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the-darklings · 3 years

Note

Not gonna lie, Lucien grabbed me by the throat since the first attack on V and then my heart by the sewers scene ;; if you have time, could you mayhabs give us Luci stans a lil something with V? 👀

nature of doubt.

⤫ notes: so this is actually based in that original world I keep alluding to post-coa and uh,, Lucien and V actually have a very different relationship here (tho this piece isn’t considered entirely canon for them, either) and you’re getting a backseat into that relationship. Lucien/Reader is established here - more or less, considering how he is.

⤫ pairing: lucien x f!reader (+clara (oc!v)

⤫ word count: 4.4k+

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Your feet halt sharply at the sound of those words, startled into an acute silence.

The night hums around you, and you lean against the side of the greenhouse, peering through the blur of the glass. Humid heat keeps you warm from the night chill and you slow your breaths in order to hear better. You’ve come up to the terrace because you couldn’t sleep for the life of you, caught in your turbulent thoughts as you were.

Lucien being back should make you happy but something is different this time. You’ve kissed him and hugged the moment he came close enough to touch, and that might have led to a long and strenuous session in your shared bed. Bites and kisses and nails against the skin—just him, raw and passionate, and…

He always comes back from his disappearances with an appetite of a starved man—cruel, dangerous, prowling thing. Always dancing on that line of pain and pleasure. Never pushing more than you ask but there had been a strange detachment this time, a drift you know he felt as well.

Something, this time, felt emptier than usual. For both of you.

Coming up here so late has been more about getting some fresh air to clear your mind and get rid of that gnawing, traitorous whisper of soft brown hair. Hazel eyes and shoulder against yours when you replanted one of hundred plants in her greenhouse.

And it’s because of that, that you recognise the owner of that low, smooth feminine voice that speaks.

“Doing what?”

Of course, it’s him. Of course, the two most nocturnal members of the Pit of Vipers are the ones you have managed to stumble upon.

Instincts scream at once. They’re beyond dangerous individually much less together, and if they caught you spying they might be angry. Disappointed. That thought sits like curdled milk inside your stomach, tart and bitter.

Still. There is something that moves your body. Some need, a draw.

Leaning over the edge of the greenhouse, you spot the shadowed figures of Clara and Lucien. The latter stands with his back to you, his wispy blonde hair loose in the wind, a mess from your running your fingers through it earlier. Hungry. You had been just as hungry and just as needy for his touch.

Yet for some reason it…

It hadn’t been the same.

You love him so much, you do, and you think that maybe—just maybe—there is something inside his chest too. A small, fond thing you so rarely catch glimpses of but know is there.

Clara, on other hand, stands with her arms crossed over her chest, one side of her face bathed with terrace lights. It cuts a terrible, steely line—one dark, one light; and you suppose that’s only right too.

She’s tense though, her stare set as she drills holes into the side of Lucien’s pale head.

You know full well that is a terrifying position to be in. Her stare is downright chilling on a good day. Even more so when she’s angry. It’s made worse, you think, by the fact that she has a face that looks like it should be smiling. It’s a face made for kindness.

She hasn’t smiled once since you’ve met her. It stings more because you know she used to. Noah told you as much once; a sad, thoughtful expression crumpling his sharp, friendly features with sorrow.

Not since him.

The one no one speaks of openly, and certainly not Clara herself. A man with glaciers in his eyes, and tar-black heart.

“Disappearing like you do,” she says flatly, a fine lace of irritation in her voice.

Lucien clicks his tongue, shaking his head in amusement. “It’s what I’ve always done,” he returns dismissively. And you know that it’s an answer that will not go down well. He disappeared for so long you were starting to doubt he would ever return. Clara, since then, had been even more solitary and distant. You’ve always thought that Lucien needed her more than she needed him but this disappearance has proven different. “How is this time any different?”

She doesn't respond right away. It’s as if considering his question, wondering if he actually means those words and you swallow.

You shouldn't be here.

This is a private conversation and yet…

You’ve been just as disappointed by his actions. And you know that if you asked he would not answer.

He answers to no one but her—his leader, the only one he trusts and has chosen—and perhaps that’s the only way for you to get a glimpse into him as well. Find out where his head is at.

It was not so long ago that their bond used to make you jealous and insecure. A tiny part of you still has doubts—it’s hard not to, not with the looks they share, the mute acceptance between them, the way you sometimes just find them sitting together, shoulder to shoulder—but ever since Lucien’s last disappearance something has changed.

“You were gone for months,” she states briskly, her voice icy, and a shiver races down your spine hearing it. She doesn’t raise her voice. It’s smooth, controlled; a pleasant, ordinary string of words. She stands there, and simply looks at him, and it’s terrible somehow. “Even Step couldn’t find you. I couldn’t find you,” she adds after a slight pause, the tiniest of catches in her voice.

You’ve heard that catch a handful of times in the past. Mostly in the shadowed greenery of her greenhouse. Where you sometimes found the viper curled up and resting, hiding away from the world. You’ve tried sitting by her like Lucien sometimes does. It made you feel special, near euphoric the first time she allowed you to hold her hand in silent comfort. The first time she leaned her head on your shoulder.

The way she had sagged against you—atlas on her shoulders, expression fragile, soft—had stuck with you for a long time. So long, you can’t help but see it now.

This is the first fracture you’ve seen in her demeanour in weeks though. She’s so controlled for how Lucien is untamed. But demons that stir under the Viper’s skin might be worse than his and somehow…

That thought is as thrilling as it is terrifying.

The blonde doesn’t take much note of her words. Still staring out towards the twinkling New York streets. “Yes, I imagine it was rather annoying for him,” he says, deliberately avoiding her softer admission, an open fear. “Such a pity.”

It's wrong to say. Right now when every muscle in Clara’s body seems to have gone so taut with tension she bristles. Then, follows fire.

It thickens the air and even some distance away, hugged and hidden away by the shadows, you can feel something volatile bubbling in the air between them. It becomes near suffocating the longer Lucien remains impassive and disinterested in their conversation.

You’ve never seen him show fear, but perhaps, this once, he’s aiming for someone who can remind him of the feeling.

He knows it, too, you conclude when his head finally turns in her direction.

“I do it for you,” he snarls lowly, practically spitting the words, his grip on the railing tightening. “If I didn’t leave, I would skin your loyal little snakies and give you their skins as a present. By the time I came back to myself, it would already be too late, and you would hate me for taking them away from you. You would kill me for it, and maybe I would let you.”

Your heart slams into your throat at his calm, chillingly logical explanation.

You knew—to some degree—that him leaving was about protecting others as much as it was about allowing Lucien that room to roam. It’s hard to feel trapped, tied down, to something when you’ve spent years being treated as no better than an animal.

It makes you value that freedom just that much more.

Your lungs burn yet you feel too afraid to inhale lest you miss her reply.

The woman is silent for a leaden, disturbing moment and you feel your heartbeat accelerate the longer she remains quiet.

“Do you really think you mean so little to me?” comes her chilling whisper of a question and goosebumps tickle across the length of your arms. “That I would kill you?”

She laughs but it’s an unpleasant, cold thing that makes you think of a viper circling her prey and Lucien’s chin tilts at the challenge, at the mocking tilt of her inquiry. “You may act like you don’t care for them but could you really kill them? Just like that?” she demands, her tone sharpening as if she’s wielding one of her blades. “Kill her?”

Your heart thuds; once, twice.

You’re not sure what you feel more surprised at.

The fact that she’s pushing or that she sounds so furious at the mere prospect.

It’s them, you remind yourself hurriedly, ignoring the flush of heat you feel in response to the honeyed, poisonous edge you catch in her words, not what she’s saying.

Yet it feels like a weak argument even in your own mind.

Lucien pushes back from the railing, clenching his fingers experimentally, humming lightly under his breath before offering his verdict, “I won’t even hesitate.”

“You’re lying.”

It’s sharp, and immediate dismissal. So knowing that you don’t even doubt the call out because she knows him better than anyone. They’re two beasts snapping jaws and snarling and it makes for a beautiful sight. Captivating despite the danger.

The terror you should feel around them doesn’t come. That should probably concern you more. You’re not helpless but getting even more tangled with these people is a death sentence.

Lucien steps closer to the leader of the Vipers, and it’s only then that you notice that his white shirt is still unbuttoned. His skin often feels cold to the touch but he’s never once complained about it. The pale canvas of his flesh is marred by scars and faint bruises alike. You’ve tasted them, traced them with your tongue just a few hours ago—so even though you can’t see them clearly, you know they’re there.

“Funny thing. Lies. Like you lie to yourself daily, I imagine, hm?” Lucien’s voice slices through the night air, fills it, stretches it into something even tenser. “You walk around like you want to destroy everything in your path yet you still hold yourself back,” he spits knowingly, his voice slipping into harshness, and his eyes narrow, inspecting the woman before him intently. “He still clings to you and you let him. Still love him.”

He spits the word love out so hatefully you nearly flinch. Like no bigger crime could be committed against him.

His throat grows tense, tendons trembling, and in that moment he looks near feral. Livid.

Because she’s in pain, you think sadly, and he wasn’t there for her, and now she carries it.

It saddens you.

“You have no right,” it’s a warning, a hiss of a statement.

Lucien comes undone in a span of a second.

His arm snaps out, locking behind the slim curve of her neck, his fingers sinking into the nape. He doesn’t drag her forward, he drags himself to her. She lets him, and that surprises you more. She watches him from beneath her heavy, quietly furious brow, silent.

“I have every right!” he fires back, his stare brimming, and he briefly presses their foreheads together but his next words are cruel, “When we crawled out of that filth it was you and me. And then you let some fucker steal you. Do this to you.”

She rips out of his grip with speed that’s a blur, her teeth flashing, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me!”

Pain in her voice is like a whip against your skin and heart. They rip into you, linger under your skin. Is that how she felt? All this time. Alone. With no one to turn to.

It...

“You know that’s rich, Lucien,” she continues, her voice a low growl. “You really think I don’t see how you are with (Name)? Did you really assume you could hide something like that from me?”

Your gut coils at her tone. She sounds...small.

And then her words…

Oh.

She must think…

Does she feel like Lucien is replacing her with you? It’s true that you have bonded and grown closer together but…

God, doesn’t she realise no one could come even close to her for Lucien? You’ve accepted their bond long ago though it took time and a lot of battling insecurities that still crop up to do so.

It’s startling to realise that she has even more of those. That beneath a woman who has carved her way into power with such ruthless efficiency is still, at the end of the day, just human. Capable of wounds and bleeding. Doubts and diffidence. It gives her a different light, a human light, one that makes you want to hold her hand again. Feel the fold of her long fingers around yours.

“Ah, my pretty girl,” Lucien begins, sighing softly, his voice silky with tendrils of desire, hunger. So he’s concluded the same, then. Based on his sudden change in topic. “She’s a greedy thing. I see how she watches you, too. A heart so eager and big she doesn’t know what to do with it. So eager to give...and take,” he purrs, his tongue wetting his lips, and you choke down a breath at the memory of that searing tongue on your body. “At least I can say that about her. Can you say the same about your spider?”

You suck in a breath, holding it in your lungs, wide-eyed and unsteady.

Why is he goading her like this? Does this truly get under his skin so much? No—you know it does. Lucien has a greediness of a child who never got toys or enough food growing up. Eager hands and darker eyes. Constantly clawing for more, claiming everything he touches and hoarding it, ready to bite and snarl at any hand that tries to take his things away from him.

He’s considered her his own long before he even knew you. That same silent burn of mine, mine, mine rages in his gaze every time he looks at either of you.

“Do not speak of him, Lucien,” this time her voice is soft, deceptively so, a fragment of a warning that’s the last second of stillness before a viper strikes. “This is the only warning I will give you,” she adds.

Lucien’s head shakes. “Wipe him away,” he warns in return, his voice ice. “Do it, Clara, because if he destroys you, I will scatter his remains across this Earth. He will know agony long before I grant him death. Let her in.”

This time your heart jumps straight to your throat and stays there, beating and trembling, trying to flutter away.

“She’s not a thing for you to decide what to do with.”

There’s an edge to her voice, to her stance. They’re both tense, their shoulders taut as they glare at one another.

You’ve never seen them fight before. Not once. The fact that you’re the topic of their conversation…

Lucien snorts, shaking his head back and forth. “I’m only stating what you noticed long ago,” he says knowingly. “What my pretty girl wants even if she won’t admit it to herself yet,” a pause, and he licks his lips again, his head turning to stare right into the darkness, into the spot where you’re standing, “Isn’t that right, my brave foolish girl?”

Your muscles stiffen with shock. Your flee instincts scream at you to get away but you only stare at them numbly.

Clara doesn’t look surprised by his words, either. Did she know too? This whole time? Then why let you listen to this. Why—

“Don’t be shy,” he coaxes, his voice beguiling and gentle; a dangerous purr. “Come on out.”

You shouldn’t.

They’re…

Too much, too dangerous—you called them a death sentence only minutes prior, and you know you’re right.

Yet you step onto the terrace and straight into the jaws of two awaiting snakes who watch your every step with rapt intensity.

It’s an effort to keep your steps steady and spine straight. Under their stares, you become intimately aware of every stitch of clothing on you. Namely the fact that you’re in nothing but loose V-shirt and worn sweatpants, having pulled on the first thing on hand before departing your room in restless haste.

The intensity of their regard makes you feel like you’re naked, however.

Gulping a quiet breath you try to ignore the way Lucien traces the dip of your collarbone where a love bite is still visible. He sucked on the skin relentlessly, following that with a scattering of open-mouthed kisses, soothing the twinge of the ache.

“I…” you try and sigh. “Sorry. It was rude of me to listen. I…”

Your voice fades when Lucien steps towards you, his footsteps inaudible but purposeful. Same hunched shouldered, tense prowl of a gait, his arm encircling your waist the moment he’s close enough. You lean into his touch despite your wariness, your breath tickling against his exposed skin but over his narrow shoulder, you can’t help but watch Clara.

Dark jumper, messy braid over her shoulder, and sunken cheeks. Tired smudges sit under her eyes, her stare empty, and she looks…

Sad.

There is no particular expression on her face—she’s not that obvious, and he taught her well, you suppose—but the air around her seems to be teeming with some melancholic ache.

Lucien’s mouth brushes over your ear, nipping once, and you expect a shiver of shame or embarrassment to flood through you but it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel wrong to have her witness these things, to watch Lucien’s rare show of intimacy so closely.

The argument between them seems to be forgotten, for now, all of you caught in your own spells. Lucien’s mouth drags downwards, his teeth scraping against the hollow of your throat and you gasp softly.

The sound seems to snap Clara out of her daze, and her expression tightens in a blink. You still can’t get over how pale and tired she looks. Worn. Everything about her seems to be muted today. It’s then that you also recall that you haven’t seen her the whole day. When you asked Hector he had only barked a harsh she’s busy and you had retreated after that, noting his foul mood—more so than usual.

Why?

You try to think if this day holds some sort of significance and—

Oh, oh, oh.

It must be today.

Your stomach sinks at the realisation. So hard and suddenly the sensation of Lucien’s mouth fades just for a second. Because just like that the man’s return also makes sense. He returned so he would be here just in case she needs him.

Two years since the night she was taken in Tokyo.

There must be so much turmoil in her today. No wonder you haven’t seen her out and about and now, out here, in the private space between them, her guard has worn far quicker than usual.

Lucien presses you flush against him and hums a pleased sound when you sigh at the feeling of his lips skimming over your jaw. His head tilts then, staring at Clara over his shoulder.

“You’ve made your point,” she snips the moment he does, her voice throaty.

She stalks past you both, her jaw set and lips pressed to a hard line. Your actions are instinct alone.

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, partially jerking from Lucien’s hold to catch her in your grip. Last time you’ve done something like this she flinched and yanked her arm away with a heated glare. This time she freezes, tensing, but doesn’t pull out of your hold. Her steady, strong pulse beats against your palm and you inhale at the contact.

Last time you touched her had been when she told you her real name.

Clara, Clara, Clara.

With her hands knuckle deep in a pot, a smear of dirt across the freckled nose, and near content look in her eyes. You know she never demands. Yet each member chooses to cement their loyalty to the Pit in their own time and on their own terms. Once the snake tattoo marks their skin, it’s forever. In return, Clara gives them her own name—the ultimate sign of acceptance.

You don’t have a snake tattoo. Yet she had given you her name still. She had noted your startled expression before it morphed and bloomed into a bright grin. That seemed to have startled her more.

When you had hugged her—breathing her in, absorbing her warmth, and savouring the comfort that comes with such simple affection—she had stood there, not moving. It took her several minutes to fully relax, melt into you with a sigh so gentle you barely felt it.

Now, your hand is on her skin again, even if circumstances are so different.

“Don’t go,” you say, fighting back the urge to tug her towards you. “Stay.”

Lucien shifts around you—another snake coiling—but he’s waiting and watching. Almost vibrating with energy you have no name for. Arm around your waist, hand resting lightly on your lower stomach, but you feel his stare digging into her.

He’s eager to see how she will react.

This. This feels right.

Lucien at your side and you holding onto her. A unit, a chain of energy. A thrill rushes through your hand and right to your heart at that conclusion; hot and fierce.

Those dark eyes peer at you, and there is something in her gaze—maybe longing, maybe regret—but it blows out like a candle in a stiff breeze.

Her stare goes to Lucien briefly and she tugs her wrist free. Your expression falls the moment cool night air kisses your palm instead.

Clara turns and disappears down the staircase. Her room is on this floor, just below the terrace and you listen to her fading footsteps. The disappointment you feel stings, bubbles in your chest and you pull your hand back, folding your fingers into a loose fist.

Lucien hisses under his breath, displeased, muttering something in French. His nails scratch against your stomach as he pulls his hand away.

“Why did you do that?” you demand quietly.

A soft breath and quick, hard kiss against your head, his fingers sinking into your shoulder.

“Because I will not let her run anymore,” he mutters coldly, and it carries through the night air, making you shiver.

Turning in his hold, you stare at him.

“Have you two ever…”

He reads into your meaning without you having to force the words out. You’re immensely grateful for it.

“No.”

Your throat aches but you still wonder, “Kissed?”

“Yes. Once,” blunt and straightforward as always. For once, you find yourself appreciating that. “We both thought we were going to die, and neither of us wanted our last memory to be of rotting in pain and alone. Our humanity stripped away.”

You step out of his embrace, mulling that over. You can’t even begin to imagine what that would be like. Feeling that level of desperation. That lack of hope and despair. That kiss had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with comfort, with a need to cling to something so ordinary yet human in what they perceived to be their last moments alive.

“It’s today, isn’t it?” you finally ask, your words soft, thoughtful. “When she was taken. That’s why you came back. Because you knew she would need you,” you add knowingly, staring up at him.

Lucien stares back at you wordlessly. He doesn’t need to waste his breath and verbalize it for you to know you’re right.

“She needs us both,” he concludes and there is no room for argument in that statement—for him, it's an absolute, a known fact. “She’s just too wrapped up in him to realise that.”

Him. It always comes back to him.

The seething rage lingers in Lucien’s soft words, practically spat, certainly damning. Yet you never expected him to be as accepting of this as he has been.

“Why aren’t you mad?” you wonder, watching his profile, the dips of his skin illuminated by the artificial lights. In this moment he’s a wraith, a spirit, a restless ghost. “At the thought that I might…”

Do feel something for a woman you shouldn’t. Did that make you selfish? You often felt selfish for simply wanting Lucien. For hoping that one day he will be able to make peace with his demons and stay with you.

You can’t help but wonder if the woman who reminds you of a beautiful, haunted house could ever, possibly, let her demons go too.

Could...could she feel the same?

Your blood warms at the thought, your mind cycling through every moment shared with her over these last several months. Combing them for any signs and...

“Why would I be, pretty girl?” he retorts with a tsk and a cutting glance. He reaches out, fingers caressing the length of your chin. “I have no intention of choosing, you’re capable of loving us both I know that, and she needs to learn happiness again.”

You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut, savouring the contact. There is that greediness in his hold when he drags you to him. You follow. This time there is new conflict but the energy between you seems to be back, settled. Pressing your forehead against his bare collar, you shiver at how cold he feels to the touch but feel happy at this return.

The missing piece finally has a name.

“What did he do to her?” you mumble against his skin, so desperate to understand what no one is willing to share with you.

You want Clara to tell you herself, one day, but until she’s ready, if ever...

Lucien's voice is dark and low, barely audible when he answers, “He made her love him.”

You doubt anyone can make someone love another person. Not really. But now can’t help but wonder if Lucien feels like that man stole the Clara he knew—Clara that smiled—away from him and that’s what boils his blood. Something that he considered his own was taken from him and he was powerless to stop it.

“And did he love her back?”

He was a fool if he didn’t.

Lucien is quiet for a long, long time after that question, and you feel him staring out towards the twinkling skyline.

“There is a reason why he’s still alive.”

. . .

an: yeah, little to no context and I don’t really expect anyone to read this or care but if you did and happen to enjoy it thank you very much for giving it a chance! love you guys lots. this was written a solid month back so discord gang this is familiar to you lot *wiggles eyebrows*

#oc x reader #oc writing #original writing #reader insert #c: lucien #c: clara #s: we are bound #v: npfh #i said reader is here for both and what of it? also yeah oc!v/clara is bi too so (blows kisses)#anon #asks

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sapphiics · 3 years

Text

blessed are the forgetful

Jennifer Jareau Gen fic a/n: I watched eternal sunshine of the spotless mind and immediately thought of this for JJ! I'm thinking of doing this as a series for the entire team so let me know what you think! Also I made JJ fifteen when Roslyn dies as opposed to 10/11, it was easier to write. I did not know how to finish this at all so sorry if the ending is kind of weird

Warnings- mentions of suicide and blood

Word Count : 1207

Summary : It’s been too long, and JJ is tired of grieving by herself.

It took JJ’s parents 108 days to cave in. The funeral had happened over two months ago, and everything had been moved to the garage. Marked boxes stacked in a corner. When her parents had the procedure done, the technicians put tape over her name, her parents none the wiser.

JJ hated them at first. She already thought it was selfish how they were splitting up, leaving her in the middle of the two of them. What they did only further solidified her anger at them. Now, she’s starting to believe they were right. It would be so much easier to forget. Forget her smile, forget her eyes, forget how angry she was in the days leading up. Screaming at Dad, yelling at Mom, shutting JJ out. Forget finding their first child, their seventeen year old daughter, bleeding to death in the bathtub with Dad’s razor blade lying next to her.

But they didn’t find her. Their other daughter did. The one they still have, who's still alive . Only JJ is barely there herself. She can’t stand to be around either of them anymore. The technicians told her to refrain from speaking of Roslyn anymore. Their own daughter, gone. A memory they both erased to ease their pain, their hurt. Leaving JJ in her own mourning, her pain crashing down upon her with nobody to help. No shoulder to cry on, arms to wrap around her. It’s impossible, because they simply don’t remember. They don’t remember sitting in the only hospital in their town, the two of them cramped on a hospital bed smiling down at their first child. Roslyn finally taking her first steps at 18 months in the backyard as they taped the entire thing. They erased those memories, burned those tapes. Can’t remember her first day of kindergarten, JJ nestled in the arms of her mother as Roslyn bounded up the stairs of their elementary school. It’s all gone for them, living on only in JJ’s memory. Like a ghost no one else believes in. A spirit haunting no one but her.

JJ keeps everything. It doesn’t matter if the technicians say it could cause harmful triggers to her parents. They chose that brain damage, the easy way out. She’s done putting any of their needs first. Her parents left her to suffer alone. Roslyn’s necklace sits on her neck, ‘a gift from a friend.’ Her journal sits on JJ’s bedside, her shoes under the bed. Her blankets have replaced JJ’s own, and her clothes sit in a basket at the bottom of JJ’s closet. The perfume is JJ’s favorite memento. When it's late, and she just wants to scream at her parents for moving on and leaving her in the unbearable grief of losing a sister at 15, she sits in her basket of clothes, sprays the perfume, and closes her eyes. And for one fleeting second, she can almost trick her brain into believing that she isn’t utterly alone.

There’s this moment every morning JJ wakes up. This one euphoric moment. Where she doesn’t remember anything. Her mind is completely blank, and for a split second, she feels happy. And then reality sets in and her despair kicks her further than she could ever imagine, and the guilt pools in her stomach, Guilt because the best part of her day, the best part of her life for the past 108 days, is the moment when she forgets Roslyn. JJ clutches Ros’s necklace around her neck, dropping back down into her sheets. She starts sympathizing more with her mother and father.

It takes months for her to work up the courage to schedule an appointment with Lacuna. Day 224. JJ knows she won’t follow through with the procedure, but a part of her needs to see it. See how her parents just erased Roslyn. The doctor made it seem so normal, just help create a map of that person in your brain, and they’ll delete all the memories for you. You even wake up in your own bed. JJ was with her grandparents that day, none the wiser of what her parents were doing until dinner time came around and they had to explain to her what was going on. How her parents took her sister and deleted her. Like a file in their brain they didn’t need anymore. She walks out of the clinic, disgusted by the fact that for a pitiful minute, she was seriously contemplating following in the footsteps of her Mom and Dad. The harsh Pennsylvanian winter bites at her cheeks, freezing the tears she knows are bound to fall as she briskly walks home. A pamphlet is tucked in her back pocket.

“She was angry and withdrawn,” JJ exclaims bitterly, ”it was like living with a stranger! I hate saying it out loud but all I could think about initially, before it really set in, was that there would finally be peace.” The technician, a guy named Stan, motions for her to continue, ”But then it wasn’t peace, it was just a flood of grief, and I’m angry because everybody but me has either moved on or forgotten about her and I cannot keep living like this,” she finishes, angry tears sneaking out of her eyes and onto her flushed cheeks. “ Thank you Ms. Jareau, we have enough. If you could just lean back and place your head under here,” tapping the mechanical contraption hanging from the ceiling,” we could get started. When the procedure is finished, you will awaken in your bed as if nothing has occurred, your memories of your sister completely gone.” JJ’s face slackens, the reality of what she's doing feeling like a gut punch. Her sister, her Rosalyn, erased. All her mementos, all their memories together, just gone. The sacred fifteen years they got to spend together. Could she really do that to her beloved sister, wipe her away like a dirty mark on her life? But then JJ remembers the pain. The horrific overwhelming, all-consuming pain she’s been in for the past 9 months. The dreadful loneliness she’s been suffocating in around her parents, around the entire town that looks at her with their pitiful eyes. The sob-filled nights that she spends huddled in her sister’s blankets, desperately reaching for someone who simply isn’t there anymore. Is it so bad that she wants to be free of that?

JJ wakes up in her bed, the sunrise shining through her window. And just like every other day, that utter happiness hits her. Her hand lifts towards her neck, nothing around it. The happiness stays, the feeling settling into her head, heart, all the way to her toes. And then JJ turns, her eyes catching a glance at her bed stand table. Lying on top of her dead sister's journal, is that same dead sister’s necklace. And the sadness pours, the same feeling washing over JJ for the millionth time. It’s more bittersweet today, her immense grief worth it because she has a sister to remember. JJ sits up in her bed, grabs the notebook and necklace, and slides back into the blanket, cracking open the journal like an old book. And for the first time in 276 days since Rosalyn Jareau died, JJ relishes in every single memory.

#criminal minds #jennifer jareau #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #jennifer jareau fic #jennifer jareau fanfiction #grace writes

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l8rhader · 3 years

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What are your Top 5 Paragraphs from You Can Change...? How about from the Everything Has Changed verse?

ADJFKLSJFGWOIB WHAT A SWEET QUESTION ARE YOU KIDDING ME I LOVE YOU

In no particular order from You Can Change Right Next To Me

1. They stood that way for about a minute. Eddie was astounded. All it took was a little determination and creativity to come up with a simple adjustment, just so that she could do what she needed to do as a mom without hurting them. That was it.

2. It was silly, he knew, but an act of, he felt, bold defiance struck him. He stood up and motioned for Richie to do the same, stripped the top sheet from his bed, and looked around the room for something to use to affix it. Catching his drift, Richie crossed to the bulletin board behind the desk and snagged 4 push pins from their line at the edge of the cork, then walked over to him, pushing them into the wooden frame as Eddie held the sheet in place. It wasn’t much, and he knew it would never last if she came upstairs, but it felt like something.

3. All at once, the weight of everything that had happened to them crashed down around Eddie. He'd been "strong." He'd been "brave." He'd been "mature." He'd been all the things that he thought he needed to be. And one moment of pure vulnerability from Richie and he felt it all. The fear, the joy, the giddiness, the love, the anger, all of it. For the first time in ages, since that day on the floor outside the cafeteria, the world started to spin. His chest started to constrict.

4. “Oh, yeah, that,” Eddie smiled, nodding. “You owe me big time for that,” he added, turning him around and giving him a gentle prod toward the basement. “Such a large inconvenience. Woe is me, however will I go on-” he joked. As he wrapped his arms around Richie’s middle, walking behind him, he pressed another gentle kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. “Having a mildly uncomfortable conversation with my mother-in-law who is, quite possibly, the only one of the four of our parents I'm not currently even a little mad at, to protect my husband from having an even more uncomfortable one? I’m a hero.” He shoved Richie down onto the bed and popped on the TV, crawling in front of him and nestling their bodies tightly together.

5. “Yeah, idiot. You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon or something,” he said gently, looking up at the Toziers’ house across the street. He looked back at Richie, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to help him at all if he couldn't get him to Eddie. “Which means that you’re supposed to be not leaving Eddie’s side. I think being two houses away is pushing it.” He looked around, trying to figure out how exactly he was going to do this. He stood and tried to pull Richie to his feet, but it was like he was made of rubber. “Let’s get you home, man. Come on,” he said, voice belaying a frightened sense of urgency. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do that because if I touch you it’s going to hurt and I know that I couldn’t carry you even if I tried and The Cardinal is in pieces,” he looked over his shoulder and looked for anything he could use; Any way he could get Richie home. “I could probably…” In the corner sat his old bike, abandoned since the day he got his driver’s permit. “Do you think you can hold yourself up on my bike?” He nodded limply and Stan pulled him closer to the car. He turned back to grab it, immediately interrupted by a deadweight thud. “Richie?” he asked, turning back. Seeing him on the ground, he cried out, “Richie!”

Bonus line: While the boys had spent time gaining proficiency in diving into the quarry, Sonia had years on them, but the only thing she was ever good at jumping to was conclusions.

Everything Has Changed is so much harder because there’s just so much of it but:

1. They locked eyes and the whole cheesy speech, full of raunchy jokes and sentimental anecdotes Richie had been working on for weeks flew out of his mind. Recently, memory lapses were jokingly called "The Derry Effect" between them. This wasn't "The Derry Effect." This was "The Eddie Kaspbrak Effect." The breathless, mystifying way Eddie left him feeling had carried through since they were 11 and he dragged him across his mother's house to make him wash his hands before they shared popcorn out of the same bowl. [highest hopes]

2. “Okay, I’m Richie because…” he whispered and huffed, cutting off his soliloquy and quietly climbing toward him. “Hi?” He offered his Eddie a quick peck through the open window, then flicked his eyes upward, exasperation comedically magnified by his glasses, “Who else would I be?” He lugged his upper body in the window and, aided by his still-too-long legs, managed to get inside without falling. “We’ve definitely got the father denying down and we’ll put a pin in the name changing,” he laughed, imagining a day when, maybe, he’d be Richie Kaspbrak or the smaller boy in front of him would be Eddie Tozier, feeling a familiar warmth in his chest, “but like, I’ve got some baggage here, babe. A little help would be nice.” Aided by Eddie, he started untangling his limbs from the straps and setting the bags in a pile in the corner. [coming home]

3. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying to capture the last time he’d been that scared. There had to have been a moment. He could feel it. A movie projector and a ramshackle old house. A dead girl floating. But he couldn’t voice any of it. “I haven’t felt that way since…” A hammock. Bikes. Sewers. Paul Bunyan. Shared Ice Cream Cones. Fleeting images fell through his mind and petered out. It was like trying to catch smoke in a butterfly net. “I don’t know why my brain filled in dairy?” He shook his head, trying to figure out what he meant by that. Not dairy. What the fuck? “I haven’t felt that way since dairy? What does that even mean?” He took one of the strawberries from the bowl and bit into it, releasing juice down his chin as he spoke. [mine/yours]

4. Tutting, Pennywise wagged his finger. “Oh. Not so gentile language, pretty bird.” He pointed to the room below, where Bill was fighting against the current to get back to Mike. “See the way this one swims? All of your friends, all the losers, they swim! Just like at the quarry. Jump, fall, swim. It’s fun!” He laughed, licking his lips and reaching in to tease Stan once more. “Soon, they’ll float like itty,” poke , “bitty,” poke , “Georgie!” Stan kicked the clown’s hand and it pulled back. It was not happy about that. “Not you, Stanley! Not you. You can't even tread water,” he snarled, plucking through the ropes that suspended the box in midair. “Let's see if you can fly!” Laughing once more, he broke the final cord and sent him plummeting to the ground. “Don't forget your parachute!” he prompted, littering the ground with blood splattered yarmulke. [feeling like I missed you]

5. (arguably this is 2 paragraphs but like... it’s one of my absolute favorite moments i’ve ever written) Laughing, realizing how ridiculous he must look, a seventeen-year-old boy standing out in the woods cradling a babydoll, he was overcome with an idea. He took to wrapping the doll to look as lifelike as possible. When he’d swaddled her in the tiny blanket she came with, he mussed his hair up to look a little more frazzled. Then, he found a position for her in his arms that looked believable for an actual infant to be in. Finally, he cooked up a little story about a certain redheaded Loser who had popped back in a little while ago to visit and, well, surprise, Ma! He couldn’t believe what he was going to do, but now that the idea was in his head, he couldn’t get it out. “Let’s go see if we can’t give your Grandmonster a heart attack, okay?” He laughed as he moved in through the back gate, whispering to the small bundle in his arms. “Roll out…” // Heart attack was pretty close. Eddie slunk into the house as guiltily as possible, then shook Megan a little harder than what one would classify as a rocking motion. As soon as he did, she let out a piercing scream that he managed to quell. His mother yelled out for him and he quietly edged into the room, keeping his back to the wall and the doll’s face hidden. His mother blanched then turned scarlet and they were off. He worked up some tears and spilled his whole sordid story. “And now she’s here, and she’s mine, and I don’t care. She’s all I have left of-” he trailed off, imagining shaking Billy Crystal’s hand at the Oscars over this riveting and raw performance. “She’s a part of me. I can’t lose that.” [butterflies]

Bonus Line: “ Anyway, ‘Handsome, what the hell do you call that? How are you going to censor a whole building?’[...] This asshole turns to me and goes ‘It’s great, isn’t it? And no one noticed!’” [measuring]

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alinaastarkov · 4 years

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a sansa stan was given an ask about jonrya (and they had the audacity to tag jonx arya in their post despite spreading bullshit) and apparently Jon may have more thoughts about Arya in quantity but they're the same... in quality? also apparently the black bastard cat king in the castle being kissed isn't foreshadowing because he "yowled and spit". also the nods to jon's heart are OBVIOUSLY about sansa because Melisandre, Ygritte.... Sansa? I've lost brain cells since I've read that shit.

He missed the girls too, even Sansa, who never called him anything but "my half brother" since she was old enough to understand what bastard meant. And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. Arya never seemed to fit, no more than he had … yet she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now, to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him.

As he rode, Jon peeled off his glove to air his burned fingers. Ugly things. He remembered suddenly how he used to muss Arya's hair. His little stick of a sister. He wondered how she was faring. It made him a little sad to think that he might never muss her hair again. He began to flex his hand, opening and closing the fingers. If he let his sword hand stiffen and grow clumsy, it well might be the end of him, he knew. A man needed his sword beyond the Wall.

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her.

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily.

"By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa."

“The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …"

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa."

A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. "Young ones, and pretty," Mance had said. The unburnt king supplied some names, and Dolorous Edd had done the rest, smuggling them from Mole's Town. It seemed like madness now. He might have done better to strike down Mance the moment he revealed himself. Jon had a certain grudging admiration for the late King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the man was an oathbreaker and a turncloak. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them. All to save my sister. But the men of the Night's Watch have no sisters.

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself.

May those deaths be long in coming. Jon Snow sank to one knee in the snow. Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.

"That's good." Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. He rose and donned his cloak.

He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe. She won't be safe, though. Winterfell is burned and broken and there are no more safe places.

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. "Winter's lady." Jon squeezed her hand.

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl.

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

Yeah, I mean, I see absolutely no difference in the quality of these thoughts. At all... 😒

#asoiaf #anti jonsa #arya stark #jon snow #sansa stark #also notice he actually names arya as his heart in the paragraph so these people must be fully on crack to miss it #ffs #Anonymous #neve has mail

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sky-squido · 3 years

Note

16, 21, 30, or 34? ALSO HAPPY BORTH YOU WONDERFUL PERSON 'yeets a cake at you'

*gets cake yeeted at me*

MORPH ILY

it's really funny thought cuz my parents actually got squido WRITTEN ON THE CAKE AAH

anyway *coughs*

here's where you can find the answer to 16! ^^

21. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

all of these are gonna be platonic cuz ew romance ((post was made by the probably aroace gang)) and FOUND FAMILY IS THE BEST

okay so i write a LOT of downfall duo,,, like a LOT. it might be my favorite pairing, but it feels a little too easy sometimes. i'm a total sucker for rarepairs like sky&legend, four&legend, wind&legend twi&legend—I'M A SHAMELESS LEGEND STAN OKAY

oh hyrule&sky is fire, too

okay but in all seriousness i ADORE writing twi-sky parent gang and wind&twilight also gives me SO MUCH LIFE. my favorites are legend, sky, and wind, and i feel like the latter two especially are just really underutilized. the most fun i have in my fics is like, yes there's a storyline and Serious Things Are Happening but they're still a buncha kiddos going on an adventure together and i feel like the more banter and rarepairs a fic has, the more real it all feels

enough rambling okay YES i love downfall duo with my whole heart but also i think the beauty of LU is the diversity of interactions you can play with and anything with a soft legend or a badass wind and/or sky in it is a recipe for a VERY happy squido. just,, sky and wind, and twi, too, i feel, are often the "recessive" characters in an interaction, if you will. it feels like they're usually not the main characters and tend to be a vehicle for the plot of whoever's talking to them so when THEY'RE stepping up and taking a role, it just makes me so happy! ^^

as i mentioned here, they're all the main characters of their own games so watching them all step up and take charge, especially the traditionally timid ones is just YES

okay enough rambling what was the other one? ah yes

30. Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

yes.

no i’m kidding.

well only sort of.

the way i see it, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort, they’re like push and pull. it’s a dance, my friends, a dance of hurt and healing and you need both to feel satisfied. fluff fics are nice, but they’re not food. angst fics are great, but i always leave them feeling sort of empty. but both, the angst sets up the conflicts and the fluff resolves it. i think you really do need both to have balance in a fic. obviously fics don’t have to show you the whole picture and authors can write whatever they’re comfy with and sometimes you want a fluffy comfort fic and sometime you just want pain—i’m by no means trying to say that my way is the only, or even the best, way to write a fic. it’s just my personal preference and that intertidal zone between the soft yet stagnant sands of fluff and the roaring, turbulent waves of angst is where i make my home. the tides come and go, waves crash and pull, but life flourishes in the cracks in the rocks and the burrows in the sand and sjghsfjghfldkgsehfjgsd i really just went off didn’t i

tl;dr:

yes

34. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

ohh this one's hard.

i had a big ramble here before i remembered two excepts that just take the cake and these are probably my favorite things i've ever posted on ao3

this one’s from Burns:

“Tell me, do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?” The man said that like it was somehow supposed to explain something. Like it meant something.

Wind thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say that I do. Sunset… it’s beautiful.” Wind smiled despite himself, gesticulating excitedly. “The sky lights up a million colors and the ocean turns to molten gold. The sea stays warm even as the wind grows chilled and the first stars begin to blink into the sky, a welcome sight to any navigator. Sure it’s sad that the day ends, but the night is beautiful in its own way. I welcome them both. Two sides of the same coin, you know?”

The man remained in silence for a moment. “But what about the twilight? That time when the world hangs precariously between the two, balanced on the coin’s edge. What about that time?”

Wind felt his brow furrow in confusion, but he indulged him nonetheless.

“Yeah, it’s nice. That time when the first star blinks into the sky, the bravest and the brightest, a beacon of hope guiding sailors on their journeys. It’s like the dawn, but not quite as still. It’s like… it’s as if the day is an inhale and the night is an exhale and twilight is that little time in the middle when the world holds its breath. Is that what you mean?”

The man’s gaze shifted to the ground, a bittersweet smile on his face and his eyes suspiciously wet.

“Yeah. That is what I mean.”

Wind opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the man saying: “call me Twilight.”

This is from What Hyrule Hadn't Seen chapter 10 and it’s both spoilers and kinda long and i don’t want this post to be five miles so

“Wind, we need to get you out here. You can barely stand.”

“Bullsh*t! I’m not leaving you behind!”

“I’ll manage,” came his reply, the blade of his spin attack passing above Wind’s crouched head.

“No you f*cking won’t! I’m not going to leave you out here to die!”

“So you’d rather we both died instead?!”

“You admit that this is a suicide mission, then!”

“Stop wasting time and get out of here!”

“NO!”

“WIND! As your commanding officer, I am ordering you to get to safety!”

Wind finally rose to his feet, his right leg bleeding and clearly supporting none of his weight, his sword unwavering in his determined arms.

“The day I submit to your authority when you're being an ass is the day I f*cking die.”

Warriors let out a small whine, a sound Wind never could have imagined the captain making. He spoke in a low, slicing tone, his eyes like his blade—cold, steely, and far too wet—as he faced the sailor.

“I’ve stood over far too many corpses. Don’t let yours be one of them.”

Wind straightened his posture and said nothing, pulling his bow from his back, his gaze like fire—hungry and bursting with life—and wordlessly turned his back to the captain, knocking an arrow, brilliant luminescence collecting on its head as he aimed into the blackened forest that seethed with darkness.

“Come on, tactics man, use your head. If you fall here, the town won’t be safe. Nowhere will be.”

He smiled a smile that had no right to cover the face of a child.

“If we’re gonna die, we might as well do it together.”

Warriors’ shoulders heaved in a silent sob, but he quickly quelled it, regaining his composure as best he could, brow furrowed and sword quivering in his hands.

“I just can’t f*cking win with you.”

“No, but you can lose with me one last time.”

"So be it."

Warriors said nothing more, diving into battle once again.

Wind fired his arrow.

A halo of light burst through the forest, shattering shadows into dust.

And a sword slipped past the captain’s wavering guard.

read it here uwu: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993870/chapters/68195218

#squido rants #this got so long i'm so sorry #(not really but sssh)#people have been liking and not reblogging these anyway so they probably won't be on your dash 15 times

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hanscom · 4 years

Note

reddie enemies to lovers

(I keep trying to convince myself to finish this, but it hasn’t happened yet and it’s been over a year since I started it. So here, have some hockey enemies to friends nonsense.

Fair warning: this is the same game as we all know and love, but the ins and outs of professional hockey detailed here are made up. I don’t know the specifics about what goes on off the ice, okay? Correct me if you must, but I highly encourage you to just embrace the fact that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

Also, I love you all, still and forever. Thanks for following me even after all this time.)

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak Rating: T Word count: 2,948

It’s cold in the arena.

It’s worse, down on the ice. The air is sharp and stinging on his face, in his lungs. His skates are steady under his feet. The lights are blazing overhead. He can’t smell much except the sweaty inside of his helmet, but he imagines it smells like popcorn and hoppy beer. It smells like game day. It smells like home.

Richie doesn’t think there could be anything better than this.

He’s skating backwards around the rink, gliding fast across the freshly buffed ice, content in the knowledge that no one is going to run into him. His team has gotten pretty good at working around him. They’re starting to become a pretty effortless unit, for the most part. It’s something Richie is pretty fucking proud of.

He whooshes past Ben and around one of the rookies, shouting joyful nonsense that echoes off the ice. They yell back at him, but he can’t make out the words over the sound of his skates and the blood rushing in his ears.

And then Stan skates out from the tunnel and into his way. Richie twists fast to the side, digging down, slowing to a quick stop. Ice sprays up under his blades. Stan, unimpressed as always, doesn’t move. “Are you done showing off?” he asks, his mouthguard hanging from his helmet. The only time he ever takes it out on the ice is to give Richie a hard time.

“What’s that?” Richie says. “I can’t hear you from down there.”

Stan is the smallest guy on the team. He’s almost a solid foot shorter than Richie, and he’s constantly sore as fuck about it. Richie doesn’t get it. If Stan were any bigger, any less quick on his feet, he wouldn’t be half the player he is. Stan’s a winger. His entire hockey career revolves around being fast. And, anyway, Richie’s kind of big for a centerman, but you don’t hear him bitching about it.

They’re close to the goal. Mike is standing there in the crease, suited up, his hulking equipment making him look massive. “Are we really doing this again?” he calls, but he’s laughing about it.

Richie digs his skates in, gliding an easy circle around the goal. “We sure are,” he says, grinning. “You know Stan plays a better game when he’s pissed off.”

“I could play a better game than you in a coma,” Stan shouts. His face is red, some combination of cold air and actual anger. Stan’s normally a pretty level-headed guy, but Richie gets under his skin, shakes him up, makes him mad. His game has gotten a thousand times more aggressive since they met. Bill sometimes jokes about putting him on defense, but he never will. Stan as Richie’s left wing is pretty much the only reason the Portland Pioneers ever score.

It’s not that their right wing is bad, exactly. He’s just… not good. Richie can say that. He’s not the captain, like Bill. He’s not even an alternate, like Stan and Ben. He doesn’t have to be diplomatic. He doesn’t have to play nice. Hockey’s not a nice sport. Hockey’s about being fast and smart and violent. Right winger Patrick Hockstetter might be mean as hell, but he’s also slow as fuck and dumb as a box of rocks. Richie can work with a lot of things, but he can’t fix stupid.

But Richie’s trying not to think about it. He doesn’t need to go into the game expecting Patrick to fuck it up for them (again). It’s bad luck. And Albany’s a good team. Richie has to focus if he’s going to pull this one out.

—

The Pioneers lose in overtime, which is devastating. Losing always sucks, but it’s even worse, watching Albany celebrate on their ice.

Afterward, the locker room is quiet for a long time, aside from the five minutes Coach spends yelling at them for their admittedly awful performance. When he retreats back to his office, the team slowly strips out of their equipment, made sluggish by defeat. They’re all tired. Richie is already starting to ache, his body finally registering all the time he spent up against the boards. Bill and Ben are in even worse shape. Both of them already have bruises blooming across their ribs, across their backs. Albany played rough. The Pioneers haven’t had to fight that dirty in a long time. It makes the loss feel even worse, somehow.

Richie has just finished dragging on his street clothes when Bill finally speaks up. He has changed into the full three-piece suit he wears to impress the media circus waiting outside for him, and his hair is still damp from the shower. He looks sort of ridiculous, standing there in full monkey costume in front of the team, who are all in various states of undress. But he’s still the captain, so when Bill tells them to listen up, they do.

“You guys played really hard tonight,” he says. He’s trying to sound light-hearted, uplifting, but Richie has known him for a long time now. He’s just as crushed by the loss as everyone else — probably more so. There’s a small waver in his voice that says it all. “I know this isn’t the outcome we wanted, but that doesn’t change how well you all played.”

Richie looks down. It’s sort of worse, knowing they did well but lost anyway. They gave it their all, but it wasn’t good enough. It fucking sucks. Richie sort of wants to punch something. He sort of wants to sleep for a few days straight.

He really, really, really wants a right winger who can shoot a decent shot.

It’s not a very charitable thought. Patrick has played worse games than this one. But Richie’s too tired to play nice, and he can’t stop replaying all the shots they missed, all the times he was open and so was the goal but the puck was nowhere to be found and neither was Patrick.

Richie thinks, without meaning to, about Albany’s right winger. Thinks about the way he had sped across the ice, faster than Richie, faster even than Stan. He’d played a good game. A damn good game. Richie sort of really hates him for it, which isn’t fair. It’s not that guy’s fault Richie doesn’t have a solid line. But he is most of the reason Albany scored and scored and scored again, so Richie reserves the right to hate him, just a little.

Stan and Mike ask him out for a drink, but he declines. He wouldn’t be good company, and besides, he’s beat. So he bids them goodbye and leaves out the back, ball cap pulled low over his eyes to hopefully deter anyone from recognizing him. It works. He gets home without incident, makes himself a late dinner, and flips on the TV to watch a few highlights, because he’s an obsessive masochist. Pittsburgh beats Chicago, then Nashville loses to Dallas, and then he’s watching himself skate furiously down the length of the Pioneers’ rink. He groans, but doesn’t fumble for the remote. Helplessly, hopelessly, he watches Patrick lag behind. He watches Albany’s defense wrestle the puck away without much of a fight. He watches that tiny fucking demon of a right winger swoop in, taking control of the puck with an ease Richie can’t help but admire. God, the guy’s good.

The announcers call him Eddie Kaspbrak. The name sounds familiar, in the way that all good players sound familiar. Richie can only watch so many highlights in a night without picking up on a few things, and this is clearly not the first beautiful pass Kaspbrak has ever made. Richie makes a face and finally shuts the television off. He doesn’t need to relive Kaspbrak’s seamless pass to center, that perfect shot down the crease, the way Mike’s knee guards slapped to the ice a split-second too late. It was hard enough to watch in real time.

One day, he’s going to have a right wing like Kaspbrak, who can keep up and knows how to bank a shot. But today isn’t that day, so he gives up and goes to bed, upset and pissed off and stoking his quiet, irrational grudge against Eddie Kaspbrak.

—

Trade negotiations roll around. Richie tries not to worry about it, but he does. Everyone does.

In the end, it’s Patrick. Which isn’t surprising, exactly, but feels so much like everything Richie has ever wanted that it scares him. He finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In late February, two weeks before the trade deadline, it does. Bill makes the announcement after a rough, sweaty afternoon practice. Richie is tired as fuck, still breathing heavy, but all the air jams up in his throat when Bill breaks the news.

The Portland Pioneers have acquired Eddie Kaspbrak.

—

Kaspbrak, in person and without all his gear, is even smaller than he looks on the ice.

He’s younger-looking than Richie expects. They’re the same age, but Richie has taken a few good hits over the years that have knocked his face a little out of whack. He has a crooked nose, twisted teeth. The entire left side of his jaw had to be painstakingly rebuilt three years ago when he took a puck to the face, which left his smile sort of lopsided.

Eddie doesn’t look like he’s ever taken a hit. He has a smooth, even face. Nice teeth. He’s good-looking, is all Richie’s saying. Richie didn’t expect it. He’s not sure why it catches him off-guard.

They meet for the first time off the ice the day the Pioneers are scheduled to play Carolina. Morning skate is optional, but Richie drags himself in anyway because Bill expects him to, and Richie’s a sucker who doesn’t want to disappoint his captain, even after all this time. It’s not even that early when he stumbles in but he feels bleary and sluggish, pulling on his gear without participating much in the locker talk. Stan tries to rile him up a few times, but gives up fast when Richie refuses to take the bait. Mike nudges him when he walks past. “Rough night?” he asks, grinning like he knows the answer. Richie spent his night with a microwaved pizza and the highlights reel, but that’s nobody’s damn business, so he shrugs.

And then Bill comes out of Coach’s office. The team doesn’t exactly snap to attention whenever he’s around, but the chatter dies down to a dull murmur. Especially when someone follows him out.

Kaspbrak is wearing street clothes — sneakers, jeans, a fucking polo shirt. Richie wonders if that’s the sort of thing he always wears or if he dressed up for them. He looks more comfortable than he probably should, standing in front of a group of strangers who, up until this point, have only known him as an opponent. He’s smiling. He is just — really good-looking. Richie is sort of hung up on it.

“This,” Bill announces, “is Eddie. He’s going to practice with us this morning.”

The season hasn’t even officially ended. Patrick got pulled from the roster when the trade was announced, but he’s still around. His locker’s not even empty. Richie doesn’t like the guy or anything, but that has to be a tough pill to swallow. Richie can’t even imagine what being replaced like that would feel like.

On the other hand, he really, really wants to get out on the ice with Kaspbrak. He wants to see what the guy can do, up close and personal.

It’s a tough thing, being both impressed and annoyed by the sight of someone. It’s made worse by the way Bill stares him down until he manages to force a smile in Eddie’s direction. Kaspbrak grins back at him, easy. His teeth are stupidly perfect. None of them are chipped or anything. Richie can’t remember the last time he met a hockey player with a perfect face. Something about it freaks him out.

Bill claps Eddie on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team,” he says. Most of the guys echo the sentiment. Richie mumbles something that sounds close enough and finishes lacing up his skates.

He doesn’t have to play nice with Kaspbrak. He just has to play well with Kaspbrak. There’s a big difference, and Richie is clinging stubbornly to it.

—

The thing is, Kaspbrak is really fucking good.

Richie knew. Of course he knew. He hardly ever lets the losses get to him, because God knows there have been too many to remember them all over the years, but he’s been hung up on the Albany game for months now. He’s watched the playback more than once, and has most of Albany’s season saved to his DVR.

But it’s different in person. Kaspbrak is so fast. So steady on his feet. Richie hasn’t been impressed by something as simple as skating since he was a kid, but the way Kaspbrak does it shakes him up. The guy skates like a dream. Richie is so jealous, and so impressed, and so fucking confused. He’s spent the better part of the season hating this guy, and now he’s here, gliding around Richie in wide circles, lapping Bill and Ben and even Stan, looking like maybe he’s not even making much of an effort.

Morning skate is easy, most of the time. Everyone wants to be at their best for that night’s game, and half the team didn’t even show. But Eddie throws the dynamic off, makes them all a little hot and hungry for some actual play, and before Richie knows it, Mike and his rookie are guarding opposing nets and Richie’s facing off with Bill, staring at him through the grate of his helmet, his mouthguard clenched between his teeth. It’s not a real scrimmage. They don’t have enough players to run a real game. But Richie doesn’t care, because Stan volunteered as Bill’s winger, which left Kaspbrak all for Richie. Richie can feel him, on his right, just outside the face-off circle. Richie has this weird, sudden urge to look back at him, but then the puck is on the ground and there’s no time.

Bill is a vicious center. He’s not as fast as Richie, but he’s stronger. There’s a reason he plays defense. His body is one solid line of muscle, and he’s not afraid of using it. He shoulder-checks Richie, almost knocks him off balance with the force of it, but Richie bares his teeth and refuses to give up ground. Bill is probably a better player than Richie is in the long run, but Richie is the best center the team has ever had. He wrestles the puck out of Bill’s reach and bears down on the ice, shooting across the rink. Eddie is ahead of him. Richie hasn’t had a winger faster than him in so long he almost forgets to make the pass.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. He moves like a blur, so fast it’s hard to keep track of his stick against the puck, driving it effortlessly forward. Mike is braced in the crease, his big body held wide, but he’s just not quick enough. Eddie comes at him from the side, bent down, stick jumping from one side of the puck to the other. And then it’s over. One second, he’s barreling down the rink, and the next, the puck is in the net — a perfect backhand shot.

It’s just practice. There’s no cheering, no booming announcement, no music. But Richie feels the same way he always does, his pulse loud in his ears, his heart tight in his chest.

“Kaspbrak!” he roars. “You son of a bitch!”

Eddie has the kind of smile that could melt the ice. He looks so pleased, so proud. Richie skates to him and throws an arm around his shoulder, smacking his helmet.

“We went easy on you!” Stan shouts, because he’s a sore loser.

“You kidding?” Richie yells back. “You couldn’t have caught him if you tried!”

Eddie’s shoulders shake. Richie leans into him, grinning, thrilled beyond measure. They drift a little on the ice, aimless, anchored together.

“It won’t happen again,” Bill says. He’s a competitive motherfucker, which makes him a great player and an even better captain. It won’t be easy, getting the puck away from him again.

Eddie grins up at Richie like maybe he’s up for the challenge.

—

Eddie scores two more times. He insists that they don’t call it a hat trick, considering it’s just practice and he’s scared of jinxing it. Richie doesn’t care what they call it. All he knows is Eddie scored three fucking times, and he assisted all of them. He doesn’t even mind that he wasn’t the one to make the shots. It’s better, almost, watching Eddie do it.

Bill lets morning skate go longer than normal, probably hoping to pull out a single goal, but after awhile he finally calls them off the ice. Richie is dripping with sweat when he peels himself out of his equipment. He didn’t realize how hard he’d been working. It hadn’t felt like much, being out there on the ice, falling into Eddie’s rhythm, into his gravity.

Eddie hangs back while everyone files out, looking around like maybe he’s still taking everything in. His hair is wet from the shower and his face is flushed. Richie nudges him on his way out. “Sure you can’t play with us tonight?” he asks. It’s not possible, but it makes Eddie beam.

“Won’t be long,” Eddie assures him.

Richie doesn’t say so, but he can’t fucking wait.

#reddie #it fic #sometimes i write things

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dweetwise · 4 years

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day 21: i don’t feel so well

prompt from: whumptober pairing: felix x ace notes: the hanahaki au nobody asked for. i’m still a little confused about the trope but i tried <3 warnings: descriptions of illness, injury and blood, temporary character death word count: 3130

“That was awesome! She didn't stand a chance!” Steve cheers.

“That's what she gets for camping. What a bitch!” Nea laughs

Ace grins despite the pain, steadying himself against Jeff's sturdy form while the four of them are making their way back to the campfire after a successful trial.

His head is swimming and there's blood staining his teeth, his back stinging from numerous bloody gashes from the killer's katana. But he's alive, even if he had to crawl out through the exit, his teammates not letting the Spirit secure the kill on him.

When they get back to camp, Steve and Nea are off to spin the tale of their rescue to the others, and Ace can't help but smile when they generously color the experience; just like he would.

Jeff supports him to sit down against one of the logs, offering a somewhat awkward "There you go, buddy" in encouragement.

Ace sees Quentin hand Claudette one of his med-kits and then the group's resident healer approaches him with determined steps.

“Hey, sweetheart—” Ace starts with a grin.

“Stalling isn't going to work,” Claudette shoots him down quickly, seeing right through his act. So Ace sighs dramatically and shrugs off his jacket, and the girl immediately hikes up his shirt to start cleaning the wounds on his back.

Ace hisses from the sting of some kind of alcohol, turning his attention back to the others to try to distract himself from the pain.

Most of the others are listening to to Steve's and Nea's story while the rest are scattered around camp, doing their own things. Kate is tuning her guitar, Jake is stocking one of his toolboxes, and Cheryl seems to be practicing the card trick Ace taught her a couple of days ago.

And then there's Felix.

Finally giving himself permission to look at the handsome German, Ace's heart immediately starts beating faster. He's not even doing anything, just sitting by the fire engrossed in a conversation with Zarina, but Ace is so infatuated even just Felix breathing is almost enough to make him blush.

He thought he was too old for schoolboy crushes like these, but then again how could he not fancy Felix? The guy has some absolutely god-tier genes, a chiseled face and ice blue eyes and a body to die for. He’s also smart, and sophisticated, and filthy rich.

And god knows none of those qualities had ever been Ace's strong suit.

At first Ace had thought his hyperfixation on the man was jealousy, but then his body showed him that was definitely not the case; he didn't want to be Felix, he wanted to be in Felix. The realization didn't phase him as much as it maybe should have, because even the straight-as-a-board Ash had commented on Felix's good looks. And Ace sure as hell wasn't even straight to begin with.

No, his panic had come from when he'd caught himself looking at couples like Jeff and Adam being mushy together and imagined himself and Felix in their place.

Ace had a healthy amount of confidence, though the others might not describe it that kindly, but he wasn't blind. Felix was younger than him, maybe not by an impossible amount but still enough to be noticeable. He was also model-tier gorgeous with a body to match, and while Ace wasn't bad-looking he also had a crooked nose and a build solely used for drinking and gambling.

All in all, he recognized when someone was out of his league, and even though he couldn't resist a cheeky flirt ever now and then, he knew his feelings would never be returned.

But he still allowed himself to look; sue him.

He's in the middle of an indulgent daydream about laying his head on Felix's lap like Kate is doing to Yui on the other side of camp, all the while effortlessly keeping up small talk with Claudette tending to his wounds.

And then he starts coughing.

It's not a normal dry cough, it wracks his entire body and keeps going, and he curls in on himself because damn it’s making his throat hurts and his lungs ache something fierce.

“Ace, what's wrong?” Claudette's worried voice cuts through the attack. He tries to reply but it just makes him cough more, and it's not stopping—

Something slimy lands in the palm he's using to cover his mouth and then he can breathe again, taking sharp gasps of air while his throat tingles from the abuse.

He looks at whatever piece of his organs he managed to cough up, the Spirit's blade probably having rearranged some of his guts. He opens his hand and sees—

A flower?

It's absolute covered in blood, but there's no mistaking it, a single flower sitting in the palm of his hand with some loose petals surrounding it.

Why did he cough up a flower? Where did he even get it? It looks like some sort of cherry blossom, a far cry from the Entity's pustulas or the forest bouquets they pick and use for offerings.

“Are you okay?" Claudette asks, moving to kneel beside him in worry. When she sees the flower, she gasps in surprise.

“What happened?” Meg is quick to join her friend, coming up behind Ace to peer over his shoulder. “Uh… did that flower come out of you?”

“I… guess so?” Ace says, his voice raspy and throat protesting being used.

“So you just, like… ate it? Before?” Steve cocks his head in confusion.

“Come on now, I'm not that stupid,” Ace snorts, some of his worry giving way to amusement over the incredulous situation.

“Then what the hell was that?” Meg asks, scrunching her face up in thought while poking at the gross flower.

“I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong,” Adam raises his voice from across camp, straightening his back when all eyes turn to him. “It’s an illness, I recognize the symptoms."

“Can't say I've ever heard of a disease that makes you barf petals,” Ash offers, clearly skeptical, and Ace shares the sentiment.

“Shh, hear him out!” Laurie scolds.

"It's a Japanese folk story,” Adam explains. “Flowers start growing in a person's lungs, causing coughing and bleeding and..." he hesitates.

“Well?” Meg demands.

"And ultimately resulting in death, unless the condition is cured," Adam says grimly.

“Are you talking about hanahaki?” Yui pipes up before anyone can question the weird statement. “You know that's just a shojo manga trope, right?”

“It's also mentioned in historical literature,” Adam argues, though from the way he refuses to meet Yui's gaze, he seems to be embarrassed over the subject.

“Dude, nobody cares if you read girl comics, just tell us what the cure is,” Feng snorts, and that's probably the most concern Ace has ever seen her display over his well-being.

“It's—” Adam starts, before faltering, awkwardly scratching at his neck while looking at the ground. “Supposedly caused by unrequited love.”

There's dead silence in the camp.

And then Nea bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, what a story!” the tagger snickers. “Can you imagine Ace as a fairytale princess?”

“Honey, I think you might have gotten some myths mixed up,” Jeff says diplomatically, patting Adam's knee affectionately.

“Yeah, you probably just inhaled a flower in your sleep or something,” Steve encourages Ace.

“I'm pretty sure this is just a practical joke from our dear spidery overlord,” Ace chuckles and pointedly doesn't look Felix's way. Come next trial, his injuries will have healed anyway, including the weird burn in his lungs.

But they don’t.

Trial after trial, the Entity resurrects him and heals all of his wounds but the coughing persists, more and more flowers following.

Even the others are getting worried.

“That's it, bud,” Ash offers, patting his back while Ace is wheezing for breath after coughing up some more petals. “It's just a weird flu, you'll be good as new soon.”

“At least the flowers go with my shirt,” Ace jokes, voice reduced to a rasp, clearing his throat. “Pink was always my color.”

He's trying to keep his and the others' spirits high, since there doesn't seem to be anything they can do to fix the situation.

“We need to do something,” Ace hears Laurie hiss to Dwight, apparently disagreeing with his sentiment.

“B-but how can we even help him?” their leader, bless his heart, looks genuinely upset over Ace's condition.

“Maybe we should try Adam's suggestion," Laurie says.

“Yeah, except you know he wouldn’t tell us even if he did like someone,” Yui huffs from beside them. “Good luck getting an answer out of a compulsive liar.”

Ouch, but also fair. Ace sure as hell isn't going to reveal his dumb little crush, especially since Felix has avoided him since this entire goddamn flower thing started. He knows there's only a slim chance that Felix realizes what's really going on, but it still feels like rejection nonetheless.

He can deal with this. Even if it kills him, the Entity will just bring him back anyway. It's not even that bad.

But then it gets so much worse.

After a week, Ace is laying on his side while black spots dance around in his vision and he struggles to draw enough wheezy breaths into his lungs. His chest hurts, and his throat is so sore even just the air passing through burns like fire. He hasn't been able to speak in days, and that's almost worse than the pain, not being able to use his only coping mechanism of running his mouth until something sticks to lighten the mood.

His head is cushioned on Kate's thigh and he gets a tiny bit of satisfaction from the knowledge that at least he managed to lay in one pretty blonde's lap before dying, even if it’s the wrong one. The touch is comforting nonetheless, though the fact that it’s accompanied by Kate's girlfriend practically screaming in his ear kind of puts a damper on the whole thing.

“I swear to god, I will make every single person in this camp kiss you, do not test me,” Yui threatens, one of the few who haven't given up on curing him. “Is it Jane? Bill?”

If Ace had the energy, he'd probably laugh about her choices, curious as to why those two were the ones she picked. As it stands, he merely stares at her, wondering if his eyes look as dull and lifeless as he feels.

“He's going to die,” Jake says from somewhere to his side, but Ace doesn't even bother turning his head or denying the statement. Hurried voices shush the saboteur while Kate starts humming a melody to distract him, Yui glaring absolute daggers in Jake’s general direction.

His next trial, Jake's prediction comes true.

Ace collapses to the ground in the midst of a coughing fit. The flowers are growing even bigger now, he can feel them tearing at his throat and vocal cords, retching when they trigger his gag reflex on their way out. His vision blurs and then goes black, body finally giving up as the illness consumes him.

He's not even injured from the killer, but the pool of blood he falls into is big enough to cover the entire side of his face. He lays there, not sure if he's even breathing, just thankful that the awful coughing has stopped for at least a moment.

When he comes to, he expects the small comfort of the campfire before he has to go through the same thing again. Instead, he doesn't have enough energy to even open his eyes, slowly realizing he's still in the trial.

It takes him even longer to realize he's being held partly off of the ground, his body hanging limply in someone’s grasp. He idly wonders if a killer is going to mercy hook him, but then he hears something.

Crying.

Focusing on the sound, Ace realizes he's not just being lifted, he's being held in someone's arms. Someone is holding his near-dead body and crying.

With both his mind and body broken from suffering for so long, he allows himself to imagine it's Felix, even though he knows it's not true. Felix has shown he doesn't care, not talking to him and being so grossed out by his symptoms he’s barely even looked at him—

“Das tut mir leid,” is whispered against his hair, and Ace wonders if he's hallucinating or if his brain has given up on speech comprehension, because that sounded an awful lot like German.

Suddenly, he gains some of his strength back, his chest not feeling nearly as tight as it has for the past few days.

“Felix?” Ace asks, and even though it comes out as a raspy whisper, it's impossible to miss in the stillness of the quiet moment. The surprised hitch of breath he gets in response sounds impossibly loud, and he manages to blink awake just enough to see the tear-streaked, wide-eyed face of the person he never thought he could have.

And that's when the Entity decides he's bled on the ground long enough and he blacks out from blood loss.

When Ace comes to, he's no longer in pain. He can breathe. And he wants nothing more than to get back to camp and be reassured that he wasn't imagining Felix being there for him in his final moments.

He runs to the campfire, panting from exertion once he's illuminated by the familiar glow and shocked faces turn to look at him.

“What the—did you run here!?” Meg exclaims incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ace says, eyes scanning the small crowd of familiar faces, so focused on finding a particular one he doesn't even realize the implications of managing to speak without issue.

“Your voice!” Kate exclaims happily, and Ace pauses to collect some of his thoughts.

“Shit, you're right,” he says, a smile tugging on his lips for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Welcome back, you bastard!” Nea cheers and flings herself at him in a sideways hug, and Ace stumbles to catch himself from falling, chuckling at her antics.

Claudette is sobbing, looking impossibly relieved, and the others are cheering among themselves, though Ace can't make out the contents because he sees a familiar figure making its way to camp and his entire world zones in on that person.

Felix looks up at the sound of the commotion, and Ace's heart breaks a little over how puffy his eyes still look, but then their eyes meet and Felix looks so hopeful—

“Hey,” Ace says, and it probably gets drowned out by the others, but Felix's eyes widen in recognition and he starts walking faster.

“Are you…?” Felix asks, close enough for Ace to hear him over the others shouting.

“He's fixed!” Nea answers for him, finally letting go of the almost painful hug in favor of smacking Ace on the back encouragingly.

Felix glances at Nea but quickly looks back at Ace, waiting for confirmation.

“Yeah, I… guess I'm cured,” Ace says, and it almost feels weird to hear his own voice again. “Or... You know, I hope so.”

Because he's still not sure about Felix's feelings, and he has no idea where they're going to go from here.

But he doesn't need to worry, because Felix's face lights up in a way he's never seen before, letting out a disbelieving, genuine laugh. And then he's stepping forward and cupping his cheek and Ace only has time to blink in confusion before his head is tilted up into a kiss.

“Woah,” Ace hears Nea exclaim, her hand leaving his back like burned. “This, uh… this is new.”

Ace smiles into the kiss and tunes out the rest of her and the others’ surprised babbling, grabbing Felix by the collar of his dress shirt and pulling him deeper into the kiss.

When neither of them are making a move to pull away, their friends seem to be getting fidgety from the show.

“Why don’t we go for a stroll in the woods?” Kate suggests, and the chorus of “Sure!” “Great idea!” and “Oh fuck yes get me out of here” that follow are enough for a laugh to bubble up in Ace’s throat and get swallowed by Felix’s mouth.

When the last pair of footsteps have hurried away, Felix deems it appropriate to finally break away from the kiss. Though he doesn’t go far, burying his head into the crook of Ace’s neck and shoulder and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Welcome back,” Felix murmurs against his skin, and the warm affection spreading through Ace’s chest is a welcome change from the constant pain he’s been in for way too long.

“Didn’t expect such a thorough welcome,” Ace can’t resist flirting, hands sneaking up to rest on Felix’s incredibly firm back. The chuckle he gets in return reverberates through both of their bodies due to how close they are, and Ace wonders if Felix can hear his heart frantically beating in excitement.

“I’m… shit,” Felix eventually sighs, lifting his head to meet Ace’s eyes. “I don’t know how to make up for being an idiot. I just watched you suffer and didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Ace says, but now he’s curious. “Why did you avoid me?”

“Because I was afraid that I'd get the illness too,” Felix says, looking at the ground in shame. “I thought any one of us could get it, and because of how I feel about you… I was scared I was next.”

The confirmation that Felix had feelings for him even before this whole clusterfuck started is enough to make more butterflies dance in Ace’s gut, a flush creeping up his neck over how the other is openly spilling his heart.

“If I’d have known I was the one causing it, I would have done something sooner. I’m so sorry," Felix murmurs, looking at him with sad puppy eyes.

“Hey, it's not like I was being very cooperative,” Ace points out, giving his most encouraging smile. “It's not your fault, it's the dumb flower sickness.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that, regardless,” Felix frowns. “But… I'm glad it lead us here,” he adds with a bashful smile that makes Ace’s heart do a couple leaps.

“Figures the best and worst things of my life would happen simultaneously,” Ace flirts, and apparently Felix enjoys being called the best thing in his life, because his sappy smile widens even further.

Ace can’t resist diving in for another taste, capturing smiling lips in a kiss that lasts even longer than the first one and makes their friends groan and complain about “Geez, you’re still going?” when they rejoin them at the campfire.

#whumptober2020 #no.21 #i don't feel so well #dead by daylight #fic #blood tw #death tw #riconti #ace visconti #felix richter #dweetwrites #dbd #dbd fanfic #prompt #felix x ace #illness cw #vomiting tw

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rosethornewrites · 4 years

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Fic: Love Language, ch. 1

Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Kagami Tsurugi, Sabine Cheng/Tom Dupain, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Wayhem

Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Kagami Tsurugi, Tikki, Tom Dupain, Tomoe Tsurugi, Sabine Cheng, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Kitty Section, Jagged Stone, Penny Rolling, Clara Nightingale, Alec Cataldi, Nadja Chamack, Fang, XY, Lila Rossi, Chloé Bourgeois, Wayhem, Le Gorille | Adrien Agreste's Bodyguard

Additional Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Language of Flowers, Gifts, Traditions, Holidays, Cultural Differences, Kimono, Qipao, Family, Love, Romance, Celebrations, Symbolism, Aged-Up Character(s), Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Christmas Fluff, Identity Reveal, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Family Dinners, Airports, feeding each other, sharing ceremony, Anxiety, Engagement, Kissing, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Admiration, Pet Names, Cuddling & Snuggling, yin and yang, Communication, Smut, Food Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Bathing/Washing, Podfic Welcome, Kagami is a boob woman, Nudity, Instagram, Social Media, Sleeping Together, Wedding Planning, Wedding Rings, Lila salt, Alec Cataldi salt, Food Porn, Paparazzi, Panic Attacks, Chloé Bourgeois Redemption, Lila Rossi Lies, Date Night, Adrien Sugar, Relationship Goals, Uncle Jagged Stone, Protective Kagami Tsurugi

Summary: Marinette gets a package from Japan shortly before Christmas, with a special hinted message. Kagaminette.

Note: Several people on the Discord server I used to take part in gave me the idea of Kagami sending treats to Marinette from Japan. I did a lot of research, and if I got anything wrong that's on me. More on the kimono here: https://rosethornewrites.tumblr.com/post/611555117585629184/love-language-kimono

@obliviousblondesunite suggested I post this chapter tonight! Stan the Hamster!

AO3 link (smut in chapter 3) FFN link (implied sex in chapter 3)

This is also part of my Catch a Falling Star series.

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The lines were coming together on the shirt taking form on the page of her sketchbook, meant to match the skirt beside it, an embroidery pattern partly drawn out on the page next to it. Vaguely, she heard someone calling, but it wasn’t enough to break through to her as she paused in the shirt design to add more aspects to the embroidery idea.

This was a planned outfit for Kagami, something she could wear at formal occasions that wasn’t a kimono, but she only had vague ideas still.

Even though Marinette’s lycée still had several weeks until it was let out for the holidays, Kagami’s private schooling had allowed her to accompany her mother to Japan, where they would stay through Christmas. That gave Marinette a bit more time to make her gift, thankfully.

“Marinette?”

Marinette was startled out of her creative fugue when Sabine’s head popped into her room.

“Maman?”

“You must have been in the zone. You have a package from Japan.” Sabine had a twinkle in her eye. “I can’t imagine who that’s from!”

Marinette could feel her cheeks turn red, flustered and excited. She stood and rushed down past her mother to find a positively immense box in Tom’s arms.

Her jaw dropped. That had to have cost Kagami a lot, and here Marinette had to wait for her to return to give her her Christmas gift.

Tom laughed at the look on her face. “Your girlfriend must love you a lot to send such a big package international.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, instead lugging the package into her room and setting it next to the chaise.

“We’ll give you some privacy to open it, hon,” Tom told her. They left her to it.

Marinette pulled her non-sewing scissors from a drawer and took a seat, reaching forward to trace Kagami’s name. She loved how Japanese names worked, something Kagami had explained when showing her the characters that made up Kagami. Hers was 香海, which she had explained broke down into “incense” and “ocean.” A fragrant ocean.

It had inspired Marinette to call her ma sirène. In retaliation, of sorts, Kagami had started calling her Mari-tō, which she said was essentially “sugar Mari,” joking it was a bastardized term of endearment. They had giggled over that, and Mme. Tsurugi just shook her head the first time she heard Kagami say it.

“Oh, I wonder what she sent for you!” Tikki exclaimed, alighting on the box.

She gently slid the blade of the scissors under the flap to slit the tape, and opened it once Tikki took to the air again. The first thing, atop what seemed like a mountain of smaller boxes, was an envelope labelled “マリー糖, please open after the gifts.” It made her smile.

Underneath, there were two packages labelled for her parents, and so she pulled them out and took them downstairs, letting Tikki know she’d be right back.

The bakery was closed for the day, and her parents were preparing supper.

“Maman, Papa, Kagami sent gifts for you!”

She presented the packages, brightly wrapped in beautiful paper, to her parents, then sat at the kitchen table to watch them open them. She’d get to her own later.

Tom opened his first, revealing a deep green silk men’s kimono, with a pattern that looked like a bamboo forest. When he opened it, they were able to see the green faded lighter toward the bottom, which had an intricate pattern of different trees. An envelope fell with it, and the paper inside explained it was a shōchikubai “three friends of winter” pattern of pine, bamboo, and plum, which symbolized strength and happiness. The letter explained how to wear the kimono, and underneath the kimono itself were all the pieces of clothing to wear with the kimono, including the obi and zori.

At the very bottom of Tom’s box was also a book on traditional Japanese sweets, which he immediately started flipping through.

Sabine’s kimono was far more intricate, red with white blossoms on branches woven throughout. On the back was a golden dragon. An envelope underneath had a note explaining the meaning of the flowers—plum, or ume, blossoms, which Kagami chose due to their dual meanings in Japanese tradition and Chinese philosophy. Good fortune, elegance, and faithfulness in Japanese tradition, and the five blessings of longevity, prosperity, health, virtue, and good living in Chinese philosophy. The golden dragon represented wisdom, kindness, and helpfulness, and was holding a pearl to indicate good fortune.

In addition to the same instructions as Tom’s letter, Sabine’s included an invitation from Mme. Tsurugi for the family to attend a traditional Japanese New Year celebration at the Tsurugi manor and visit Sanctuaire Yabuhara with the Tsurugi family. The kimono were, in part, for them to wear to the event.

Sabine looked up at Marinette, her eyes shining. “She says you have one, too.”

Marinette tore back up the stairs and pulled a similar looking package from the box, bringing it downstairs to open.

The kimono was deep purple fading to white and back, with a beautiful wave of flowers splayed across it—pink and white roses, lily of the valley, purple and white lilacs, bluebells, among others. She knew before she read the note the symbols—innocence and love, purity, reverence, trust, happiness.

She didn’t realize she was crying until Sabine dabbed at her cheek with a tissue.

“She really loves you,” Sabine murmurs. “She’s so good for you.”

The letter told her there were violets to represent the sincere bliss of their relationship. White and pink sakurasou for long-lasting love. Falling ume blossoms for the same reason as Sabine’s, but also to represent Marinette’s pure heart. Camellias for perfect love.

“This must be why she asked for all our measurements before she left,” Marinette said finally, snuggling against Sabine. “I had no idea she planned to do this. Proper kimono are incredibly expensive, and these must be custom!”

Sabine simply smiled. “You’re dating a very traditional girl, and for her family money is no object. And I believe the symbols she chose clearly indicate her intentions.”

Marinette felt her face turning red, and she realized that her parents looked absolutely blissful.

She couldn’t say it was completely unexpected—she and Kagami started dating shortly following her fifteenth birthday, after Kagami had given up on her relationship with Adrien—it had been going nowhere, and it seemed he had someone else on his mind.

It hadn’t been Marinette; she was his ‘good friend,’ and in having André serve ice cream for Kagami and Adrien, she had given up on anything more. He didn’t see her like that. And, as it turned out, it seemed neither she nor Kagami were in his heart.

She had briefly tried to return Luka’s feelings, but he had recognized her heart wasn’t in it, and had asked instead for her friendship.

When Kagami had informed her, at her birthday party, that she wished to date her, Marinette had been thrown for a complete loop. The following days had been filled with self-reflection and careful consideration; she’d been thirteen when she’d fallen for Adrien, and her obsession had left her little room to consider her own identity. She’d never thought beyond.

Eventually, she had confessed uncertainty to Kagami, who had asked that they attempt to date and if it didn’t work out, remain friends.

Over two years later, Marinette could say with certainty that she loved Kagami Tsurugi.

When Sabine shooed her from the kitchen to open the rest of her gifts, she felt like she was walking on clouds. She brought her kimono and letter with her, and got to listen to Tikki talk about all the different complex meanings of the flowers and exclaim over the quality of the fabric and embroidery.

The process of opening the rest of the packages, filled with gorgeous fabrics, seeds for Japanese flowers, crafting supplies, stationery, several hair sticks, and Japanese treats slowly brought her down.

When Marinette opened the last package, however, it felt like the world stopped. Spread at the top of the box was a tiny kimono, black with branches of red and white tree peonies, and very tiny ladybugs. She nearly dropped the box.

Underneath was an envelope with a ladybug drawn on it.

“Tikki… I, uh…”

Tikki landed on her shoulder. “Oh…”

She opened the envelope with shaking hands, reading quickly. The letter revealed that Kagami had figured it out a few months ago, having caught a glimpse of Tikki and connecting it to her experience with Longg. The peonies represented good fortune and honor. And of course ladybugs symbolized luck—but also had an association with lovers in Japan.

Under the letter were a variety of Japanese sweets, including some specialty yatsuhashi from Kyoto and different flavors of konpeitō.

The letter ended, “Please tell your kwami that these gifts are a measure of appreciation—for the guidance and protection she has given you.”

“That’s very sweet of her, Marinette,” Tikki offered. “She, um… I think she caught me the last time she spent the night.”

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself; she was the Guardian now, so she made the rules. Marinette could allow her girlfriend to be aware of her identity as Ladybug. It felt a little like cheating, though.

Tikki seemed to recognize the decision and quickly pulled on the kimono—it looked adorable on her.

Marinette tore open the letter addressed to her.

マリー糖 ,

I would have told you all of this in person, but you tend to catastrophize, and I thought you might prefer to do that privately in the counsel of your kwami. I am given to understand that she has helped you gain a measure of self-confidence in the years since her arrival. I have been honored to know the you shaped by the responsibilities you took up, as you are passionate, kind, and honorable.

I know this places you in an awkward position, but I of course will protect this knowledge with my life, for it is yours.

Mother wishes I inform you that she tried sakura macrons at a famous pâtisserie in Tokyo, and they were pitiful in comparison to those your father made for her last spring. The book she sent for him includes multiple types of pastries and jellies he may enjoy experimenting with, some of them sakura-focused. She hopes to order some traditional winter treats for her party, and I will send you a list upon your confirmation of receipt of this package.

I look forward to celebrating the New Year and sharing our traditions in the coming weeks, and to greeting the first sun of the new year with you and your family. Perhaps we can observe the Chinese New Year together in accordance with the traditions of your ancestors.

Yours always,

香海

Marinette held the letter to her chest, touched by Kagami’s desire to share their traditions together. The idea spread warmth through her, and eventually she set the letter aside with a soft sigh.

“I suppose it’s okay she knows… since I didn’t tell her.” She gave Tikki a rueful smile.

Tikki looked sheepish, even as she preened over how she looked in the kwami-sized kimono. “You’re the Guardian now, Marinette. You get to make the rules.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I just wish it was safer—we need to work harder to uncover Hawkmoth’s identity so that threat is ended. I need to be able to plan for after lycée.”

She sent a text message to Kagami to let her know she received the package and to video chat with her at her earliest convenience, then decided to try on her own kimono.

The instructions were easy to follow, despite the layers. It was a very traditional kimono, involving a hadajuban, nagajuban, and soft sash to go under the kimono. It was almost a soothing process, putting on each layer, folding each side of the kimono properly, tying on the datejime, and finally tying the lovely obi—pink with cranes—into one of the knot options. It was not easy afterward getting the tabi socks on, which told her next time to do it before the kimono. The zori slipped right on, though it was odd to get used to them.

Just as she finished, her phone rang, and she slid her finger against the bar to accept the call.

“You look stunning in that, as I expected,” Kagami said. “I wish I could see more.”

Tikki grabbed the phone from Marinette’s hands and moved it away so she could twirl.

“Much obliged to your kwami. You truly do look lovely. Though, in the future, fold left over right. Right over left is for the dressing of a body at a funeral. I should have written that in the instructions—I apologize. As such, it is a bit discomfiting seeing you dressed in that fashion.”

Marinette let Tikki keep holding the phone while she quickly untied the obi and datejime to correct the mistake, then retied both.

Kagami beamed at her. “Absolutely beautiful. I look forward to seeing your parents in them on the New Year. I will send you a list of the traditional activities to expect for my mother’s soiree. You will be meeting a larger portion of my family, to be introduced to them.”

Marinette took the phone back from Tikki, who landed on her shoulder.

“Ah,” Kagami said, surprised. “I can see the kimono, but nothing else. That is fascinating.”

“Her name is Tikki,” Marinette confessed.

“I apologize for discovering your secret. It was unintentional on both our parts.”

That got a nod from Tikki.

“It’s okay,” she replied softly. “I… It’s a relief that someone else knows, honestly. Especially when that someone is you.”

“I am honored to know, and it explains quite a bit. Your disappearances at times, for instance.”

Marinette could feel her face turning red.

“I had not realized they all coincided with Akuma attacks, to be honest. I had worried you were hiding a chronic ailment.”

She couldn’t quite stop herself from giggling at that. “Oh, you must have been worried.”

“I still am, Mari-糖,” Kagami said seriously. “But I hope with my knowledge, I can perhaps be of service in the coming year, perhaps to end Hawkmoth’s reign of terror for good. But we can discuss that later—it is quite late here in Kyoto, and I have commitments early tomorrow. I simply wished to make sure you weren’t upset.”

“I’m not,” Marinette said with a smile. “I could never be, not with you. Sleep well, ma sirène.”

After hanging up, Marinette sat back on her chaise with a sigh. “Tikki, I think she’s hoping to introduce me as her intended for New Year.”

Tikki patted her cheek. “And how do you feel about that, Marinette?”

She was quiet for a moment, letting the sounds of her parents making dinner float through her open door, the scent of lasagna wafting in as well.

“I—”

The phone dinged, and the text message was from Kagami, with a list of different sweets Mme. Tsurugi wanted to order for the party. It also featured a stunning picture of Kagami in an intricate kimono with gold, black, and red, covered in white geometric patterns with a bouquet of flowers in the front and sprigs of blossoms throughout.

She looked amazing.

And suddenly Marinette knew exactly what she wanted to make Kagami for Christmas—a qipao to wear when they celebrated the Chinese New Year, with the gold five-clawed Long embroidered on it. And she would make her own with a phoenix, in colors that complimented Kagami’s.

Marinette stood, changing quickly and hanging her kimono and all its undergarments in the closet, before settling back in front of her sketchbook and turning to a new page.

By the time her mother called her for dinner, she had much of the concept sketched out, complete with plum blossoms, lilies, and a lotus cupped in the claw of the dragon. She intended for her phoenix to cup one as well in its talon.

Kagami wasn’t the only one who knew how to use symbolism. Marinette intended to have this ready to present to her girlfriend before the New Year, to give the answer to the question she was hinting she’d ask.

#love language #marigami #marinette dupain cheng #kagami tsurugi #kagaminette #kagami x marinette #sabine cheng #tom dupain #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous christmas

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aquaticalay · 4 years

Text

Siren .Chapter Four.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes fancies you, a singer who performs at a local bar every Monday and Friday night. After a few months of attending your gigs, Bucky finally got the chance to talk to you. One problem: you are New York's sonic screaming vigilante. And the avengers have been trying to figure out who you are for months. (Post-Endgame)

Warning/s for this chapter : cursing, a teeny tiny bit of violence

Warning/s for the series: cursing, violence, eventual smut (which you can skip)

Word count: 1500+

Disclaimer: I do not own the Marvel characters.

Note: I'm a day late, I know :') and I'm sorry. I didn't have any connection last night, but here ya goooo

I will post a new chapter every two days. Let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist!

You didn't remember a time where you would stay up late texting. It seemed a little too cliche, like what a teenager would do in some cheesy romantic comedy on netflix. You didn't think you would ever do it, but here you are, almost midnight, texting with a man who was supposedly trying to arrest you. You talked and talked for hours, and neither of you were willing to stop the conversation. At first you didn't have the heart to, but you were just enjoying the time.

You found yourself chuckling at the fact that one of the world's mightiest heroes was such a modern hopeless romantic. You didn't even expect him to be able to text. He was a century year old man, after all.

'Anyway, when's your next gig?'

You read a bubble of text pop up.

'The day after tomorrow,' you typed mindlessly, and sent it before you could process what you did.

Your heart dropped. Shit, you thought to yourself. Shit! He wasn't supposed to know!

A million scenarios ran through your mind. What if you had to put on the suit, what if you had to be the Siren while he was in close proximity. What if you have a mission tomorrow night? And if your friends saw who came, the would freak. If they saw him, and if they knew you were the one who told him where you'd be, they would kill you. Well, maybe not literally, but you'd never hear the end of it. Besides, you were putting your mission, and your identity as a vigilante at risk.

Before you could unsend it, he already saw it.

'May I know where?' He texted.

'No,' you replied bluntly. It wasn't intentional, just instinctual.

Great, now you just sound like an asshole. Paranoia hit again. What if, by not telling him where your gig is, he becomes more suspicious of your identity?

'You're a spy right? Why don't you take a guess?' You texted back quickly, deciding that teasing was the most natural of playing it off like it was no big deal. Besides, wasn't playing 'hard-to-get' fairly common nowadays?

"Oh, so that's how it is?' Bucky texted back playfully.

Soon after, you ended the conversation, deciding you needed sleep. You've been a little out of focus lately. You needed rest, and perhaps tomorrow you could be more level-headed to think, unlike the whirlwind your mind has been going through today.

The next day, you woke up at eight. That was considered a good night's sleep, since you usually wake up at the break of dawn. You would've woken up even later if it wasn't for Lando, who called you to let you know of a mission.

"I found the buyer, the person who bought the vox formula," he told you, "He'll be out of his apartment in Brooklyn tonight. You can break in and try to find the formula."

Breaking and entering, huh? How fun.

You agreed, and set up a meeting in your Brooklyn safehouse.

At dusk, Lando was briefing you on the target apartment blueprint, while Luna and Vince prepared you arsenal of knives.

Knives might seem shallow for a couple of genius weapon engineers like Luna and Vince, but you knew that these knives were made for precision and to perfection. They've calculated the curvature of the blade, aerodynamics, as well as the friction. Every inch of those knives were a product of mathematical precision and excellence.

After Lando was done briefing you, you took the knives and sheathed them. There were three in total, two on the sides of your thighs were throwing knives, while the one strapped on your belt was a dagger, used for combat.

You put on your hood and jump out the window and to the roof of the five-story apartment building.

The target's apartment wasn't far away, actually, just a block away. You were lucky the only light source was a small crescent moon, or else it would've cast an alarming shadow.

You opened the standard window lock by sliding your dagger through the gap at the bottom. Easily, you slid inside. There was a small bedside lamp in his otherwise dark bedroom. You decided not to turn any more lights as it might be noticeable from the outside.

It was a small one bedroom apartment.

Wandering about in the space, you didn't find much personal belongings that might give away the identity of the person living there. There were no wallets or documents, not even photos in frames. The kitchen didn't have any knives or forks, just a few spoons. The pans and the stove looks brand new and unused. The TV wasn't even plugged in. The only thing that seemed functional was a computer that was built into a desk, situated in the very far corner of the room.

Focus. You're here for the formula, not for anything else.

You didn't see anything out in the open, so you checked under furniture. You checked for creaks on the floor board or inconsistencies in the drywall, in case this person had a secret concealment. You still found nothing.

"I can't find anything," you told Lando through the earpiece.

"Have you checked the floor? Walls?" You heard him. "Yeah, nothing," you replied with absolute certainty.

"Well, what do you see?"

"Literally, nothing," you emphasize, sighing in frustration, "there's not a lot of interesting things. All I see that might have any information at all is a computer."

"A computer?" Lando asked, an idea in his head, "Do you still have the microchip in your pocket, from last week's mission?" He asked.

"No, I don't think—" you started to reply, checking your back pocket, but stopped talking when you felt something there. You fished it out, and sure enough, the microchip was there. "Got it," you reported to him.

"Great," Lando sighed in relief, "Insert it in the computer, and I'll walk you through it."

You complied to his words, taking as much information as you can from the device.

"Hey, Buck," Sam urgently called, storming into the gym. Bucky was in the middle of a work out. He stopped the treadmill and gave Sam an inquisitive look.

"I just got a report," Sam told him, "Some lady in Brooklyn saw a hooded person break into the apartment next to hers."

Bucky's eyes widened, "Is it the siren?"

"Looks like it," Sam confirmed.

"Send me the coordinates now," Bucky demanded, running out of the room to change into his suit.

You had successfully transferred all the data into the microchip. You didn't waste any time getting out.

You returned to the safe house, giving Lando the microchip to decipher. You soon changed, and told your friends you were going home. You stuffed your suit inside a large backpack, and started walking to the nearest subway station.

When Bucky got to the exact address, he was certain that the Siren had already left. There was almost no traces of breaking and entering, except for the open window, and the broken lock on it.

"Shit," he cursed. He was too late. Had he been here earlier, he would've caught the person who had been able to break a super soldier body with a scream.

He decided to scout around the block. He could look for more clues. Besides, if the siren had been here, they can't have gone too far.

As he was walking around the block, he heard footsteps coming from around the corner. It didn't sound like the person running, but it sounded fast— like the person was in a rush. In panic, maybe.

He took a dagger out, preparing to strike. He had his back up against the wall.

As the footsteps approached, he thrusted the dagger away from his hand, and on to the person approaching. He did not strike to kill, but instead to assert a warning. The dagger was placed just inches in front of the person's throat. And it was…

"(Y/n)?" He asked, making sure if he was seeing right.

"Hi?" You managed to say, nervously smiling.

"What are you doing in Brooklyn?" He asked, pulling the dagger away.

You had one second to think of a lie.

"I… just got back from a record store a few blocks down," you decided to say. You looked up and down, and it was clear that he was wearing his combat gear.

What was he…

Then, the realization hit you like a truck.

Someone must've seen you enter the apartment. Someone must've called the Avengers.

"You look like you're busy catching bad guys here," you slightly teased him, trying to ease the growing tension.

He scratched the back of his neck, "Uh, yeah."

What are you doing? Bucky thought to himself, stop getting distracted!

"Well, I better not interfere," you faked a chuckle, "and I better get home. It's late. See you around?"

"Yeah, of course," Bucky breathed out, and you continued on your journey. You didn't look back.

As Bucky watched you walking further down the street, he could've sworn he saw a knife sheath hanging around your hips.

He shook his head off the thought. He must be imagining things.

Stop getting distracted, dammit! He scolded himself.

@thejourneyneverendsx @ispepeagain @magykal-777 @sfxsucker @moli1497 @justanothergirlwithdemons @ciochesono @allonszassbutt @hennessy0274-blog @chubby-dumplin @talk-geek-to-me @sebastian-i-stan @iwishthatiwasbuckysgirl @thelureabove @womanontheedgeofnothing @snugglemedaddy @perrythefrickinplatypus @missursulacalmet @angryknightstatesmantrash @tintinnabulary

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norepangproject · 4 years

Text

#1 Jonghyun and the art of storytelling

I waited a very long time before starting The Norepang Project. The main reason for my delay was that I wanted to begin writing about the perfect topic. Unfortunately, I simply couldn't figure out such a theme could be. And then, suddenly, came Spring. April is a special time of the year for me and thousands of other K-Pop stans in the world. This is the moment when we can cheerfully remember and honor one of the most talented and creative artists this industry ever had. This month is not about feeling blue or melancholic, it is about caring and cherishing his work, the other Shinee members, our fellow Shawols and our own love for him.

So, even though the 8th of April has come and gone, I decided to begin the TNP by digging in every single Jonghyun solo album. I am not talking about discussing his title tracks or B-Sides. What I intend to do is to read every single one of them as a book. Better, as a story. A story, Jonghyun, the poet, is telling us.

Our journey begins with Base*. Like most of Jjong's tales, this is one about love. But it may just be a little more poetic and less obvious than it appears at first sight. A man meets a woman, and he is rather taken aback by how attracted by her he is. Moreover, the temptation she presents is so strong that, even though she doesn't appear to correspond to his feelings, at least not on a deep emotional level, he can't help himself but pursue her. Or yet, as he seems to believe at the time, to fall into her trap. Truthfully, part of the reason why he likes her so much is that their feelings for each are unbalanced. He knows it. He enjoys it. He isn't blaming or shaming her for it, unlike his friends.

"They tell me not to get close to you, even your attractive eyes

“See, she targeted him again”

They say I’ll get hurt if I give her all my heart

The funny thing is, the pathetic thing is

Even when you’re being cunning

You’re so attractive, it’s so fatal"

- Crazy (Guilty Pleasure)

Because his desire is too big to contain, he runs after her. During this chase, his admiration for her grows deeper and deeper.

You give me greater

feelings than awe (feel so good)

You make me sing as if I’m praying

Singing hallelujah,

you got me singing hallelujah

The day I saw you for the first time

I probably used up all the luck in my life

But it’s worth it. You’re amazing, what to do with you?

-Hallelujah

And their time together is bright and sweet. It's a darling night under the moonlight. These are moments he keeps coming back to during the day, they are the source of his newfound joy.

Let’s get up now, why is it so sad?

We’ve been saying the same things for the past 30 minutes

I can’t hold your hand,

let go of your hand or hug you

So I’m only looking at your pretty eyes,

nose and red cheeks and lips

- Beautiful Tonight

But something is strange though. It is as if, under the stars' gaze, he is finally able to unravel her true self. A person she constantly tries to hide from the outside world with a cold mask. But this truer self is even brighter, is neon. She opens up a whole new set of colors for him to paint his life with.

"Don’t try to hide, I’m scared of your cold eyes

I saw the light that is you, who can’t be caught

Don’t let go of my hand

When morning comes,

when I meet someone, I feel it

The color of the world without you is boring

Even without lights, you shine even brighter

Even without lights, you shine brighter than anyone else

Show me today, show me your real face

She is a NEON, shine your light"

- Neon

However, simultaneously, he begins to be burdened by his circumstances. It's a paradoxical sensation: he enjoys their push-and-pull dynamic, the "danger" inherent to it, he can't even imagine being without her... but he seems frustrated.

"I knew I would get hurt if I touched you but I denied it

And I squeeze you even tighter

Both sides of the blade dig into me

I try to cut you out but I can take this much

I’m already disinfecting my weakened min with alcohol

Because the sin is so much sweeter than its consequences

It was already too late to stop

I’m falling deeper"

- Crazy (Guilty Pleasure)

And is due to this emotional unease felt by the narrator, that we reach the climax of the tale. These lovers to-be have a dialog. A dissonant duet, so intimate that it resonates like whispers in our ears. Love Belt is about two people opening up about their fears concerning love and a relationship. On one hand, they are scared together: about the external judgment, about the intensity and speed of these feelings. They wish to hold tight and protect one another. On the other hand, each one of them has their own concerns. This why here we are able to listen to two different voices. He is desperate and anxious: the yearning to fulfill his desires, the terrible sensation that she might slip through his fingers. She is fearful and insecure: about diving into the unknown (the dark night, the deep sea...), about the intensity of his sentiments.

"When you’re feeling frustrated

And want to get away

When you’re feeling nervous for no reason

We know, since we were born,

I feel you, propose a toast (cheers)

You don’t say it but I feel it, just like twins

I pretend to not care but I’m scared,

Hold me tight when I tremble

Because of my selfishness, I always hurt you but

Forgive me, I’m sorry"

- Love Belt

For me, the most beautiful aspect of this song is that, even though it's supposedly a dialog of lovers in despair, terribly needing each other's protection, the melody is soothing and intimate. At first sight, however, what might appears contradictory is natural: they need to open up and talk about their differing perspectives, but they are already in love. Furthermore, is if he already sensed the source of her insecurities. Jonghyun, through his lyrics, indicates that she is hiding her true self from the world, afraid of being exposed, almost as if she believes to be undeserving of affection. The narrator tries to sue her concerns.

I lack nothing when I have you by my side

I can do everything,

I can shine on my own

Don’t leave me alone in the dark night

Don’t go anywhere by yourself,

you know (You know what I’m saying)

Even without lights, you shine brightly

Even without lights, you dazzlingly shine

Show me today, show me your real face

(show me the real you)

She is a NEON, shine your light

- Neon

Jonghyun tries to soothe ours: You deserve love too. You have to love yourself.

Somehow the first track of the album, Deja-boo already outlines this whole plot. There is one-side love, growing affection, deep desire, and a promise of protection.

"Stay, Oh It’s a deja vu

Oh deja vu, I saw you before, yeah you saw me right?

I’m not like the others

I won’t make you cry and leave like him"

- Déjà Boo

I like to believe, that since Deja-boo is so upbeat and sensual and, like Fortune Cookie is about intertwining destinies, they lived happily ever after.

**** SO I HAVE TALKED ABOUT MONODRAMA BUT THE TEXT IS TOO LONG. PROMISE TO DO SO SOON.

Oh, please check out THE NOREPANG PROJECT Twitter, Instagram and Cronogram

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thelastspeecher · 4 years

Note

46 - Skies (maybe glowing alien!Gucks AU? How often do the kids want to go out flying when they're older? Does Angie? DO THEY END UP WITH CRAYON DRAWINGS ALL OVER THE CEILING?)

46. Skies

Uhhh this ended up a lot longer than I planned. Sometimes I just can’t shut up. And I wanted to write some fluff, since things are currently going down the drain. So here are some flying glowing Gucks. Enjoy.

Prompt List

——————————————————————————————

Stan slapped a mosquito that hadlanded on his arm.

“Damn bugs,” he muttered. Fussing sounded from the baby carrier to hisright. He quickly checked the infantnestled inside, Danny. “Princess, youall right there?” Stan held out hishand. Danny grabbed his finger andgummed it excitedly. “I get it. You just wanted your chew toy.” While Danny chewed on his finger, he watchedAngie pace back and forth on the lawn. “Babe?”

“I’m goin’ to do it,” Angiemumbled to herself. She clenched herhands into fists. “I can do it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with notturning into a giant bug and flying away,” Stan said. Angie looked over at him. “We’ve been perfectly fine so far with justbeing human.”

“But I’m not human,” Angiesaid. “Not fully human.” She looked up at the night sky, filled withstars. “Part of me has always been drawnto the skies, Stan. Now I know why. That’s where that part of me is from.” Stan’s stomach churned. “I know yer not that comfortable with all ofthis-”

“That’s an understatement.”

“-but I need to try. If nothin’ else, it’ll help me make thingseasier on the girls when they get older. They’ll need to learn how to control their alien sides,” Angie pointedout. Stan grunted, not willing to admitthat she was right. “Okay. I’m goin’ to do it now. I’ll do it.” Stan watched with bated breath.

Angie stood still on the grass,damp with dew. She closed her eyes andleaned her head back, her posture relaxed. After a moment, a faint shimmer spread across her skin. Immediately after that, color rippled overher features as her pale tone was replaced with a pulsating, faint pinkglow. Her limbs, already slender, grewunnaturally thin, while her ears grew up and out until they resembled adeer’s. Two feathery antennae sproutedfrom her forehead. Angie opened hereyes, revealing that they had turned pure black. The stars spilled across the sky reflected inher eyes.

“Well, you turned bug, time tocall it quits,” Stan said brusquely. Angie looked over at him. A chillran down Stan’s spine at her obsidian gaze.

“No.” The only good thing Stan could say about herother form so far was that her voice was the same. “I need to try…” Her pink glow became interspersed with alight turquoise. “I need to try flying.”

“Flying? Ang, no!”

“Ma can do it. The girls can.”

“They float, Angie.”

“That’s flying.” Angie looked back up at the sky. “I need to try it, too.” Stan pulled his legs closer to his chest,dread mounting. Angie took a deepbreath. She stared at the heavens asthough looking for an answer. A momentpassed. Then another. Finally, right before Stan was about to tellher that they should definitely call it quits for the night, Angie rose off theground.

“Fuck,” Stan swore softly,staring. Angie’s feet hovered a fewinches above the tips of the blades of grass. Angie let out a joyful laugh, like bells chiming. Her feet slammed back onto the lawn. She promptly sat down. “…You all right?”

“Yes.” Angie beamed up at the stars. “I am.”

-----

It was balmy summer evening. Fireflies danced in the air. Once again, Stan sat between two babycarriers on the lawn, watching Angie tap into her extraterrestrial side. But this time, two others were doing the samething. Stan adjusted his hold on Emmett,who was going through an incredibly fussy phase and wouldn’t calm down unlesshe was being held. In contrast, Emorywas fast asleep in his carrier, not caring about anything happening around him.

Wish I could be asleep rightnow. Then I wouldn’t have to watch mykids turn into bugs. Stan hadlearned quickly to keep his opinions about Angie’s alien appearance tohimself. Not only did it upset Angie,but it upset Danny and Daisy, too. Astime had passed, he’d gotten more used to Angie’s alien side, as well as hisdaughters’, but he couldn’t help preferring them in their human form.

“Okay, girls, time to shift,”Angie instructed, already alien in appearance. Danny and Daisy, standing in front of her, quickly morphed. Their skin glowed a faint gold, antennae sproutedfrom Daisy’s forehead, and Danny’s eyes turned a solid, milky white. “Good work.”

“Now we fly?” Daisy askedeagerly. Stan grinned at the excitementin her voice.

“Yup!” Angie chirped.

“How?” Danny asked.

“Close yer eyes and imagine whatit feels like to be weightless. Like yerin a swimmin’ pool, just floatin’,” Angie instructed. Danny and Daisy closed their eyes. After a moment, they both began to lift offthe ground. Danny opened her eyes,yelped, and fell back down. Daisy,however, upon opening her eyes, soared higher. She did an excited twirl in the air.

“This is great!” Daisy cheered.

“Don’t drift off,” Stan saidquickly. While Angie checked on Danny,Daisy flew over to Stan. She landed infront of him. “Hey, pumpkin.”

“Dad, did you see?” Daisysquealed. Stan nodded. “I love being part alien!” Daisy spun around, her sundress billowingaround her.

“Yep,” Stan said in a tightvoice, his smile forced.

“How’s my brothers?” Daisyasked. She peered closely at Emmett, whostared back at his older sister. “When’she gonna start glowing?”

“I don’t know, sweetie, he-” There was a flash of light. Stan blinked away the afterimages and lookeddown at Emmett still in his arms. “…Nevermind, I guess he’s gonna start glowing now.” A moment ago, Emmett had been a regular human infant, with thick browncurls and a large, distinctive nose. Those two traits remained the same, but he now looked anything buthuman. Unlike Danny and Daisy, who had amixture of human and alien traits, Emmett was looked exactly the same as Angie’sbrother Lute, when he was in his alien form. Stan stroked Emmett’s bangs out of the way. Emmett stared up at him with wide,pitch-black eyes.

“Wowie zowie, he looks likeUnclute!” Daisy gasped.

“…Yep,” Stan mumbled. One of Emmett’s antennae twitched.

“Sweetie, come back, you can lookat yer brothers later,” Angie called. Daisy looked over.

“Ma, Emmett’s glowing!”

“Is he? Good fer him.” Angie sounded pleased. “But we can look at him when we’re done learnin’to fly, okay?” Daisy sighed.

“Okay.” She skipped back over to Angie and hertwin. Stan looked back at Emmett. Emmett made a mewling sound and stretched oneof his minute hands out. Stan’s heartsoftened.

“Hey there, sport,” he whispered,holding Emmett more tightly against his chest. Emmett nestled against him and smacked his lips in a satisfiedmanner. His antennae twitchedagain. Stan kissed Emmett’s glowingforehead. “Wanna watch yoursisters? That’s gonna be you someday.”

-----

Stan sat on the grass, ignoringthe damp dew soaking into his pants and the blades tickling him.

I’ve really gotta mowsoon. Or better yet, get Daisy to do it. He watched sixteen-year-old Danny and Daisydo loop-de-loops in the air, glowing bright pink. They’re in good moods right now. I’ll tell her to do it later. Angie was giving ten-year-old Emory andEmmett the same instructions she’d given Danny and Daisy when they startedflying. Emory bounced on the balls ofhis feet excitedly, already in his alien form, which looked identical to hishuman one, with the except that he was glowing. Emmett, however, was still human, looking down at his feet, visiblydreading what was about to happen.

“Now, don’t worry if it takes abit to kick in,” Angie said. Herantennae twitched in the faint spring breeze. “Just keep tryin’. If nothin’happens tonight, we try again tomorrow.”

“I think we can manage,” Emorysaid proudly, puffing out his chest. Angie chuckled and ruffled his caramel-colored curls.

“I know you can, sugar-cube.” Angie looked at Emmett. “Emmett, you ready?”

“I think…I think I’m gonna go sitwith Dad,” Emmett mumbled. Angieblinked. “I don’t- I don’t feel good.”

“Okay, but-” Angie started. Emmett walked away silently and sat down nextto Stan. Stan put a hand on his shoulder.

“You all right there, sport?” heasked softly. Emmett pulled his legsclose to his chest. “C’mon, kid, talk tome.”

“I don’t like being alien,”Emmett said quietly. Stan stared athim. “I’m already weird enough, since Igot twelve toes. I don’t like that there’sthis other thing that makes me so different.”

“You’re only a quarter alien.”

“Then how come I look full alien?”Emmett asked.

“That’s just how things worksometimes. If I’ve learned one thingabout genetics, it’s that you can’t predict it as much as you think you shouldbe able to.” Stan scratched hischeek. “Of course, I learned that fromlistening to your mom and Uncle Ford talk about the alien thing, but still.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah.” Stan’s hand fell to his lap. He chewed on the inside of his cheek,debating whether or not to tell Emmett. Hetook a deep breath. “I didn’t, either.”

“What?” Emmett stared at Stan. “Dad, what do you mean?”

“When we first found out about thewhole alien thing,” Stan said, waving a hand vaguely, “I didn’t like it. Every time your mom turned alien in front ofme, I wanted to leave the room. I hatedhow sometimes your older sisters looked like…” Stan glanced back at Danny and Daisy. “Don’t tell them this, but I said that they looked like bugs.” Emmett’s jaw dropped.

“But yer so casual about all ofit!”

“It took a while before I couldbe casual,” Stan said. “I didn’t wantany of this, I didn’t like it.” Stantook a breath. “But then I got used toit. And after I got used to it, Istopped feeling so uncomfortable. Andafter I stopped feeling so uncomfortable, I started liking how you kids lookwhen you’re all glowy.” Stan ruffledEmmett’s hair. “You being alien isn’t abad thing. So what if it makes youweirder? Is anyone in this familynormal?” Emmett managed a small laugh.

“I guess you’re right.” Emmett took a deep breath. Like when Angie transformed, there was aripple of color that passed over his skin as his human appearance was wipedaway. In alien form, Emmett shifteduncomfortably. He glowed a tense darkgreen.

“Think you’ll take a stab atflying now?” Stan asked. Emmett shookhis head.

“I think I’ll just start bygetting used to the antennae. It’s beena while since I’ve had them.”

“No worries,” Stan said with ashrug. “Take your time. You can stay grounded with your old man.” Emmett nodded silently. Angie walked over.

“Emmett, you ready to start flyin’?”she asked. Emmett shook his head. “That’s fine. When yer ready, just let me know. Emory ‘ll be happy to fly with ya.” Emmett nodded. Angie turned toStan. “Come with me, darlin’.”

“…What?” Stan asked. Angie grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

“How’s that fear of heights ofyours?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Want to find out?” Angieasked. She pulled him close. Stan felt his feet leave the ground. He looked down. He and Angie were hovering a few inches abovethe lawn. His stomach turned over. He looked at Angie. Her large, black eyes caught the lightemanating from her skin.

I got used to Angie lookinglike this, I should be able to get used to heights. I can always close my eyes if I need to. Like he had when Angie first learned to fly,Stan quashed the churning in his stomach and grinned at Angie confidently.

“Let’s do it.”

“Gross, Dad,” Emmettmuttered. Stan frowned at his son.

“No flying, no opinion,” he retorted. Emmett rolled his eyes. Angie wrapped her thin arms around Stan’s torsoand rested her head against his chest, her antennae tickling his chin. Stan returned the gesture, embracing her. He closed his eyes as they ascended into thenight sky.

#I'll get to the prompts that other people sent me don't worry folks #there's no rhyme nor reason as to when I get to prompts other than just it's whenever I get inspired #Gluck AU #Stangie #Angie McGucket #Stanley Pines #Danica Pines #Daisy McGucket #Emily Pines #Emmett McGucket #Stangie Family #my writing #ficlet #ask #exsanguinary

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deafwestnewsies · 5 years

Text

stop and stare

The Losers must keep living after the summer of ‘58. Living and breathing the air that was stolen from the victims of that horrible monster.

richie x eddie, bill x stan

read it also on my ao3 and ff.net!

This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us

It's time to make our move, I'm shakin' off the rust

There were whispers now. Whispers that Eddie just couldn’t seem to shake.

As he walked through the pharmacy aisles, searching for the bandaids with the little prong things on the end that wouldn’t fall off when he moved his elbows, he heard the first whispers. “That little Kaspbrak boy. Over there. So tragic, what he did to his mother.” Eddie’s back stiffened at the other woman’s titters as the pair of old ladies walked away from the cough syrups. Not even knowing who they were, he glared at their backs until they strolled into the next aisle. Swiping whatever bandages were in front of him and stowing them in his front pocket, Eddie stormed out of the store and into the alley behind it.

Bill’s expectant gaze met him first as he held out his hand. Eddie put the box of gauze down and stood near the wall, almost leaning, but not willing to risk the germ exposure. Everyone watched with bated breath as Bill’s steady hands cleaned out the gash in Mike’s arm and began dressing the wound. His strong hiss of pain made Eddie jump and cover his eyes, making him feel four years old again. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, covering his face from the scene and murmuring It’ll be okay, Eds. He’ll be okay. Not having the willpower to correct the boy on the juvenile nickname, Eddie relaxed slightly into Richie’s chest and tried not to wince at the wimpers coming from Mike.

Henry Bowers might’ve been gone, but that did not mean there were other gruesome bullies waiting anxiously to take his place. Bullies who were just as mean (because when there wasn’t a maniac clown to deal with, there were tenth graders) and just as vicious (because Derry was cruel that way) and just as armed. This time it meant waiting for Mike on the path he always took into town with a barrage of insults and a serrated blade. When he retold the tale later, clutching his bleeding arm and staining his work boots, Mike said that they called him names that even Mike wasn’t really allowed to say, that they had heard he was one of the crazy kids who claimed they were attacked by a demon. If you want something to be scared of, boy, we’ll give it to you. Ain’t no monster under your bed. They had whispered it, right before slashing his arm wide open.

That was the latest town gossip, and the whispers that seemed to invade every moment of Eddie’s waking life. A group of seven kids emerged from the decaying house on Neibolt street, bloody yet victorious, when eight had entered. They would tell anyone who would listen that they fought off a killer clown, the same that had killed Betty Ripsom and ripped off Georgie’s arm and left him for dead. Instead of believing the children, everyone made snide remarks about the poor Bowers, both father and son dying under mysterious and inexplicable circumstances. Of course, the initial blame was handed directly to the Loser’s Club, but as the investigation went on they found that the blood on their clothes belonged only to each other and the fingerprints on the knife used to kill Detective Bowers didn’t have a match. They still spent a night in jail. One cold, dark night with only one another to keep warm.

So no, it wasn’t a surprise when Mike came staggering up to the Aladdin, where they had all planned to meet. Each of them had been attacked at different times, some getting it worse than others, (people liked to pick on the color of Mike’s skin, the way Eddie blushed when he walked into the boy’s locker room, Ben’s size. The list could go on.) and every time, they banded together and stood as a united front. There would always be a small voice in the back of their minds, however. The same that played in Eddie’s as he clung to Richie, trying to be strong for Mike’s sake. Maybe this town is as sick of us as we are of them.

I've got my heart set on anywhere but here

I'm staring down myself, counting up the years

Richie began making the plans absentmindedly, mostly as a way of escape during boring classes and sleepless nights. As soon as he turned eighteen, he would turn on his heels and run from Derry, run from all of the monsters who lived here, run from the clown and his parents and everyone who had ever called him useless. He didn’t quite know where he would run to, but the maps in his mind always led somewhere bright, where it didn’t rain quite as often and he could wear his shorts during the winter time.

At sixteen, he realized that his daydreams could all be tracked with some scraps of paper, red yarn, and a bulletin board, so he began doing exactly that. Behind a poster on his wall, Richie began sketching out the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). First, he would work on making sure the truck he had inherited was reliable enough to drive across the country.

He began working part time in the town’s auto shop, picking up spare pieces wherever he could and making some half-hearted tips. The only reason Mr. Kurtz, the head mechanic, had hired the boy was that for the most part, he lived oblivious to any town gossip. All of Richie’s coworkers avoided him like the plague and tried to whisper warnings to Kurtz when he first began the job. Staring curiously at the gangly boy who kept his head down and did all of his work in a prompt fashion, the man waved all of the rumors away. “Leave the boy be,” he’d respond. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a tale to tell.”

With a decent engine and enough money to make it wherever he was planning on going, Richie began looking for work that he could do while he was out there. He wasn’t half bad at the whole mechanic thing, and once he was nearing eighteen he began to consider it very seriously. Richie, ever the trashmouth, could still make whole crowds hysterical with a well-timed joke and a fake voice or two, but he didn’t dare tell anyone that he almost wished he could do that for a living. Maybe that was why he finally settled on Los Angeles, a place that people would speak of in hushed voices and stars in their eyes. It was seemingly perfect, except for one minor detail.

It was dirty. Not that that bothered Richie, of course, he once had a record of not showering for three weeks and two days. No, this would bother someone else, someone who had always been in the back of his mind, someone who Richie just couldn’t imagine living without so he put him on this metaphorical trip, right alongside him. Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier had done everything together since the beginning of time, and now Richie was going to ask him to do one more thing that would change their life completely. So Richie set off to do the final thing on his checklist: Ask Eddie to throw his entire life away and be reckless, for the first time in his tiny, asthmatic life.

The knock on the Kaspbrak’s door seemed too loud, too forceful, and he winced when Sonya, Eddie’s evil hag of a mother, answered the door. “Hey-y-y-y, Mrs. K. Eddie ‘round?” Her frown was enough to tell him exactly where Eddie was (down at the Barrens) and how she felt about it. (She hated it.) “See ya later Sonya!” Richie shouted as he turned and began running in the right direction. Her grumbling was lost on deaf ears as he could only hear the wind whistling through his hair and the sun beating down.

By the time he arrived, Richie was sweaty and completely out of breath. He wasn’t sure why he had run, maybe it was just the feeling in his chest that if he didn’t ask Eddie right now he’d explode. So when he saw Eddie peacefully reading a book on top of a blanket and slathered in sunscreen, Richie also couldn’t explain the way his heart fell into his feet.

“Richie?” Eddie called, book sliding to the floor. He smiled so warmly at Richie that he had to remind himself to move his feet, lift them off the ground, one by one.

He settled on the ground next to him. “Hey Eds. I’ve got somethi-”

“Don’t call me Eds.”

The sentence that Eddie had said before, maybe a thousand times over, made Richie’s throat ache with familiarity. Suddenly he felt twelve again, with glasses too big for his face and feelings that he would never be allowed to talk about with anyone. “Eds. Please listen to me.” Eddie made a displeased noise, but leaned his chin in his hands and gazed up at Richie with wide, expectant eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” He began, nervously pushing at the bridge of his glasses. “That I can’t stay here. Derry, I mean. There’s just too much shit to remember and now that we’re older and everyone still manages to hate us- and I hate them, I think. I don’t wanna ever spend another moment here if I don’t have to. So uh, I’m leaving. Four days, to be exact.”

Eddie’s eyes kept widening, kept growing at a pace that was almost worrisome. “Four days?” He whispered. “Four days and you leave me? How could you, Rich! We swore we would never-”

“I want you to come with me.” Richie cut his rambling off.

“No. Absolutely not.” Eddie said it with an air of finality that made Richie almost unwilling to fight back.

“Eds…” He almost whispered.

They were so close, their noses only inches apart and staggered breathing intertwining. Eddie turned away suddenly, looking at a spot that was somewhere over the creek. “Don’t call me Eds. I’m not moving away with you, Tozier. My whole life is here. My college is here. My mom is here. It’s selfish of you to even think I’d go.”

He felt his heart splinter into a million pieces. “Okay.” Richie said dumbly. “Thank you for giving me my answer.” Eddie’s sniff filled the air, and Richie realized he wasn’t the only one on the brink of tears. “Eddie?” The smaller boy’s head turned slightly, still not making full eye contact. “Please tell me one more thing. Did you ever… did you ever-” He cut himself off before he let his trashmouth be the death of him again. The insinuation was enough. Eddie understood.

It was a bold move, but one Richie had to make before he left for good.

Eddie’s eyes swept over the creek one last time as a perfect tear rolled down his cheek. “No,” he whispered softly. “I don’t think I did.”

Richie left four days early on the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). He was set on anywhere but here, but he left his heart in a diddly little town in Maine, on a creekbed.

Steady hands just take the wheel

Every glance is killing me

His knuckles were turning white with force as he gripped the leather steering wheel, trying desperately not to crash the car. The nerves of driving back into his hometown were practically choking him, ghosts of the past reaching down into his throat and cutting off all circulation until he had to pull over to the side of the road. Gulps of air came flooding in as Ben stared at his surroundings.

It was a bright, sunny day, unusual for the middle of April, and he was parked right underneath a cheery sign that read Welcome to Derry! The irony was enough to make him laugh, but it escaped as more of a wheeze, and Ben hit his head on the steering wheel. Truth be told, he really couldn’t pinpoint the reason he was so nervous to be back in Derry. Life was halfway terrible when he was a kid, but that was because of childhood bullies that would sneer awful remarks at him on the playground. Surely they had all grown up, right? No one would call him fatso or loser when he walked past the shops in town, even though the storekeepers were the same as his middle school tormentors. Ben knew that he could walk through town and name the baker, the town drunk, the new ninth grade science teacher, because no one left Derry. No one left, no one came.

Benjamin Hanscom was what most would call an anomaly, because he got to escape the fate of a childhood growing up in Derry. Ben, a beautiful redhead named Beverly, (January embers, Ben thought in the back of his mind. What did that mean?) and someone he could only remember as Richie the Trashmouth. These were the kids who actually made it out of the small town. There was a postcard tucked under his bed in a box of junk addressed to a house in Connecticut. Ben had moved there was he was fifteen, four years after- Ben couldn’t quite remember what that was after. Four years after something important happened. Something that made receiving the postcard fill his stomach with dread.

December 12th, 1965

Ben! We’ve missed you! Wish you would write more, Stan thinks you’re pulling a Bev on us and never looking back. I told him that you’d never forget about your old panty waists back in Derry. Stan says hi, by the way. Yes. Hello Ben. Miss you. So do Eddie and Mike. And that’s what I’m writing to you about! Guess who made it out! The trashmouth himself! Richie upped and left for California two days ago without telling any of us. For some reason I can’t find it in me to be mad at him because I’m so damn proud he made it out. Eddie’s real bummed though. Only speaks when he needs to and always leaves early. But it’s fine though. Richie’s like you and Bev, he’ll really make it now! Maybe he’ll go the rest of his life without seeing It. Sorry, not a funny joke. Stan’s laughing a little bit, though. And that means it was probably not a great joke. We miss you, Ben. Please try to write. We sent you some stuff to inspire your inevitable poems of your life and times here in the shithole.

Losers forever,

Bill Denbrough

Ben pulled the box from his backseat now, the strange urge that had him bring it with him now telling him to rifle through. A small, leather bound notebook with the title Derry’s Unofficial History by Mike Hanlon. There was nothing else written, just an ominous page written by a boy he didn’t remember. A green bouncy ball. Handful of arcade tokens. A bridge built with toothpicks. One bottle cap off of a cheap brand of vodka. Shoelaces tied into a noose. A book of town history. Finally, another postcard, splattered in something red, smelled vaguely cherry-like, and written in handwriting Ben would never be able to recognize.

Your hair is winter fire.

January embers,

My heart burns there too.

(Really takes ya back, huh Ben?)

Back to what, though? Ben had read this poem a million times over and still, nothing ever rang a bell. It was like having a kernel of popcorn stuck in your gums or a phantom rock in your shoe. Always in the back of his mind and never seeing the light of day.

Giving the poem one last glance and then tossing the box to the side, Ben slowly started the car again. He drove past the sign and into the main center of town, just a row of damp store fronts with sad, dull signs advertising the different sales. All of a sudden Ben couldn’t quite remember what he was here to accomplish, why he had left his comfortable life to visit the place he grew up. Nostalgia wasn’t the answer since there was nothing to reminisce about, just a handful of vague emotions that left him feeling uneasy.

Thinking he should just turn around and go home, Ben began to pull a U-turn when he saw a man standing on the corner of the street. He had a vendors cart with him, but there was no description as to what he was selling, just a bunch of red balloons tied to the handle. Ben couldn’t quite see his face since the balloons swaying in the nonexistent breeze covered him up. As he turned around and drove back up the street, he glanced in his rearview mirror once more. The balloons were gone. The man locked eyes with Ben and leered, for just a second, long enough to make his blood run cold. His smile was terribly wide, lips stretching over his teeth in an inhumane way and pulling the flesh to be shiny and tight. Black holes stood where eyes normally did. Big orange puff balls suddenly decorated the man’s apron. When Ben whipped around in his seat to get a better look, there was nothing left. Just a single red balloon, floating up, up, up.

Time to make one last appeal

For the life I live

No one said a single word. If they even tried, Stan shut them down. “Shut up.” He’d say, even if Richie began thinking of a joke. There was no room for laughter in a holding cell.

They had been arrested and Stan was trying to figure out a way of telling his father without being murdered before he was bar mitzvah-ed. Well, more murdered than the crazy fucking killer clown had tried to accomplish before Richie clobbered him over the head with a baseball bat and they all just started screaming and throwing things and at some point Stan definitley ran him through with an iron rod. But that was nothing compared to Mr. Uris and a good reason to yell. No, the true horror awaited him when he got home tonight. He could already see his mustache trembling with anger, the red creeping up the sides of his neck.

Stan took a deep breath and clenched his fists, feeling the crescent of his nails bite into the soft skin on his palms. This was momentary distraction from the monster headache he currently had, courtesy of the painting lady. A shudder ran through him as he thought about the woman who wasn’t truly a woman, just an evil twist of a face that had skittered at him, like a cockroach.

“Guys?” He called out, the panic settling in. “Guys, where’d you go?” No response. The quiet hung in the air, heavy, only penetrated by random drops of water. Stan swept the flashlight around, trying to figure out which pothole he had just emerged from, when a piercing giggle erupted out of nowhere. “Hello?!” His voice more frantic, more desperate for Richie to just be fucking with him in a bad moment, for Bev to start breaking out in her normal peals of laughter and reveal that she had been okay this whole time. The laughter was more of an echo this time, sending chills down his spine. It was an echo… but it was closer. Closer. Closer.

Behind him!

Like the sound of his mother’s drumming nails when she was irritated with him, the lady in the painting flew at him. Stan jerked backward only to hit the wall, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him useless for a second. That was all she needed. Her smile widened as rows of teeth, dank and dripping with gray water, flashed in the quickly dimming beam of his flashlight. He screamed, screamed with terror and hope that Bill would come flying out to save the day, but her jaws stretched and suddenly he could only feel unimaginable pain. Her teeth bit into his skin and he had given up screaming, and now was writhing around, which made her clench down harder on the sides of his face. Stan was giving into the darkness that crept into the sides of his vision when a loud clang rang through the sewers and he heard a bewildered “What the fuck is that thing?”

The woman leeched off into the darkness before Stan could register what had happened, and suddenly there was a crowd of people surrounding him. Stan! Stan, are you okay? Stan please say something! S-S-S-Stan! Stan’s eyes flew open at the sound of Bill’s voice and he immediately began screaming again. “You left me!” He scrambled backward and hit the wall again. “You all left me and you swore you wouldn’t!” Hot tears ran into the wounds, causing them to sting. When did he start crying? Still pushing back at them, accusing them of things beyond their control, Stan began growing hysterical. “You left me! You left me! You

‘ve left me no choice, laddies.” Mr. Nell said, causing Stan to jump back into the present. “I hafta call your parents ta come getcha in the mornin’.” Nobody but Richie was bold enough to groan at this statement, and he only did after the policeman was out of sight. Stan knew he was in for it once he got home. He might’ve almost died three hours ago, but he was definitely never going to see his twelfth birthday.

Leaning his head against the wall, Stan tried to close his eyes and ignore the pounding in his head. Some shuffling noises were made as Eddie curled into Richie, buried himself in the fabric of his t-shirt and Richie threw an arm around the smaller boy. Beverly made no noise while tipping her head onto Ben’s shoulder and squeezing Mike’s arm, and both boys smiled softly in response. For a moment, Bill stayed completely still, but then reached for Stan’s hand. Stan jerked his eyes back open to only find Bill staring at him with the inevitable question in his eyes- Are you okay? Lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard, Stan closed his eyes again.

In the morning he wasn’t only berated for coming out of the Neibolt street house half alive, but also that the Uris couple found their son lying cheek to cheek with that no-good Denbrough boy, fast asleep with their limbs entangled together. He got an earful, but Stanley didn’t mind much. He felt much braver than he ever had before.

Stop and stare

I think I'm moving but I go nowhere

Beverly Marsh was almost fourteen years old and she was trying desperately to remember the name of the boy with bug-eyed glasses. It began as a joke she was trying to tell to Ella, another freshman who kept her head down and avoided the popular girls at all costs. “Tangled up there, lass?” Beverly had remarked when Ella came out of the bathroom stall with her skirt caught in her underwear. The girl laughed and asked what accent that was supposed to be, and Beverly began to answer when she caught herself short. “Well… it’s called the Scottish Cop.” She said slowly. “This boy… he used to do it all the time… even straight to a policeman’s face.” Ella then laughed once more and led them both out of the bathroom, a place they never willingly spent more time if they didn’t have to. (Another feeling Beverly couldn’t quite place- restrooms made her nervous. Like she was helpless.)

Spending the rest of the school day thinking it over, she still didn’t have a name when she pulled her bike up to her aunt’s back door. A quick hello and a dash up the stairs led Beverly onto the floor of her bedroom, thinking about her life in Derry.

She was born in Derry, Maine. Raised in a house with light blue shutters and a broken living room window. Inside lived Beverly and Al Marsh, a sweet child with cherub cheeks and a father who liked to beat his daughter senseless whenever he had the opportunity. Al had died in that house too, but from what? A lot of dying was happening, Beverly could remember that much. That’s why she was sent to Portland. Her father… but who else? Who else had died- G-G-Georgie. Georgie Denbrough. Little brother of Big Bill Denbrough, a tall boy who had a stutter but also a sweet dimple and layers of freckles that Beverly suddenly remembered being incredibly charmed by. Bill was the leader of the ragtag group of kids that followed him around on his heels and took heed of every word he stuttered out, and Beverly was no different. Like a puppy and it’s owner, Beverly saw stars when she looked at Bill.

That was a long time ago. She was tougher now, she didn’t let any boys tell her what to do or when to do it. Not that the boys she had loved back in Derry were mean, they were just in charge. Beverly was the captain of her own destiny now.

However, there were days when a sickly feeling would crawl up the back of her neck and make her turn around fast, for one second, to find nothing but a breeze behind her. There were days when walking into a bathroom meant going straight to the toilet to throw up, because the sight of white-tiled walls made her inexplicably nauseous. There were days when she would cross to the other side of the street to avoid a storm drain with an open grate. There were days when Beverly Marsh did not feel in control at all, and she wished that Bill Denbrough was there to tell her what to do.

He was back in Derry, however, and sent her postcards every once and awhile to remind her. They were never waxing letters of love and longing, (although she had one of those too, but it stayed in the back of her closet and in the back of her mind) but instead cheerful reminders to write to her old pals back in Derry. She had tried once, but after crying in frustration when she couldn’t figure out the name of the place they used to spend all of their time, that dusty forest with the great big cliff drop off, the letter went into her wastepaper basket. Beverly now kept the postcards in a plastic pencil case box at the top of her closet.

They now sat scattered around her as she tried to figure out the kid’s name. Bill’s letters mentioned Stan the Man, Trashmouth, Eddie, Benny Boy, and Mike, but Beverly couldn’t decipher the differences between all of them. It was like they were characters in a book she had read long ago, all blending together to make a ball of personality- Someone hated taking their shirt off when they swam, another kept an inhaler glued to his hand, one worked on a farm and brought them all apples when the season was right. Bill was the only one that stood out in her mind, but that was because he had always stood out. He was first the boy with the dead brother. He then became the leader of the group. Bill never wore glasses, though, this much she could remember.

Giving up after a last ditch skim through the letters, Beverly lied down on her bed and curled up into a ball. Perhaps it was for the better that she couldn’t quite remember Derry. After all, she had left her father there, and that was definitely for good.

In the morning, Beverly had forgotten all about the conundrum of the boy with the bug-eyed glasses and ate her toast and jam in complete peace. After kissing her aunt on the cheek and grabbing her brown bagged lunch, she mounted her bike (an old, rickety thing that glinted in the sun and caused her aunt to worry when she made a sharp turn around the corner of the neighborhood) and lifted her fist in the air, crowing with triumph, “Heigh ho, Silver away!”

Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared

But I've become what I can't be

He dropped to the floor, clutching his ears and trembling. The bang of the gun was too much for him to handle, even though it had been ten years since he had a reason to actually fear it. Staring the sheep right in the eyes to mirror the eye contact Henry had held with him before attempting to blow his brains out was a bitter pill for Mike to swallow.

One he often choked on.

The farmhand, a younger boy named Thomas, tried to hide the sigh that escaped as Mike took a deep breath, calming the tremors that ran through his body. He didn’t chastise him for the disrespect, because he knew he would’ve done the same thing if he was fifteen and working for a crazy man. “Do you mind finishing up here?” Mike asked. The boy nodded and picked up the abandoned gun, hanging it off of the shelf and slung the sheep around his shoulders. Mike’s stomach turned with the sight of blood dripping from it’s head, the one he had just put a bullet through, and pushed through the barn doors.

Dropping to his knees and taking in deep gulps of breath, Mike let the heat of the sun beat down on his back. The memories of that day were too vivid in his mind. Things were never truly the same afterwards, he knew it, the Losers Club knew it, even his parents understood that there was a change in their boy. He was no longer the delicate yet strong boy they had raised. He no longer wanted to explore all of the unbeaten paths of Derry. Mike had lost the spark of curiosity that made so many people love him. Each member of the club had reached a level of adulthood that no eleven year old should be able to understand.

They handled it in their own ways. Beverly, for starters, moved away. Completely. It wasn’t really her choice, but she wasn’t arguing. She had told them all once, in a hushed voice at one of Bill Denbrough’s sleepovers, that she heard noises in her house still. Dripping water pipes. Child-like whispers. Faint circus music. Beverly Marsh left Derry with a skip in her step and a promise to write them all at least once a month with a review of the latest horror movie in theaters. (They never heard from her again. Bill kept sending letters, however. They would gather around and write it together, jutting in with their own handwriting and stories of things they thought she would like. Mike always wrote lengthy descriptions of the butterfly migrations. Bill would sign each one with Losers Forever.)

Bill began to write. He was always good at english and he came up with the best lies to get them out of scrapes, but this was something different. Pages and pages of horror stories began surfacing, dropped off at their doors with varying notes. (“Is this something to actually be scared of?” “Can you check my grammar?” Mike was always asked to see if the story was historically accurate, to see if pilgrims would’ve been in Utah during November, 1650, or something of that nature.) The group never acknowledged it, but the stories became increasingly real, increasingly familiar, until they just had a specific recount of the day at the Neibolt house and they all gathered together and cried, as thirteen year olds are wont to do.

As if nothing ever happened, Stanley Uris would refuse to talk about anything that had occurred. He began spending less time with the group as well, and they all hated to see the strained look on Bill’s face when any of them questioned where Stan was. Sometimes they saw him riding his bike around town, or birdwatching in the park, and none of them really said anything about it. Stan was affected in a different way that day, because he had to face the monster alone. When they made a promise to come back and fight if It ever resurfaced, Stan’s hand shook when he held out the broken coke bottle. He was with them until he wasn’t.

Richie and Eddie became RichieandEddie and no one was brave enough to bring it up. Not brave, there was no bravery in that sort of confrontation, but no one was willing to take away something that made them happy. They each had their thing, and they happened to be each others. So if cuddling so tightly you couldn’t distinguish who was who during movies nights, Richie comforting Eddie alone during his panic attacks, them spending more time together than with the Losers made them happy, what else could they do except stand there and think Thank God we are safe and we have one another?

Ben and Mike began spending more time together as well. They both migrated toward the library and found solace in the quiet stacks of books, arming themselves with knowledge and words instead of weapons and fire. It began subconsciously, showing up at the same time because they had wordlessly made a schedule, sharing a table and putting each other’s books away as a favor. Then one day Mike wasn’t there because of some chores and Ben called his house breathlessly wondering if Mike was okay and if he could speak to him, please? Suddenly showing up was a lot more purposeful now, Ben bringing two sleeves of Necco Wafers, Mike having enough paper for both of them to take notes. Library days became Mike’s favorite because he knew that he wouldn’t have to face the world for a while, and he had a great pal beside him.

This is where Mike found himself drifting to, ten years later. Benjamin Hanscom had left Derry when they were fifteen years old, but Mike still loved the library and the peace it brought him. The rattle of his beat-up Ford slowed to a stop outside of the Derry City Library and Mike suddenly didn’t feel as nauseous as he once did. Greeting the librarian with a quick smile, he took his spot at the table he had occupied for so many years and cracked open whatever book was lying on the end. A tale of princesses and knights in shining armor.

The lazy afternoon light filtered in as time went on, and Mike looked up. The clock on the wall told him it was definitely time for him to head home. As he put the book back, something etched into the surface of the table caught his eye. Result of a day where Ben and Mike tried to convince the others to meet at the library, Richie had taken out his pen knife and carved LOSERS FOREVER BITCH into their sacred reading table. Ben had almost cried when he saw it and Mike threatened to punch him before Bill had stepped in and calmed everyone down. Mike knew that it was Eddie who had snuck back in and scratched out the ‘BITCH,’ risking the chance that he would be teased mercilessly. He grazed the carving lightly, remembering fondly of the moments where he felt invincible standing next to the rest of his friends. He felt a surge of protection even seeing it, feeling guarded by the ghosts of the Losers Club. And by God, isn’t that what Mike wanted? To feel safe again, even if for one day?

Stop and stare

You start to wonder why you're here not there

The top button of his shirt was making his neck itch something fierce. He wasn’t quite sure why he had to wear it so tightly around his neck, but the striped tie he also had held it up fastidiously. The itch, in the end, did not matter. Because when you’re attending your little brother’s funeral, trivial things like the top button of your shirt seemed to be important for only seconds at a time.

Technically, the funeral had already passed. Bill had spent the morning in the local church, holding his mother’s hand as she cried. He had been strangely stoic for a just-turned eleven year old boy, but maybe it was to show his father that he was a man, that he was strong enough to be his son. It didn’t matter. Zach and Sharon Denbrough cried through the entire service, and their adventurous (alive) son sat between them, unblinking. On the way home Sharon accidentally caught Bill’s eye in the mirror and for the first time in his young life, she did not smile back.

Bill’s top button was itching him as he sat in the middle of the upstairs hallway listening to the people that were gathered downstairs. A low murmur crept up from the crowd, people apologizing to his parents while trying to mask their secret relief that it wasn’t their own child’s funeral and eating crudites. For a while Bill had stood with them, but he got antsy and his dad tapped him on the back, relieving him of the duty. Not really sure where he wanted to be, (not his room because he could see Georgie’s bed and Georgie’s toys and Georgie’s things but there wasn’t a Georgie anymore) Bill slid down the wall and hid from the rest of the people.

He untied the tie around his neck with clumsy fingers, just pulling at the knot until it came loose, and then unbuttoned the itchy culprit of a top button. Just as he sighed with relief, pairs of footsteps came bounding up the stairs and almost stepped right on top of him. “Hole-lee shit!” Richie exclaimed. “I faouwnd ‘im, boys!” For an inexplicable reason, hearing Richie’s terrible Cowboy Joe voice relaxed Bill just a bit more, and looking into the eyes of his best friends made him release all of the tension in his small, eleven year old shoulders.

Eddie and Stan looked impeccable, as if anything else was to be expected of them. Both in little suit jackets that were broken out for special occasions, like Sabbath when Stan’s Bubbe came to dinner or Christmas when Eddie was dragged by the ear to church for an incredibly boring amount of time. Richie was in a clean pair of jeans and a button-up, since his parents did not believe in buying such an expensive item of clothing for a growing boy. The trio looked very nice, but they also looked out of place, as if their very faces told the story that they should not be dressed in their nicest clothes on a Thursday afternoon. The slump in their shoulders and pity in their eyes said I should be playing in the sunshine, not mourning the loss of my best friend’s little brother. However, there they stood. At the feet of the boy with the dead brother.

“H-H-Hey guys.” Bill said quietly, smiling half-heartedly up at them. They all crowded down with him and wordlessly wrapped their arms around each other, making Bill the center of their small universe. He said nothing, just let them pat him slightly and make comforting noises for a second before slinging an arm around Stan. A small sniffle escaped from him, and the boys all let go for a second. They settled in the middle of the hallway, a tight circle with their knees overlapping each other. Eddie was wrapped up in Richie’s side, and Bill didn’t let go of Stan.

They still sat in silence and watched Bill fight back tears, tears that he wasn’t allowed to shed in front of his father, tears that he would probably get made fun of by Richie for later, but tears that suddenly spilled over when Stan carefully bumped his forehead against Bill’s. The small act of sincerity reminded Bill that he would never be able to feel Georgie’s small hand grasp for his when they were crossing the street, and now he was a blubbering mess. He didn’t dare try to say anything because he knew his stuttering would be terrible, but the other boys seemed to understand everything he was feeling. So Bill just cried, and his best friends held him while he did.

Later, Bill sat on his bed, his feet dangling off of the edge, staring at his closed door. Eddie was brushing his teeth, Richie looking through his meager record collection, and Stan sat next to him, reading from a book about birds. “Hoopoe is a national bird of Israel and one of the birds that were considered sacred in-”

“I-I-I-I wis-sh-sh it had b-b-been me.” Bill cut Stan off. The soft slap of a record hitting the floor came from Richie. “H-He d-d-d-didn’t deserve t-to d-d-die. Sh-Sh-Should’ve b-b-been m-m-m-me.” The Big Book of Birds closed with a thump. “I s-s-sent hi-him out th-th-there with-thout anyo-o-ne.” Stan reached for his hand, but Bill drew it away with a suddenness that made Stan jump. “D-D-Don’t p-p-pity me. I-I-it’s t-t-true, and I-I-I c-c-can’t take it b-b-back.”

Bill jumped off the bed and flung open his bedroom door. He stared at Georgie’s bed with a hard look in his eye and then made the decision that he would never close the door again, because he deserved to be reminded of the thing he had done, and he wanted to make things fair. Georgie had died because of him and Bill was going to make himself pay.

And you'd give anything to get what's fair

But fair ain't what you really need

This isn’t fucking fair, Bill thought. My friends are going to die because of me, and that just isn’t fair. The clown had him by the throat, his breath hot and rancid and making Bill feel slightly dizzy. “As I feed on your fear.” It finished, giving that wide, maniacal grin. “Or.” He tried turning his head to look at the thing, but it tightened its grip, the talons biting into his flesh. “You'll just leave us be. I'm taking him, only him. And then I'll have my long rest and you will all live to grow old and drive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.”

Bill’s shoulders fell with relief. His friends could live, really live, have long lives where they got to do more than build a dam in the Barrens or watch crappy horror movies all day long. All he had to do was convince them to leave. Their spouts of protest suggested otherwise, but he knew that they would go if he told them to. He was Big Bill after all. Always the one to make the decisions. “Leave,” he commanded. The room went quiet for a moment, because that’s what the world seemed to do when Bill Denbrough spoke. All of creation paused just to hear him speak. “I’m the one who dragged you all into this. Go!”

Like deer in headlights, his friends stared at him as they tried to make their decision. After a pregnant moment of silence, Richie took a step forward. “Sorry, Bill.” He shook his head. “I told you, Bill. I fucking told you, I don't want to die…” Bill took a deep breath. Richie was going to lead them all out of the sewers, Richie was going to save their lives, Richie was going to leave him to die. And Bill wasn’t even angry about it. “It's your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead-house. And now… I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown!” Before Bill could react, Richie swung his bat with the power of God himself. “Welcome to the Loser’s Club, asshole!”

A flurry of pipes being thrown and children grabbing onto his back and Bill being released from it’s terrible grasp then commenced. He immediately joined in on the fight and they all fought back, harder and harder until it took the form of a man none of them had seen before. Except Beverly.

The man had asked a question Bill did not understand, called her a name he had not heard before, when Beverly screamed a terrible and ugly scream and rammed an iron rod down his throat. They all watched as it flung itself down the larger sewer hole and stood together, beaten and bruised, but alive.

In the quiet, Bill came to a decision. Maybe his life wasn’t fair. If it was fair, Georgie would be almost seven by now and starting the second grade. If it was fair, he would be able to sit with his parents and feel the love and light his home used to carry. If it was fair, Stan would look at him just like Beverly did. His life wasn’t fair, but he tried his hardest to make it right. Bill fought for Georgie, for his parents, for his friends. Fair wasn’t what he needed. Bill needed things to be just.

hello this is really fucking long jesus @ me. anyways pls leave a comment and i will show up outside of your window at midnight with a boombox to serenade you

#it #it 2017 #it chapter one #it chapter two #it 2019 #eddie kaspbrack #richie tozier #ben hanscom #stanley uris #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stenbrough #reddie #reddie fanfiction #stenbrough fanfiction #it fanfiction

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chrysolina · 6 years

Text

My million dollar man

A/n - I know that its kinda random and doesn’t lead to anything but I hope you guys enjoy this non-Steve or Chris fic just as much!!

Summary - In such a relationship as yours and Sebastians’, secrecy is vital - so is good foundations. Due to separate issues, neither of you could ever advance further than an in-and-out of office relationship but could things all be up for change soon?

Word Count - 1.9k

Warnings - fluff, breakdown of a marriage, kisses, nothing too bad at all

M A S T E R L I S T

“Yes sir, I’ll be there right away,” The invigorating hum of business oozed through the levels of the tall skyscraper this morning, an accompanying tune to a call you had just finished having a with your boss Mr Stan - the CEO of Marva Finances - and were requested by demand to see him in his office as soon as possible.

Between your other colleagues, you and Mr Stan happened to have a very productive, easy and well understood boss-to-secretary relationship but behind the doors of his office and in the dwellings of private locations within the building, this was quite ‘on the contrary’.

The two of you had a very close, loving and intimate relationship blooming that was indescribably beautiful in every way. Given whatever time of the Mr Stan had, whether it’d be his lunch break or a pre-meeting rundown, the two of you would routinely exchange adoring kisses and would hold each other dearly - as if you’d never see each other again.

If anyone ever knew about your shared innermost feelings with Mr Stan, they could easily say you were deeply in love with each other - however, there was one small problem that your heart couldn't get to grips with.

Sebastian was, indeed, a married man with a doting wife and had a one-year old daughter with her as well.

He claimed it wasn’t a happy marriage, ‘we are unrepairable’ was the phrase he’d say constantly whenever the touchy topic came up but for you, it’s always be a bitter reminder of what you could yet couldn’t have all in one breath.

For such a wild thought, you never dared to dwell on it too much - fearing it’d get into her head and ruin what you had with Sebastian. To you, what you and Sebastian had couldn’t be priced, it was too valuable to the both of you to let slip in an elevator of by a coffee machine - so you kept your walls high and your fences even higher in attempt to conceal the truth.

The walk from your desk wasn’t long enough to calm the raging butterflies in your stomach as you thought over what could happen whilst the two of you were in there. You gave the large metal door three firm knocks and like that, Sebastian had flung the door open and yanked you by the arm quickly into the pristine office space, shutting and locking the door behind.

From what you could vaguely tell, Sebastian wasn’t very happy; the way his usually steel blue eyes shone in admiration at yo had changed into something far darker than lust - even when he paced back to his desk, his stepping was much more rigid and tense than you’d ever seen.

So what on Earth had caused him to act like this?

“Tell me Y/N, have you ever lived in a mansion before?” Sebastian’s deep rugged voice had cut through the well conditioned office space and startled you out of your thought bubble, making you only look at the well dressed man with utter confusion etched on your face.

Sebastian knew damn well that you had only a mere thousand dollars to your name and could barely afford to run your place in the heart of Queens. Not only that but with immigrant parents who escaped their torn up home-country in hope of a better life, he also knew that’d you’d never known what living in the lap of luxury was remotely like - so why the dumb, suppressing question.

“I think you know the answer to that question, sir.” Informalities be damned, you were getting well pissed at your boyfriend’s childish and snarky behaviour and didn’t want to have any more of his - he may be your boss but he certainly wasn’t your keeper.

“Alright, how about this then. Have you ever wanted to live in a mansion before, Miss Y/L/N?” Sebastian’s eyes never strayed of his girlfriend’s delectable form before him, he watched your clasped hands clenched together in some fit of annoyance or rage - deep down he knew what he was doing, he just wasn’t in the mood to go about this any other way.

“Oh c’mon Sebastian! You know the answer to that too. What’s the matter with you this morning?” You found a minute break in his annoyance and whined in aggravation at it, your hands coming to rest on your hips whilst your face turned from stoic to pleading in a matter of seconds. Sebastian merely ignored your question and hunched himself over his glass desk and allowed his head to hang tiredly between his shoulder blades.

“I just want you to give me an answer Y/N!” He huffed in what you knew as a slow bubbling anger - it was only 11am in the morning and he was already this pissed?

You knew straight that this was a big red flag; Sebastian’s usually such a calm and focused man in even the toughest of business or not-so business situations, meaning that this attitude of Sebastian’s was very hard to digest for yourself.

“Then yes Seb, I’d absolutely love to live in a mansion.” You exhaled wearily and ran your fingers through your hair, tugging at the odd strand or two in an attempt to calm your incoming headache and pressure you felt in your temple.

“Y/N, how would you feel if you lived in that house? With me?” Sebastian watched his stressed girlfriend like a hawk and rounded in on you, closing the space between the two of you in a matter of seconds.

You whipped her head back around to Sebastian and stared longingly into those deep steel blue eyes; still not understanding what he was getting at but knowing somewhere deep down that he wanted something from you. “I think I’d feel very very happy Seb,” You all but mewled at the warm touch of Sebastian’s palm resting on your cheek.

“And how would you feel about raising and looking after little ‘Becca with me?” Now you were getting the picture, it may have taken a while but you finally knew what Seb was trying to get out of this exchange. In milliseconds you could feel your Y/E/C eyes widen with astoundment at what he was alluding onto - he couldn’t had been, could he?

Was he really talking about a…future for the two of you?

You grasped Sebastian’s hand into your own and nuzzled into his touch “I’d be absolutely honoured Sebba,” That name - the dragged out Romanian version of his name was his undoing - without a thought, he crashed his lips onto your plush, soft, moist lips with a certain hunger that could never be matched. The two of you had no need to exchange words to finalize the idea he was proposing, Sebastian knew you had caught onto the idea he was alluding to and he couldn’t wait any longer.

After all this time, he’d finally get to openly call you his; his soon-to-be fiancée, his soon-to-be wife and one day if all prevailed, the mother to his children - his heart swelled at the mere thought - the new Mrs Y/N Stan.

God his mother would be so proud once he comes home with you in his arms and a ring safely secured on your ring finger.

Sliding their lips away from each other, you had to reel back in shock over Sebastian’s bold kiss that sprung out of nowhere. Although everything around you seemed heavenly and dream-like, you just couldn’t help but wonder about her - Sebastian’s actual wife.

“Seb, please, just one second.” You tried to detach the eager brunette’s lips from sucking on your neck and jaw any further but was met with harsh resilience, making you sigh in aggravation.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Sebastian muttered into the apex of your jaw and began to suck a hickie into the spot he had stopped at.

“What about y..your wife?!” You gasped at the sensation of Sebastian’s lips on your sensitive skin and clung to his suit in a fit of mercy, the euphoria of the situation and his touches cranked everything up to ten.

“She filed for a divorce at 9 o’clock this morning. Turned out she had been cheating on me for almost four years of our marriage and left ‘Becca all alone in the house last night, unaccompanied.” Sebastian covered his cracked voice in your shoulder and allowed you to rub your soft hands soothingly around his back, the thought of his precious little daughter being left alone for hours upon hours without his knowledge brought the CEO to raging yet heartbroken tears.

He didn’t want to show you those tears, they weren’t meant for you or your compassionate heart but boy did he need to cry right now.

You could feel the laboured breathing on your shoulder and cooed the ex-husband into a whimpering lull, whispering that he was more than allowed to cry at the horror of his daughter being alone nights at a time.

For a good 30 minutes or so, you two stood there in your own bubble blissfully unaware of the world around them, the sound of Sebastian’s cries accompanying your shushes in a harmonic silent masterpiece.

After a lengthy ten minutes stuck together, reeling in the reality of yours and his position, Sebastian refused to move when you asked him, his desires to just hold onto you and pray that the toxic pain would cease and soon go away.

It was true, although he loved you he did love his wife once upon a time, in which during those years together - before you had even came into his life - he tried so hard to cram in as much love, time and affection into their marriage as possible - but alas, she failed him more than he could ever imagine.

He tried so hard and for what? Four out of those five years meaninglessly thrown away; it was a horrific thought for Sebastian - that was until he realised he had you now.

You gave him the love, kindness, time and affection he needed without lifting a finger; you knew what pain and heartache felt like and knew exactly how to console the CEO when he got depressingly drunk and couldn’t stop crying - a sight you’d often have to restrain yourself from getting overly invested in.

And most of all, Sebastian knew you knew how to stay grounded through all the promotions and raises you’d receive from him and his board of executives - it always seemed to be that the more he looked at you and your personality, he found more and more reasons to fall in love with you.

“How are you feeling now, Sebba?” You mumbled into the Romanian’s hair in a hushed soft voice and scratched lightly at his skull with your nails, making the said man hum in utter content at the feeling - even the way you said his name was enough for his heart to skip a beat or two.

He did think, on occasion, how ridiculously much he had given of himself to his own personal secretary - a weak move, he thought; but after raising his head to look into your loving Y/E/C eyes, he hadn’t known such strength before.

You watched in slight pity and confusion as Sebastian quickly brushed himself off and wandered back to his desk and watched as he dialled a quick number and spoke curtly to person on the other side, saying something along the lines of ‘bring her up’ or “bring them up’. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was really bringing up his ex-wife to see the two of you but judging by the coy smile on Sebastian lips, he wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.

“Now, let's introduce ‘Becca to her new mommy to-be, shall we?”

Permanent tags - @multireality @its-a-pretty-interesting-wall @coffeebooksandfandom

#Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan headcanons #sebastian stan imagines #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan angst #CEO! Sebastian Stan

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invisibletinkerer · 6 years

Text

Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 10)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8 – Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11

Length: ~4500 words

AO3 Link

Stanford blinked, slowly, his eyelashes uncomfortably crusted for some reason. He’d been on the beach, and there’d been some kind of trouble, but right now he was resting against something warm and safe, so it seemed best to just close his eyes again.

No.

No, what was he thinking, what was he doing? He pushed himself up and scrambled to his feet on a surge of panic. How could he possibly think it was fine? He’d been asleep again, his body was betraying him just like everything else did, it was already too late. He hit his back hard against the covered mirror on the opposite side of the room, clenching his large hands in the fabric and stared wild-eyed around him, trying to understand what had happened.

The blurry, grey-haired person he’d been resting against in the couch grumbled his name. “Stanford?”

Stanley. Of course.

He remembered. The barrier spell. Bill was blocked out.

He was safe.

Ford made himself draw a deep breath, slowly letting go of the cloth behind him and allowing his shoulders to relax, repeating the words like a mantra in his mind. He was safe. For now. Bill couldn’t touch him.

“Stanford?” Stanley repeated, sounding more worried this time. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Ford said hoarsely, trying to will his heart to slow down, his head to stop throbbing. “I believe so.” Bill wasn’t here. Bill hadn’t been in his mind or body since before he’d entered this room. He hadn’t endangered anything by sleeping. Stanley was fine, the children were fine, the world was fine. He hadn’t lost control.

Running a hand through his hair, he tried to parse the repercussions or lack thereof of this course of events. He’d slept undisturbed. His mind must have been throwing randomized memories and emotions at him, but natural dreams were harmless, and Bill hadn’t been there. His body had actually had a chance to rest.

“Bad dreams?” Stanley asked.

“No—no, hardly that bad,” Ford said, making an attempt to bring the fleeting images of the dream back to mind. He’d been on Glass Shard Beach. Stanley had been there, with gray hair and a dirty red jacket, standing on the deck of the Stan o’War and threatening to burn the unicorn hair, but Ford had been preoccupied with a futile effort to erase the myriad triangles someone had carved into the sand. Discomforting, certainly, but not delibitating. “Bill stayed out of my head, and I think I slept well. I was just startled upon waking.”

Stanley grunted. “Fair enough.”

Ford leaned back against the mirror and closed his eyes – and it was alright to do so, he was safe – and tried to take stock of himself. His throat was parched, and there was a distracting headache pounding the insides of his skull to the beat of his still racing heart. He probably shouldn’t have moved so quickly. The skin on his chest was throbbing even worse, heating up as if Bill had burned him rather than cut him last night, sticky and clammy under his clothes, but he refused to think further about that mess. He felt thoroughly sore. Bruised. But none of it was new, and despite everything, he felt – better. More real. The exhaustion hadn’t gone away, but it felt more like simple weariness than having his consciousness balanced on razor-sharp blades at the moment.

With a final sigh, he relaxed and didn’t even stumble on the way back to the couch. He picked up his glasses and the opened Pitt cola he hadn’t finished earlier on the way, draining the stale soda in a single gulp as he sat down. “What time is it?” he asked, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.

“A couple of minutes past five in the afternoon.” Stanley yawned while checking his watch. “I can’t believe I slept that long. Probably good for you, though. You feel any better now?”

“Yes, I—” Ford hesitated. “I still can’t believe it. I never meant to—well.” He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, then put his glasses back on. “I needed this.” He’d prefer not to talk about his earlier breakdown, not to mention falling asleep on top of his brother like a small child, but despite the embarrassment he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Safety was such an amazing luxury, and Stanley was—

Helping him. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Thanks,” he mumbled finally, deliberately not looking at his aged twin. He wanted to berate himself for showing that kind of vulnerability, but in the end, no harm seemed to have been done. Stanley made a decent pillow, that was all.

“Heh,” Stanley said beside him, stretching his arms. “Told ya we could fix it. We’ll have you back up and nerding out in no time.”

The familiar fatigue in Ford’s limbs reminded him that he could probably sleep more – and the realization that he could sleep more, risking no immediate horrors, made him chuckle briefly with a mixture of amusement and wonder. Perhaps he had more time left than he’d dared hope. There was still an apocalypse with his name on it waiting in the wings, but he would be content to take Stanley’s earlier advice and delay the expedition to the UFO crash site until tomorrow. Amazingly, a delay didn’t have to mean deterioration of his chances.

Stanley was standing up and stretching further, loudly cracking his back. “So,” he said, “You gonna admit you’re hungry already, or am I gonna have to drag you to the kitchen?”

Ford considered it and found that he was, indeed, hungry. “I suppose I could eat,” he said. Although he was sorely tempted to go back to sleep immediately, some nourishment might give him a bit of much needed strength back.

“Good, because now I’m starving, and you’re running out of excuses not to eat. Let’s raid the kitchen for leftovers, shall we?”

Ford flinched. Those words – that infliction – were too familiar, assaulting him with a wave of unwelcome déjà vu. A simpler time, a beloved brother, and damn it all, but he’d missed him.

“Stop it!” he blurted.

“Stop what?”

Stop sounding so much like yourself. Stop making me think we’re still—

“Never mind,” Ford deflected quietly. He had more important things to worry about. Stanley had ruined everything for him at least once – twice, if he counted the yesterday of thirty years ago, although perhaps he’d had very little left to be ruined at that point. And he had ruined everything for Stanley in turn. They were both better off without a twin. This aching emptiness inside him was ridiculous. “Let’s go,” he said.

Passing though the metaphysical barrier should not have been a physical sensation, but crossing the threshold still made a chill go down Stanford’s spine. Beyond it he was vulnerable again. For a moment he froze, a cowardly part of him ready to turn back to the miraculous sanctuary, but no. He couldn’t lock himself in a room. Bill was still out there, and even if he could hide himself from the demon forever, Bill would find other ways to bring about the end of the world unless Ford could put a stop to it. He hoped that the manic laughter in the back of his mind was just his imagination.

The soundless laughter blended with the headache, but didn’t cease even as Stanley found a large plate of no less than six pre-assembled cold tacos in the fridge, grinning at Ford as he set them on the table and started digging into them with good appetite.

Stanford would have done the same if he could. The tacos smelled simultaneously delicious and nauseating, flavorful and filling, spicy and greasy. He picked one up and found himself staring at it as if it was an opponent set to tear down his carefully constructed thesis. The thesis being: he was hungry. Carefully nibbling a small bite, chewing and swallowing, he found his stomach churning painfully, an annoying wave of nausea passing through him.

Trying to find something else might an option – he’d eaten a whole pancake this morning before his stomach started protesting – but he’d never been a picky eater and this seemed like a frustrating time to start. Just because he hadn’t been eating in a while didn’t have to mean he was psysically incapable. Sighing, he got up to the sink, fetched a glass from the cupboard – Stanley’s glass, Stanley’s cupboard, Stanley’s house, Stanley’s food – and filled it with water. He drank deeply, then refilled. At least that felt good going down.

He’d just sat down by the table again when the children came bouncing down the stairs. Well, Mabel bounced – Dipper came after, stiffly and carefully, hindered by the injuries Ford’s carelessness had inflicted on him. Ford looked away, wishing they wouldn’t see him.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaimed, throwing herself around Stanley’s neck. “We thought you were gonna sleep forever!”

“Ah,” Stanley said, gently pulling her off him. “Yeah, sorry about that, pumpkin. But on the bright side, the barrier worked fine, so no one’s gonna get sleep possessed again.” He glanced at Ford who did not look up. “You’re a hero, sweetie,” he told Mabel.

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I think heroism is relative,” she said. “Just like being pure of heart.”

“Fair,” Stanley admitted, raising a finger. “Protecting the family from demons sounds pretty heroic to me, though. What do you say, Poindexter?”

Ford gave up on his staring contest with the taco, being obliged to look at the weird, charming child who had done the impossible for his sake. “Yes,” he said. It would have been mostly to protect her actual family, not him, but she had handled herself above and beyond what anyone could have expected, and giving him this gift after what he had done to her brother – she shouldn’t have had to. “You did well, Mabel,” he managed.

She beamed at him. “You’re welcome, uncle Ford!”

“So, um,” Dipper’s voice appeared from Ford’s other side, “Did you have a good nap?”

Ford turned reluctantly to the boy. He looked more than a little bit nervous, and for good reason. “Much better than I deserved,” he replied solemnly. “Don’t worry, I won’t allow him to hurt you again.”

“Good, that’s good… Um...” Dipper bit his lip, apparently trying to say something else, but unable to get it out. Ford took the paus as an opportunity to focus on the meal, forcing himself to take a big bite out of the taco. If he was going to eat it he might as well go ahead and do it.

That was a mistake. The greasy taco meat seemed to grow disproportionally in his mouth, making it a struggle to swallow, and once he succeeded in getting it down, it tried to get back up. He hulked, putting a hand over his mouth and fighting not to vomit all over the kitchen table as his own stomach turned against him. For a panicked moment he was convinced it was Bill’s doing, this was some new trick to throw him out of his own body. His insides were burning with acid and spasming with gag reflexes, and the rest of the world disappeared in a blur next to his desperate efforts to stay in control.

Somehow he was able to push it down. The next thing he knew he was panting painfully, eyes filled with hot tears and a figurative knife twisting in his stomach, but he was still himself, and the bite he’d taken had stayed inside him. Someone was holding up his water glass for him. He took it and drank gratefully.

Logically, it wasn’t Bill. It was just nausea. Just nausea. His own body was betraying him, but that was nothing new either, and he was stronger than that. He shoved the fear back before it threatened to drown him again. No need to panic.

Stanley’s hand was on his shoulder, the weight uncomfortable but grounding. Without looking at anyone, Ford wiped his face with a hand, then placed his elbows on the table and leaned his forehead into his palms, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He resisted the urge to press a hand to his aching stomach, too reluctant to touch the infuriating marks that covered it. His shoulders wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Are you alright, Sixer?” Stanley’s gravelly voice was almost soft.

“Yes,” he replied reflexively. “I’m fine. I’m not in any immediate danger of being possessed or passing out.”

“That’s not really what I was asking for,” Stanley said, his voice still inappropriately worried. “You’ve barely eaten at all, and that kinda sounded like you were gonna throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Ford repeated. His stomach churned unhappily at him, but he wasn’t dying, and he’d survive a while longer on what he’d managed to swallow, surely. He forced himself to look up for a moment to meet Stanley’s eyes.

Stanley’s slitted, yellow-tinted eyes.

Ford stiffened, heart pounding, but it was gone when he blinked. It couldn’t have been there at all. Could it?

“No, you’re not fine.” Stanley grimaced and glanced at the plate of tacos, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “You need something easier on the stomach, don’t you? I didn’t even think of that; how did I not think of that?”

Ford managed to draw enough air to speak. “It’s fine!”

“No, it’s not!” Stanley let go of Ford and raised his hands in exasperation. “Stop hurting yourself, Sixer!”

Bill had said the exact same words, mocking him, telling him to give up. Stanley didn’t mean it that way, surely not, but something snapped. Ford slammed his fists on the table and pushed himself up, staring at Stanley, ignoring the way his head throbbed at the movement. “Why do you care?” he said, louder than he’d intended. “Why do any of you care?” It struck him anew how none of this made any sense. He couldn’t afford to question it, but could he afford not to? Stanley’s insistence on fixing Ford before fixing the rift. The children’s eagerness to help, not just for the sake of world, but for him.

Stanley’s pose deflated. “Stanford…”

“I’m hurting myself? Bill is in my mind, Stanley! I’ve been doing whatever it takes to fight him! And now you’re—” He stopped, eyes widening with a horrifying possibility. “—you’re undoing it.”

Stanley winced, as if knowing his own guilt.

“You want me to lower my guard, don’t you?” Ford continued, voice hard. “You want me to stop fighting.” Something inside him warned that this didn’t make sense either, it didn’t add up, but nevertheless the possibility was there. Stanley had mocked his work for thirty years. He could be mocking him now, making him believe safety was even possible before ripping it all away again. He slowly took a step backwards, then another.

“Ford, don’t.” Stanley sounded almost pained. “There’s a difference between stopping you from fighting and helping you fight.”

“Is there?” Not if this was all a trick. It wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t, but what if it was? He needed to escape, but there was nowhere to go and all the stakes were right here. All too familiar helplessness started to flood him, and he fought to keep it down like he’d fought the nausea. “Stanley – you pushed me through the portal.” He could have been planning this all along, taking Ford’s life and turning it to a mockery. Bill could have planned this. Family can betray you. Bill knew.

“Stanford, no,” Stanley breathed. “You know I never meant to do that. I’ve regretted that one moment for the last thirty years. You can’t believe I’d do that on purpose.”

“I didn’t believe you’d wreck my science project either!”

“I’m sorry!” Stanley almost screamed, then took a deep breath, slowly unclenching his fists. “Listen to yourself, Poindexter. Why the hot belgian waffle would I want you to sleep and eat and recover if I was going to screw you over? That demon’s messing with you, but you’re smarter than this.”

Was he, though? At some point he’d backed into the stove and now he was half leaning against it with his hands clenched behind his back, acutely aware of the children looking on with wide eyes. Human eyes, as far as he could tell. Stanley was right, Bill was messing with him. Bill would want him to relax and lower his guard, but he wouldn’t want him to recover.

Was that even possible to recover? Was that also a mockery?

“Breathe, Ford!”

He was trying, but his lungs refused to do more than hyperventilate.

“Look, just – he hurt you. I get it. And you had to fight back by hurting yourself, I get it. But you don’t have to do that anymore! Okay? Look at me! You’re not alone anymore.”

Ford finally managed to draw a deeper, shaky breath. “I know,” he panted, and it was only partly a lie. “But why? Why do you—why do you care what happens to me? What does it matter?” That was the sticking point. He wanted to trust Stanley. That’s why he’d sent for him in the first place. But if Bill had taught him anything, it was that things that seemed too good to be true tended not to be.

“You’re—” Stanley bristled, but Ford interrupted him.

“I made my own mistakes! They’re not your responsibility! All I asked you to do was to hide a journal!”

“Yeah,” Stanley said, “And if I’d left and done that you would’ve been dead within days back then! You wouldn’t even tell me what was going on!”

“I would have been dead, but I might have prevented the end of the world and no one else would have had to suffer for my mistakes! Including you!”

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “You’re not even gonna argue about the ‘dead’ part?”

Ford ignored that; it wouldn’t have been worth lamenting, not if he could have ensured the portal and the journals were never used again first. “And then, once I was gone, you had no reason whatsoever to bring me back, and every reason not to. Even now, you keep insisting on helping me over and above dealing with the crack in reality that you caused. Why?”

“I told ya. You’re my brother.”

“That’s not—”

“But you wouldn’t do the same for me.” Stanley looked down and crossed his arms defensively. “That’s fine. I make my own choices.”

Ford glanced at Dipper, remembering what the boy had said this morning. You’re family, that makes it worth it. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” he mumbled, finally feeling his shoulders sag and his fists unclench on the stove behind him. He kept his eyes open and focused on remembering how to breathe.

“Whatever.” Stanley shrugged slightly. “Just. Please. I didn’t spend thirty years on that machine just to have you kill yourself as soon as I got you back.”

Ford didn’t have a response to that. It had never been his intent to commit suicide, but he’d accepted that Bill would kill him eventually. That hadn’t changed.

“I’m gonna check if I’ve got some canned soup or something for you.” Stanley turned away and started rummaging through the cupboard that served as pantry. “Give me a few minutes and don’t disappear into thin air, willya.”

Ford didn’t argue, or move. Disappearing into thin air was neither possible – at least not without the portal, and he wasn’t keen on repeating that experience – or likely to help matters in any way. He did wince hard and hiss in pain when Mabel appeared next to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her head painfully against injuries he’d made sure she knew nothing about.

“Did you sleep alright, at least?” she asked.

“Yes,” he muttered, carefully unwrapping himself from the embrace. “Thanks to you, I did get some rest.”

She smiled, perhaps slightly too wide, too strained – and Ford tensed, but her eyes were normal and he needed to trust that that meant something. “Good!” She looked at him intently. “We’ll fix the rest too, don’t worry!”

“Mabel.” Ford hesitated. She meant it, didn’t she? She meant every word, with even less justification than Stanley had. He drew a deep breath and tried to be rational. “I told you before to stay away from me.”

“And I told you before – nope!” She reached up and poked his nose.

Ford jerked back and didn’t reply. The best he could do was to gently push her aside and leave the kitchen, as if he could leave his own conflicted thoughts and fears behind. He needed to do something useful. The journals. The rift. The bed. He half expected Stanley to try to stop him, but his brother was in the middle of saying something to Dipper and only glanced at him. Mabel, however, followed along – whether on Stanley’s unspoken orders or her own accord was unclear.

He’d only meant to pick up the third journal from the TV chair, but instead he found himself reclining in the chair with the book in his lap, leaning his head back against the cushion and rubbing his temples. It was safe, he reminded himself. He’d had some real rest and wasn’t half unconscious anymore. He wouldn’t hurt anyone by sitting down for a moment, and no one would hurt him, either.

“You know,” Mabel said, bouncing on her toes next to the armrest. “I know you wrote that in the journal, but I need to tell you that trusting no one is stupid. Then you’d be all alone all the time, and that makes people wonky in the head!”

Ford huffed. Yes. He was ‘wonky in the head’. Anyone would be in his position, if you disregarded the fact that no one else would be in his position in the first place. “I know,” he said with a sigh, half hoping that Mabel would go away, half wishing she’d stay and distract him. He took a moment to flip through the journal, confirming that it was still intact, before turning back to the girl. “Do you still have the journal I lent you?” he asked.

“Of course I do!” Mabel said, immediately rushing off to the hallway by the door. “It’s right here in my backpack!” The bag in question lay discarded on the floor under the coat rack, and after a moment of rummaging through it Mabel produced Ford’s first journal. “Do you need it back?”

“Yes.” Stanford got up and took it from her with a curt nod. It seemed no worse for the wear either, through he’d noticed earlier that Journal 1 showed a lot more wear and tear than the other two, presumably because it had been studied by Stanley for decades. His guts clenched for reasons quite unrelated to food at that mental image, but he shrugged it off, stacking Journal 1 with Journal 3 on the crook of his arm.

It wasn’t that he needed the journals himself, exactly, but with everything else going on, he’d momentarily lost track of both of these, and it was a relief to have them accounted for. They were still too dangerous to lose, too dangerous to risk them falling into the wrong hands. The previous hiding places were unsafe, so he’d have to figure something else out soon, but for tonight he’d just put them away in the warded room.

Re-entering the barrier should not have felt as overwhelming as it did. He had to fight down a feverish urge to curl up on the couch and never move again, but he couldn’t allow that, not while his handiwork was still a threat. Mabel was still tailing him, admiring the glowing line along the walls that made up the physical components of the barrier spell while Ford hid the two journals out of sight in the liquor cabinet. He half-consciously noted that all the bottles and flasks were empty, even the ones he hadn’t yet finished yesterday, thirty years ago. Stanley must have drained them, before he boarded the room up.

“Did you know that you and Stan looked really adorable when you were napping before?” Mabel said suddenly.

“Adorable?” Ford repeated, rising to his feet and taking a deep breath, trying to settle the pain in his head and body. He didn’t believe Mabel was using the word condescendingly, but it still sat wrong with him.

“Yes! Like a couple of kittens!”

He stared at her. This should probably be amusing. “I’m a grown man,” he said. “And Stanley is... well, he’s twice my age. Hardly a kitten.”

“Nope, you totally looked like kittens! So cute!” She grinned innocently.

Ford clenched his teeth around a curse. Bill had called him cute, too. ‘Cute’ was struggling against the hold he had allowed Bill to have on him. ‘Cute’ was trying to prevent an apocalypse he himself had instigated. Perhaps ‘cute’ was falling asleep next to his brother and believing that was fine. “I’d rather not be called that,” he said tersely.

Mabel blinked. “But uncle Ford! Kittens are awesome!”

“There’s nothing wrong with kittens,” Ford conceded, shuddering as he left the barrier again and headed back to the living room. He’d find the final journal and the rift itself down in the basement. “It’s a more appropriate appellation for children, though.”

“In that case, you and grunkle Stan must have been extra adorable when you were kids!”

He sighed softly. “Perhaps.” He’d walked right into that one.

“Hey, Ford.” Stanley appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes flicking from Ford to Mabel and back.

“Don’t worry, grunkle Stan!” Mabel said and slipped her hand into Ford’s as if for emphasis. ”I’ve got this!”

Ford withdrew his hand immediately. So she was here to keep an eye on him, then. As if that would end well for anyone.

“Come here,” Stanley said, reaching around to give Ford a gentle push on the back. “There’s some hot soup for ya now, and then you can go back to sleep or something.”

“Oh. Yes. Soup.” Ford blinked. It was, admittedly, a good idea. He could argue that it wasn’t strictly necessary – he’d be functional for a while longer, especially if he did get all the sleep his body was yearning for. But his body was yearning for nourishment, too, and with safe sleep within his grasp, there was nothing stopping him from eating but his own frailty, and soup would work. It would make him stronger.

The whole situation struck him as absurd in so many ways. The world was liable to end, and Stanley of all people was fussing about making him eat, while a grand niece too old to have been his daughter compared him to a baby cat. He huffed a sound that might have been a helpless laughter. The only part of his current existence that he could still understand was the threat to all reality. But yes, he’d take that soup.

#gravity falls #fanfic #30 seconds later #stanford pines #paranoid ford #in which one good nap doesn't fix five weeks of paranoia and torment #but progress is still made #it writes

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