin bubbling out. One of Alastor’s ears twitched, his smile hardening as he grinned up at Angel, ready to diffuse the situation.

“What’s going on with those two?” Vaggie murmured, pointing an accusing finger at the both of them.

Hearing her voice, Angel let go of Alastor’s chin and instead reached up to grip one of Alastor’s red ears. Pinching down hard, Angel pulled Alastor in step with him as he turned the both of them around to face the small group that was watching their untouching reunion. In a deadpan Angel announced, “He’s my husband.”

“Aww,” Charlie very quickly cooed despite the situation, earning a blare of static from Alastor.

“Why don’t we move this to the privacy of my room, Dear?” Alastor attempted to wiggle his way out of Angel’s grip, one of his tentacles coiling around Angel’s arm to try and yank him off, though Angel stayed strong in not letting Alastor out of his grip.

“Oh, so you made yourself nice and comfy here before tryin’ to track me down to let me know you were back?” Angel scoffed as he pulled on Alastor’s ear tighter, practically shouting into it as he lowered himself to speak into it. “Let me guess, you were gonna go start shit with Vox before even droppin’ by to let me know you weren’t dead.”

Alastor’s response couldn’t be heard as the pair of them were engulfed by shadows, transported to wherever Alastor desired. Behind them, they left two bewildered girls and an amused Husk at seeing his boss get a good yelling at. Sucking a calming breath in that didn’t work in the slightest, Vaggied said, “What. The. Fuck.”

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 10 months

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Childhood Crush (Request)

Pairings: Jack Harlow x Famous!Reader

Words: 1,316

Sneak Peek: You always knew that Jack was a ladies’ man, but his room established that he might be woman obsessed. He had multiple posters of celebrities taped to the ceiling, the largest being a poster of Vanessa Hudgens from an old J-14 magazine.

Warnings: None really, pure fluff, a little making out

“Are you sure? Your mom said I could take the guest room, I don’t want to take up your bed” you followed Jack into his childhood bedroom, Jack dropping your multiple suitcases on the end of the bed with a huff. “Not a problem at all, I don’t really sleep in here when I come home, the bed is kind of small now. I usually sleep in the basement.” Jack placed a kiss on your forehead, cradling the back of your head. Jack had invited you back to his hometown for the long Memorial Day weekend, and you immediately accepted. Between recording your new album and the long hours spent on set taping your upcoming film, you were burnt out.

You had met Jack on the set of ‘White Men Can’t Jump’ last summer, and you two had immediately hit it off. You were an industry veteran, and Jack was the cocky rapper you had heard about through multiple friends. You weren’t sure what to expect of him as your co-star because he seemed like a womanizer, but he came to set hungry and humble, ready to learn as much as possible. It took about two days for you to become a fan of his, and shortly after you were seriously dating.

You spun around a couple of times to take in the sight in front of you. The walls were a bright blue, all the furniture classic wooden pieces. For the most part, it looked like a typical teen’s room, complete with soccer trophies and medals on top of the dresser, and pictures of him and his friends haphazardly taped to the wall. You never really had a room that you got a chance to decorate and make your own, because between traveling for your career and your parent’s divorce when you were 10, you were never stationary anywhere. You were very jealous that Jack had a stable home to come to no matter how big his career became.

“This room is a time capsule for high school Jack.” Clay poked his head into the room, stepping through the threshold and immediately laying on the bed, throwing his shoes on top of the worn striped comforter covering the mattress. You chuckled, pushing him over so you could lay down as well, tired from the long flight from Los Angeles to Louisville. Clay offered you some of his M&Ms, shoving the small box in your face, but you kindly declined. “Shut the fuck up Clay”, Jack sat backwards on his computer chair, his face deadpan. Clay gave Jack a middle finger, giddy that he had gotten Jack riled up in front of his girl. It’s the little things really.

You always knew that Jack was a ladies’ man, but his room established that he might be woman obsessed. He had multiple posters of celebrities taped to the ceiling, the largest being a poster of Vanessa Hudgens from an old J-14 magazine. You would be concerned if you didn’t find it so funny. “If these walls could talk, huh?” You joked, pointing up. “Y/N, you have no idea”, Clay muttered, his mouth full of chocolate. Clay put on his best mocking cartoon voice, his interpretation of the basketball themed wallpaper in the room. “Please Jack, please stop jacking off to Vanessa Hudgens, we can’t take it anymore. Oh, the horror!” Jack got up from his chair and singlehandedly pulled Clay off the bed by his hoodie. “Get. Out.” He gritted his teeth at Clay, his hand still on his hoodie as he pushed his brother out of the room. “See ya later Y/N!” he waived at you while he stumbled backward. “Bye, Clay!”

Jack shut and locked the door before turning around to look at you. You gave him a sweet look and patted the bed. “Come lay down with me, I need a nap and I sleep better with you holding me”, Jack took off his sweatshirt and was about to lay down, but the suitcases on the bed were bothering him. “Let me put these bags in the closet. We’ll be more comfortable that way.” “Ok”, you responded while you pulled out your phone to set an alarm for one hour from now. You didn’t want to miss dinner with his family. “My mom is super excited to cook for you,” Jack admitted while he grabbed the bags off the bed and made his way to the closet. “She makes a fuckin’ good lasagna and- “Jack opened the door and immediately slammed it shut, the sound making you jump. He dropped the bags and turned around on his heels. “Jack, what happened?” His face was beet red, and he raked his fingers through his hair, something he did when he was nervous. “Uh, nothing, closet is just full.” Not believing him, you got up from the bed and walked over to the closet. “What, do you have any skeletons in there? Listen, it’s probably nothing I haven’t seen.” He jumped in front of you, stopping you from grabbing the handle. “Listen, my mom has some old creepy dolls in there she inherited from her grandma, straight nightmare fuel.” “Ooh, I love antique dolls!”, you clapped your hands together in glee.

Jack rolled his eyes, “Of course you do.”

He stepped to the side, and you swung the door open. There it was, taped to the back of the closet door. A poster of you from your first Teen Vogue cover shoot over 10 years ago. You raked your hand over the paper, noticing that there were distinctive worn spots on your lips and over both of your breasts. You turned to Jack who was willing himself to combust, anything to get him out of this room. “Look, baby, I can explain-” you cut him off as you jumped into his arms, kissing him deeply as he adjusted to settling you in his arms. When you pulled away to catch your breath, you had a huge smile on your face. “Bed, now”. Jack quickly complied, throwing you onto the bed and jumping to hover over you. You made out for a few minutes, before Jack started unbuttoning your shirt.

“So, are we going to talk about it?”

“Nope” Jack answered immediately, keeping his focus on placing kisses on your chests and breasts poking out above your bra. You pushed him off your body, Jack sighing as he sat back on his haunches. “Listen Jack, I’m really flattered that you had a poster of me in your room when you were growing up. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Why didn’t you tell me?” you propped yourself up on your elbows.

“It’s not so much the poster as it is what I did to that poster.” Jack’s face was beginning to flush again, and he was struggling to make eye contact. “Yeah, I noticed the lips were a bit darker than the rest of my picture.” You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively at him to show you were just messing with him.

“I, uh, used to practice kissing on that poster, all through 7th grade.”

“What?” you let out a laugh at his confession. “Yep, I was really horny in my defense.”, he clapped his hands together to signal he was done with the conversation and started getting up from the bed. Before he could make it very far you pulled him by his shirt collar back on top of you. “I think that is incredibly sweet” you looked down at his lips. “Really, huh?” Jack lowered down to kiss you again. “No offense to Vanessa- I think she’s a great girl” you looked up at the ceiling and Jack followed your eye line, plopping next to you on his back. “But we have to change that photo immediately.” Jack laughed, pulling out his phone. “I have about 100 naked pictures of you that we can choose from!”

#jack harlow #jack harlow x reader #jackman thomas harlow #jackharlow #jack harlow concepts #jackman harlow #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfic

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tinyvesselhearts · 1 year

Text

Thing Is (Protective Egon x You)

It’s a part of a slightly larger collection of one-shots but I’m pretty proud of this one so here it comes:

Egon x Reader/You No Y/N Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (minor injuries)

Thing is, he’s become too observant.

Egon knows you come to the station around 10 A.M. There’s no jumpsuits, car or equipment to maintain so you start with the kitchen. It’s not exactly a part of your duties: the guys are fully capable of washing their own, especially since they barely eat in. Yes, okay— he’ll agree none of them is a dishwashing phenomenon and they hardly ever manage to finish breakfast before their first call— but you can just leave the plates there and nobody would bat an eye.

You do it though. Without a word.

On Tuesday, while showing you monochromic ectoplasm bonds Type IV (Egon prompts it himself these days, no bribe included), he notices the skin on your hands is chapped. He knows you work with nasty chemicals while taking care of Ecto- 1 but you’ve always worn latex gloves— he’s seen them hanging on the heater, next to whichever colorful apron you chose for the day. The only time you work with your bare hands is while cleaning the kitchen. Wiping the counters. Scrubbing the sink.

You’re busy looking at the molecules of Type IV, while he does some research on what he calls The Collective. The sight of your dry fingers keeps nagging him though— there’s no way a simple detergent affects the cells so much— so after replaying all possible scenarios in his head, he can’t take it anymore. He pauses.

“You don’t have to do the dishes”, he states out of the blue. “You know that, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Why, then?”

You swivel in your chair and look at him.

“I mean, why not? It’s like 20 minutes, tops. You come back to a tidy home and it costs me nothing.”

But it does cost you your hands, he wants to say. There’s no way it doesn’t sound creepy though, even by his standards, so he just acknowledges that with a hum and a thank you. Arguing is pointless. You’ll do whatever you want anyway. He’s not even here to make sure you take care of yourself while on duty.

What he does, however, is wait till the evening and inspect what that low- budget detergent is made of. He’s quick to spot the culprits. It’s a nasty fragrant and the artificial dye. No wonder your skin is irritated. That thing would be harmless if, instead of using your hands, you scrubbed the plates with a metal rod as a part of your morning routine.

Egon buys a new liquid— top shelf this time— and adds some stuff of his own. Some softeners. A nice scent. He pours it into the old bottle so that you don’t think twice. Just a precaution. In case you realized it wasn’t your soap and look for that terrible, skin- devouring slime. He places it near the tap. Then waits.

Over the following weeks he’ll diligently observe how your skin gets better every time you come down to the lab. He’ll see the rough edges get smooth. Fractured knuckles seal shut. Nails regain their shine.

He’ll notice how gentle your fingers are when you secure his slides under microscopic lens.

👻

On this particular Thursday everything goes wrong.

There’s a Class 2 Free- Floating Vapor who’s wildly attracted to funky shapes and vivid hues. It’s the ethereal kind: one whose molecular structure fluctuates. He pries on wallpapers, bedsheet and clothes, tears them up and snugs like an unhinged puppy. Catching him is comparable to squeezing slippery soap. What complicates things even more is that Peter has a clumsy day so even though they manage to trap the ghost, it slips out at the station because somebody forgot to follow a few basic safety tips. Cool. It’s all cool.

Egon knocks at the laundry room’s door. He enters. You’re inside, hanging freshly washed suits.

“We’ve got a situation”, he informs. “Please, wait in here for a few minutes.”

“Oh? You guys need help?”

“We’ll handle this. Venkman let the vapor out. It’s nothing.”

“Oh. Okay.” You straighten up and smooth your apron (it’s the yellow one, embroidered with bees— you wear it when you feel especially joyful and of course it’s got to be today). “I can help, if—”

“No. It’s all under relative control. Don’t worry about it.”

He waits for you to nod, then steps out and closes the door. Relative. Great phrasing, Doctor Spengler.

He powers up the proton pack. The faster they get rid of the ghost, the better. You won’t have time to get creative.

Peter’s pressing a gauze to his nose. It’s bleeding. Not from within though, looks like a cut and that’s relevant: if the vapor is capable of transferring molecules and strengthen bonds within different body parts at will, it could thicken its limbs enough to cause physical harm to humans. Class 2 are rarely aggressive— annoying, yes, destructive as well— but they aren’t interested in manhunt. Maybe this one’s been triggered enough to choose attack for defense.

“Who’s got the trap?”

“I do!” Winston kicks the pedal. “The stream won’t hold long enough though!”

Ray’s standing at the other side of the room, protecting their dear vehicle.

“We should stream it together from different angles! It won’t be able to wiggle out! Let’s try that and move him towards the trap in sync!”

“Baby, you’re lucky I’m a terrific dancer”, says Peter and aims at the ghost.

Egon assesses the situation. The vapor stays too close to the reception for their benefit— the massive wooden desk is going to be a great shield for the specter if they aren’t precise enough. The deeper they go within the station, the more damage they’ll cause. That’s not worth it. Too much precious stuff to risk.

They could try a bait. They’ll have to find some red herring and place it far away: ideally, further into the garage, near the door. Lots of space, no hiding spots. Relative damage control. Cheap repairs. No casualties, either.

He notices Janine’s scarf hanging over her chair: conspicuous, extravagant and frilled, covered in a cheetah pattern. A perfect lure for the ghost. It’s still Janine’s— and she’s upstairs, taking cover in Tully’s office— and once it’s all over she’ll absolutely hate them for destroying her garment. She’d cut their ears off for it, if she could. Luckily, she’s too small for that. Radical.

“Yo! How can I help you, boys?”

For the Mother of—

Egon turns his head. It’s you— standing right at the door in that silly, yellow apron— because of course you are. Hell, you’re an embodiment of what a perfect live bait looks like in this scenario. However, your position (from the strategic point of view) is the absolute worst. You should either take off that apron immediately or move away— and move fast.

“Gear up!” Winston shouts to you. “He’s actually dangerous! Scratched Peter in the face!”

“Guess I was just too pretty!”

The vapor dashes in your direction. It’s quick. You grunt, try to dodge and fail miserably: its slimy claws reach your neck and graze your shirt in a failed attempt to rip off the perky apron. You growl and crouch before Ray chases the ghost off with a stream.

“Ah. Funk. Shite.”, you grunt. “I’ll get the proton pack!”

Egon can’t fucking believe it.

He eases down the proton rod and appears in front of you in a few long strides. No questions, no warning, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder like a sack— then proceeds to literally carry you away from the scene.

“What the heck?!” You yelp. “Let me go!”

“Over my dead body.”

Ray and Winston struggle to aim, Peter does more talking than shooting— as usual— so the vapor dissipates and the streams slide off of its ethereal body. The moment isn’t ideal for being a knight in the shining armor but it’s as good as any. Your safety is more important than a burned wall or Peter’s personal opinion (he surely has one— he saw you two— he did a double take).

All of that is irrelevant. What matters though, is that Egon is aware.

You’re close. Locks brush against his ear and your breath is hot on the nape of his neck. The air tingles his tiny hairs. It tickles, it’s distracting and he tenses up, fingers finding their way into your hair. Then, the scent of soap he planted for you reaches his nostrils— and it’s good, it means you’re taken care of. Your hands clutch his jumpsuit— on his shoulder blades, on his chest— and pull at his damp undershirt just because it’s there, right underneath, warm and soaked with sweat.

You’re holding on to him for dear life. You’re around him, everywhere, all at once and it takes every ounce of his willpower to stay focused.

He lets you go in the far corner of the garage. You slide off. Your numb hands linger on his patch and under his collar. Eyes lock.

For a split second he fights an urge to lean in— to press his forehead to yours, to feel you’re right there, safe, away from danger. He almost does. Then he sees blood on your collarbone and his face turns stark.

“What’s that?”

“Um”, you look downwards and tap the stain with your finger. “I don’t know.”

“He scratched you.”

“ I mean, it doesn’t hurt now, so—”

“He scratched you.”

Something within him shifts. He’s all fire and smoke, jaw set, breath hot, eyes sharp and unrelenting. His fists clench, knuckles whiten, a wave of heat reaches his ears— and in this moment he barely recognizes himself.

“Egon…?”

“Winston!” He yells. “Set the trap!”

Your hands grab his sleeve but the grasp is weak, unsure— as if you wanted to anchor him before he does something stupid. Egon vaguely registers that. The fabric slips away from your grip and he strides away, gaze fixated on the ghost. He supports the proton gun on his arm and aims.

Ray picks up on this change of demeanor immediately.

“Ho, someone’s pissed!” He chants. “We’re shooting on three!”

Peter seems to come round as well. He tosses the bloody gauze on the floor (the wound he got is a sleek, clean line, it doesn’t seem deep) and clenches his teeth.

“You envied my pretty face, huh?”

What happens next is difficult to put in the correct order. There’s a loud shriek, a flash of streams coming from at least three proton packs, a loud zap and a warm glow. There’s also a burnt smudge on the ceiling, stretching all the way from garage door to the reception desk, an armchair on the first floor that’s set of fire and — for some inexplicable reason— two bulbs have just exploded.

Janine and Louis run out of the office. Everybody’s quiet. Thick smoke comes from the trap and the air is still until the red light on it switches on.

“…It’s inside.” Winston sighs. “Are you guys okay?”

Ray does a one over. The overall damage is considerable but Janine’s already prancing around the armchair with an extinguisher and the ceiling— well, it’s not like any client ever pays attention to the ceiling, right?— so everything’s taken care of. Peter extends a thumb in a weak attempt to show it is, in fact, alright.

“Yeah. I’ll go get changed. More than enough for today.”

Egon turns his head towards you. You’re still standing right where he put you: far away from the scene, unsure and anxious. His head is still burning. How stupid of you, how reckless not to listen to his request— how much unnecessary stress, how much disaster— what an idiotic move to ignore an explicit warning—

Ray is a perceptive guy.

“I’ll handle the trap”, he says and leaves the garage first.

👻

You take off the apron, blood splatter tainting a bee you embroidered yourself.

“…Oh. I doubt it’ll come off.”

Egon lets you into his lab and closes the door.

“It will”, he assures you. “Here, change. I won’t look.”

“Thank you.”

He lets you swap your ripped shirt for one of his sweaters while he skims over the first aid kit. There must be some ectoplasmic residue around the gash. If he gets a good quality sample, he could run a few tests and see how the molecular transfer works in reference to changing the ghost’s state of matter. It’s a first. If they could figure it out, that would be a real breakthrough.

“I’m, uh. I’m decent.”

Egon picks up a petri dish, a bottle of antiseptic spray and some gauze pads. He sits in a chair right in front of you, rolls up his sleeves and leans over to inspect the wound.

A long red line runs over your collarbone, up to your neck. It’s fresh, red splatters specked across your throat and chest but despite the impact, it doesn’t seem dangerous. He’s relieved to see the other end of the scratch— it’s right above your chest. The hem of his sweater hangs a little loose on you, allowing easy access. Thank God for small mercies.

The light is dim. It’s the blue glow he uses when he needs to focus. Crisp air wraps around him like a blanket. Drawers and tools are outlined by its faint radiance, particles of dust only fleeting in proximity— the specks move slowly, lazily, as if they had the whole time in the world.

Egon takes his time as well. He disinfects his hands, picks up a cotton stick and leans into your personal space. Your body radiates with heat. He chooses not to think about it: instead, he works around the wound and collect samples. The tip gathers some of the ectoplasm left by the attack. He’s careful to avoid pressing against the slit— only prods at its edges, makes sure none of the cotton fibers get into your wound. Fingers brush against your neck. Your skin is warm.

You look up.

“Are you mad at me?”

“I don’t know what I am at you”, he exhales, then puts away the sample. He takes a scrap of gauze and soaks it with spirits. “It may sting.”

The cloth touches your skin. It’s cold and it burns.

“Eesh. Oof.” You nod. “Yeah, that’s the feeling.”

“Familiar?”

“Ah. Scout camps. We’d get a lot of these. Scraping your way through the woods and all that.”

Egon frowns, meeting your gaze.

“Weren’t your uniforms designed to protect you from those?”

“A cotton button- down skirt? Knee- length? Seriously.”

“…Okay, I can see your point”, he snorts— and you chuckle too, glint in your eyes — and it’s warm in his chest.

He cleans the gash way longer than necessary. Your skin seems so fragile up close. Drops of liquid sanitizer glide against it, guiding him through the task. He runs over them with gentle pads again and again, smearing the antiseptic into an even coat. Delicate swipes leave smudges, which’s irregular lines shapes gleam on your skin. The wound looks a little better. It’s a cue. He doesn’t stop.

“Egon, I’d like to thank you for all of this”, you almost whisper. “I know I screwed up. I’m terribly sorry. I should have been wiser and stay where I was told.”

He frowns. He was mad at you before you came down to the lab. He should still be mad at you but hormones are like tides— they rise and retract, they take over, then dissipate— and he’s just not feeling it anymore.

“We’re good”, he murmurs. “I’ve neglected the issue myself. I should teach you how to use our equipment. Accidents will happen. It’s imperative you’re capable of defending yourself.”

“You’re the experts though. I keep forgetting my place.”

“You’re not bound to a place. You’re a person, not a pet.”

There’s a slight swift in your expression. He doesn’t look— doesn’t dare, really, his demeanor is all too bothering— but your whole body relaxes, as if dead weight just fell off your chest.

“It’s been a long day but at least you got the sample, right? A silver lining?”

Egon looks at you. He’s met with a smirk but— heck, it must be the adrenaline residue or some unusual distress (he’s gotten considerably better at reading your emotions as of late)— he can’t interpret whether you’re being honest or sarcastic. Thin ice. Better make sure.

“Um. Was it wrong of me?”

“Silly”, you let out a laugh. “Not at all. I’m glad, as stupid as it sounds.”

He shivers but manages a smile. It’s chemistry or biology, one of the two. Ridiculous.

Both of you fall into comfortable silence. He finishes patching you up, while you’re just sitting there, looking over the lab. Your neck is close. Breaths mingle. It’s soft and warm. He could stay like that for the rest of the evening but there’s only so much proximity he can go away with (or handle) at once so he leans back.

“That’s all. Keep it dry. Clean in again before you go to bed.”

“Thanks. I’ll go put your jumpsuits in the laundry.”

“Yes.”

He raises from the chair but feels a grasp on his hand. He looks at you and freezes. You seem to purposefully avoid his gaze but dare to lift his fingers to your lips in a gentle motion. He’s not prepared for this. His mind is blank. He—

“No. I mean it”, you press your cheek into his knuckles, eyes squeezed shut. “Thank you for taking care of me, Egon. I owe you again. At this rate, I’d better start paying it off or I’m going to be in debt for a long time, huh?”

No, he wants to say. You owe me nothing, but he can’t utter a word so he watches you stand up, offer a smile and leave, snugly wrapped in his sweater.

There are some noises upstairs. They’re foggy. Later, he’ll be pretty sure Ray called his name at some point but the only thing he registers tonight is loud white noise, an ache in his ribs and warmth in his temple. He carries it to the kitchen, where he eats eggs for supper— then bathroom, where he takes a long shower— then his bed when he goes to sleep. He leaves his flip- flops on the floor but the feeling slides with him under the covers.

It’s late. It should go away, dissipate, but it doesn’t. He counts sheep, tries meditating and stretches every breath to ridiculous extends. It doesn’t help though: it’s still there, strong, unrelenting, it keeps him awake for at least two more hours.

He’s not stupid. He recognizes the symptoms.

He just doesn’t recall struggling with them so damn much.

_____

For those who have already read it: SORRY for posting it again, I just wanted to make it easier for people who exclusively use Tumblr to get to know this piece of fanfiction ;__; Have a great day, thanks for putting up with my antics, I LOVE YOU ALL

#egon spengler #egon spengler imagines #imagines #writing prompts #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #ghostbusters #self insert #reader insert #egon spengler x you #egon spengler x reader #harold ramis #imagine #im a simp

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marvelmusing · 1 year

Note

Hi, hi, hi!

I have to share something 🙃

Sooo youtube just recommended a vid of the School for Good and Evil with Rafal (probably bc I was looking for shadow and bone wallpapers for like two days in a row and there are like 3 at tops 😒, anyway...)

Watching it, I just realized there's a much more interesting story behind the idea of the movie: Rafal slowly corrupting good 😱

So, the ramblings idea:

Aleksander started out in the school of good, he was to be a hero for his people, a saint like his grandfather. But when his power manifested he was feared and put into the school for evil and he slowly (over centuries) did become truly evil and not long after graduating the principal too...

He was bitter and lonely and that led to a path to a sort of revenge that started out as a lesson he wanted to teach to the people who judged him...

The plan (at first) was to make some of the kids of the people who cast him out "evil", so he can show them that everyone has both good and evil sides but the plan worked too well and he found joy in making them pay for turning on him...

And that was when he truly turned evil...

His work was almost finished. Over centuries heroes got vain, prideful, and mean. Almost at the brink of becoming evil but something was missing...

Then he found you. A Reader with great power that could match his own. A lost soul just like him, who had good intentions but deep down there was something darker that only needed a little nudge from him to get free...

😈

Okay I love this so much

[I knew that Rafal would end up being fully evil as I watched the film, but the feeling of my hope dying when they did the classic villain reveal (the whole ha ha you fell for the bad guy’s manipulation) was disappointing. The film is probably aimed at teens so they can’t have evil win but I just want a villain to be genuine when he says he wants to rule the world together you know?]

Anyways….

I’m gonna turn the school into a university so that the vibes don’t end up icky between Aleksander and the Reader

I feel like Aleksander also sees that being evil often means that his students are more themselves and freer than those at the school for good.

When you arrive at the school for good, Aleksander isn’t surprised that you don’t fit in with the other students. For the first time in a long time, he sees someone with truly good intentions struggling to understand why everyone ‘Good’ is so awful.

He watches you from a distance, seeing how uncomfortable you are surrounded by the entitled princes and princesses. He knows you’re far better than any of them - you deserve to be a queen.

He sees the flicker of anger in your eyes when they mock and demean you. He feels the anger himself, prickling over his skin as he suppresses the urge to put them all in their places.

One day you’re wandering through the grounds and come across the wall that divides the gardens of good and evil. This is where Aleksander first makes contact with you.

The two of you speak through the wall for hours, though he keeps his identity as the headmaster a secret from you - carefully answering your questions so that you believe he is a student, or perhaps a teacher from the sound of his voice.

Regardless of who he is exactly, he provides you with thoughtful advice and an opportunity to talk to someone who you feel actually understands you.

From then onwards, once a week you visit the gardens and sit by the wall where you meet with Aleksander, and the two of you talk about all manner of things. He seems amused whenever you talk about the headmaster for the school for evil and you wonder how much contact the students have with their headmaster.

The headmistress for the school for good was always chastising you, making you feel stupid and naive.

On a particularly difficult day, you rush through the garden with tears welling in your eyes.

When you reach your usual spot where you meet with Aleksander you continue walking, moving towards the portion of the wall that had collapsed and crumbled away. You slide between the large pieces of stone and step into the garden of evil for the first time.

Aleksander lifts his head up when he hears you approaching, his eyes widening as you rush towards him. He reacts instantly, curling his arms around you as you throw yourself against his chest and begin to cry. He soothes you as best he can, encouraging you both to sit down together.

He keeps you close, stroking your hair and murmuring soft assurances, telling you that you are safe with him, that he will protect you from anything.

Once your tears have slowed enough for you to speak, you explain shakily that the headmistress had humiliated you in front of everyone. You were clumsy during ballroom practice and no one had wanted to dance with you.

Your feet are blistered and Aleksander, knowing that you had ballroom practice today, pulls out an ointment and helps to rub it into your tender heels.

Tears still continue to drop down your face and he provides whatever comfort he can, though Aleksander isn’t certain whether the majority of your pain is physical or emotional.

He gets his answer soon enough.

Aleksander’s heart shatters when you ask him if he thinks you’re unlovable. He has meticulously planned his every action for the last few centuries, but he doesn’t think at all as he bends down to kiss you.

“You are not unlovable,” he insists in a low voice as you blink dazedly when he withdraws his lips from yours. “You have a kind soul, something they will never understand.”

Dropping your face down against his chest, you cling to him.

“I know how you feel,” he murmurs softly as your fingers play with the charm that hangs from his necklace. “You want to prove them all wrong. You want to show them exactly what you’re capable of.”

You nod weakly.

“I do.”

“I can help you.”

The metal charm is smooth under your fingertips, a familiar shape carved onto the dark stained silver. The sun in eclipse. The Darkling’s symbol.

Only a select few are permitted to wear his symbol. None of them would risk his wrath by talking to a student from the school for good, which can mean only one thing.

You had only seen the headmaster for evil once, at the beginning of your first year and it had been from across the brightly lit ballroom in the school for good. You hadn’t the chance to admire his face from such a distance.

Sitting up, you look at Aleksander properly. Perfectly styled dark hair, a neat beard, and dark eyes filled with concern.

You know who he is, he can see it in your gaze. But instead of turning away from him, like he fears, you lift your chin determinedly.

“What do I do?” you ask.

He takes hold of his necklace, lifting it up over his head to place it around your neck. You stare down at his symbol as the cool metal rests against your skin.

“You show them who you really are.”

#answered asks #thanks for the ask!#my mutuals (affectionate)#aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone au #shadow and bone x reader

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saintsenara · 1 year

Text

lamentation sirius black & walburga black teen | 2.1k words

they would give me a guest room at the top of the house, where a view of london unfolded before me like a pen-and-ink drawing, and the walls were soft and pink, their paper patterned with undulating roses. the house seemed, then, like a paradise.

but that was before. before they sold me to a man i did not love. before my sons were born.

my sons are both dead now.

walburga's portrait is told that sirius is dead.

this piece was written for @womenofthehouseofblack fest, [you can find the other fics in the collection here].

author's notes under the cut

i found the prompt for this piece - what would happen when walburga's portrait was informed of sirius' death - immediately intriguing, because walburga’s portrait is a character i find incredibly interesting; firstly, because she is described in ways which make her sound ancient when she actually died in her early sixties, and secondly, because she provides a fascinating insight into how the wizarding world thinks about mental illness.

i have always hated the fanon about black family madness - particularly since it is so frequently only applied to the women of the family - due to the way in which it undermines the harry potter series’ focus on the value of choice. turning walburga and bellatrix’s cruelty into something innate or genetic distances them from the reality of what they did and how their decisions affected other people. it also prevents them from having complicated emotions and motivations, and - above all - it prevents them from having the capacity to atone for their deeds.

it also denies the fact that a huge amount of mental illness is treatable.

i have always had the headcanon that walburga’s relationship with her sons was affected by untreated postnatal depression - also a theme in nor all that glisters gold [author’s notes here], another piece of mine for this fest - which is exacerbated in lamentation by the additional pain of her high-risk pregnancy and traumatic birth experience with sirius. unable to bond with her son, who she thinks is a changeling, but confined to the house with him by the rigidity of gendered pureblood social convention, her illness spirals into psychosis.

the wizarding world seems to be of the opinion that mental illness doesn’t really exist. when this is examined through the lens of gender, an obvious parallel appears between women’s writing about mental illness in the nineteenth century - walburga, who is, in canon, a pastiche of the madwoman in the attic [the most famous example of which is, of course, bertha rochester from jane eyre] deserves an examination from the other side of the trope. the repeated motif in lamentation of the roses in the wallpaper is a reference to charlotte perkins gilman’s the yellow wallpaper - one of the clearest examples of the damage done to victorian women by the isolation and condescension they received from men in lieu of any holistic treatment for their illness. walburga’s dialogue - the portrait’s screams competing with a more lucid monologue - was inspired by the contrast between how antoinette "bertha" rochester speaks in jane eyre and how she speaks in jean rhys’ wide sargasso sea.

and, as antoinette gets a chance to speak for herself in that text, walburga gets a chance to speak for herself here - something she is denied in the canon narrative, which reduces her to an incoherent, screaming bigot [even as kreacher tells us that sirius leaving home broke her heart]. lamentation offers some contextualisation for the canonical walburga’s obsession with blood and its purity - she does, after all, a significant amount of bleeding in this piece, which naturally distresses her - and with belonging to and being a real member of the family - after all, regulus was snatched by the fairies, and dragged down into the netherworld; sirius left and then came back and then was snatched himself.

an important postscript: both postnatal and antenatal depression are common conditions. they affect more than one in ten pregnant women, they can strike anyone in any circumstances [you can experience them even if your pregnancy was "easy" or if you have a lot of support in the first weeks of your baby’s life], and they are never your fault. they can be serious - and it’s crucial that we challenge the pervasive myth that they are "less serious" than other forms of depression - but they are inherently treatable. the best thing that you can do is to know the signs of these and other perinatal mental illnesses, whether for yourself or for someone else, and make sure to seek help if any of them seem to be present. a diagnosis of postnatal depression does not mean that you will be seen as an unfit parent, and it will not automatically result in your baby being taken away.

the following pages may be useful:

action on post-partum psychosis - for anyone who experiences psychosis during and after pregnancy, provides useful information, resources for health professionals, and advice on how to access support.

association for postnatal illness - for anyone who experiences a mental illness during and after pregnancy, provides useful information and resources.

birth trauma association - for anyone who experiences post-traumatic stress disorder after birth, provides useful medical and legal resources, as well as links to support groups and other contacts.

breastfeeding network - for anyone who wishes to breastfeed and requires support, has links to local support groups.

home start - for parents who need support, provides advice on topics from mental health to financial aid and can offer direct support to families in need.

maternal ocd - for anyone who experiences obsessive compulsive disorder during pregnancy or after birth, provides useful information and resources.

pandas - for anyone who experiences depression or anxiety during and after pregnancy, provides direct support.

postpartum men - for men who experience mental illness during or after (their partner's) pregnancy, provides useful information and resources.

#asenora fics #walburga black #sirius black #regulus black #lamentation #women of the house of black fest

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soulmateszedits · 1 year

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Niel × Teen Top ; A to Z ᓚᘏᗢ

✧ Era

✧ AJ

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teletogami · 1 year

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komaeda/reader week, day 6: arts and crafts

words: 1594

synopsis: both you and nagito take designing your house in The Sims very seriously.

contains: gender-neutral reader, fluff, childhood best friends (probably young teens here), platonic or romantic it doesn’t matter you guys are together forever, yes the sims is an art and craft

a/n: this is my first time posting any fic on tumblr bc of eli’s komaeda/reader week :)) forgive me if the formatting is bad, I’m unfamiliar with the text editor.

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You yawned as you returned to your bedroom, closing the door behind you after you slipped inside. It was warmer and darker than the rest of the house; a cave of your own making, with a space heater running close to your bed, and the ceiling lights turned off in favour of some dainty string lights haphazardly pinned to the walls. You didn’t mind the ceiling lights, but Nagito despised them for reasons you didn’t understand, preferring something more soft and ambient instead. You were fine to concede. If it made your room feel more like home to him, you’d do anything.

Poking around the corner of your doorway, you spotted him in the centre of your bed. He was in the same position as you’d left him in; hunched forward with the hood of his sweater pulled over a head of messy white hair, one of his knees pulled up to his chest while the other leg stretched out in front of him. He was illuminated by the bright light from your laptop, which was resting on the bed as close to him as he could get it. You could see just how focused he appeared to be in that glow, with his light green eyes narrowed as they flicked around from corner to corner of the screen, a bit of his tongue sticking out as he messed with the trackpad carefully. You recognized the tongue thing well. He was definitely trying to move some furniture or something.

“You better not be screwing with my sitting room.” You threatened sarcastically, shoving your hands in the pockets of your own hoodie as you began to pad over to him. He raised his head, seemingly a bit caught off guard by your reappearance. When his eyes met yours in the dimly lit room though, he smiled so widely that the corners of his eyes began to crinkle in the way they always did. It made the room feel even warmer somehow. Perhaps that was a result of your heart rate picking up in your chest. He was so cute.

“I wouldn’t dare.” He assured you happily, straightening up a bit and placing his hand on his lower back while he stretched it out. Sitting hunched over like this was not good for either of you, and yet you’d been building this house for hours now. It didn’t matter. You were having too much fun to care. “I’m just trying to figure out how I want this chair in my little reading nook.”

You reached the bed and slid on top of the comforter next to him, laying your legs across his own as you leaned forward to get a look at the screen. Nagito had made a small room adjacent to the sitting room, not much larger than an average walk-in closet, walls lined with bookshelves. The wallpaper was an olive green colour, something that felt cosy, and the armchair he was currently messing with was plush and coloured deep brown, a few throw pillows added on top of it.

“You know, we can make anything in this game.” You noted, leaning your head down on his shoulder as you watched him move the mouse around the chair. “You could give yourself a whole library if you wanted to.”

“Mm. But I don’t want a library.” His voice sounded somewhat melodic. You wanted to wrap yourself in it. Instead, you settled for his free arm, which wrapped itself around your shoulders and gave you a squeeze. “I want a nook. Warm, little. Like a cocoon but it’s a room. And it smells like books!” The excitement in his tone gave it a unique lilt, as if he was dancing you across the words, through the vivid picture.

The Sims didn’t do it justice, but you could see this nook, and him in it. Blanket strewn over his lanky legs as they were strewn across the side of the armchair, awkwardly holding the book above him. When he really got into a story, he usually never sat up properly. It suited him somehow, as if such a thing was more of a natural state for limbs that seemed almost liquid at times.

“What if I want to join you in this hypothetical nook? Or is it off limits?” Ah, did you sound too dreamy when you said that? The two of you had been friends for years. Your lives were intertwined with one another in such a way that never allowed for them to separate. The idea that you’d live together when you were old enough wasn’t a shocking one; you would always be together, even when you were all grown up. That was the way it was, and the way it would always be. Still, whether or not that would remain platonic was something you frequently questioned. A part of you wished for it to change. A part of you was scared of anything new. But in the end, you knew you didn’t have to worry, or rush. For now, you could just design your dream house in the Sims for an embarrassingly long time, and not worry about such things. You were together. That was what mattered.

“It’s our house. Nothing would be off limits to you.” He replied with a sage smile.

“But it’s quite small. I wouldn’t fit.” You posited teasingly, reaching up to give his hand a squeeze.

“You would if we snuggled.” He began to chuckle, and you watched the mouse freeze on the right side of the screen as he looked away to nuzzle his nose against your cheek. You began to giggle almost reluctantly, shoving at his chest to push him off of you. Your cheeks were too warm for this. You wondered if he’d noticed.

“Gross.” You muttered, though you didn’t mean it. When you glanced back at him, the look on his face told you that he was well aware you didn’t mean it either. Oh well.

“I mean, it would be better if I could fit a bigger armchair in here.” He switched the subject, perhaps for your sake. It didn’t change the fact that you were practically snuggling right now, though it did make your blush fade. You leaned your head back against his shoulder again as he clicked on the object, attempting to turn it around. The box around it turned red when he twisted it into the perfect orientation, and you could hear him swear a bit under his breath. “But I can’t. And the controls are so limiting!”

You snorted a bit at his frustration. It was adorable. “Just leave it as it was before. When we make the real nook, I’m sure we’ll be able to squish it in there.”

“We set out this morning to make this thing perfect!” He sounded like he was scolding you for your suggestion, but you could tell he was mostly trying to tease you. This whole thing had been your idea, after all, even if he was the one taking it more seriously by now.

“And now it’s almost 7pm, Nagito. We have to make compromises.” You drawled sarcastically, lolling your head backward onto his shoulder to see his expression as he stared down at the screen again. You could see him attempting to sneak a glance at you in a way that he thought you wouldn’t notice. You did. It made you smile.

“Says the person who spent who knows how long on the paint colour for the sitting room.” He retorted with a grin, biting it back a bit on his bottom lip. Cute.

“It needed to be the right shade of maroon.” You defended yourself, beginning to laugh.

You thought you saw him smile wider at the sound.

“Guys!” Your father’s voice coming from down the hall made you sit up in place, steading yourself with a hand on Nagito’s knee. “Dinner!”

You looked back at Nagito, and he looked down at you, appearing apprehensive. You were already rolling your eyes as you slid off of him and the bed, hand slipping down to his wrist to pull him along with you. “Ah! Just five more minutes. I’m almost done with this room.” He whined, resisting your hold as his hands grasped at the sides of your laptop.

“We can pick out lighting fixtures ‘til the sun comes up, Nagito. But right now we need to eat!” You protested, giving him a good yank. He let out a short squeal, but instead of falling as he did on many occasions, your arms scooped him up and set him straight on his feet. After years of being his friend, you were very used to the act of Komaeda-catching.

He grumbled a little bit as you pushed him forwards, but, as with most things, he went along with it because you were you. You reached ahead to open the door for him, and watched with a stupid grin on your face as he quickly began to squint into the hallway light, having been holed away in the darkness of your room for far too long. “Too bright.” He groaned.

“You can do it, my little hermit crab.” You teased, rubbing his shoulder as the two of you began to walk towards the kitchen, your matching fuzzy socks barely making any noise at all during the journey.

The house wasn’t completed until the early hours of the morning, and was quickly destroyed by a house fire caused by Nagito’s sim attempting to cook a grilled cheese.

Thankfully, you had a save file.

#komaedareaderweek2022 #nagito komaeda #nagito komaeda x reader #komaeda x reader #nagito x reader

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writergirl3 · 1 year

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Get To Know Me Tag!

So I thought this would be a cool idea so y’all can find out more about me🥰

I’ve tagged some 4 Townies below, but anyone can take part! If I tagged you and you don’t wanna answer the questions, obvs that’s cool too💙

The tag is just one I found searching on Tumblr, credit goes to the original creator. Maybe someone should make a 4 Town-specific version of this…?

Share your wallpaper;

It’s a picture I took in Greece years ago 🥰

The last song you listened to;

Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours) - Stevie Wonder

Currently Reading;

Erm… nothing…

Being an English student kinda ruined reading for me. Plus, I really struggle to focus on a book for longer than like five minutes.

Pretty sure the last thing I finished was a Sophie Kinsella book, though.

Last Movie;

Diary of a Wimpy Kid 3, lol… I’m such a child😂

Craving;

Honestly? A night of unbroken sleep…

What are you wearing right now;

Tie-dye blue pjs!

How tall are you;

You ask me? 5’5.

Ask my mum? 5’4…

Piercings;

Double lobes, I always wear some small hoops in them. I used to have my left helix pierced and I loved it but had to take it out…

I wanna get it redone though, and also get my forward helix.

Tattoos;

None, they’re not really my thing!

Glasses? Contacts?;

Glasses to drive and watch TV. Also need them to see anything at night. Other than that, I don’t wear ‘em.

Last drink;

Pepsi Max (I’m never not sipping on the stuff)

Last show;

Friday Night Dinner! If you’re from the UK, then you know…

Last thing you ate;

Some leftover Easter chocolate…

Favourite colour;

Blue, but I’ve recently been drawn to lilac a lot.

Current obsession;

Honestly, not really anything? I mean, I’m always obsessing over 4 Town, but that’s nothing new…

Unrelated Obsession;

Again, I’m not really obsessed with anything rn, but I guess things I’m super interested in rn are baking and rediscovering music from my teens.

Any pets;

Yes! I have a black Labrador and have had three cats, but they’ve all passed on. Also used to have goldfish and stuff.

Do you have a crush on anyone;

Yup! There’s a super cute guy who works at my local grocery store. I literally don’t even know him, but he seems nice.

Also, his hair kinda reminds me of Z’s…

Favourite fictional character;

I mean there are lots, but of course 4 Town have to be at the top of the list!

Tags: Anyone! Specific accounts I tag to do this (only if they want to, ofc) are; @4townn @magicbratt @jessexselinalover @4townlove @4townl0ver

#4 town #4town #4*town #musingmeaninglessly #4 town aaron z #4 town aaron t #turning red #4 town x reader #4 town Robaire #4 town tae young #4 town Jesse #4 town headcanons

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beehindblueeyes · 2 years

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Time period: Drugs and Tupperware

This… is a combination. At this point these time period posts may slow down until I can think of enough points to actually constitute a post. I love doing these and giving info to help people with fics/time period info. I’m glad some people also enjoy it and I hope you all get some use out of it too.

The movie takes place in a different culture. This was a time before Regans war on drugs. They were a lot less stigmatised and a lot more…. Well “everyone was doing them” (nearly). Not to say it was without stigma or opposition - just not nearly as heavy or to the extent it is today

Added to that- smoking! Smoking everywhere! Cigarettes. Ads. Shops. Etc. you could smoke just about everywhere (planes, restaurants, theatres , parks etc) this was before it started to get? I guess “taken down”. Before designated smoking areas or them being banned all together

Hell mcdonalds gave ashtrays! (Look it up) and glass cups/mugs and not cheap ass plastic toys.

Glass > plastic see this is back when people used glass, aluminium, tin etc like actually recyclable materials. Sodas and beers are in aluminium cans (with the almost soup top pull we see in the opening). Or , more commonly glass bottles etc

Saran wrap > plastic baggies. Now plastic bags and things did exist but it’s much more likely your mom packs your sandwich with saran wrap. It’s also more brown paper bag or tin lunch box > plastic bag

Nutrition isn’t treated the same way. Now we focus on making everything hyper healthy or taking things out, adding them in etc. school lunches didn’t care they served you what they served you (thus the ‘mystery meat’ trend in media) and dieting is more for Mothers , teen girls or body builders. It wasn’t as? Widespread? As now.

Speaking of reusable materials and glass- Tupperware! Pyrex! Pyrex everywhere! Good lord Pyrex everywhere! We see some in the Blake’s kitchen- their coffee pot thing. Basically ceramic kitchenware is everything.

Gonna be honest Pyrex still owns America today. If your not using your grandmas dish from the 60s you probably use their modern products. Literally check your kitchen.

Warm Color’s are the way to go. Don’t ask me why it’s like woodgrain.

Speaking of mushrooms are a thing??? Again I don’t know they just are. It’s like gnomes today. They’re fucking everywhere and why?! Who?! We may never know. Difference is I’d put mushroom dining sets in my house but not gnomes.

Wallpaper! If your wall wasn’t woodgrain/wood slats. You probably had a nice wall paper or some touch with your paint. This was a glorious time before plain white/gray walls. I morn it. Era of maximalism. You like it? You have it.

#the black phone #black phone #the black phone 2022 #time period #70s #vintage #vintage pyrex #Pyrex #70s decor #70s design #writing ref #writing reference

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doorplays · 11 months

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Door Reviews: Hypnospace Outlaw (2019)

Sometimes I find myself wanting to return to the past. In the face of a lot of troubles today, the past, by comparison, is wonderful. The climate was cooler, everything was more affordable, and the problems don’t seem as big as today. And most of all, the past is just… familiar. It’s set in stone. We know what happens, so we can relive it at will, with our own memories. Nothing can hurt us beyond how much the past already did. It’s no wonder people are fond of nostalgia.

Tendershoot harnessed that nostalgia for something rather specific: late-90’s internet culture. They’ve crafted something that is very reminiscent of the days where everyone can make their own site and make their own rules, a time before Facebook was solidified as the de facto social network. And what they’ve made, I found very charming! So: let’s review Hypnospace Outlaw!

What’s it about? In an alternate universe, Hypnospace has replaced the internet as the nascent technology that brings people together. You have enlisted as a sort of volunteer moderator for the company who made this space: Merchantsoft. You enforce their rules and note down offenses ranging from copyright infringement to extralegal commerce. It sounds boring, but at its heart Hypnospace Outlaw is an investigation game where you try and find the content that you should be removing by going through Hypnospace, bouncing from one page to another, experiencing the rich worldbuilding along the way.

STYLE (Gameplay, Graphics, Music)

Starting this game I instantly remember one thing: the Windows 98 era. You go on your computer, boot it up, turn on your internet, hear that modem sound, then visit various websites. Exploring all the websites has that funny vibe because a lot of them look so ridiculous yet still looks like it wouldn’t look out of place in the late 90’s! The style is just perfect and I find it so charming and endearing.

Gameplay revolves around you exploring sites relevant to the cases given to you by your handler. You will be given access to certain zones, each with a certain number of websites you can access from there. You have to inspect the websites to see which one of them breaks the rules of Merchantsoft, embodied by the acronym CHIME: Copyright Infringement, Harrassment, Illegal Activity, Malicious Software, and Extralegal Commerce. When a site element (text, picture, or hyperlink) falls under these categories, you will then report them to your handler and mark them as Violation Points.

Each penalty you mark gives you HypnoCoin, which you can use to buy various things. You can use them to buy wallpapers, songs, stickers, and other things you can use to decorate your Hypnospace desktop. And there are a LOT of these you can discover, ranging from silly wallpapers from hotdog companies to vaporwave-esque songs by underground artists.

The cases that you have to solve are of decent difficulty all in all. Solving them reminded me of Her Story (2015) by Sam Barlow. I made use of the in-game search functionality a fair bit, and had to root through a lot of sites to understand what I had to do next. They were fun to solve!

There’s music in most of the pages and a lot of them have different vibes. All in all, they definitely fit with the so-bad-it’s-good vibe they’re going for. Have you ever had music playing in your Friendster page or whatever social media you had back then when you were a teen? Well, that’s the vibe. Some are so over the top, some are just funny, and some are plain good.

All in all, this game’s style is perfect for what it’s going for. It really brought me back to the days of Windows 98, and all that I associate with it. It’s funny and charming! I love it a lot.

SUBSTANCE (Story, Characters, Impact)

I had a false start with this game. I understood that I ended up being a sort of moderator for Hypnospace. But I wasn’t quite prepared for what it entailed. And let me tell you, penalizing old people for small mistakes they don’t quite understand felt really bad, so bad that I stopped playing this game the first time I played it…

I picked it up again this month though, and I pushed on, and I was very much rewarded for it discovering all these in-game websites. Most of them are shitty webpages, but the fact that each one was made by a person in the game made it feel more real. Like, of course it’ll be shitty, most of these people don’t really know how to do graphic design! And there’s also the physical limitations of the hardware!

There’s the overarching story, which is pretty good, but there’s also the small stories you see browsing Hypnospace. A lady running for community leader, a widowed biker who just wants friends, some geeks just trying to protect their space, a religious child who loves this world’s version of Pokemon, there’s a lot to see!

It’s a strange mix of mocking yet earnest. It plays up the shittiness of websites of the past and puts a lot of care into how personal they can be for the people making them. The people feel real. The world felt real. I found myself getting amused at the antics played out, and caring for the highs and lows of everyone.

After I finished this game, I really had to pause and just… digest everything. I think I will remember this game for a while.

VERDICT

Y2K may have let me down, but this game has not. If you are looking to relive the nostalgia of late 90’s internet, play this game. If you’re looking for at least a decent investigation game, play this game. If you are looking for something very unique, play this game!! It’s charming, funny, and earnest. I am very fond of it and wholeheartedly recommend it.

Door Rates Hypnospace Outlaw: 4.5/5!

#door reviews #hypnospace outlaw

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stoprobbersfic · 2 years

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we together make a limb (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)

rating: light teen word count: 6,004 She feels like she could float right off her bed and into the ether forever, until he finds her again and puts his forehead to hers, brushes his nose against the space between her eyebrows, tucks the knobs of her shoulders into his palms and brings her back down to earth. [what happened in the Two Days Later] missing scenes from vol. 2. read it on ao3

They were supposed to win.

The late March evening is still cool, nearly cold, but Nancy lays on top of her covers with her windows open. She can still feel the heat of Henry— (Vecna— One— Henry—) Vecna’s body, covered with flaming gasoline and bubbling, on her skin as she advanced. Can still feel the kickback of the shotgun, the burning in her bicep as she pumped the barrel to discharge each empty shell, as she riddled his body with buckshot.

He was supposed to die. Not Max. Him.

Sirens still wail intermittently in the distance. Red and blue lights occasionally reflect off her bedroom ceiling. In the dark the purple wallpaper reads nearly gray.

Or maybe that’s the Upside Down, sucking color and life from everything around her.

Four deaths, four rings, four cracks, all converging in an X-Marks-The-Spot of doom. She’s not sure what was supposed to happen; if this was it, or if they did anything at all to prevent his final plan. Maybe Hawkins was supposed to fall right into the Upside Down. Or maybe it was supposed to rush over them like a tidal wave.

In the end it was neither. Instead the rifts pulsate and glow, then go quiet and dark. She couldn’t take her eyes off them on the way home from the hospital.

She doesn’t know how far the cracks reach. She imagines them growing and growing, reaching out of Hawkins and west, due west, seeking, searching, finding. The Upside Down is stuck on the day Will Byers disappeared, and no one at the Byers household is picking up their phone.

Maybe it’s already swallowed them whole.

She reaches out, right hand onto empty covers. Squeezes her eyes tight and lets her fingertips extend a touch further. She remembers the way his weight held down her comforter that night after she went into the Upside Down for the first time, entirely by accident.

He barely moved as he slept, gun tucked between them, but he kept the covers tight on her, made them less like blankets and more like a shield. Closing the gaps where evil could sneak in between cotton and skin, keeping her safe.

She had ventured only the smallest touches that night; a finger to his watch strap or the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, inanimate decorations on his body that couldn’t respond. She couldn’t risk waking him, couldn’t fathom how she’d possibly explain what she was doing.

Behind her reddened eyelids she thrusts herself further back in the memory, the roughness of his denim jacket and the tightness of his arms and the way he rocked her as he murmured in her ear over and over, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

Unbidden, unwanted, she thinks of Max’s mangled body, the blood dripping down her face and Lucas’s, his hoarse sobbing as he cradled her in his arms. They didn’t save her. They couldn’t.

The doctors don’t know how her heart started beating again. Nancy can think of only one thing and it’s the last shred of hope she has to hang onto. Because if that’s what saved her, even moments too late, then maybe—just maybe—

Her fingertips find nothing. In the center of her chest she feels another crack, another rift, not bones breaking but spirit, as she reaches for a hand that isn’t there.

++++

In the dim light she drifts through time like it’s made of powdery snow undulating over hills and valleys of memory.

The winter after Will’s return, bedroom phone clutched in trembling hand and whispers down the line to him after nightmares, lost and scared and alone. Telling him each object she saw in her room until the shadows turned from monsters back into discarded jackets and backpacks.

A motel room in central Illinois bathed in sickly bedside light, hands together on the grimy little table, scars set end to end to form a single line. A string, a tether, pulling them to each other, tightening slack no matter how much she tried to loosen it, no matter how much he let her. Back to back when she finally pulled honesty from him and found it even less flattering than the yellow lampshade.

Grimy sheets and a scratchy blanket on an unfamiliar, too-bouncy mattress but it didn’t matter, no it didn’t matter at all because all that was in that room was them and there was nothing between them anymore. Not lies, not denials, not even clothes. The first time she felt his weight on top of her – not her covers but her – and how hot his skin was, how the heat they made together was even better than the shield of her comforter the year before.

Hopper’s dusty cabin and its hopelessly deflated futon, stuffed onto a loft that hadn’t been swept in at least a decade, and the sweat soaking through their clothes, leaving salt crystals on their skin as he sobbed and she rocked him this time, her turn to hold and protect and reassure, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

His bed, bruised and bloodied, trembling with fear and smeared with whatever bodily fluids a monster made of amalgamated flesh oozes, running hands over cuts and lesions just to be sure they are actually still whole. Apologies falling from lips, more jumble of words than composed thoughts, desperation to make sure he knows how much she loves him, how much she never wants to fight with him again, never again, not when they could lose each other in the blink of an eye, at the hand of a man or a monster, it doesn’t matter. His hands in her hair, his forehead against hers, grounding her, keeping her present, keeping her sane.

She feels like she could float right off her bed and into the ether forever, until he finds her again and puts his forehead to hers, brushes his nose against the space between her eyebrows, tucks the knobs of her shoulders into his palms and brings her back down to earth.

She fists her hands in the covers until her knuckles turn white to try to hold onto an planet that is spinning too fast.

++++

She is not sure if she sleeps. Her brain circles and spirals, and wonders.

What if she had gone with Mike? Taken the initiative, surprised him for once? Found out what was going on to make him so distant and fuzzy over the long-distance telephone line.

Would it have been better? Worse? Would there have been another girl? Another life he’d built filled with friends and activities; no time left for Nancy Wheeler?

Would they have found out about what was going on in Hawkins? Would Fred have gone to investigate Chrissy’s death? Would he have died anyway? (No, her mind whispers, that’s just you, that’s only because you know what lurks under this town and you brought him with you, you dragged him along, you killed him too. Add him to your list, Nancy.)

Would Max have lived as long as she did, would she have made her miraculous recovery? (It’s not a recovery if she’s in a coma, her brain reminds her, but she shoves it away; she has to count not dead as a victory, maybe the only one they have.)

Would Eddie have been crucified by Jason and the basketball team? Lynched in town square only for Patrick to die anyway?

Would Dustin and Robin and Steve have figured out what to do? Would they have found Vecna, fought him? Would they have survived?

What if Jonathan had come like they had planned? Would the phone in Lenora still be off the hook? Would her brother be dead, like Henry showed her?

Would Jonathan have died following her into the Upside Down, fighting by her side?

Would Hawkins be doomed without her or with her?

She tries to imagine his voice, what he’d say, how he’d reassure her. Because he can – he always can. But he’s not here and she’s too scared to say the words to herself, even in his gentle tenor.

It’s too much weight, too much on her thin shoulders, her delicate spine. There is no one at her back to hold her up, trust her, believe in her. Only more cracks in her insides.

++++

Her mother’s voice is soft and gentle as it slips into the inky blackness of her unconsciousness.

“Nancy, sweetheart? Are you awake? I made pancakes.”

It takes her a moment to wake up, to come to, and in that liminal space his voice is there too.

Your mom doesn’t knock?

“Nancy?”

Her eyelids feel like lead, but she pushes them open anyway and finds her mother standing over her.

No, she doesn’t knock. Never has.

“Come on, sweetheart, you look pale. You need to eat, OK?”

She dresses slowly, in comfortable house clothes that are loose and soft, clean of the viscera of the nightmare dimension she’s spent two days in. Downstairs, Holly sits at the kitchen table, her mother stands at the stove, her father is settled in his favorite chair watching the news.

It’s so normal she wants to scream. Maybe throw things.

She walks into the kitchen instead and picks up the phone. She’s dialed the number so many times she doesn’t even have to think about it; her fingers fly over the buttons.

The busy signal blares out of the earpiece and she thinks about throwing things again.

“Nance, honey, come get some breakfast,” her mom says and she hangs it up instead.

“An earthquake,” her father mutters. “An earthquake in Indiana and they’re just now thinking to send the National Guard…”

Anger seethes inside her at his willful ignorance. On the TV she can see one of the cracks in the earth; at its center is the barest red glow. What kind of fucking earthquake glows?

Saying anything would be useless. So she goes to her mother instead and accepts the plate of pancakes.

“I know it’s a bit late for this, but it seemed like a blueberry pancake kind of day, what with everything going on,” her mom says and only then does Nancy think to look at the clock.

Nearly 3 p.m. How long did she lay awake in bed last night? How long did she sleep? The world feels muddled, fuzzy.

“Have you heard from Mike?” she asks and hopes against hope she just slept through a phone call.

Her mother huffs, turns so her back is to Holly. Her little sister doesn’t even look up from her coloring.

“No, and when he gets home from this visit I am going to murder him for this. Or lock him in his room forever, I haven’t decided yet.”

(We could hide you in our basement. Like El.)

“Still,” her mother is still talking, “I’m sure he must be fine. I know Joyce just got that new job, selling encyclopedias over the phone, so maybe the timing has just been bad. And she would absolutely call us if something happened to him, so he’s got to be safe. Maybe they haven’t heard the news yet. I mean, you’d think an earthquake in Indiana would be national news but, maybe it’s not.”

You would think that, wouldn’t you? Nancy’s stomach goes sour at the thought, and she grips her plate a little tighter. The thought of sitting down to eat feels so unappealing but she can’t remember the last time she did, and she feels the weakness from hunger. Her arms hurt and her chest does too, not just from the fear and the worry but from how the vines wrapped around her, held her against that wall and tried to choke the life from her.

She wonders if her mom can see the shadow around her neck. If she recognizes what it is. If she wonders how her daughter got it. Or if it’s too faint and her mother is too good at ignoring the strange.

“Right yeah,” she picks up a fork automatically, looks over at the table. Holly has gotten up and wandered over to her father, fitting herself next to him in the recliner to watch TV with him. “Do you mind if I eat in my room? I’m still really tired.

A furrow appears on her mother’s forehead; maybe she doesn’t see everything, but she also doesn’t see nothing at all.

“Sure, Nance,” she says slowly. “Just bring your plate back down when you’re done.”

She picks at the pancakes, the silence in her room unsettling. Opens a book, reads the same sentence six times and sets it down again. Turns the radio on and lays on her bed with her eyes closed, wondering if maybe she can sleep more, until a news report breaks in and sends her heart plummeting to her knees.

She snaps it off.

She feels useless. She feels stuck. She feels terrified, and she doesn’t know what to do next.

The phone on her nightstand rings and she lunges for it, nearly falls off the bed snatching it off its cradle.

"Jonathan?!" she can't keep the frantic note out of her voice.

There is a pause, silence, and as she holds her breath it nearly rends her in two.

"I was right about you having the same number." The voice is male but it's wrong, it's so wrong and she chokes on it. Bites her tongue to hold it in but the smallest sob manages to escape anyway, tasting like blood. "Sorry, Nance. Still can't get him?"

"No." She breathes it more than speaks it, but her voice still shakes on the same beats of her pounding heart. "I don't know where he is. Where any of them are. Mike is with them, and he hasn’t called, he hasn’t tried to get in touch. And I don't understand--"

"Nancy? Hey Nancy, Nance, it's OK," Robin's voice is high and female and sweet, sweet relief. She spent a year hearing one boy's voice when she so desperately wished for it to be the other's and it's like she's back there all over again. She feels cold, so very cold. "It's OK, Nance, they're OK. They have to be. We would have heard if they weren't. I promise, we would have heard."

Robin doesn't know that, doesn't have the authority to say it, but Nancy takes her at face value because to not would break her, she is sure of it.

Unbidden an image pops into her mind’s eye: Chief Powell, standing solemn on their front stoop hat in hand. Mr. Wheeler, Mrs. Wheeler, can we talk privately? I’m afraid I have some news about your son—

They told Joyce Byers they found her son’s body; they made it real enough that when she went to find Jonathan for help, she found him at a funeral home picking out caskets. She wonders if he was there when Hopper came to his mother’s doorstep to deliver the news. She wonders how he reacted; she’s never asked him. She wonders how she would react if they came to her doorstep; would she rise with righteous anger or would she shatter in a million pieces, never to be whole again?

She shoves the thought violently away before it can get any further.

"Yeah," she replies on a long, shuddering breath. "I'm sure you're right."

"I'm so sorry, Nancy. We didn't mean to..." the other girl trails off, and Nancy's not sure what word to sub in for her silence. "We didn't mean to."

"It's okay, I know... I know." She closes her eyes. Behind her forehead, a pounding starts up. "Why did you call?"

"You know how they're sheltering the people who lost their homes at the gym? Dustin had the idea to bring some stuff over to them. He's been going through his old games and toys all day, Steve and I are gonna get some stuff together too and take it over there tomorrow. We wanted to know if you wanted to help?"

Help. The word breaks through the panic fogging her brain, lets her muscles relax enough that she slides the rest of the way off the bed and onto the floor, folding herself into a little ball in the corner where her nightstand meets her bed. Yes, she can help. Helping is what she's best at. She can straighten her spine and put on a brave face and gather old clothes and toys from a life that seems more over than she could have ever dreamed and give them to people who need them. She can spring to action, step in to save day.

If she doesn't she will sit here and she will wonder and she will crumble to dust.

"Yeah. Yes." it comes out more confident than she feels, steel over open wounds and broken veins. "Yes, I want to help."

"OK great. Wonderful." Robin sounds oddly hesitant like she knows she is lying. "We'll come by your house in the morning, yeah?"

"Sure. Sounds great."

She doesn't wait for the goodbye, just gently sets the phone back in its cradle. For a moment she lets herself stare at it, focuses her entire consciousness on one thought: Find me.

The image of the phone blurs and doubles, but it stays stubbornly silent.

She rises on fawn-like legs and goes to talk to her mother.

++++

Nancy dreams.

She is back in Steve’s pool. Barbara’s corpse is still cocooned to the curve in the deep end.

Nancy…

Vecna’s voice beckons her. She ignores it. Walks over to her friend instead.

“Barbara,” she whispers, crouching in front of her. “Barb. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t know. But I didn’t forget. And I didn’t let the world forget you, either.”

Nancy…

“Shut up,” she mutters, touches Barbara’s arm. It is sticky and slick and cold, but she keeps her hand there for a moment. “I miss you, Barb. Goodbye.”

Nancy…

“Alright you freak, I’m coming,” she snaps, stands and ascends the ladder. This time nothing pulls her back or impedes her way. When she reaches the deck she sees Steve’s patio set, beyond it a set of headlights. They’re too far off the ground to be his BMW, or Jonathan’s Ford. There is a person in the front seat, but she can only make out a vague silhouette.

I want to show you…

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, and looks down as a crack opens between her feet.

…where I am going…

The crack expands, splitting the earth before her in a long, glowing line. A taunt. A path.

“Follow the yellow brick road,” she murmurs, and takes a step forward. A horn honks twice, deeper and more resonant than a normal car. More like a camper van, or a Winnebago.

A ride could be faster, but the crack is not a road. It splits the earth with the inevitability of a compass, ignoring manmade paths and spaces and buildings, guiding true. Straying from it will only lead her to distraction.

She takes another step. Nothing gets in her way.

Nancy walks. She follows the crack through Hawkins and then out of town, into the forest and beyond until the landscape drops away and all there is left is dust and a cloudless, endless night. She doesn’t know where the light comes from; she cannot see a moon.

A demodog crosses her path, pauses. She stops, holding her breath. It looks around with its eyeless, faceless head, as if it’s searching for something beyond her. Sits down just like any other dog she’s seen. The familiarity of the motion almost makes her laugh.

“If I ask nicely, will you not eat me?”

The chuckle behind her almost scares her out of her skin.

“I’ve been told he likes nougat.”

Jonathan’s hair is shorter, and he is wearing the blue sweater she remembers from that night in the woods. The one she keeps at the top of her closet, next to the box that holds his father’s gun. All missing in this funhouse mirror world, stuck in a day that started everything that ended everything she knew.

“Are you real?” She reaches out as she says it, and her fingers pass right through the wry grin that twists his lips.

“No,” he says, and she wants to sob and scream at the same time. “Not here. But out there, yes. I’m real.”

“You won’t answer your phone! I can’t find you anywhere!”

“That weight? That you’re carrying around with you, all the time?” he reaches out, fingertips passing through her chest and she swears she can feel them inside her, cupping her heart. “I feel it too.”

“Jonathan—”

His fingers move up, to her neck, to her pulse, to her cheek. And she does feel something, she’s certain of it. Like spiderwebs, or the kiss of a ghost.

“You found me once, when you were trapped in this place. Now it’s my turn to find you. X-marks-the-spot, remember?"

"I don’t understand.”

“You will. Every time they think they’ve got the best of us, we always come out on top, don’t we?”

“Not this time. Jonathan, this time—”

“Tom and Bruce. The Mind Flayer. The Demogorgon. They all thought they had us beat. But they’re no match for us.”

“Jonathan—”

Suddenly his hand is real. Very, very real. It is warm and rough against her cheek and it steals her words, her breath.

“Remember: Straight into Will’s room. And don’t step on the trap.”

She awakens with a gasp, rocketing up in bed, hand clutched to her own face. She cannot tell if it’s the blurring between sleep and consciousness, but she swears her cheek is warm.

And for the first time since this nightmare of a week began, she lets herself cry.

++++

She wakes easier the next morning but stays in bed a long time. Snatches of her dream and confused thoughts are tumbling through her head, and instead of trying to push them away she takes a moment to sit with them.

When she’d opened her diary in the Upside Down, seen the date in the past, she’d also seen the entry.

OK! So, Steve and I, we made up today. And Barb definitely knows now. But I guess I feel better with her knowing. It’s just not anything serious—

For a moment, she misses the girl who wrote that with a pang so deep in her chest, it feels like a knife wound. Not for the first time that week, that month, that year, or any of the years since Will Byers went missing, she wonders what it would have been like to stay that girl. A girl whose life revolved around school and boys, who had a best friend since childhood and straight As.

Who would that girl have become? Would she have stayed smart, would she have been kind? Would she have been pulled into Steve’s circle with Tommy and Carol and become cutting? Cruel? Would they have made her popular, and would she have become callous? Would she have brought Barb along with her, or would she have left Barb behind?

Would she have become brave?

She remembers seeing Jonathan in the school hallway, carefully pinning his brother’s missing poster to corkboard. How Steve and Tommy had scoffed, called him pathetic, depressing. How she’d felt pulled in two directions – one to stay with the popular crowd, with King Steve and his influence, his tall frame and his charm, and another to go toward a tawny-haired boy she’d known since she was a small child, whose little brother had always been kind and polite, had always offered her a smile when he came over and never bugged her the way Dustin or Lucas or Mike would. Whose parents had split up and made him the weird kid, the school pariah, a fuck-up by association.

Whose shoulders were stooped with worry and whose eyes were even puffier than usual from exhaustion and panic.

It had taken courage to step away from her little group, to approach him and say something, and even then all she had managed was It sucks. And he’d looked at her, past her, and waited for the cruelty to come, because that’s what he was accustomed to.

He’d still listened to her and helped her. No questions asked.

God, she misses him.

Nancy scrubs her hands over her face. Behind her eyes, the pressure of her tears spreads and makes her throat tighten and ache.

“Fuck,” she whispers. She doesn’t want to cry again; her sob session in the middle of the night had felt like scraping out her insides, and she’s just now finding ways to put them back into place. What she really wants, if she’s willing to be honest with herself, is just a hug. A hug from him, if the universe could oblige.

She is not, she knows, the girl who wrote that diary entry anymore. Not just because of the supernatural, not just because she has worked to thwart four apocalypses so far by her count (three and a half, she corrects herself; she wants to pretend the rifts running through Hawkins don’t exist but denial’s never gotten her anywhere useful).

It doesn’t matter who that girl would have become. The girl she is has been shaped by each of those fights, by great loss and by great love. She is much braver, much stronger, than that girl could have ever imagined being.

The shape she has grown into is not the one she would have predicted. But she likes it more.

“Come on, Nancy,” she tells herself. “Get up. Get dressed. You’re going to go help some people today, and that’s going to feel good. And then, when you get back, you’re going to steal Mom’s car and drive west until you find your fucking boyfriend if it kills you.”

It’s an absurd plan; it’ll never work, she’ll never get away with it. And she loves it.

When she smiles it is light and true, and the pressure is gone from behind her eyes.

++++

She applies her makeup with careful touches, concealer and blush and eyeshadow, her favorite purple, and carefully tames her curls and clips them back from her face. She regards herself in the mirror, coiffed and covered, the optimistic colors of her shirt, the practicality of pants and sneakers, and gives a nod. Yes. This is the brave face she will present to the world.

Then she opens her closet and begins to sort.

She pulls out clothes from girlhood, frills and dresses and ribbons she used to favor for its mix of innocence and acquiescence. Nancy’s never been an idiot; she’s always known how to get what she wants. But the girl who chose these clothes asked for things sideways, through fluttering lashes and roundabout hinting.

The girl she is now, the woman she’s about to become, asks for forgiveness, not permission.

It is oddly fitting that Mr. Rabbit is on top of the box of toys her mother brings to Steve’s car; another piece of Nancy Who Was not Nancy Who Is. She expects the nostalgia pain to be sharp, but is pleasantly surprised to find it’s not.

“It’s OK if you want to save him, you know,” her mother offers.

Something inside her wants to laugh wildly. Here she is again in the middle – behind her is a boy with big hair and big eyes, big dreams of a small life with a big family and not much else, and somewhere out in front of her is a boy who is much quieter, much more careful with his heart and his dreams, who is difficult and challenging and devoted to the people he loves more fiercely than anyone she has ever met, and who she knows loves her – her favorite childhood stuffed animal in her hand and a choice in front of her once again. The only difference is Jonathan isn’t standing there, tacking a missing poster to a corkboard.

His words from her dream, from years ago, come back in a rush, from the one moment he felt real. Don’t step on the trap.

“No,” It’s an easy answer. “He’ll be more loved in a new home.”

Her mother follows her as she takes the box over to the car to join the others, expects to hear her say something about how proud she is of her, or about how glad she is they’re helping their neighbors. Anything but what actually comes out of her mouth.

“Did somebody order a pizza?”

The dust-coated yellow van and its massive red sign are out of place in the neighborhood. In reality, she thinks. For a moment they all freeze, trying to make sense of it.

Surfer Boy Pizza. She’s never heard of that before. Why would anyone brand pizza for surfers in Indiana? There’s no water here. No surfers. Surfers are in places like California, like—

Her brain stutters to a halt, and she swears her heart joins it. She can’t blink, she can’t even breathe, as the van door slides open.

And suddenly they are there. All of them. Mike and Will and El (where is her hair? What happened to her hair?) and a long-haired boy she doesn’t recognize and there, just behind her brother’s shoulder, is Jonathan. His hair is long, much longer than she remembers, much longer than her dream, and she thinks it’s blonde almost, (California sun, she thinks and then, inexplicably, Surf’s up, dudes) but she knows his face, knows his eyes and the slope of his shoulders and it’s impossible but it’s unmistakable: it’s him.

She only realizes she’s running when the shock of sneakers hitting pavement travels up to her knees.

They’re all running; Mike to her mom, Will and El past her to Dustin, and Jonathan to her and when he’s there, right there, nearly close enough to touch, she finds herself slowing. Hesitating. Because what if she’s dreaming. What if Vecna is in her head again, what if this is all a hallucination?

Are you real? She’d asked him in her dream and he’d said No. She thinks if she reaches out just to pass through him like a ghost again, it might kill her.

And then suddenly his arms are around her, lifting her off the ground and holy shit, holy fuck, he is real, he is so real. Her arms go around his neck instinctively, holding on for dear life as her heart and her brain both restart and then take off, flying a mile a minute.

His grip on her is so tight it squeezes all the air out of her lungs and when she can breathe back in again the air is filled with him. His hair and his skin, the sour undertones of sweat and grime, of cheap shampoo and cheaper soap. How long have they been driving? Days, it must be days, at least. As he sets her down his stubble brushes her cheek and she nearly swoons from it. Rubs her face against his cotton shirt and the soft skin of his neck.

It feels like home.

When he pulls back she almost wants to scream, but his hands are firm on her shoulders. Her eyes rove over his face, every line and spot and bit of stubble; he looks tired and he looks worried in that way that makes him seem angry, brow furrowed and mouth tight as he searches her face in return.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” she answers automatically, without thinking, but his mouth tightens more and she snaps back to attention. “Yeah, I’m OK.”

Her fingers flex around his forearm – it’s so warm, warmer than he usually is, warm like sand under hot desert sun – slide up to his elbow and back. Checking, making sure he’s still tangible. God, she has so much she wants to tell him. So much she has to tell him.

“But Jonathan—”

“This isn’t an earthquake,” mouth so tight now there’s just a line where his lips should be and how is she supposed to kiss him if he’s tucking them away like that, “I know. I know a lot more than you think.”

That’s not what she’s expecting to hear.

“How?” How could he possibly know, who told him if it wasn’t them and she knows it wasn’t them because she’s been trying to call him. “We’ve been trying to call you—”

“I know. I’m sorry. We couldn’t risk contact.”

What?! Her hands stop their desperate moving, grip onto his forearms hard. Holding him there, like her nails digging into flesh will ensure he maintains corporeal form; will ensure he doesn’t just disappear again. She still isn’t quite ready to trust her senses.

“Couldn’t risk contact?!” she hopes it doesn’t come out as hysterical as she feels.

“Hey, hey,” his face softens, lips return from their hiding place. Oops. Maybe it did. “I’ll tell you everything, OK? I promise. But for now… I’m just glad you’re safe.”

She nods because she doesn’t know where to even start to refute him, to tell him safe is just an illusion, a brave face she’s putting on because the town is split in four and the Upside Down is controlled by a monster and that monster might be dead or it might just be hurt and really angry and now he’s got a way into their world so no, she is not safe, he is not safe, none of them are safe—

And then his lips find her forehead and suddenly she is safe.

She forgot. It’s been such a long, long time since she’s been this close to him. She forgot that his own heat doesn’t just warm her, it suffuses her; that his strength doesn’t harden her, it bolsters her. That his touch, his grip, doesn’t hold her down or in place; it steadies her on her own two feet so she can move forward with confidence and ease.

Her eyes flutter shut and she leans into his kiss, into his strength, and finds for the first time in days she can really, properly feel the ground beneath her feet again.

When he scoops her into a hug once more, she’s present and ready, her arms flying around his neck and her lips finding his ear so her whispered I love you can reach him loud and clear.

++++

She thought they’d have more time. She’s not sure why; maybe because the sun was shining when she walked into the cabin, because Jonathan had kept his hand in hers or his shoulder at her back since he’d reappeared at the end of her driveway.

Because having him there and by her side made the most impossible of tasks seem possible again.

And then it started to snow.

They trek out to the field in a cautious line; she brings up the back, unwilling to let him out of her sight. The tall grass is speckled with bright early spring flowers until suddenly it isn’t. Instead there is a line of gray, of fuzzy rot.

She knows this rot. They all do.

In the distance a plume of smoke has grown and crackles red with lightning. In front of her, Eleven crouches at a flower, examines it closely, then rises. Nancy can’t see her face but she knows the fury and determination in every line of the young girl’s body. She feels it in her own, wrapped into a triple helix with bone-deep terror.

The world blurs, tilts a bit off its axis. She reaches for his hand and this time it is there.

Jonathan is warm and solid and real beside her. His fingers lace with hers with the same iron grip. He is breathing hard, his own fear and his own anger, and she feels her lungs start to sync with his.

The world has gone wrong and yet, and yet, and yet. Inside she feels so right.

And something deep inside her chest starts to knit together again.

#jancy fic #jonathan x nancy #jancy #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #introspections and dreams and missing scenes and reunions #and two teenagers in love #them against the world #season 4 vol. 2 fic #this one is somewhat terrifying to put out there #as a first statement #but i hope y'all enjoy

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fioletowyfacet · 5 months

Note

📼

Send 📼 to see an early childhood memory of my muse’s

"And he told you, and he told you..."

Porfiriusz rubbed his narrowed eyes and kept his head facing to the yellow wallpaper. One arm was held out to his side. The other was kept close to his chest, along with his knees, still-dirty shoes perched on the top rung of the stool so that he resembled a very miserable hunched-over vulture.

"'Ey, Porfek. Don't cry." Tadeusz took the knife out of his mouth. "It's not worth it." As he cut the beige strip of gauze wrapped up and down the boy's arm from the remainder of the meager roll, he sighed and repeated, "It goes away. Very quickly. It's not worth it."

Porfiriusz did not pull his glare away from the wall.

"It can even be healthy for you. They say nettle is good for your circulation and hair."

No response.

The older teen waited, then stood up and put the blade back in the drawer. "But... maybe next time you'll listen when Darek tells you there's nettle in the woods. And you won't burn your entire body. Maybe just your legs next time."

When he looked over, Porfiriusz still wasn't listening, but now he was looking at the bandaging like the entire concept was alien.

"Don't touch it. It makes it worse."

Porfiriusz hesitated, rigid, before balling his fists.

Tadeusz waited a moment longer for an answer, then turned away. "Now, clean your stuff up, and I'll... I'll get Marek to make some meringue, alright?"

He listened to the footsteps quickly get further away, then sighed. Nie warto. It's not worth it.

#;ask #central hub of chaos

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captainfightingflower · 1 year

Text

I dream to be used as material for other people’s content.

A dream of mine ever since i started posting online isn’t to get internet famous, or become a millionaire off of my content. But to bring joy and to have my stuff get used in countless of projects more or less without my permission. I want to get to a point where what i make ends up as one of the first results on Google images so thousands of young creators get to right click save image on the fruits of my labor.

I want my art to be featured in a 13 year old’s vent AMVs of their comfort character to a song by Evanescence or Skillet, i want to have an illustration i’m deeply proud of be used as a Russian teen’s profile picture on VK, or a German kid’s desktop wallpaper. I want clips of my cosplays to get used in people’s Spanish written fanfictions on Tiktok.

I want videos of me screenshotted and gifed into reaction images and have them posted all over obscure message boards, or to have a soundbyte be used in people’s Youtube poops. I want the music i make to get reuploaded into nightcore with a picture of a sad anime girl or Sans with press-on nails. I want my animation memes to get put into top 10s or to feature in a cringe compilation with someone’s lavender angle wolf furry oc giving me constructive criticism on my work. I want people on Instagram to make thirst traps slowly panning up my art with capcut.

I want a teenager who uses bun/bunself on Tumblr to make flower crown edits of my creations. I want my NSFW to be featured as clickbait in a 24 year old man’s first custom let’s play thumbnail. I want to be featured in a British stranger’s Pinterest board. I want to see my doodles used as templates in a meme generator.

I want to have a French girl in their tweens use one of my shitposts as a cover for a their Lemon Y/N X character Wattpad fanfiction. I want my art printed onto a cake with happy 9th birthday Daniella written on with icing. I want a 36 year old woman on Deviantart to crudely draw a vore belly with MS paint onto a picture i created.

I want to be unknowingly helping an American college student who need to fill a slide on their 10 slide PowerPoint presentation about dolphins or to be the backdrop for a 17 year old person with autism’s announcement of their week long hiatus from Amino. I want to have my art printed out and plastered onto someone’s wall with stickers and tape. I want to be used by people online who want to have fun or who simply want to create on the internet.

However, i do NOT want my art to be stolen by people who claim that they made it, or to have it be used in AI datasets by tech bros who specifically want to make a profit. I don’t want multi-million dollar clothing brands to steal my art to use as merch. I don’t want my art being used to promote shady pyramid schemes to children. I don’t want my art to be edited into CP, or used to promote hate speech. I don’t want my art to be exploited unethically for profit or clout.

Whenever i see something that i have created being used by someone else: i feel a sense of glee that is incredibly particular. I have a folder dedicated to this very thing, of wild instances of people using what i have made unknowingly, all titled ether with the title of the creation or me at that moment expressing the sheer joy i felt seeing something i have created be used or mentioned. It makes me feel like i’m giving something to the world, that what i do isn’t for nothing and that people DO appreciate what i make. It’s a feeling that i adore to my very core.

What i have created has been in Deviantart submissions, Youtube videos, Reddit posts, Tiktoks, Discord profiles, Wattpad thumbnails, Amino, VK, News articles and sites i’ve never even heard of before! Heck, some of the things i mentioned in this post are based off of ACTUAL occurrences! I won’t tell which of these happened to me, however. That is a secret for me to keep.

#fighting flower expresses herself #dreams of an artist #long post #I want my art to be used as a medium for creativity and self-expression #Not all artists are like me however; and it's always preferred to give an artist credit if you use their work!#This is NOT an invitation to steal my art #I do NOT want my art to be capitalized apon

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the-red-mafia · 6 months

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The Catalyst

Johnny leads the teens through the area, safely reaching the stairwell to the catalyst before being ambushed by Darlington. Will Mad and Solana be able to reach them in time, or will they be lost to their minds? Also available on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/TheRedMafia A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry this one is two weeks late, we needed extra time to prepare it. Double post today so after you're done reading this one, go check out the next post: The Assassination. Next Update: 11/11/2023 Word Count: 3026

Immediately after "The Game"

Solana’s bat collided with Darlington’s stomach again, sending the boy flying down the hallway. He let out a laugh before glancing back at Mad, whose screen was blank.

“You okay, Mad?” the elf asked, lowering the weapon.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” it replied, “Mostly, at least.”

“Is something going on?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this place,” Mad said, causing Solana to chuckle.

“Cursed places will do that.”

“Well, yeah. But…I don’t know. We’re sure Zaeor gave Maroon this game, right?” Solana frowned.

“As sure as we can be, I guess.” Mad crossed their arms and looked up at the grey ceiling.

“Why would Zaeor give Maroon a cursed video game? Surely he knew about the curse, right?”

“Maybe he didn’t,” Solana replied, “I don’t think he would intentionally give it to Maroon.”

“Maybe…” The elf leaned against a wall.

“Or maybe he needs to get rid of this curse and wants us to do it.”

“But why not tell us so we’re prepared?” Solana shrugged.

“I don’t know, I’m not a god. I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking.”

“Right…” Mad mumbled, “Wait, where’s Darlington? Shouldn’t he be back by now?” Solana frowned and pushed herself off the wall.

“Yeah, you’re right. Where is he?” They looked down the hallway, but no one was coming back.

“Um- excuse me-” Mad quickly turned around, barely managing to step out of the way before Solana swung their bat at the boy behind them. He quickly stepped back but was hit by the elf’s second swing.

“Nice try, Darlington,” they muttered, raising the weapon again, “Ready to get pummelled again?”

“W-wait! I’m not who you think I am!” Mad put an arm out in front of Solana.

“Who are you then?”

“I’m Johnny Darlington, but n-not the one you were fighting! That’s an evil version of me, I swear!” A smile appeared on Mad’s screen.

“I believe you. What are you doing here, then?” The boy took a deep breath.

“Your friends. I was h-helping them get to the catalyst and…well. They’re in danger.”

When Velvet, Maroon, Thorn, and Johnny rematerialized, the surroundings had morphed once again. Velvet looked around at the lines of desks and chairs, computers sitting on top of each of them. The yellow wallpaper was back, although it was partially covered by various frames. Instead of holding paintings, however, they were all white paper.

Next to them, Thorn lurched forward. Velvet groaned and quickly grabbed a trash bin. They handed it to him, and he promptly turned around and threw up into the bag. Maroon stepped away from aer slightly.

“Thorn, are you okay?” They didn’t respond.

“Teleporting makes some…weaker people lose control of their stomachs,” Velvet said, smirking. Thorn flipped them off. Maroon placed a hand on their shoulder. Thorn looked up at them and smiled weakly before returning to the trash can and vomiting again.

“Where are we, Darlington?” Velvet asked, crossing her arms.

“This is as close to the catalyst as I can take you,” he began, “My magic doesn’t work any closer.”

“Of course,” the teen muttered.

“I don’t remember this level from the trailer. What-”

“It’s not a level. This is what goes on behind the scenes. It’s where all the mini-games and puzzles are monitored.” Thorn set the trashcan on the ground and grabbed a tissue off a desk.

“So which way?” Velvet began. Darlington led her to an exit door which led to a concrete stairwell. Maroon helped Thorn to follow them as Velvet looked up and down.

“If my info is right, at the top of the building is where the catalyst is.” Thorn looked up at the dozens of stairwells and groaned.

“All the way up?”

“All the way up.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. Velvet chuckled before starting up the stairs. The others followed behind, Thorn still grumbling behind her. The sound of printers rumbling came from the closed doors along the stairwell. Voices came through quietly as well, immediately putting the assassin on edge.

“Are there other people here?” They demanded. “J-just NPCs. nothing to worry about.” Velvet narrowed their eyes.

“Mhm…sure.”

“You’re being paranoid, Velvie,” Thorn called out. The assassin flipped him off as the voices suddenly stopped. Velvet froze at the top of the steps. There were only two more flights to the top but Darlington choked back a sob.

“He’s here,” he breathed, “I’m so sorry.” Velvet raised two of her throwing knives.

“Stay behind me. I’ll take care of it.” They glanced back at their teammates but they were gone. The corridor was completely empty as a laugh echoed up and down the stairwell. Velvet gripped the throwing knives tighter and sprinted forward. Footsteps reverberated behind them but they quickly kicked the door open before slamming it closed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

A cold breeze hit her back, causing her to turn about. Their throwing knives had disappeared, along with the red zip-up and scars down their arms. A black, short-sleeve dress took its place and fell just below her knees. They stood in front of a large brown door, dozens of stickers scattered on it. In the middle was some kind of word: C-A-R-

“What the fuck,” the teen breathed. Their heart skipped a beat as they spun around. The marble walls, the dark brown doors, the towering glass window behind her-

“Fuck- How-” She turned back to the door. A rainbow was peeling off now, and an odour wafted towards them from underneath. They clenched their fists.

“No. I’m not doing this. Whatever you’re trying to do, Darlington, it’s not happening!” Another laugh, followed by the sound of a gun loading right behind her head.

“Open the door, dēvotiō,” Unor’s voice whispered, “Your surprise is behind it.” Velvet could still hear the smirk in his wicked voice. They took a deep breath and stepped forward.

It’s not real, it’s not real- they repeated as they turned the knob. The door slowly pushed open and the assassin shut her eyes.

“Open your eyes, Velvet,” Unor’s voice muttered again, “Look at him. You did this, you know.” The stench was overwhelming, to the point where Velvet knew exactly what was in front of them. She slowly opened her eyes before slamming them closed.

Maroon spun around as a chill went down their spine. Thorn’s warm hand was long gone along with Velvet and Johnny in front of them. The teen took a deep breath and raised their hands.

“Where are you?” They called out. A laugh came from behind them.

“Right behind you, Margaret.” The dull grey walls of the stairwell seemed to melt away into brown and white and various seats materialised on either side of them. A large white cross hung on the wall in front of them with several young children sitting in pews. The rest of the seats were empty and a man dressed in a black robe stood at the front of them. All eyes turned towards Maroon as someone shoved them to the ground.

“Margaret. How lovely of you to finally join us,” the man in the robe said. Maroon froze.

“She was playing around in the forest again, Father,” the person behind them stated coldly, “Sleeping under a tree, no less.” Maroon could feel tears running down their face as they took a deep breath. The robed man walked towards them. Maroon heard their own voice tell him to stop, but he didn’t listen. Every step that he took brought a familiar feeling into them. Their hands grew cold as the robed man slapped them across the face.

Maroon took another deep breath before mushrooms exploded around the church hall. They grew through the wooden floor and wrapped around the robed man’s legs. His screams pierced Maroon’s ears and were shortly followed by the high-pitched screeches of the children. The adults shouted at them but their words reached deaf ears. The robed man now lay dead on the floor, mushrooms growing out of his ears. His head exploded, his brain now turned into tiny pink fungi. Several other adults followed suit. Maroon closed their eyes as the ground shook, the walls soon crushing the remaining living humans in front of them.

“Maroon!” Thorn shouted, gripping the knife so hard his knuckles were turning white. When the laugh echoed, he quickly slashed behind him. The area rapidly changed around aer, morphing into grey stone walls. Paintings hung up on either side of it but they were drowned out by various vines in front of them.

A red slash hung in the air where Thorn’s knife had sliced. A silhouette began to form around it before it solidified. Thorn stared in horror as his red-haired mother’s body slammed into the ground. The knife, blood dripping from it, fell out of its hands.

“No-” he whispered, “No, it’s not real. It’s not-” His mother let out a loud scream, forcing the prince to cover aer ears. The word ‘no’ kept dripping out of his mouth as the queen continued to scream and writhe on the floor. Footsteps thumped down the hall and the door behind him flew open.

“Love!” The king shouted. He stopped in the doorway as Thorn slowly turned towards him. His sword was drawn, just as it was.

“Thorn…” he breathed, “Son, what happened?”

“They…they…” the queen’s voice faded out. The king looked at Thorn and his eyes fell to the bloodied knife at aer feet.

“Thorn…” He whispered, “What have you done?”

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean-”

“You ‘didn’t mean it’?” the king’s voice grew louder and Thorn quickly closed his eyes. It wrapped itself in its arms and took a deep breath.

“Thorn, look at me!” The king demanded. Tears began to form in the prince’s eyes as he breathed again.

It's…not real, they thought, Maybe if I just…do it…everything will go back to normal.

“Thorn!” The king shouted again. They felt his rough, calloused hands through the thin sleep tunic they had on. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up at the king. A few tears ran down his face as he shouted, demanding to know what happened. Thorn shrugged the king’s hands off and picked up the knife.

The image froze right as they dug the knife into his stomach.

Solana felt a little nauseous after the “good” Johnny Darlington teleported them. She looked over at Mad, whose screen was still blank. The robot tried to look around but Johnny quickly grabbed their arm and pulled them across what seemed to be an old office.

“They’re this way!” he called out, “He used his magic on them-” He opened the stairwell door and sprinted up them. Solana had to sprint to keep up with the surprisingly agile boy. As they climbed, laughter began to echo down. The trio stopped on a landing, Solana pulling Mad behind him and raising his bat.

“They’re…they’re a few more flights up,” Johnny mumbled. The “bad” Darlington floated down, still laughing. The two of them looked almost identical, except for Darlington’s pitch-black outfit compared to Johnny’s jeans and a t-shirt.

“At least we can tell them apart well enough,” Solana mumbled.

“That’s what you’re focusing on?” Mad replied. The elf shrugged.

“Just glad we won’t have a switcheroo situation.” They stepped forward and swung the bat at the floating middle-schooler, but he just floated upward. Solana watched him reach his hand out as it glowed a light lilac. The room suddenly grew dark and Darlington disappeared from view.

Solana was sitting down all of a sudden, the inside of a small ship surrounding them. A small window was in front of her, a younger Nolan on the other side. A chill shot up their spine.

“No,” they breathed.

“Solana!” Mad’s voice pierced the ship, the walls rippling. Solana turned to where she thought the noise had come from.

“Mad?” The ship snapped back to the grey walls of the stairwell. The elf shot up, panting. Darlington was groaning on the floor down a level while Johnny stood in front, facing him down. Mad was to her left, taking her pulse.

“What happened?”

“He tried to trap you in your worst memories,” Johnny said through gritted teeth, “Like he did with the kids. It’s a twisted version of my magic.” Solana jumped to their feet.

“How’d it stop?”

“That was, uh, me,” Mad mumbled. It sheepishly raised Solana’s bat and handed it to them. Solana smiled and turned back to Darlington, who was once again getting to his feet.

“Let’s do this, then,” she began, “Maybe if we pummel him enough he’ll let them go.”

“Maroon!” Their eyes shot open. The ruins of the orphanage were covered in green plants now, and the dust had settled. Their mushrooms had receded into a small patch at their feet, still growing slowly.

“W-who’s there?” Boots hit the grass behind them and Maroon turned around. Velvet walked towards them in their mission uniform, hair short once again. “Maroon, wake up!” They kept walking towards them, but their mouth didn’t move.

“Velvet?”

The prince looked around at the frozen image. Their dad’s blood floated, the smell of iron in the air. His mom’s screaming had stopped but his heart kept beating hard.

“Mom, Dad?” it called out. No response. Thorn let out a relieved breath. Warm arms wrapped around aer, causing aer to jump slightly. A familiar smell slammed into their nose.

“...Maroon?”

“Thorn!”

Velvet felt tears run down her cheeks as Unor held her eyelids open. His laugh seemed to shake the ground. The red blood seeped towards her, forming a pool at her feet. Bright emerald green eyes stared up at the ceiling, blood splattered on his chin. The bullet was still buried in his heart underneath the pale, ripped skin.

Her heartbeat thumped as she kept staring and Unor kept laughing. Quiet shouts came from behind them, followed by a loud thud. Velvet’s eyes widened and she quickly spun around. Unor didn’t resist, his arms frozen up where he was holding her. His laugh continued but his mouth didn’t move.

“What the fuck?” the assassin muttered. A high-pitch scream came from what seemed to be below the floorboards.

“Darlington,” she growled. They blinked before they were back in the stairwell, lying on the floor. The shouts were louder, and she made out Solana’s voice calling out to Mad. Velvet shot up and ran to the railing. Below, Solana dodged a knife thrown by Darlington, not the one from earlier, and Mad caught it mid-air. The other Darlington took the knife from the droid and threw it to Solana, who then chucked it back.

“Mad, Solana!” Velvet shouted. The trio looked up and Solana’s eyes widened.

“Velvet!” Solana replied, “You okay?”

“I’m fine! What’s going on?”

“Evil Darlington had you all trapped in a spell,” Mad said, “We’re distracting him now. See if you can wake Thorn and Maroon up!” Velvet groaned but pushed herself away from the railing and sprinted down the steps. Maroon and Thorn were unconscious two floors down. The teen took a deep breath before kneeling down next to Maroon.

“Maroon!” they called out, “Maroon, wake up!” A few seconds passed and Velvet lightly shook them.

“Velvet?” Maroon’s eyes slowly opened and scanned the room. Eventually, they locked on Velvet and they shot up, pulling her into a hug. She attempted to squirm out of their grip at first but stopped when a small tear hit her jacket sleeve.

“I- I-” Velvet sighed and quickly propped them up, pointing at Thorn.

“Go wake Thorn up. I’m going to destroy the catalyst.”

“Velvet-” The assassin put her hands on Maroon’s shoulder.

“Come on, Maroon.” They were quiet for a second before nodding. Velvet stood up and leaned over the railing. Darlington slammed into a wall as Solana laughed. Her heartbeat was still racing and her breathing was shallow.

“They’re fine,” Velvet mumbled, “Get it together, Velvet.” She sprinted up the stairs again. A chill went down their spine as they opened the door, but they let out a relieved breath when the door simply opened to a dark room. In the centre was a pedestal with a floating green disc above it. A light green glow emitted from it, illuminating the symbols etched onto the floor. Velvet kneeled down and ran her hand over them.

“Hm.” Velvet grabbed another throwing knife and rolled up their jacket sleeve. They quickly etched a rough sketch into the top layer of their skin before standing.

I’ll ask Zaeor later, Velvet thought. She quickly grabbed the disc and snapped it in half. The green light disappeared as the assassin let out a sigh of relief. Velvet turned around and stuffed the knife back in her pouch, pulling her sleeve down. Maroon had their arms wrapped around Thorn, Mad now hovering over them. Solana had a wooden bat and stood next to the “good” Darlington, who looked up at her when she approached.

“Thank you, Velvet,” he began, causing the rest of the mafia to turn towards them, “I don’t know how much longer we could’ve held out.”

“That’s it?” Velvet replied. Darlington nodded.

“That’s it.” The teen narrowed her eyes but handed him the snapped disc. He looked down at the pieces before chuckling.

“My own game. How ironic.”

“Are you good, Velvet?” Solana asked. The teen raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Why?”

“Darlington just trapped you in your worst memories and you’re ‘fine’?”

“Oh, that’s what his powers were. Makes sense.” A question mark appeared on Mad’s face.

“Did you…not-”

“I did. But I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” Velvet interrupted, “Just take us home, Darlington.” Mad didn’t push it further, but Solana gave her a look. Velvet simply gestured to the beaded red bracelet on her left wrist and the elf nodded. Darlington took Solana’s right and Velvet’s left hands before smiling down at Thorn and Maroon.

“Are you two ready?” Thorn took a deep breath and stood, helping Maroon up. Maroon grabbed Velvet’s other hand and Thorn’s. Mad grabbed the remaining hands, completing the circle. Darlington sighed and his hands glowed a light blue.

“Thank you. Thank you all.”

#/the red mafia #/trm part 4 #/chapter 043 #/the catalyst #/solana #/solana roison #/mad valentine #/johnny darlington #/velvet #/velvet bolton #/maroon #/maroon pembrooke #/thorn alviar

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