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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

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Breathe

Next Part - Exhale

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader Rating: M

Notes: Just a Jonathan oneshot. Not beta-read. May have a second part but uhhhh haven't decided.

Warnings: Mutual pining; mentions of divorce; weed smoking; angst; fluff; Reader teaches with Jonathan Summary: You’re both quite high, but you’re a little more controlled than he is. Well, it’s not your first time. You think he’s handling it pretty well, though. He’s had a couple of bouts of pure giggliness for no reason at all, and they’ve begun and tapered off all on their own.

But now he’s watching you.

He’s staring at it like it’s a bomb that’s set to go off, a grenade that’s just had its pin pulled. You arch your brows curiously, chin tipping toward your chest a little bit as you shake the baggie, the two joints making a little shushing sound against the plastic and each other.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re changing your mind,” You offer.

“No! No, I’m—I mean, I am curious. I wouldn't have asked you about it if I wasn't.”

It had been a nervous hedging as you'd walked back to your office after a faculty meeting. You'd had a couple of puffs before, and clearly hadn't used enough listerine or body spray to cover the slight scent. He's had the same look on his face, the same nervous smile and darting, nervous interest in his eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

“But it’s just, you know,” He shakes his head, nervously adjusts his glasses, “It’s—It’s…New to me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jonathan nods warily, eyes darting between the baggie and your face.

“I can just leave ‘em here,” You offer, “And you can uh…You can smoke ‘em if you want to. I recommend stashing them in a coffee can. Covers the smell.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah.” He clears his throat uncomfortably, glancing around the kitchen, presumably toward wherever he keeps the coffee. Your brows arch.

“Or…I can take them with me and you can forget they were ever here.”

You can see thoughts forming in Jonathan’s mind and branching off, one after the other. There are so many, and they grow so quickly that you think they could branch out of his ears at any moment. He finally manages,

“Ah…Ava’s not home, and she’ll be…You know, for a few days.”

“Right.”

“So could you—Could we…?”

Your brows shoot up as he trails off, and he chuckles, tipping his head forward as he adjusts his glasses self-consciously.

“Yeah,” You nod, filling in his blank, “We can light up.”

He’s watching you. When you’ve gotten the look from others before—that sort of half-glazed, slow-blinking, appraising gaze—it’s sent a wave of anticipation over you. Now, whatever you feel is dampened by the smoke. It’s new to get the look from Jonathan. It’s newer still to get it from him when he's sitting on a closed toilet lid, smoking his brains out for the first time. You’re close. Maybe you’re too close. You’re sitting on the windowsill, feet tucked between his thighs and the toilet seat to steady yourself. There’s a cool early winter breeze pushing in through the window, shudders shoved aside to let the air in and the smoke out.

You’re both quite high, but you’re a little more controlled than he is. Well, it’s not your first time. You think he’s handling it pretty well, though. He’s had a couple of bouts of pure giggliness for no reason at all, and they’ve begun and tapered off all on their own.

But now he’s watching you.

You smile a little, leaning down and gently prising the half-smoked joint from his fingers.

“How are you feeling down there, Levy?”

“...You remember when we met?”

It’s a strange answer to your question, but maybe that’s why he’s been staring at you.

“That’s what you’re feeling? Nostalgic?” You press lightly.

“You were in such a bad mood,” Jonathan chuckles. You can't help but smile as he ignores your questions and tips his head back against the cornflower blue wall. The color is dulled and greening in the bathroom’s yellowing lamp light; you think it may be more hospitable in the daylight, but right now is nearly how you feel—muted.

“I was in a bad mood?”

“Mhm. I didn't know it then, but I know it now. I know better now,” He insists, head tipping to the side a little to meet your eyes. “You were in that weird…You were doing that thing you do where you go all quiet on people. You were quiet that day.”

You’re quiet for a moment now, just taking him in—the dark blue sweater that he wears that’s going to hold the scent of the weed smoke, and the smoke of the cigarette you think he may switch to afterward; the way his greying curls sprawl over his forehead; his slightly red-bloodshot eyes behind the frames of his glasses.

“...I didn’t know anyone,” You point out, “First day in the department, I couldn’t find my office, and—and I was just shy, that’s all.”

“You?”

“Yes—”

“You, shy? No, come on. That’s not you. You've never been shy in your life.”

His conviction makes your chest flutter.

“It’s not me now because I know you, but it was me that day—shut up!” You insist, reaching out and giving Jonathan’s shoulder a light shove as he descends into giggles again. You can’t help but grin at the sight, raising the joint to your lips and pulling in deeply. You shake your head, averting your gaze from Jonathan. You can’t be the one staring—you won’t let yourself be the one staring, but he looks so…So fucking happy. It’s like the cloud that’s hung over his head since his wife left has been sapped and replaced with the smoke.

You push the smoke out through your nose, tapping the ashes out of the window before you turn to look outside. It smells like rain, but it’s cold enough to snow. It may be that awful freezing rain—the kind that falls like pellets and stings when it hits your skin.

“Why are you thinking about that?” You ask as Jonathan’s giggles taper and slow. You keep your eyes set carefully outside, wary that you’ll become addicted to the sight of this bright, open, grinning, smoke-addled Jonathan.

“...I don’t know.”

Jonathan’s admission sounds soft and small, nothing like the boisterous giggly tone he had a few moments ago. You draw in another quick drag before you hold out the joint. It’s a moment before Jonathan’s fingers brush yours, pushing goosebumps up your arms. You can pass it off as a cold if he asks, but you don’t think he will. He takes his damn time, knuckles brushing your palm as he takes the joint from you, his eyes set on yours.

“How are you feeling?” You ask again. It’s an easy, almost hopeful lob. Until a moment ago, he was in a good-ish mood, but now he sounds like he’s drawing back a bit.

“Floaty,” He admits, raising the joint to his lips.

“Good floaty?”

“Mm,” He holds the smoke in, voice tight with it, “I think so.” “Good.”

Jonathan pushes the smoke out, lips pursed to the side to direct it to the window.

“...I’m hungry,” He admits. He sounds as if he’s just realized it, as if he’s never been hungry before. “Are you hungry? I’m starving—and fuck, I’m so—my tongue feels like sandpaper and my throat is like,” He makes a hacking noise, waving toward his throat. You snort, wiggling your toes to spur him to shift a little.

“I’ll go get us some glasses,” You offer, sliding your feet out from beneath his thighs.

“I can get them.”

"No, no—"

"Lemme get them—"

“I know you have the ability, Levy," You insist, waving him to stay where he's half-risen from the toilet, "But just sit there and uh—float, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You take your damn time walking downstairs and getting glasses from the cabinet. You know better than to fill them with water and carry them upstairs—it’ll just slosh everywhere. You’ll just fill them with tap water when you get back upstairs. You look around as you go down and up again. It’s fascinating, the way Jonathan has narrowed his and Ava’s worlds to the lower floor of the house. It’s probably for the best, hell—two floors seems like so much space for the two of them, and better still that the two of you are smoking in the bathroom that’s hardly ever used anymore. You give a warning knock and pause for a warning before you walk into the bathroom again.

Jonathan’s stood up by the time you come back in, his head hanging out of the window like a dog poking its head through a car window.

“...Y’alright in here?” You ask, walking closer slowly.

“It’s so cool out.”

The words are a little muffled. You can't help but grin.

“Yeah, it’s uh…It’s November. In Boston,” You chuckle. You walk over the sink and fill both glasses before heading over to the toilet again. You set one on the windowsill beside him before raising yours to your lips and taking a cooling swig. You sigh softly at the feeling before you reach out, poking his elbow. He leans back in, cheeks ruddy from the cold. He glances down, spotting the glass, then takes it up, draining it in three gulps. You snort, watching him.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely better. And the air, I think it really, uh,” He waves from the window to his head, then back to the window. “I think it helped, I was starting to feel a little…Fuzzy.”

“I thought you were floaty.”

“I was fuzzy and floaty. The fuzz has cleared. Standing up was good for that, too.”

“Mm. And the float?”

“Still present.”

“Happy with that?”

“It’s pretty good…I’m still hungry, though.”

“Wanna get pizza? My treat.”

“This is the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I mean if I ever wanted to...fuck a pizza…”

You cackle through your mouthful as Jonathan stares lovingly at the half-eaten pizza slice in his hand.

“Do you want me to give you guys some space?” You tease before taking another bite of your food. “My slice and I could go sit in the backyard—”

“No, no. You stay right here—”

“Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”

“There’s four of us if we count your slice.”

“Mm, touché.”

“So this is more like a double date.”

You snort, shaking your head and setting your slice down. You prop your elbows up on the table, setting your chin on your hand.

“Chew and swallow, Levy,” You warn as you watch him take a bite and then swallow it almost immediately.

“I wanna inhale it,” He mumbles around his next mouthful.

“I wanna not have to perform CPR.”

“What, you wouldn’t save me if I choked on this thing?”

“I mean I’d have to watch a Youtube video on how-to first, so I don’t think you’d make it. Time is of the essence with things like blocked airways.”

“Said the pot to the asthmatic.”

“Literally the pot?”

“Literally—No, that’s good. That’s good,” Jonathan chuckles, waggling the crust of his pizza at you before he takes another bite.

You smile, reaching down and picking a piece of pepperoni off of your slice, popping it into your mouth. The two of you go quiet, save for the sounds of your eating and drinking. Between the two of you, the pizza’s whittled down to a single slice within the hour.

“...It’s getting late,” You comment softly, “I should go.”

“You gonna drive?”

“After how much we smoked? Nah, that would be stupid. I’ll just get a car or something.”

You pull your phone out, beginning to swipe through it. It’s a few moments before Jonathan starts,

“You could just—...You know.”

But this time you don’t know. You don’t know if it’s the weed, or if he just hasn’t made himself clear, but you’re not taking his meaning.

“I could just what?”

Jonathan drags the offer over the finish line:

“You could just stay here.”

You expect to kip on the couch, but there you are, climbing into Jonathan’s bed. It’s a little bit of a tight squeeze between the desk and the shelves. You borrow a pair of his boxer shorts and leave on your tank top. You realize belatedly that Jonathan will need to wash his shorts, as they’re likely to wind up smelling like the weed scent that clings to your top.

“...When’s the last time you slept with someone?” Jonathan asks. It’s a hazy mumble; his eyes are half-open, torn between drifting off and squinting at you without his glasses. You think for a moment.

“When you say slept…Do you mean had sex, or been asleep with someone?”

“Second one.”

“Mm.”

“Or the first—Or both, or neither, you know. Whatever you wanna share.”

You smile as the jittery tone begins to creep back into Jonathan’s voice.

“The last time I was asleep with someone…Was a long time ago. A few years, maybe.”

“...And sex?”

Your brows raise at his prying, and Jonathan sputters a laugh, raising his hands and scrubbing at his eyes as he rolls onto his back.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles, “That was—I think I’m still high. Fuck.”

You smile, tucking your hands beneath your cheek and watching him.

“You’re definitely still high,” You reassure, “Don’t worry about it. Last time I had sex was…A while ago.”

“...How long’s a while?” Jonathan’s head tips toward you, tongue sweeping his lip. The flash of slick pink makes your stomach twist. You shrug a little.

“A while,” You reiterate. Jonathan nods, raising his hands in mock surrender before he sets them on his chest again. He gives a gentle rub, brow furrowing.

“You okay?” You ask, sitting up a little. You’ve seen how quickly his asthma can well up, and how suddenly.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just—Felt like there was a…Tightening.”

He coughs softly a couple of times before he clears his throat, shaking his head.

“Do you need me to get your inhaler?”

“No. No, I’m okay,” He insists, settling down. He gives one more soft cough before it goes quiet. You slide down in bed again, watching him draw in a few deep breaths. His chest rises and falls more steadily, but you still worry that his chest is bothering him more than he’ll admit. You hesitate before you reach out, resting your hand on his chest. He doesn’t move for a moment; in fact, for that little stretch of time, he doesn’t take a breath. And then he rests a warm hand atop yours and draws in a deep breath, one that lifts both of your hands. You snuggle a little closer, your legs brushing his as you close your eyes.

“Night, Jonathan.”

His fingers twitch around yours before curling gently to grasp and hold your hand.

“Night.”

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#Jonathan Levy x Reader #Jonathan Levy x You #Jonathan Levy/Reader #Jonathan Levy/You #Jonathan Levy fic #Jonathan Levy imagine #Breathe #Jonathan Scenes From a Marriage

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johnwickb1tsch · 5 months

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The Night Nurse - Ch 6

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │

VI.

On their way through the lobby they found themselves intercepted by Winston, who presented Helen with a small red box, the sort with gold trimmed corners that usually would contain an expensive piece of jewelry. With wide eyes she accepted it, shooting John a look of bewilderment, wondering if there was some Underworld ritual happening she didn’t grasp.

John, however, had an idea of what it might contain. He nodded for her to open it, and she found a little black transmitter with a button. It had a clip and would be easily concealable anywhere, from a pocket to under her clothes. She let out a little sigh of relief, slipping the box into her purse. “Thank you, Winston. I appreciate it.”

Graciously he nodded. “My pleasure, and my regret that it may be necessary. But then, we are all villains within these walls, Miss Helen. I fear you are an angel of mercy walking amongst devils.”

John barely repressed an eyeroll at Winston’s dramatization. It didn’t mean he was wrong, mind, just…so…Winston.

“I’m not that angelic,” she countered with a little smile, and a sidelong look at the assassin at her side that spoke volumes. It was frightfully telling, earning John a raise of eyebrows from the Manager. John simply returned the older man’s gaze, betraying nothing, even while his heart did a frantic drumroll in his chest.

“I have no doubt you’re just full of surprises,” said Winston, his words heavy with double meaning as he looked between she and John. John got the sense that Winston was trying to communicate something else, but as usual, it went over his head. “I fear that device will only serve you here on the Continental grounds. Out there, you must fend for yourself.”

“Understood. I truly appreciate your accommodation. I know I’m not as dangerous as all of you. I’m afraid I’m a healer, not a killer.”

Winston’s stare settled on John once more as he said, “Give it time.” Leaning in closer, the Manager lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “You might ask yourself, Jonathan, why the little bear would so seemingly foolishly provoke you. For Mikhail Medvedev is not, in fact, as stupid as he looks.”

John’s eyes narrowed to slits, a look that was sharp as obsidian. “Do you know something?”

“I know only what I am seeing played out on my stage.” He waved to indicate the entirety of his beautiful kingdom, the luxuriously appointed lobby and everything beyond.

“Uh huh.”

Helpful, as usual.

“He certainly could not challenge you out in the open.”

John lowered his voice, unable to conceal the thread of heat in his tone. “But he didn’t challenge me. He went after her. I feel like it was dumb luck I intercepted the...” He paused, choked by rage all over again as he thought about it. When he could speak again, he settled for, “Shake down,” though it hardly encompassed the intended offense.

He thought about how he had tossed and turned that night after Helen had left him for another patient, unable to rest, unable to sleep. As though he’d known a signal would arise, that she would need him. It was ridiculous, of course. There had been no real specific indications. He wasn’t fucking psychic. Perhaps just filled with dread for what seemed inevitable, in a hotel filled to the gills with predators.

“Like it or not, it is widely known among us now that the Nurse came into our world because of you, and that she possesses your favor. You think it can’t be considered an indirect attack on you? Tarasov’s most feared assassin?”

The thought made John’s blood run cold.

Fucking politics.

“You think the Medvedevs are moving on the Tarasovs?”

Winston shrugged. It was as good as a yes. He wasn’t supposed to favor one crime family over another, but Managers were human, and prone to their preferences. What John maybe didn’t realize, was that he himself bore more of Winston’s favor than Viggo or any of the other Tarasovs.

It wasn’t that John cared, really, for the well being of the Tarasov Bratva. Viggo was a business associate. Friends...were a rare beast in their business. True friends were goddamn unicorns. The Tarasovs paid him well enough, but what worried him most now was not war, but that Helen seemed to have landed right smack in the middle of it.

“God dammit.”

Winston tilted his head in acknowledgement to John’s assessment.

“I sense you have a day ahead of you, Jonathan. I will leave you two to it.” He nodded, and took his leave, crossing the lobby to greet another assassin newly arrived.

Despite Winston’s warnings, John wasn’t sure he should raise the alarm just yet. Going to Viggo with this might prove premature.

Maybe he would get the opportunity to just kill Mikhail, his two mountainous heavies, and sweep it all under the rug.

The Tarasovs and the Medvedevs had coexisted for years. A bloody power grab smacked of a plot thought up by the meathead youths hungry for glory, not the older men who were already rich, powerful, and managing nicely to stay out of prison and enjoy their ill-gotten gains living lives of luxury. Wars drew unwanted attention. Federal attention, that couldn’t be bribed away so cheaply as the local talent.

John nodded to himself, answering his own internal dialogue. Helen watched him, her expression solemn. “It’s ok, John. Whatever you need to do…”

“No,” he said. “We’re still going to have our day.”

“Are you sure?”

He appreciated that she thought that maybe he shouldn’t run off to Jersey with a possible war on the horizon. But nothing was certain. He imagined what he would actually say to Viggo, if he tried to warn the boss now. So there’s this woman I like, and Ivan’s son may or may not have tried to have his way with her. Then we glared at each other over breakfast. Then I put him in his place with the direst of insults.

Yeah. That wasn’t going to fly.

“I am.” Then it occurred to him, “If you still want to go?”

She gave a little snort, a sparkle of laughter in her eye. “Good one, Mr. Wick.”

He just couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning upwards at that. She was fearless, or, dare he think it…she felt safe with him. “Can I take your bag?” He gestured at the carryall she had slung over her shoulder.

“Thanks, you’re sweet, but maybe you should keep your hands free?”

For guns, or whatever might come their way, he realized.

“You really are perfect,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

Her eyes glittered like goldstone, and she sidled a step closer, smoothing her hand down his tie. Every nerve in his body came alive with that small, seemingly innocent, touch. “Remember you said that when you get to know me better.”

He didn’t think he could ever think of her as anything but perfection.

“Well…I think I’m adding blades training to your lesson plan today. If I ever forget, you can remind me.”

She paused at that, but only for a moment, a ripple in a pool there and gone. “Well, I’m already pretty good with a scalpel. Just saying…”

Her smile was the sun, bright, beautiful, and lifegiving. He was such a goner for this woman. They had to get out of here, before he really embarrassed himself.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure.”

He offered his arm, and together they bravely, or very foolishly, dared to leave the sanctuary of the Continental for the big bad city beyond.

***

“John. What. The hell. Is this?”

These were Helen’s words as the valet roared up in John’s 1969 Mustang Boss 429. She was grinning like a fool as she said it though, so he didn’t take terrible offense.

“My daily driver?”

“Oh my god.” The heavily tattooed valet looked between them and his colleagues on the steps, simultaneously interested and anxious about this interaction.

No one talked to John Wick this way.

Little did they know, John Wick was loving every minute of it.

She ran a hand lovingly down the hood, appreciating the machine’s vintage lines. It was sleek, predatory, but stylishly subtle with its deep gray and matte black paint job, the dark racing stripes on the front. Like it knew it was the meanest motor on the road—it didn’t have to be vulgar about it.

“You know what. I take it back. It’s so you.”

John had always found the art of automotive pinups fairly ridiculous. The back room of Aurelio’s was plastered with scantily clad, implausibly proportioned women suggestively positioned over cars. He’d never understood the point. Wasn’t the car sexy enough? Yet now, seeing Helen leaning against his machine in her street clothes, just that shapely green sweater, a short brown leather jacket, and indigo washed jeans—he was starting to understand. Desire overtook him like wildfire from his head to his toes, and he found he wanted to christen the hood of this car with her beautiful long legs wrapped inextricably around him.

The thought made his every hair stand on end, an uncomfortable flush blooming beneath his collar.

“I’m glad you approve,” he finally got out in an attempt to cover the raucous churning he felt inside, his voice gone rough with this unhelpful inner dialogue. He held the passenger side door open for her, and she would never know the feat of self-control it took not to grab her up, as she brushed past to situate herself down in the passenger’s seat.

He took her bag to throw in the trunk. But before closing her door he couldn’t resist leaning down towards her, his arm on the roof, an eyebrow raised. “So, do you like to go fast?”

She inspected her nails, playing along with a knowing little smile. He knew then that he hadn’t fooled her a bit. That she saw everything with those intelligent amber eyes, and he’d never been so glad to feel so exposed.

“Honey, I’m not the one who’s been taking it slow here.”

Their eyes met, her gaze hitting John like a bullet to the heart. He clutched at his chest with a conspiratorial little smile, wishing he could keep this perfect moment in a bottle. A moment with a woman in which they were both perfectly happy. Was it really possible?

His long-ingrained cynicism tried to quash this feeling under its thumb, but this strange new sense of joy resisted.

It seemed like anything was possible, with her.

He didn’t quite burn out as they left the Continental, but the roar of their departure won grins from the red-suited valets who stood on the sidewalk before the hotel.

Truth be told, downtown Manhattan wasn’t actually the best place to drive fast, the constant stop and go of traffic and stoplights getting in their way. Helen didn’t seem to mind, curled up in the seat next to John, surveying the city going by through the windshield. Though technically she possessed a car, she rarely drove it, letting her little sister use it for the transport of art projects and her circle of wacky bohemian friends.

Helen had been a caretaker since she was practically a child herself, to her little sister, and her mother who was often incapacitated. This new sensation of being taken care of was a heady thing, and not just because her protector was a tall, dark, and handsome mafia assassin with the soulful eyes of a poet, and the long-fingered hands of a musician...

She was staring at those hands on the steering wheel, and the gear shift, painfully aware that it would have been such an easy thing for him to reach out to her in between changing gears. A part of her wished he would, and yet, it was achingly sweet, how respectful this man was. Most men would have tried to bed her by now, would not have resisted the pull of their chemistry, no matter the consequences to her or to him. Since that first night, when he’d been weakened by injury and unwilling to stand against her as she bull-dogged her way into his world, he’d been so careful not to further entangle her.

As much as she despised him, maybe she owed Mikhail Medvedev a thank you for bringing John closer to her. It was a dangerous thing, perhaps. Not because of John Wick’s reputation or his involvement with the Tarasovs. Because, she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to let him go.

“Can I ask you a question?” she posed as they paused at a seemingly unnecessarily long red light.

“Sure.”

“Did you ever find out who was shooting at you on the subway?”

John blinked, looking over at Helen from behind his dark aviator glasses. It felt like all that had happened a lifetime ago. The incident officially had been swept under the respective rug, any pertinent surveillance video erased with the offering of a gold coin, and the truth was… “No.”

He hadn’t even looked into it, really, past ensuring the cleanup. The occurrence of people trying to kill him was so frequent he’d damn near forgot about it. He’d had a couple of time-sensitive contracts to prioritize completing, and getting Helen settled at the Continental, and…he definitely shouldn’t have just let it go.

She nodded, not seeming to judge him for it. But he could tell the wheels were turning in that brilliant brain. “Is there a chance…it has to do with this Medvedev-Tarasov thing?”

There was a very good chance of that, looking at the separate pieces now, and Winston’s cryptic little warning disguised as idle gossip.

“Yeah. I’ll look into that.”

The more he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed, although also, ridiculous. The Medvedevs wanted to waste him, The Baba Yaga, so they sent some punk? Who did they think they were dealing with?

But then…he had behaved rather foolishly, making a pattern of taking the subway at the exact same time on a weekly basis. It had almost been asking for someone to at least try for it.

Helen seemed to be thinking about the vehicle of their first meeting too. “John, what were you doing on the subway all those times, if you have a car like this?”

What, indeed.

Torn between not wanting to lie to her and not wanting to admit the truth just yet, that he’d been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, or from a different side of the coin, that he’d borderline been stalking her, and then nearly got her killed, a silence drew out between them. John glanced in his rearview, checking his surroundings out of habit.

He was almost relieved, when he beheld a black Mercedes G Wagon, the same that had been behind him for several blocks and several turns. He would have bet a fistful of gold coins that Igor or Alexei was behind the wheel.

“Are you buckled up?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on his mirror. Were they just following to try to spook John, or would Mikhail be so audacious as to give orders for them to attack here in the middle of Manhattan in the middle of the day? He was afraid the answer might be yes.

Goddamn kids.

“Yeah. Why?” Bless his brave girl, but there was only a hint of worry in her question.

“Because we’re about to burn some rubber.”

Rather than telegraph with her turning silhouette in the window that they were on to their tail, she calmly examined her own side mirror to look back.

“Is it Mikhail?”

“Not sure,” answered John honestly. “Probably just his soldiers, though.”

“Who the fuck do these assholes think they are?”

John’s mouth twisted into a tight-lipped smile, inexplicably delighted by her cursing. Angry Helen was surfacing, and maybe his wires were a little crossed, but he still thought she was fucking hot.

“Only one way to find out.”

The light turned green, and he made a sudden right turn without signaling. When the G Wagon swung madly to follow, he knew they had a tail for sure. “Hang on.” The Mustang’s engine roared as he shifted, and the car took off like a shot. They wove in and out of traffic, the less maneuverable Mercedes struggling to follow.

“Oh my god!” exclaimed Helen, gripping the door handle as John wrenched the wheel, downshifting for traction, skidding into a left turn down a smaller street.

The Mercedes nearly tipped trying to follow. The Mustang barely slipped between a brick building and an oncoming box truck. The truck slammed on its brakes, causing a pile up, conveniently blocking the way to the street. They left a snarl of horns and yelling motorists behind them in the dust.

No one did road rage like New Yorkers, God Bless.

“Holy Shit!” exclaimed Helen with wide eyes and a huge smile, turning to watch the kerfuffle behind them quickly disappearing through the back window. Her laughter was like balm for his soul, and John found himself grinning.

“Your first car chase, I presume?” he asked, looking over with an oh-so-pleased smile.

“I thought that was just New York driving?” she tossed back with a smirk, settling back into her seat again, seemingly unphased. John couldn’t help but feel a swelling sense of pride for how well she took the stress of their madcap car ride.

“Oh no.”

The sight of the G Wagon turning onto their street ahead put a damper on the atmosphere of joy in the car.

“Get down,” instructed John. The passenger in the G Wagon, Igor, brandished a black pistol, and Helen sank down as far as she could in her seat.

Igor squeezed off a couple rounds. John swerved, and the shots went wide.

“Are they actually shooting at us in broad daylight?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Yeah.”

There wasn’t really anywhere to go but forward. No way to turn around quickly, no alleys to cut down.

Rather than slow down, John shifted, the growl of the engine echoing his rage. He knew that having Helen in the car with him made everything sharper somehow. The stakes were higher. He never wanted to die, but he’d long ago accepted the inevitability that someday someone would get lucky, and it would be lights out. He didn’t really believe in anything beyond that.

But Helen was here, and he had to survive.

“Hold on.”

“John?”

“Stay down, honey.”

Ducked down in her seat, she couldn’t see, but she certainly knew they were barreling down the street at breakneck speed. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and he hated himself for scaring her.

This had to end now.

With a flick of his wrist John steered into the Mercedes’s lane, challenging the expensive SUV head on. He could see Alexei at the wheel, his dour expression set in grim determination for this game of chicken. Igor, however, was another matter, clearly not such a fatalist as his partner, gesticulating wildly in his seat.

“John!”

She was peeking just over the dash, unable to keep herself from looking.

He did not answer, his focus on the obstacle before him. Rather than shooting at the oncoming Mustang, Igor was shouting at Alexei, grabbing for the wheel.

At the last minute, the G Wagon chickened out, swerving madly, a turn so sharp it kicked up on two wheels before skidding into a parked car on the street. There was a magnificent crash, and the Mustang roared on, switching lanes just in time to miss an oncoming taxi cab.

“Holy shit!” Helen sat back up in her seat, watching the carnage as they sped away. Then, to John’s surprise, she laughed, a deep belly laugh that sent warmth from his heart to his toes. “That was fucking awesome.” Her eyes shone like stars, her thick russet curls waving wildly about her face. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone so badly as in that moment, the adrenaline from the chase rushing through his veins. These were the moments that made life worth living for John—who knew it would be made so much sweeter, with a woman by his side?

This woman, his hindbrain corrected.

Everything was sweeter, with this woman by his side.

<<Chapter 5 Chapter 7>>

#john wick #john wick fic #john wick x helen #keanu reeves #helen wick #john wick x helen fic #john wick the night nurse

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crackedpumpkin · 1 year

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𝟏𝟎𝟏 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐓𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝟎𝟐

[ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ] | [ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ]

- Chapter 2: Lilo, Stitch, and the Audacity of this Bitch -

Whoever said that waking up early leads to a great start to the day is wrong.

You stuff a few more tins of canned food into your bag, keeping a wary eye out for any other hostile zombie that might catch you again as you swallow a tired yawn. It’s been two days since the intruder broke into your house and stole your food, fortunately leaving you with still most of your food intact. (Save for most of your pizza chips being stolen by the bastard)

You sigh, surveying the almost emptied-out store. Survivors that scavenged the convenience stores around and supermarkets were part of the reason why it’s so hard to find food now. Dented tins litter the floor, a sombre reminder of the various fights that broke out over the lack of supplies.

Luckily though, most of the people here had some form of sense to stop at one point. A mock democracy was formed with the survivors of this area, everyone agreeing to keep out of each other’s way to avoid any more unnecessary bloodshed.

You eye the two deep slash marks someone’s left on the wall with annoyance. Even basic human morals aren’t enough to keep from vandalizing public property, apparently.

You stand back up, about to head back to your apartment with a less-than-satisfying haul, when you spot a silhouette outside the frosted glass of the window. You tense, fingers automatically brushing over the handle of your spare kitchen knife. A pale hand flattens itself on the glass, and you hear soft grunting as it’s pulled to the side.

“Whew!” You lower the knife at the familiar sight of a young boy climbing through the now-open window, stepping onto the ground with a tired exhale. “Oh! Fancy seeing you here,” He greets you cheerfully through his cloth mask, tugging it down so you can see his face.

“Jonathan.” You greet him with a relieved chuckle, giving him a quick high-five as he grins back. The fifteen-year-old boy had been one of the first few survivors you found hiding in an abandoned parking lot, shivering away in a locked car with smeared and dried bloodstains on the windshield.

“Did I scare you?”

“Yeah, you little bitch. Who told you to do that to your benefactor, huh?” You scold him with a playful smile, throwing your arm around his neck and giving him a rough noogie. His shoulder shakes with chuckles, and you finally let him go after a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“Who told you to be such a coward then?”

He yelps when you pinch his cheeks with a frown, wondering when the hell the child you saved has become such a smartass. You both freeze when you pick up on a low growl from outside, exchanging a quick nod before you take a step forward and swiftly shut the window.

You walk to the break room where it’s more secure, sit down on a sturdy cardboard box and place your bag on the single, somewhat clean spot on the floor beside you. There are indents on it, where many butts of others have come to rest during their own supply runs. There’s even a small generator inside the room, the precious shared resource for everyone who came to not take it with them.

You flip a switch, and a small lamp on a tiny box in front of you turns on, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow. Jonathan moves to sit beside you, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. “That was close,” he murmurs. You notice the sweat on his forehead, causing his hair to stick messily, handing him one of your rags.

He takes it gratefully, roughly rubbing it against his skin. “It was,” You agree. You glance around the room, noting the carelessly discarded wrappers and tissue on the ground.

“How’s Sue?” Jonathan hums in thought at the question, a soft smile on his lips as he stares at the lamp.

“She’s doing good so far. Still recovering from that cough, though. I’ve been making her rest instead of coming out to run for supplies with me. Other than that, though, it’s been alright. Carlos told me to let you know to drop by the base ‘cause he has something for you.”

“Oh?” You raise a brow, intrigued as to what information Carlos could have that he needed to tell you. He nods, taking a small bottle of water from his bag and chugging down whatever’s left inside it. Once done, he stands back up and tosses the bottle in a plastic bag that’s overflowing with trash. “Let’s go then,” You stand up as well, doing a quick stretch before exiting the break room with Jonathan behind you, making your way to Carlos’s camp.

It’s weird, you note, walking past the damaged signposts and walls leading into alleyways. Deep slash marks had been left on every other street as if whoever did them was leaving some sort of trail – a map of sorts. “Yeah, we’ve been running into those a lot. Some of us even found a whole alleyway full of them.” Jonathan informs you upon seeing your intrigued gaze.

It stops once you reach an intersection, Jonathan ducking behind a trashcan to scan the area for any zombies. Luckily, there were only a few. He looks at you, exchanging a quick nod. The both of you run past them, making sure to leave a good distance between yourselves and each zombie.

It’s something you discovered a while back – during the sixth month of cowering in your apartment since the beginning of the First Wave. You had gone out for a supply run, having exhausted your own limited food supply. You had considered taking the fire escape but realized soon enough that the creakiness would only attract unwanted attention.

So, you opted for the main entrance. You stepped out of your door, your entire body adorned in baggy jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Your hands were covered in mittens, along with another hoodie thrown on top. You had hidden a kitchen knife in your pocket, having wrapped it in plenty of rags so you wouldn't cut yourself by accident.

The trip to the convenience store was terrifying, to say the least. With each small sound, every subtle breeze, it sent shivers shooting down your spine. Thankfully though, you managed to find your way there without much worry.

It’s after you gathered plenty of supplies that you ran into your first encounter. You had stepped out of the store with a happy hum, hoisting your full backpack as sweat trailed down your hairline to your chin. Your hair was sticky, clinging to your face and neck.

It’s fucking sweltering too, in the stupid, fiery rays of the sun shining down on the desolate streets of a destroyed New York City. You reused the same route you took to get there, but once you rounded the corner, loud growls made you stop in your steps, your body turning cold.

Three zombies snarled a short distance away, heads whipping around with a terrifying glint in their dull eyes. Your breath hitched in your chest, praying desperately that you’d make it past them without worry. The knife is secure in your grip, with clammy hands around the handle.

It’s okay, you tried to reason with yourself. It’s just a natural fight-or-flight situation. Don’t be nervous. You can choose to fight, or you can choose to be a coward and run away.

You chose to run.

Footsteps were close behind, but you didn’t dare to turn to risk a glance. Reaching an alleyway, you took off your hoodie, gasping thankfully for the cool air that greeted your warm arms. You use it to roughly wipe the sweat from your face and body, having gotten most of it off before they round the corner. You froze at the sight of milky white eyes, scrambled to your feet, and started sprinting your way to the other end of the alleyway where you could escape.

To your surprise, however, you didn't hear any footsteps chasing after you. You slowed down and turned your head to see the zombies all sniffing and grabbing your sweat-soaked hoodie, ripping it to shreds with their teeth.

That’s the first time you realised zombies were sensitive to smell. Sharing this information with other survivors relieved their worries somewhat, and more dared to come out in shorts and sometimes even sleeveless tops so that they wouldn’t sweat easily. Carlos took advantage of this fact, organising teams of survivors that joined his camp to raid clothing stores with dri-fit clothes and distributing them to everyone.

You reach the familiar sight of a large encampment, various RVs parked in a circle that acts as both a barrier and a landmark for the campsite. Two men stand at the entrance, a small gap between two RVs. Once they see Jonathan beside you, they let you in without question.

“Same place?” You ask the short boy beside you, walking past the various other uniform tents acting as individual housing for each survivor. The system here is simple. Share what you have, and treat others with respect, or you’re out. There’s no discrimination here, just people who want to live.

Jonathan nods, chuckling when you playfully mess with his hair again. “See you around, kid.” You wave him off, watching him jog to the west side of the encampment, where the people with illnesses are housed. Be it a simple fever or needing regular injections, everyone is housed in the same area to ease the burden of Doctors on-site to continuously move through the entire place.

You finally reach the main tent, the humongous forest green tent a standout from all the rest. Being the leader and founder of the entire place has its perks, you suppose. You steel yourself, taking a deep breath before pushing past the tent’s flaps. The very person who had called you here looks up from his table, practically lighting up upon seeing your sheepish smile and shy wave.

“¿Carlos, qué pasa?” You greet the tall, burly man with a fist bump. His deep laugh makes his shoulders shake, responding with a simple Estoy bien. Carlos had been the first to reach out to you after the first month of the apocalypse when you were still grieving over the death of Margaret. He had invited you to join his little group of survivors, and you had been with them for a year and a half until you moved out of the campsite and back to your apartment.

“Como estas, Niña?” Carlos throws his arms around you in a hug. You tense, forgetting how tightly he can hold people. You’re pretty sure you can feel your spine pop a little bit. He releases you after a moment more, beaming from ear to ear.

“I’ve been alright,” You respond to his question with a grin, noticing the new furniture in his humble abode. “Is that…?” You gasp in delight, rushing over to the bright red IKEA rocking chair he’s placed beside his desk. You sit down in it, relaxing against the soft cushion with a happy hum.

“¡Sí! I found it in one of the abandoned apartment buildings on sixth avenue. Thought guests would wanna sit in it. I’m glad I was right,” He chuckles, walking over to his desk and unrolling a large piece of paper.

“So, what’d you call me for? Just sayin’, my services are now by the hour.” You peek an eye open, the corner of your lips tilted up into a smirk. Carlos is one of the few people you’ve grown truly comfortable around with. During your time here, you’ve heard others refer to you as the ‘stone-cold bitch’, but you didn’t really have time to care on top of all the other duties assigned to your more-than-capable self.

“Unfortunately, it’s not because of that,” You sit up, slightly surprised by his sudden serious undertone. You look over to see that the paper he unrolled before was actually a map of the entire tri-state area, various places marked in red, and some even circled. “Recently, there’s been rumours of evolved undead – I haven’t encountered any here yet, but we’ve already let area leaders know. However, the food supplies brought back from the runs have become lesser and lesser each day. We’re not the only ones here, as you know.”

You nod, scowling as you recall the existence of the Raiders. They’re a group of thugs that try to wreak havoc in this already chaotic world, claiming that the First Wave was nothing more than an opportunity to finally give everyone freedom of will. It’s an insane ideal they follow, with their motto being every man for themselves. They’re willing to backstab, hurt, and sometimes even outright murder other survivors for entertainment. Other campsites set up by survivors in small numbers had been raided by them, which is how they got their name.

They’re the scum of the earth, simply put. You’d been captured by them a while back, and barely got away after injuring one of their higher ranking men with a deep slash from your kitchen knife.

“But I heard that Fairfield has a huge survivor group helping other people. It’s expanded, and it’s the safest place so far. Some survivors have already gone there, and I’m gonna be relocating there soon with everyone here. But I thought you should know, in case you want to go as well. I know you’re on your own now, but if you do decide to go, be careful, okay?”

“Thank you, Carlos. I guess we’ll be seeing each other soon then. Been thinking about relocating too, and now I know where to go.” Before you take your leave, you walk over to the small shrine next to his bed, bowing respectfully to the pictures placed on it.

Carlos is a kind man, one that didn’t deserve for his wife and daughter to have been victims of the First Wave. Every year on a specific day, he’d be in a sombre mood, a stark contrast to his usual warm self. And one night, he finally revealed why.

“If it wasn’t for that day…If I hadn’t let her go back to pick up the umbrella….” He mumbles under his breath with a bitter laugh, staring at the picture of his daughter and wife placed in the middle. You hesitate for a moment, resting your hand on his arm and squeezing it slightly to reassure him.

He chuckles, brushing away the tears that start to form in the corners of his eyes. “I’m fine. Yvonne would’ve wanted me to keep living, to keep helping others. So stay safe, mija. I’m proud of you.”

You exit the tent, making your way to the exit when you see Jonathan chatting with another girl around his age a short distance away. You grin, sneaking up on him and placing your hand on his shoulder. He yelps at the sudden touch, flinching away from you. You laugh at his reaction, his unamused gaze even more hilarious after he realizes it’s just you.

“You’re leaving already?” He asks, nodding at the girl who leaves with a polite nod to you. You nod, ruffling his head with a smirk. “Where’re you headed to?”

Faltering at his words, you stare at him for a good moment. “You’ll know when the time comes. We’ll meet again, kid.” You say affectionately, letting your hand drop to your side.

“Whatever, make sure you don’t accidentally stab another survivor again.” He mutters with a roll of his eyes, giving you a tight hug. You hum in agreement, giving him one last brief squeeze before letting go.

The jog back to your apartment is relatively peaceful, giving you time to mull over what to bring with you to Fairfield. Food and water are a must, but you can always pick up more from convenience stores and apartment buildings. Weapons wise, your trusty kitchen knives are all you need. The generator in your apartment is too heavy to bring with you, so that’s out. You have a sleeping bag in your apartment somewhere, you just have to dig it up.

Your steps slow to a halt, realising that the slash marks you saw earlier in both the convenience store resemble the outrageous amount on the walls of the alleyway next to you. You recall Jonathan’s words from earlier, but curiosity wins.

You step into it cautiously. The alleyway is between two tall apartment buildings, so it doesn’t have the best lighting. You can only see about three feet ahead of you. Every fibre of your being is telling you to run, urging you to just go back home.

But what’s inside?

The question spurs you on, each step further steeling your resolve. You’re gripping your kitchen knife, preparing for whatever may come. You hear a low growl, halting as your body tenses. You hear another low growl, and three zombies step into the light.

Well, this is fucking amazing.

You huff, having lowkey expected something more than just the usual, mundane undead you deal with most days. The corpses advance towards you, their draggy steps still eliciting nervous goosebumps on your arms.

One.

The first of the three approaching zombies is mere steps away from you. You drop into a low stance, taking a deep breath to calm your racing heart. It never gets old, the close brush against death itself.

And then you lunge.

Blade meets rotten flesh, and you stare into the empty, emotionless eyes of the groaning zombie.

It has only one intention in mind: To bite you. To make you one of them.

You forcefully remove the blade from its neck, sending it flying back with a kick into the others behind it.

They fall down like bowling pins, and you take the opportunity to grab the abandoned lid of a toppled trash can. You lift it up, using it as a shield against the inhumane strength the zombies had gained after they turned.

Two.

The second lunges towards you, crashing against the lumpy metal you hold up to block it. Its hands scrabble for you, causing you to flinch.

Its nails almost draw blood, but you narrowly avoid them in time. Using the zombie's momentum against it, you find an opening to slam it against the wall, lodging the knife deep into their skull. It sinks to the ground, the life fading out of its eyes.

A low groan echoes through the alleyway, the last of the three zombies approaching you.

Three.

You ready yourself, hands gripping the knife so tightly that your skin turns red. The cool breeze makes you shiver, lifeless corpses scattered on the floor around you.

You wipe off the blood on your cheek.

Then, you take a step forward.

“Hey, I guess you could say they’re attracted to women with brains.”

You look up, startled by the sudden voice (and was that a pun you just heard?). A flash of green barely escapes your gaze, and a stranger lands in front of you.

The shell is the first thing you notice. That in itself is more than enough to baffle you. The katanas are the next to catch your attention, the stranger confidently wielding one in each hand. With a single slice, the dismembered zombie falls to the ground in a helpless heap. The stranger groans in disgust at its decaying teeth, eyeing the canines with a shudder.

You take a step back, your shoulders hitting the cold concrete behind you as soon as he turns around with a bright smile. Every inch of his body is green, three slender fingers on each hand.

“What the fuck are you?!” You choke out, trembling hands pointing the blade of your knife at him. The amused glint in his eyes only baffles you further. The sight of his sheathed katana is enough for you to keep your guard up — along with his green skin, of course.

“Me? I’m just your friendly neighbourhood Turtle Ninja.”

“Turtle Ninja?” You repeat, your brows furrowing into a guarded glare.

“Nope. I take it back. I was testing to see if that sounded better than Ninja Turtle. Go with the second one; it rolls off the tongue better.” He encourages. You shake your head with a disbelieving laugh, eyes darting around and looking for an escape before it dawns on you.

That voice. You’ve heard it before. Where?

The thief. You instantly look up with a furious glare, scowling at the very…turtle, that’s just saved your life. “You’re the bastard that broke into my apartment.” Your tone is accusatory, and he starts to chuckle nervously.

“Look, I’m sure we can sort this out. I did it out of necessity!” His hands are raised in surrender, eyeing the knife with a sheepish smile. “Besides, you’re the only one that has any pizza chips around here!” You’re oddly validated with this knowledge, until you remember that he’s stolen almost your entire supply. Luckily, you have a secret stash in your bedroom, and it looked undisturbed.

“Whatever,” You shake your head, taking a tense step away from him. You could care less if he was a turtle, but you aren’t about to get involved with someone with goddamn katanas that look like they can slice you in half just as easily as the undead from earlier.

“Wait!” You stop, looking back at him. “The name’s Leonardo. Leonardo Hamato. And fortunately, it seems like today’s your lucky day! You see, I’m looking for a partner to accompany me to Fairfield. I may have tried some of your dinner last night, so how’s this: I’ll protect you from the zombies, and you act as my chef and personal assistant.”

“I’m sorry?” You’re not actually sorry, just bewildered by this guy’s pure audacity. Stealing your dinner?? Is that why the chilli in your pot looked suspiciously lacking in amount? The fucking bastard stole from you again.

“No deal.” You cross your arms. “Is that all you want to say?”

“Hold on! How’s this: You don’t have to provide the ingredients, but you will need to give me a sleeping bag, along with sourcing hot water for my showers.”

You scoff. Sure, maybe a bodyguard coming along would be ideal for you, seeing as you’re both headed the same way, but not if the deal he’s offering is basically getting you to be a servant for him. Seeing your sour expression, he heaves an exaggerated sigh.

"Look, here's the deal. I'll protect you in exchange for your cooking. No room and board included." He holds out his green three-fingered hand to you, a lazy smile on his lips while he waits for your response to his final bargain.

You hesitate momentarily, mulling over the options in your head. You’re going to regret this. It’s a bad idea. He’s a complete stranger who might kill you in your sleep.

"Looks like we've reached an agreement."

#rottmnt #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt x you #rottmnt x y/n #rottmnt leo #rottmnt leo x reader #rottmnt leo x you #rottmnt leo x y/n #rottmnt leonardo #leonardo x reader #leonardo x you #leonardo x y/n #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #x reader #101WTL

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frostfairysteve · 1 year

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I'm having a lot of fun with @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Fic Challenge, and while I'm not completely finished yet, I do have something. I'll post the complete thing to AO3 once I'm done.

My prompt is "All these lights, and not a single one is flickering. That's a nice change of pace, huh?" but it does not actually show up in this part. Also, I went for angst with a happy ending, so this part is all angst. Steve-centric, of course.

embraced by the darkness (waiting for the lights) (part 1)

The holiday season had snuck up on all of them. With the gates, and with Max, time had just passed differently. Trying to think back, Steve can only remember volunteering, shifts at Family Video, and making sure everyone around him was okay. He’s had a few calls with his mum, but his parents hadn’t wanted to return to Hawkins considering everything. Not that Steve has celebrated Christmas with them in years; they stopped bringing him with them once he aged out of being his mum’s cute angelic child, aged out of living up to his dad’s expectations. The last time he got close to celebrating Christmas with anyone was when he and Nancy were dating and he spent as much time as possible in her home, but even then he had spent Christmas Day alone.

Knowing that this year would be no different, Steve had been the first to offer to take Lucas’ place in the hospital; allowing him to take a break and celebrate with his family. It was better to be here with Max than be home alone, although there’s not a lot to do other than staring at the walls; white was never a colour he had an opinion on but after spending most of the year in and out of Max’s hospital room, Steve has grown to hate it. The kids' drawings help break up the monotony of the room, and it helps cheer him up to think about them. Even if the paper underneath their drawings remains white.

He has never felt right drawing anything to add to the collection. He loves Max like a little sister, and except for Lucas and El, he has spent the most hours by her bedside, but he’ll always be unsure of his place in other people’s lives.

He thought his parents would always love and care for him, but then they started leaving him alone, they started forgetting about him, and when he no longer had the illusion of a promising future to hide behind, his dad cut him off. The relationship he’s trying to repair with his mum is fragile at best.

And he had thought Nancy loved him but that turned out to be bullshit, and now he still doesn’t know how to be her friend. He doesn’t know how to be Jonathan’s friend either and hasn’t really tried, to be fair. Steve can’t truly look at them without remembering who he was in high school, feels like they’ll always see the asshole that let things happen. He used to be so passive about everything.

He still feels passive sometimes, surrounded by kids so much smarter than him. All he’s good for is being another body between them and the monsters; he knows he can make anything a weapon, knows he can kill a demo-whatever. The problem is when the monster is human and he has to hold back; when he has to be a shield and not a weapon. Some nights, he feels like he has Barb’s blood on his hands. Billy’s too, for what his death did to Max.

During the past months, he has woken up thinking it was Max's or Eddie’s blood. Thinking he could have saved them if he was smarter, faster, better.

He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he actually were responsible for another person’s death; if he tried to protect and instead caused irrecoverable harm.

With a shaky exhale, he leans back in the hospital chair. It’s not very comfortable, but none of them has ever complained. Trying to find a position that won’t kill his back gives him something to think about, something to focus on that won’t make him spiral. The last thing he needs is to have an anxiety attack next to Max; she would never let him live it down if she knew.

Maybe it would be worth it if it would finally force her awake, if seeing Steve being pathetic was the last push she needed to open her eyes.

He needs to redirect his thoughts somehow. Needs a distraction that won’t push him further towards a spiral. Music is out of the question; none of them has been able to listen to Kate Bush in the same way, and any song now carries the possibility of being life or death for someone. Or maybe Steve is the only one to think that; the others are still happy to fight over control of the radio when he drives them around, and he gets frequent updates on how Corroded Coffin is doing. At least music wasn’t taken from any of them.

There’s something dark about how he feels better when he’s the only one that suffers. Steve would carry all their pain on his shoulders if he only could. Would take all their nightmares and flashbacks and triggers so that they can smile and laugh and continue to be kids. He would take the pain from Robin, and Nancy and Jonathan, and Eddie too. From Joyce and Hopper and Murray and anyone else that has gotten involved.

Steve sometimes thinks he would shoulder the pain of the whole world if it allowed them to be done with the Upside Down. Thinks that it would be worth it if everyone stopped having to grow up so fast.

Thinking about growing up does remind him of the book he brought; the book he always brings. It’s not every time that he reads from it, but it feels like one of those days that need a fairytale to brighten things up. It will give him something to do at least.

The book of fairytales is old, something his mum used to read him to sleep with before his dad argued that he was too old for stories. She let him keep it, a secret between the two of them, a keepsake from when she was a mother and not a distant figure. It’s one of Steve’s few possessions that mean something to him; he can recite each story verbatim if asked, but he prefers having the comforting weight of the book resting in his lap, prefers reading the words from the worn pages.

He flips through the pages to the story of the little mermaid and begins to read, softly enough that only Max can hear him.

Steve wishes that he could find a sea witch now; he, too, would cut off all his hair for his sister to live. Would throw away the dagger too; would turn into seafoam for her. And if not seafoam, a spirit of air.

Maybe Max is a spirit of air, looking down at him now. But that would mean that they’ve lost her—

The heart monitor provides a comforting background noise as he continues to read, doing his best to not stumble over the words that he knows by heart. For now, Max is alive, for now, he can focus on reading for her, for now, he can hope that the fairytale reaches her, wherever she is.

He must have dozed off at some point for the next thing he knows a nurse is gently shaking him awake. There’s a paper cup of coffee getting pressed into his hands, although it’s probably much too late for caffeine. Max’s room doesn’t have a clock on their insistence and the dark comes early these days, but he thinks it should be the end of visiting hours if he’s getting woken up. Not that visiting hours always matter; especially the first few months had found them in and out of the hospital at all hours of the day.

“You should head on home, son. There’s snow coming.” the nurse tells him, voice just barely loud enough to be heard with his decreased hearing. Steve thinks he mumbles something coherent in response since they leave after making sure he won’t drop the cup.

The coffee is strong, but the bitter taste helps him come back to consciousness. Sleep comes rarely to him, but it always drags him down deep when it does. He has taken to keeping the nail bat by his bed; needs a weapon close at hand when waking up takes too long. Not like the weeks after something has just happened and any noise has him sitting up, ready for a fight.

If he’s getting less or more sleep now, Steve can’t tell. He gets enough that no one notices, enough for him to function, and that’s enough. It has to be.

Once he’s gotten the coffee down, Steve closes the book that thankfully hadn’t fallen to the floor while he slept, and puts it in his bag before pushing himself up from the chair. Nothing has changed with Max since he last looked at her; the rhythm of the heart monitor is the same. He takes a moment to make sure that she’s tucked in comfortably and that there’s no hair on her face, before saying goodbye with a kiss on her forehead— a last bit of warmth for the road.

Sitting in his car outside the hospital, Steve takes a moment to decide where to go. He has been told by Claudia more than once that he’s always welcome to spend time with her and Dustin, no matter the time of day, and Robin has promised to keep a chair free for him if he changed his mind about spending Christmas with her. Even Joyce had sent an invitation through Hopper, and Mrs Sinclair had promised him leftovers if he came by that evening.

Steve doesn’t feel right about intruding on any of them. The one time he tried taking up an invitation, he had sat outside in his car for twenty minutes, stuck in an anxiety spiral, before he drove home. It’s easier for everyone if he just skips the middle step, so there was really only one answer.

He gets home before the snow, but just barely. The first flakes are falling as he hurries from his car to the door, not dressed for the cold. His gloves and scarves have ended up with the others who needed them more; he can make do by zipping his jacket the whole way up and sticking his hands underneath his armpits. And he can surely find another pair of gloves and another scarf if he goes through his parents' things; they have left a lot of clothes behind, and they fit him better every year.

The house is warm in temperature only, and he’s once more thankful that his dad hasn’t thought to pause the bills. His parents' unreliable schedule is good for one thing only; never knowing when they will be home means that the house is always in working order. The downside, of course, is that Steve rarely feels comfortable inviting anyone over; not knowing if his parents will come home or if he’ll have enough time to clean up before they do… He always finds himself getting too worked up to truly relax.

He used to smoke, but then the Russians… it’s not the same kind of drug, but Steve can't stand not being in control of himself. Alcohol is out of the question for the same reason, and partly because he remembers when Nancy got drunk and has felt uncomfortable around intoxicated people ever since, always wondering if they’re going to blow up at him.

Steve wants to be of help, finds a purpose in being useful, in being able to love and be loved in return. To have all that thrown back at him, having it called bullshit… Nancy Wheeler has changed him in many ways, only a handful of them good.

When he shivers, it’s more due to his thoughts than the temperature. Still, he keeps his jacket on even after he has put away his bag and taken off his shoes. Exhaustion has come over him like a heavy blanket now that he’s home, and Steve wants nothing more than to go to bed. He does take a moment to look towards the kitchen, to try to remember when he last ate something, but he doesn’t think he would be able to keep anything down. The anxiety that he had felt in the hospital is worming its way through his veins now, and he wants to be in the safety of his bedroom before it overcomes him.

It doesn’t take long to get there, taking the stairs two steps at a time. He has long since learned how to find his way around the house in the dark, how to do so quietly, and fast. His room is the furthest to the left; turn left once up the stairs, and then to the left again. With his parents' room being the furthest to the right on the first floor, he doesn’t have to be all that quiet, but Steve has always been more anxious than anyone would think.

He would lock the door behind him, but there isn’t one. He can only hope that he remembered to lock the front door; not that a locked door can stop the monsters. Steve glances towards the wall at the thought and immediately glances away; he’s not bleeding; the gates aren’t completely closed even after all these months but they’re too small in size for anything to come through; he’s safe, and he has his bat.

He knows he’s safe, so why is he unable to breathe?

His jacket feels constricting and he cannot get it off soon enough. His throat aches and Steve moves to get out of his sweater as soon as the jacket has fallen to the floor. He needs to breathe, he needs to get everything off, he needs to, needs to, needs to—

Warm tears are making their way down his cheeks as Steve collapses to his knees. The nail bat is too far away, but he doesn’t know what he would use it for. It doesn’t stop him from crawling towards it, wanting the comfort of the wood in his hand. He has years of practice in how to hug it close without hurting himself on the nails.

If he could only breathe properly, he would be singing. There is one song that still brings him comfort, but only when his mind is playing tricks on him. It’s the song, the one that would save him from Vecna. But Steve is almost hyperventilating when he finally gets his hands on the bat; singing would only make things worse. He could force himself if he heard a clock, but much like the hospital room, all clocks are removed from the house.

Even after months of not seeing his parents, it took until he almost collapsed from a lack of sleep and anxiety before Steve removed them. He still doesn’t know how to explain if his parents come home.

Especially not their prized grandfather clock. It’s safely put away in their bedroom, the pendulum having been removed to stop the chiming. He didn’t dare put it in the garage; couldn’t pack it away in a box like he did all the other clocks.

Thinking about clocks - thinking about his parents - does nothing to help his breathing. Steve is fully hyperventilating, the bat hugged close like it’s a stuffed bear. The tears falling down his cheeks feel endless, and snot has started to run down his nose. His lips are salty when he licks them.

If he were a braver man, Steve would call someone. But everything inside him screams at the concept of willingly showing weakness, especially months after everything happened. He hasn’t had to reassure Robin or Dustin or Lucas over the phone since before the school year started.

He spent the anniversary of the mall burning - of the Russians - with Robin, but after that… everyone else just seemed okay.

Steve could barely get out of bed for all of November; couldn’t do anything at all for Thanksgiving.

The tears come harder at that; at the thought that he’s the only one still suffering. His scars give phantom pain as he curls his torso inwards; trying to make himself small while still hugging the bat close. His whole body shakes with his sobs now, they almost get stuck in his throat as he struggles to get any air.

Steve is back with the vines, is back with the bats, is back with the Russians and the demodogs and the demogorgon in Byers house.

And then the doorbell rings, and he’s in his bedroom, is half-naked on the floor with nails dangerously close to digging into his stomach.

The doorbell rings again and the sound echoing through the house shocks him so badly that he chokes on a sob, almost coughing his lungs out as he tries to get himself in control. Whoever is waiting at the door can’t see him like this; can’t see him as anything else but the fighter, the protector, the shield.

He’s tempted to hide in his room until they leave, but he would never; what if it’s the kids, what if something has happened, what if they need him— Steve’s mind is racing with scenarios - each worse than the one before - as he scrambles to get himself together. The bat gets dropped to the floor, and scratches his stomach in his haste, but he can’t feel it as he covers it up with the sweater. He knows he got the sweater on backwards, but that doesn’t matter if something is wrong.

Steve is trying to scrub his face of all traces of tears as he jogs down the stairs, the doorbell ringing a third and then a fourth time in the background. He knows he doesn’t succeed, knows that his eyes must be puffy and red, knows that there’s snot on his sleeves now, and that his hair is in disarray from where he must have been pulling on it in a useless attempt to ground himself. He knows that he must look like a mess and that he has no explanation that he’s willing to give, but hopefully whoever’s at the door has more important things to worry about than him. Most things are more important than him.

His hands are shaking as he tries to get the front door open; he unlocks it and then locks it again, not able to remember which direction is which as his thoughts fly in hundred directions at once. He’s out of breath when he finally gets it open - from the panic attack that he can still feel, from trying to get presentable and down the stairs as fast as possible - but he plasters a shaky smile on his lips in hope of covering it up.

The smile gets slightly more real but no less shaky when the door has opened enough to reveal Gareth and Eddie, the latter looking ready to press the doorbell a fifth time.

#steve harrington #my fiction library #lexswinterficchallenge #this didn't have a title until just now which. i never do that. i'm a title first kind of person #please tell me if you cried

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mapleleavesart · 1 year

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The Library

This is a short story I wrote for my H. Experiance in Writing and Lit class. It's for the magical realism prompt. Enjoy!

Word count: 864

I enter the library. The ceiling is high, many feet above my head. Columns hold up the ceiling. Most of the far wall is a giant window. Bookcases line the walls and make rows, only breaking for study areas or computer tables. A few students sit in these small openings, presumably doing homework. Many have headphones on. I make my way towards one of the computer desks.

I sit down at the chair provided, slinging my bag off of my shoulder and digging through it. I pull out my folder, open it, and pull out a list of books I came here for. I type the first title into the search bar:

The Happiness Hypothesis. Jonathan Hadit.

The cover pops up on the screen. I grab a pair of winged flash drives and plug it in. Color bleeds out onto the white feathers as information transfers over. Soon it’s brilliant scarlet, the wings flapping eagerly to get going. I unplug it and stick it in my hoodie’s pocket.

I type in a new book title. Thinking, Fast and Slow. Daniel Kahneman.

This flash drive turns yellow. The one after than blue. By the time I was done I had the whole rainbow and pink. The wings fluttered eagerly.

I stand and grab my backpack, then tie the flash drives together to make sure they don’t separate and fly away before I’m ready to follow them. I leave one out, the red one, and toss it into the air. It takes flight and sets off at a speedy pace, zooming around other flying books and winged drives.

The device takes me for a long walk. Guess I came in from the wrong entrance, considering psychology books are at the other end, huh?

It takes me down another aisle. I begin to wonder if this project is even worth it when the drive makes a sharp turn- right into the spine of a book. The wings fold together and lose their color. The day and time was recorded in the records, along with my information should I fail to return it on time. I pull out the book and put it in my bag.

I pull out the next winged drive. I don’t have to walk as far. Same with the next handful. My bag gets heavier with each book.

When I tossed the last drive, something strange happened. It took me to an aisle, then flew in a circle, turned grey and fell to the floor.

I stare at it. What just happened?

I pick it up and inspect it. Stretched out the wings to wake it up again. It didn’t work. I went and found the nearest adult that looked like they work here.

It was an elderly black woman, round in the stomach and cheeks with an intense fire in her eyes. I take a deep breath and approach the desk she was working behind. “Excuse me?” I ask in a library-appropriate voice. “Ma’am?”

She turned to look at me, a smile lighting up her face. I relax. She looked like if safety was a woman. “Well hello there!” She stage-whispered. “How can I help you today?”

I shyly hold out the dead drive. It was kinda pathetic. “I was looking for a book but then it just… flew in a circle and died.”

The woman took it out of her hand and inspected it. The grey wings twitched. “Oh, we must’ve ran out of copies. I can check the records to see when we can expect one back, if you’d like?”

“Yes please. This is for a psychology project that I’m already late starting on, so it’s a bit of an emergency.”

“I understand completely,” the lady waves her hand dismissively. “This’ll take just a sec, ‘kay, honey?”

I nod. The woman takes the wings and plugs it in the employee’s work computers- the ones with the actual records and more than just the library search engine. The wings return to white, but remain still. About a minute passes in silence.

“Oh, I see! We should’ve had a copy back by now- someone was late to return it. That must be why the poor thing was confused! Let’s see… ignoring the irresponsibility of school boys, we should have a copy back by the end of the week. Would you like me to reserve it for you?” “Yes please. Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetie,” she unplugged the now-clean drive and threw it like an airplane. It nose dived into a cup of other clean drives next to the computers, startling the living daylights out of the kid sitting there. He almost jumped off his stool. It was kinda funny. I stifle a laugh.

“Anything else I can do for ya?” The lady draws my attention back.

“Oh- no, I found everything else just fine. I’ve just never had one die on me like that before.”

“Yeah, well, we’re pretty good at having everything y’all need.” The elder patted her hands on the table. “Well, in that case, good luck on your psychology project! I’ll be seeing you?”

“Thank you. And- yeah, see ya,” I turn and head out. Time to get started. Wooooo.

#short story #short fiction #magical realism #drabble #library #if you have editing suggestions please tell me so i can can edit it before the final draft is due #I have like a week or two and my workshop group didn't show up #and my one friend didn't offer anything other than 'oh you didn't finish typing this word'#tumblr help #please i need help

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lovestuckyhatemarvel · 7 months

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7 Here we are.

1.) Do you think Robin was supposed to be there with the marching band?

2.) LIttlest Wheeler says ‘Yeah, dad, it’s fun!’ On the Ferris wheel which I think makes that Holly’s first line in the entire show.

3.) Also I think that’s a completely different Holly actress.

4.) Holly sees the trees moving because of the Mind Flayer goop monster.

5.) I’m shocked that it took a discussion to figure out the Mind Flayer knows where they are since Billy literally told her that it knows where they are.

6.) Dustin is a terrible driver.

7.) I know lots of people like to give Robin and Steve trauma about getting high because of this, but I don’t think this would actually traumatize them. I think this would be the least bad part of the evening, tbh.

8.) Nancy with a shotgun, hell yeah. Jonathan with an ax is a little optimistic. Not because he’s a bad fighter, but because I would not wanna be that close to the blob monster that can take over people by getting into their mouth.

9.) He gets like 2 hits in before Nancy takes over with a shotgun.

10.) Well, and then El takes over. Sort of. There’s a lot.

11.) oh shit, I forgot El gets pulled up and it takes like, all of them to hold her. Well all but Lucas and Nancy, who are wielding the weapons.

12.) Ohhh yeah, it like, punctured her leg.

13.) Neither Robin nor Steve understand Back to the Future while high.

14.) I just realized I think they had Hopper act like an insolent man baby just so they could have Murray call him that and have the moment where Alexi is like WAIT THESE TWO HAVEN’T FUCKED? Happen.

15.) I love that Max is good at first aid because of skateboarding.

16.) This is the first time Nancy or Jonathan have acknowledged that real people are dying if they kill the Mind Flayer. And they only acknowledge it for like, a second.

17.) Okay Lucas is right about El needing backup.

18.) BITCHIN’.

19.) Mike is officially more mature than Hopper this season.

20.) The walkie talkie takes 8 AA batteries? That��s so many.

21.) I forgot Steve staring at the lights while balls to the wall high.

22.) So glad we stopped the action for a conversation about New Coke.

23.) Steve does say he’s not in love with Nancy anymore while under the effects of truth serum. Like yes it’s right before he hits on Robin, but still.

24.) Robin’s face as she hears Steve talk about her.

25.) I am glad they ultimately made Robin a lesbian.

26.) Robin and Steve singing after vomiting up Russian truth drugs si something that can be so personal actually.

27.) Did they…did they CGI blood onto Alexei? That initial blood pool looked weird.

28.) I do kind of adore how the Wheelers are mostly clueless.

29.) Hopper should teach Steve how to fight.

30.) Mayor Kline is the reason Alexei is dead. So for any innovative folks, an easy way to save Alexei is to just have Mayor Kline die when he’s first confronted by that enforcer dude.

31.) I am glad Joyce punched Larry and kicked him in the balls.

32.) I will admit that the shots in the Big Top fun house are pretty great.

33.) The Russians have alerted Murray that the children are in the mall. I mean, they didn’t mean to tell him, but they found out.

34.) El and the rest of the gang to save the day! Hell yeah, baby girl. Hit them with that car!

35.) I forgot how gross the CGI leg thing looked. But also man the CGI just never really got better for this show, huh?

#stranger things #stranger things rewatch #s3e7 #stranger things s3e7

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inkandpen22 · 3 years

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Permanent Chaos (3/?)

Pairing: MGK x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: mild swearing, mentions of smut, mentions of underage drinking

Part Summary: Sam and Y/N are on The Late Late Show to promote The Seasons of Life.

Masterlist

Before the interview, Nicole practices questions with me so I don’t get blindsided. Meanwhile, Sam and his manager, Steven, practice talking about our upcoming photo shoot for Vanity Fair. Steven is much more laid back than Nicole. Sam is free to do whatever he pleases. The country sees him as an average twenty-something. If he ever messed up he would be forgiven. Nicole emphasizes to me whenever she can that I have no room for error. I must be a saint as “America’s Sweetheart.”

There’s a knock at the door to our dressing room and Steven opens it. A man with a check board and a headset instructs, “Ms. Voss, Mr. Merka you’ll be on in five. If you could follow me.”

“We’ll be right off camera if you need us!” Nicole informs me and Steven agrees with a hum.

“Have fun guys!” he adds.

Sam holds the door for me and the two of us follow the man down the hall into backstage. Sam takes my hand as a precaution, just in case the chaos might separate us. Through double doors, we enter backstage and we’re stopped behind where we’re meant to enter. Loud music begins to echo from the stage and I recognize the song as one of Machine Gun Kelly’s. He’s all the rage now, one of those rockstars that girls fifteen and up obsess over. I don’t have much space left in my mind to obsess with everything going on. As we wait, I bop and sway my head back and forth to the beat absentmindedly.

The man says over his shoulder, “he’s great huh!”

I frowned confused, “wait, is he performing live?”

The man raises an eyebrow as if the answer is obvious. “Yeah, his interview was a few minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t cross paths when you got here.” He’s then pulled away by a lady dressed in all black. “I’ll right back! Stay right here!”

I scoff under my breath, the dude treated me like a dingus.

“Well, he was friendly” Sam mutters sarcastically under his breath.

“Right! Geez, he’s what? Only around four years older than you? At least he looked it. My bad for not knowing I’m apparently in the same building as a god!”

Sam snickers but covers his mouth since we’re not allowed to be loud. The song ends and the crowd goes wild on the other side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Machine Gun Kelly!” The applause goes on and on with James attempting to speak over it into the camera. “After the break, we’ll have the breakout stars from the hottest show of the decade The Seasons of Life, Y/N Voss, and Sam Merka! So don’t go anywhere!”

The audience gets loud at the sound of our names and a shot of adrenaline rushes through me. People rush around backstage to get the music equipment off the set. Sam and I move up against the wall so people can get through. The crew is yelling to make the switch quick. Propping myself up against the wall, I watch the chaos happening. Sam leans against the wall and faces me. I don’t mind the tight quarters though. He acts like a wall, blocking me from the craziness.

“It never gets like this on set,” Sam says, scanning the stage.

“That’s because we don’t film live,” I remind him with a chuckle.

My arms cross over my chest and Sam props his elbow on my shoulder. If this was a photoshoot, this would be a great shot of us. We’re being ourselves, depending on each other as per usual. We’re comfortable with one another. To kill time, I glance around as people move about backstage. My eyes meet a lengthy, bleach blonde, tattoo-covered musician walking off stage. He instantly goes for the guitar case against the far wall in the corner. As if he could feel me looking, his attention snaps away from his guitar and toward me. His focused features gently fall as he stares at me from across the busyness of the show. A chill shoots up my spine and spreads across my face. Instantly, I'm drawn in and can't find the means to look away.

Sam steals my attention when he straightens up in my side view. “We’re on,” he informs me.

I immediately bring to focus and adjust my floral pencil skirt to appear put together.

The man from before leads us up to where he left us last. “Okay, here’s the deal. James will announce your names. There will be cheers, you will walk out together and sit on the couch. The order in which you sit doesn’t matter.” He pauses to press on his headset, “sure, alright, one minute.”

I shift my head to the side and yet again I see them, the same pair of eyes that made me freeze. I quickly snap my attention forward as though I’ve been caught red-handed. He’s not what I had expected. I’ve heard of Machine Gun Kelly, who hasn’t? I’ve seen pictures here and there. I’ve heard a song or two. Never in a million did I ever imagine we would meet eyes and he would make me stop breathing for a second. It was nothing short of groundbreaking. It’s dangerous and immaculate at the same time.

Soon, the noise of the audience dies down to signal the end of the commercial break. Sam and I are told to walk out so we cross through the corridor. Sam leads and reaches his hand back for me to take. I do so mindlessly since it’s what we always do. We wave to the audience and James stands up to greet us. He hugs Sam and they exchange a few words. I keep on waving to the audience and point towards a girl who has a shirt with the show’s title on it. Sam moves over so James and I can say hello.

“Hi, James! How are you?” I greet as we embrace.

“Excellent, how are you, Sweetheart?” He charms.

“Great! Excited to be here!” I gush as I shuffle to the side to settle on the couch beside Sam.

“Thirty seconds!” A man, whom I assume is the producer, announced loudly.

I sit down next to Sam on the light blue velvet couch. He sits back and crosses his arm over the back of the couch behind me then slides it down to rest over my shoulders. I lean into his side, crossing my legs toward him.

“Five seconds!” James sits down in his black desk chair next to Sam and looks into the camera. He’s given the signal and he lights up. “I’m joined here by the two biggest young stars of the decade, Y/N Voss and Sam Merka!” The audience applauds loudly and I wave to all of them. James turns to us with a bright grin. “First off, how are you two?”

“We’re great, couldn’t be better!” Sam answers with a charming smile. He takes my hand and I rest them on my lap instinctively.

At the start of the series, our management and the show’s team encouraged us to be mildly affectionate in public situations to promote interest in our tv counterparts. Since then, it’s come so naturally to us because as friends we genuinely feel better when we have physical contact when on display. We’re security blankets for one another.

James continues, “you two play the power couple, Hollyn and Elliot, on the hit show The Seasons of Life, better known simply as Seasons. It’s all anyone is talking about lately! Has all the publicity changed your lives at all?”

Nervously, I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear before I speak. “I can’t speak for Sam, but at least for me, I answer with a confident “yes!” The Seasons of Life has changed every aspect of my life. When we first started filming the first season, I was still living in South Carolina. I went to a normal high school and had to travel back and forth between here and there. Back then, no one really knew of me. I was your average teenage girl trying to have the best of both worlds.”

James nods, seemingly fascinated by my response.

Sam smiles in agreement, switching his sight between James and myself. “My story is basically the same except I was in college studying law.”

“That’s right!” James perks up, “There’s a decent age gap between the two of you!”

We glance at each other and nod, both of us grinning.

“Does that make the more romantic scenes between Hollyn and Elliot harder?” James inquires.

“No, not at all” I answer, squeezing Sam’s hand.

“Y/N has always acted with such maturity and grace that she makes it unbelievable easy onset. The eight years feel nearly nonexistent.”

“We haven’t had too many extremely romantic scenes,” I add jokingly, looking fondly at Sam.

He meets my gaze and hums in agreement. “Have to build up that suspense!”

James laughs at Sam’s remark and goes on with his questions. “Last year, during the season finale, Twitter blew up because your characters finally got together! And had that bow-chicka-wow-wow scene,” James wiggles his eyebrows. The audience cheers in excitement. Everyone was over the moon about the scene. “Y/N, what was going through your mind during that scene?”

“Sam, Jonathan, and the rest of the Seasons family never fail to make me feel so secure onset. For that scene, in particular, Jonathan made sure it was just the three of us on set so that space felt relaxed. It was my first time ever filming a sex scene of that magnitude and I was so lucky to have this fella right here to help me,” I gush as I place my hand on Sam’s knee with a pat.

“That’s lovely,” James feeds into the sappiness that the audience eats up. “Was there ever talk of getting a double for you?”

“I told our director, the producers, everyone that only I can do the scene. It didn’t feel right to me to have someone else play Hollyn. Especially for a scene that would have such an impact on the characters involved. The fans had been begging for Elliot and Hollyn to finally get together and I couldn’t pass up being a part of the moment when they finally did. It wouldn’t have been fair to the fans if it wasn’t me playing the role.”

The audience approves of my response with their loud reaction which eases my nerves immensely.

“Absolutely incredible,” James compliments. “I can’t imagine the scene being done without you two. I mean, you two have such chemistry! What were your reactions to watching the infamous final scene? Did you watch it together?!”

Sam and I side-eye one another then burst out laughing because I can recall my exact words. I’m sure he can too.

“This is a question for Y/N,” he points out between laughter.

I hit the back of my hand on his stomach, “why me?!”

“You said!” He chuckles, so he does remember my words.

I get the giggles as James pushes me to answer. I settle down and catch my breath. “Well, I had a watch party at my house with the cast, and right after the scene happened and the show cuts to the dramatic final credits, I yelled “yay! Hollyn finally got laid!”

James hides his face with his cards as he laughs. Laughs of all kinds spread throughout the audience and I can feel my face getting warm. James’s laugh is contagious and I can’t stop.

“You all know how uptight Hollyn could be! Maybe she’ll be a little more laid back!” I add with a shrug and James bursts out laughing.

“You two are absolutely hilarious,” he wipes his watery eyes. “And adorable! Please tell me you’re dating in real life!”

Sam hiss between his teeth and glances at me. “I’m sorry, we’re not…” he answers hesitantly.

“What!” James’s jaw drops, “but you two are so cute together! I mean, you’ve been holding hands the entire time!”

We shake our heads and Sam explains for us both. “Y/N and I are super close. We can see how people would assume we’re dating but in all honesty, we’re just really good friends. Considering, for example, to have done the final scene from last season we kinda have to be. We met when she was just a teenager and I was in graduate school. We’ve seen each other grow. We’ve been around the world together and since our characters are paired together, so are we. Meaning, we’re constantly together and I’m thankful we are because I’m so lucky to have such an amazing partner in all of this.”

“Aw, isn’t he the sweetest!” I pout playfully and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Ugh, can we change the whole “only friends” thing?” James begs. “I ship it!”

The audience agrees and then he moves on to talk about the next season. We say all that can be shared at the time being and we share some pictures from filming yesterday as a teaser for the season.

“Y/N, is that you crying here?” James questions.

The photo on the scene behind us shows the part where I cry because Elliot just told Hollyn she’ll only ever be a rich girl from Los Angeles.

“Yeah, the first episode is filled with drama! Elliot and Hollyn already have a rocky time.”

“No! You’re joking!” He whines, disappointed.

We flip through more photos and answer a few more questions. James says into the camera that when we get back we’ll be playing a game. The game is Who is Most Likely To? Between me and Sam who is more likely to…

After the commercial break, James looks toward the camera with the utmost enthusiasm. “And we are back with Y/N and Sam! I have given each of them a paddle! One side says Y/N and the other reads Sam! Now, the game is Who is Most Likely To? So, between the two of you, who is more likely to “fill in the blank?” We all set?”

“We’re good!” Sam and I say at the same time as if we practiced.

“Alrighty, question number one...” James reads his cards. “Who is most likely to sleep until noon?”

I instantly flip my paddle to myself without a second thought. Sam is such an early bird. The type to get a five-mile jog in by ten. I lean forward and Sam said me as well.

“I’m not gonna deny it. If I could I would stay in bed all day,” I giggle without shame.

“You have stayed in bed all day,” Sam teases and I playfully nudge him in the arm. The whole set finds it humorous.

“Who is most likely to get a tattoo?” James reads with a raised brow.

The audience “ooh’s” in anticipation. I flip my paddle to Sam’s side, never in a million years would I get a tattoo.

“Y/N, you flipped your paddle super fast. Why is that?” James inquires.

“Mhm, nope! There will be no ink on this skin!” I wave my head frantically. “Sam can do whatever he wants with his body but it’s a no for me.”

“We’ve actually talked about tattoos before and I plan on getting one here soon,” Sam describes.

James asks him about what he plans on getting and that conversation goes on a minute or two. Sam explains where he plans on placing the tattoo and when he’ll get it done.

James reads over the card and smirks, “who is most likely to date another celebrity?”

Sam, no doubt. I feel no urge to date, thank you very much.

“Oh! Looks like we got ourselves a mix-up! Sam said Y/N and Y/N said, Sam!” James laughs toward the audience.

“Me?!” I gasp, earning amusement from the audience.

Sam turns his body to face me, “why not?”

“You know, if you two dated this could work itself out,” James points out to get a reaction from the crowd.

“I’m not really looking to date at the moment,” I explain, and James is surprised. I explain further, “the show is important to me and this summer I just want to fun. Plus, my schedule is quite hectic and I would feel bad for dragging someone else into it all.”

He completely understands and asks the final question. “Who is most likely to get married first?”

I flip my board to Sam again. James starts to laugh and I comprehend that it’s the same case as last time. I check Sam’s and I’m right, he said to me.

“Why do you keep putting me?” I fuss playfully.

“Because it’s true! You’re such a little liar to say me!” Sam teases.

“You’re older!” I reason.

“Oh please,” Sam rolls his eyes and leans back into the couch.

“I’ll have to agree with Sam on this one,” James adds and I look to him betrayed.

“Y/N, you’re America’s Sweetheart! Every young guy’s dream girl!”

I hide my face in my hands and shake my head with a giggle.

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be the first to get married! I have no interest in anyone right now!” James and Sam beam as I finish.

“Ah, ah see! You said “right now,” James points at me.

These two are teaming up on me now.

“Thank you so much you two for coming in! It’s been a lot of fun!” James thanks.

“Of course, it was a blast!” I charm.

He stands and so do we. He hugs Sam then me, “you two make me laugh like no others.”

James looks into the camera and wraps up the end of the show. “Thank you, Julia Roberts, Adam Levine, Sam Merka, Y/N Voss, and Machine Gun Kelly for joining me today! Have an excellent night everyone! Until next time!”

The band starts their music. Sam and I dance to the beat and James join in. The produces yells that the show has cut to a commercial.

To hear my name and Machine Gun Kelly’s name mere seconds apart is something I never thought I’d hear.

“Thanks again for coming!” James repeats once the show is over.

“We had fun! Thanks for having us!” Sam compliments.

The duo shares a brief “bro hug” and James embraces me one last time.

Then, Sam and I head backstage to our dressing room. Nicole and Steven should already be back there since I didn’t see them on the set.

“That went well!” Sam mentions while we walk down the hall.

I hum, “totally not getting married first though.”

“Whatever, you’re lying to yourself,” he laughs as he opens the door to the dressing for me.

Nicole and Steven are waiting for us and instantly begin talking about the Vanity Fair shoot tomorrow. It’s never-ending.

____________________________________________________

Masterlist

Tags: @canyoubuymetoast @bri-3530 @asil1652 @andstilltryingtofindmyself @nadia2021 @olafsidehoe @mgkobsessed @fairywriting101 @ferrell-cat @naylanae-0308 @tonystarkswife10 @alexsa56 @brocksbabyyy @stormrider505 @magnificenthumancopangel @sarcasticfangirlus @lilramencup95beech @missyviolet123 @skeleton-gxrl @glitterybearllamaflap @margaritaville20 @amoresixx

#machine gun kelly #mgk fanfic #mgk smut #mgk aesthetic #mgk imagine #mgk

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neonponders · 3 years

Text

I FINALLY uploaded again to my first Harringrove fic ever, so here’s an easy way to read ch. 1 since a lot of people here don’t know me from Dracula Has a Mullet haha

Read on ao3 here ~

💋 💋 💋 💋 💋 💋

The discovery that Billy Hargrove is a vampire came at a weird time in a weird way. It’s just not everyday that you walk in on someone fingering Alexandra O’Neil with their teeth—fangs—in her tit.

There were stranger things in Hawkins, unfortunately. Unfortunately? How fortunate is a vampire?

“For fuck’s sake. Really?”

Billy has the grace to extract his freaking teeth with a semblance of being surprised. “I didn’t know you had that kind of mouth, Harrington.”

Steve waves a scolding finger at him with all the gusto of a drunk, and he has the solo cup to justify it. “Put those away! She was homecoming queen last year. Jesus, have some class.”

“You serious?”

Steve downed the last of his beer and Jäger with a grimace, his voice going raspy. “Look, I’m not one to judge a lady’s standards, but really, Alex…Alex?”

The lady in question was so blissed out she looked like one of those unnaturally stupid women in every Dracula movie. Billy actually moved aside as Steve pulled her away from the wall—away from Billy—to try and talk to her. Righting her dress with quick yanks, he covered her gorgeous, if small, breasts and gave her a shake. “Alex! Hey!”

He could hear—could feel it, more like—Billy moving behind him in the dark room. Steve had come up here hoping to claim the guest room before someone used it to hookup from the party downstairs. It wouldn’t be the first time he woke up from a mid-party nap to someone being blown, but sometimes it’s the price one pays for free liquor and an ounce of decent sleep.

“What’s wrong with her standards? Huh, King Steve?”

The voice is right behind him, so close that the damn vampire has to rear backwards when Steve whirls around. “What kind of vamp name is Billy? Wait, that’s short for something—”

“If you call me by anything else, I’ll hang you from the ceiling by your teeth.”

“You’re not charming like vampires,” Steve practically complained. “Gotta work on that. Everyone gossips here. Folks will know you’re toothy like…” He fumbled a clumsy but sharp snap of his fingers.

Billy made a derisive sound before his voice crooned, “Seems like I’m flying just fine under the vampire radar, then.”

He was heaving Alex back up from where she had slumped against the dresser when Steve released her. Steve raked a hand through his hair, thinking. It was a slog through the alcohol, but he surmised that he could not take her away from this guy. Case being: Steve was far too drunk to logically drive, and to where? It was her house.

“You. You gotta go.”

Billy huffed one of his low, mirthless laughs. Instead of setting Alex nicely on the bed, he just kind of dumped her there. She let out a sort of dumb-giddy moan as she face planted a pillow and he faced Steve. “Excuse me?”

“You’re, like, biting people at a party!” Steve realized somewhere between his tone and his slight—or perhaps exaggerated, it was hard to tell at this point—sway, that Billy was far more sober than he felt.

Not the time to play hero but whatever.

Billy slowly stepped toward him. “There’s plenty worse at this shit house than me, Harrington. Worst weed I’ve ever had. And that shit whiskey’s been so watered down, it’s nothing but wheat water.”

“Hey!” Steve was poking two fingers at him before he meant to. “They just renovated the place and I got well paid for the tiling and paint!”

“So you’re the reason everyone’s been tripping over the same spot in the kitchen?” Billy huffed.

“And the whiskey’s not so bad if you chase it with grape juice. It’s like toast and jam water. Whatever, no one’s here for your holier-than-thou, California bullshit!”

Billy was caught by surprise that time. His whole expression lifted, brows and eyes widening as he repeated, “Holier. Than. Thou. That’s the kind of shit you pick up from books. I didn’t know the king could read.”

“Fuck off,” Steve grimaced, really just wanting to get Alex tucked into bed and maybe join her. “You’ve been riding me ever since you got here.”

“I definitely have not been doing that,” Billy retorted and then smiled. “What, you offering?”

“Was she?” Steve cornered, drawing himself up to his full height. Admittedly, not much taller than Billy, but small victories lead to great heights or something.

Billy wiped his mouth and Steve’s eyes plummeted to those lips. “Yeah, she was. She pulled me upstairs, or is that so hard to believe, blue balls?”

“It kind of is, yeah,” Steve said with his hands on his hips. “Alex has asthma. Like, inhaler tucked in her bra at prom in case the slow dance was too much. She’d never get with a chain smoker like you.”

“She would if her high school sweetheart cheated on her with the first college bitch he found.” One of Billy’s eyebrows perked up with his shrug. “I’m a favorite for ladies looking for a rebound.”

Steve grimaced. “Derek cheated? How do you know that?”

“That’s between her and me,” Billy said, stepping forward again. “But I hear you’ve been due for a rebound for a while, Harrington.”

He didn’t want to talk about Nancy. It wasn’t even Nancy, really, but he didn’t want to talk about anything regarding his sex life or lack thereof. Steve diverted, “I want you to leave. Go find someone else to—whatever the hell this is.”

“Well. You’re right here.”

“Not me, dumbass. I told you to leave the house.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Billy smiled. “What? You’ll let me beat the shit out of you again? We had an audience last time too.”

“I wouldn’t be too cocky about last time,” Steve groaned, beginning to take a step back. “The way I hear it, Jonathan had to mop you off the floor after—”

Billy wasn’t listening. His eyes were on Steve’s neck and the only gut wrenching, instinctive thought Steve had was weapon. It came in the form of a glass lamp, which he wrenched out of the wall to break over Billy’s head.

The hard thud of thick glass hitting before the shatter and glass raining over the floor had Steve gaping at him. Billy stood very still. Way too still. Steve wondered if he had knocked him out, but his legs hadn’t unbuckled yet.

Then Billy lifted dark eyes beneath his mess of a fringe, pupils blown wide. Steve continued to stare at him with the mechanical parts of the lamp still in his hand. “Holy shit, you didn’t even flinch! You’re supposed to dodge when furniture’s coming at you—”

Billy gripped the wrist holding the parts and wrenched him so far that Steve couldn’t react to Billy’s other hand on his pants. Heaving him up by his belt, he slammed Steve onto the table from which the lamp had originated. Music thrummed around them, the very beams in the walls vibrating. Steve defied the laws of his denim pants by folding his leg against his side to kick Billy in the gut. Ragged sounds from both of them went unheard by the party below. Steve slid like a heavy tablecloth to the floor with Billy likewise winded and crouched in front of him.

“Why…” Steve tried, rubbing his chest and hoping his talking lasted long enough for him to decide whether running or trying to pin Billy down was the best decision. “…can’t you just…not do this? Whatever alpha bullshit game you think life is.”

“Some of us don’t want to go through life with your dashing prince crap,” Billy spat.

“You think I’m dashing? I couldn’t tell, I passed out the last time you punched me in the face.”

Billy laughed. “Yeah. You’re just as soft as I remember.”

He was moving again and Steve felt a wild, foolish—downright stupid—thrill to try something else. “You need to leave, man. Really. I know a party of blackout graduates might seem like easy pickings, but Hawkins is different.”

“You don’t know shit about different,” Billy growled. “You’ve never seen grass outside this bum fuck of a town.”

“I’ve been to Disney World. And New York City. There’s gotta be some hospital nurse you can swoon into letting you raid their blood bank?”

He couldn’t tell if Billy was getting angrier or not. The man was always angry, seemed like. “I’m not drinking from a freezer. Now shut the hell up. You’ll enjoy this like your homecoming queen.”

A last ditch effort, diving in the direction of the door, but it wasn’t the first time Billy had been on top of him with murder in his eyes. Steve’s hands fumbled at Billy’s face, but then his wrists were pinned above his head and a panicked whine escaped as Billy’s hot, humid breath found him.

Steve went slack. They always do. Billy had figured out that something in his teeth or saliva sedated those he bit, and more. A whole lot more. It made a good flirt into a hell of a time. Alexandra of the Hawkins Homecoming Court had already come on his finger when Steve, of all people, waltzed right in.

It made hunting annoying. It made hunting fun. He had to be picky; didn’t want anyone he couldn’t look at for longer than three minutes moaning all over him while he tried to feed. His looks did most of the work. The right dash of charm here, a nice compliment there, and then his fangs did the rest.

Steve was hard under him. Billy felt the distinct push of his jeans against his own ass while he slid his fingers under Steve’s nape. Lifting his neck, he made sure the moron’s windpipe stayed open, as well as lifted his meal closer to his mouth—

A strange sound came from Steve. Billy’s eyes flicked to his face, but when that labored breathing sound happened again, he sat up and stared. Steve was crying.

This had never happened before. Those doe eyes that all the girls had ranted about when he first drove into Hawkins were red and squinted as moisture slid over his temples. Billy even checked to make sure he wasn’t sitting too heavily on his dick or something, but the gears of his brain slid into place.

Steve usually wore sunglasses at parties. Billy couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “Are you a drunk crier, Harrington? Hey, I’m talking to you.”

He gripped Steve’s jaw, but his whole head lolled, those eyes barely finding him through the daze. “I just wanna sleep,” he said quietly. Fresh tears raced into his hair as he passed out.

#harringrove #vampire!billy #pondermoniums #neonponders #fic rec #season 3 rewrite #dracula has a mullet

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mrvdocks · 4 years

Text

Plus One

“That’s a straight no.”

“What? Why?”

“Come on,” You laugh. “I can hear the sirens coming for you now. She looks like she’s a junior in high school.”

He cocks his brow, “You do too and I still live with you.”

You playfully smack him. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you can't handle seeing me with someone else?” He says smugly.

@mochminnie and anyone else that would like to get tagged :))

(Chapter one)

Morning of Nancy & Jonathan’s Wedding

The daylight shines on his face when he wakes up. He looks down to see you’ve disappeared and instantly thinks yesterday was a dream. He’s almost disappointed.

“You snore too loud.” You say as a matter of factly, coming out in a robe and towel.

It wasn’t a dream. He smiles.

“You hog the blanket too much.” He retorts, flipping the covers over and getting up to stretch.

"It's like thirteen degrees outside of course I'm going to take it."

"There's layers to this, you know that right?"

“Alright, alright Casanova, do you want to stay here sparring with me or go find the love of your life?”

He stretches his arms, then sighs. “Not sure if I’ll meet the one if I’m half-naked.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” You wink, going back inside the bathroom to get ready.

Only an hour later and you two were nearly late because he decided to play hideaway with your heels. You didn’t protest as much but they were the only fancy shoe you’d brought to match the nuptial’s dress code.

You rushed into the elevator, counting down to at least ten minutes. It should be enough time to walk over to the chapel.

You glance at Steve, seeing him look out of it.

“Hey,” You tug at his arm. He straightens up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just been a while.”

Part of him wondered if they would remember him after so long.

“Well if they’re not talking about you, they’ll be talking about how messy and out of place you look. Here, let me fix you.” You fix his Windsor knot stay in place and then move his floppy hair, letting a single curl of hair rest on his forehead.

“Is this really how you styled it?” You lift yourself on your toes to get more of it but he moves aside.

“Hey, hey, don’t damage the goods.”

“Is that - hold on, ” You take a whiff of his hair. “Oh my god.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, laugh it up.”

“You smell like my mom!” You chortle.

He pushes you playfully as the elevator doors open and he walks out with you hysterically laughing. He smiles nervously at the passing guests as they file out to the chapel.

“That’s so cute. Listen, if you don’t end up with anyone our age here, you can definitely bag one of the aunts. I’m sure they’d love you.”

“It was my go-to in high school, alright? Girls loved it.”

He can see the subtle upward quirk of your mouth as you smothered a laugh.

“C’mon, before we become those people who hog all the attention.” You interlinked your arms and made your way past the field of green and a big brown chapel.

You both sat in the middle row on Nancy’s side, meeting all of her family and being introduced to her sister Holly, brother Mike and his girlfriend Jane. You couldn’t stop staring as Mike and Jane sat and goofed with each other.

“Been together since ‘84, and they still can’t get enough of each other,” Steve tells you in a hushed voice as he leans to you and begins giving you the dirt on everyone there.

Jonathan’s mother, Joyce sits at the front with a gruff looking man who kept trying to take out a pack of cigarettes. She’s pretty, and definitely doesn’t look as old as Steve says she is. She has a timeless beauty to her. Steve tells you that the man she’s with is Hopper, the same man whose wedding you would be attending later in March. Jonathan’s brother, Will sits to his mother's left and is in deep conversation with a man Steve doesn’t recognize.

Steve goes on a tangent on how different and grown-up everyone looks. He goes into details about things they used to do back in Indiana, some things crazy and others unbelievable. He almost sounds sad for not being able to see their growth for himself but that’s not a story he’ll tell you anytime soon.

You’re conversing with Jane when everyone quiets down and music starts playing. You stand and watch as Jonathan marches right up to one step to meet his brother and hug him momentarily. Holly enters, picking petals out of the basket and dropping them as she passes. Nancy enters soon after slowly, keeping tempo with the music. Her dad is older, more filled out, and grey-haired than Steve originally remembers him. Her mother, however, is stunning in a way that doesn’t overshadow her daughter. Her blonde hair is pulled into a half updo, she smiles warmly to guests as she carries the tail of Nancy’s beautiful cream dress. It's an eye-catching tulle gown with floral accents and lace sleeves that move comfortably with her.

Nancy’s brown hair is long and curls at the end, decorated with a pearl headband, her slender nude manicured fingers holding onto the bouquet gracefully as if she was a princess. She’s naturally gorgeous, with touches of blush on her cheekbones. She takes your breath away.

You’re almost a little jealous Steve got to date her.

“Please be seated.” The priest says.

You accidentally sit on Steve’s hand, making him jerk quickly but fast enough to avoid attention. You're locked in the entire time, entranced by every little detail from the soft brown tones of Jonathan's suit to the camera pin he wears to the embroidery on Nancy's heels.

The ceremony is beautiful, you even catch Steve tearing up at Jonathan’s thoughtfully written vows for Nancy.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

The crowd goes wild, cheers and whistles all around as Nancy and Jonathan kiss and he twirls her in a circle. She’s smiling shyly as Jonathan peppers her with kisses. Will steps in and takes a couple of photos before whispering something into Jonathan’s ear and making him laugh. The bride and groom rush outside hand in hand, rice and flowers being thrown as they disappear past the golden-brown of the chapel.

You and Steve give each other a look, thinking this wedding plan might not be so bad after all. You’re seeing love in its purest form.

The reception is held in a small banquet hall, music is being played by a band of fine instruments led by people Steve tells you are part of Nancy’s family. The whole place is decorated to bring out the snow and natural elements outside. Windows wide open, the brown of the hall illuminated by fairy lights hanging from above, a cute photo booth with a retro moon to pose with, and a DJ soon after the band leaves.

“Come,” Steve says, intertwining your hand in his and leading you over to where Nancy and Jonathan are.

Jonathan notices him first and immediately hugs him. Steve hugs him tighter, letting them sway for a moment while you introduce yourself to Nancy.

“Hi, I’m -”

“You must be the one Steve talks so much! I've heard a lot about you!” She giggles. My god, even her laugh was beautiful.

“Beautiful wedding! I am in love with you - your dress, I’m sorry.” You say, flustered. Nancy takes no offense and instead envelopes you in a hug.

“Thank you! It was a lot of stress but I'm glad we could finally get it to come to fruition. Steve never told me you were this lovely.”

You wave her comment away, feeling shyer than ever. “Please, I’m just so glad I finally get to meet THE Nancy Wheeler.”

“I hope you’re not trying to steal my wife,” Jonathan beams, bear-hugging you.

"I would never." You grin. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Byers.”

“Mr. Byers was my dad, please call me Jonathan.”

You nod, feeling the warmth and love that Jonathan and Nancy were giving off.

"So? How are you two? How's New York?" Nancy asks.

You and Steve glance at each other to see who goes first.

"Good! So good." You say in unison.

“So what’s going on with you two, huh? Any crazy stories?” Steve asks, eager to get the attention off of him for once.

“Well,” Nancy looks at Jonathan. “Jonathan was a freelancing photographer for a while but he was just hired for a two-year contract by Life magazine!”

You and Steve look at Jonathan wide-eyed and with jaws dropped. Jonathan smiles shyly.

“Jon, oh my god congratulations!” Steve says, pulling Jonathan into another hug.

“It was just a split-second decision, he almost didn’t send the photos in time but I convinced him.” Nancy smiles. "They want to send him to Amsterdam next week."

"Europe for the honeymoon? That's amazing." You gush, thinking about the canals and all the great food.

“And that’s not all,” Jonathan rubs at Nancy’s back with his other hand. “Nancy’s accepted a job up in New York as a journalist.”

“No way!” You feel your excitement skyrocket.

“We’re moving into the East Village in March, just after my mom’s wedding.”

“That’s amazing you guys, I’m so happy for you.” Steve is absolutely over the moon.

“Thank you and please help yourselves!” Jonathan’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Hope to see you guys soon!” Nancy exclaimed, before being met with more family to greet. You and Steve say goodbye and gush over them.

“I can’t believe you got to date her.” You remark, sipping more of the champagne.

“Yeah well, I was lucky to even kiss her. Looking back, I think they had it for each other all the time. I was just in the way.”

Projecting onto her, he thinks.

You frown. “Personally, I’m glad to see it all worked out in the end. To the happy couple!”

You bring your glasses to toast and snicker when some of it spills onto Steve’s lap. He tries to get you back but you evade him.

The orchestra ends and the DJ begins his set. He starts off with some lovey-dovey tunes you remember your mother playing from her childhood.

“Come on, let’s dance!” You exclaim, taking Steve’s hand and pulling him up and away from the table.

The dance floor is decently packed, The Del-Viking’s “Come Go With Me” echoing through the walls of the banquet hall.

Steve makes a fool of himself, flailing and dancing exaggeratedly while you move side to side to the dum dum dum, occasionally doubling over when Steve stumbles back into someone.

The music shifts after you two are completely tired out, changing to The Smiths’ “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”. Definitely Jonathan’s choice.

You and Steve pair up, dancing slowly with your head on his shoulder.

It’s a nice feeling, to be like this with someone. You didn’t know how you felt about Steve, besides the fact that he could be annoying as all hell and a bummer. But he wasn't so unpleasant to have around. He just needed to let loose. He wasn’t going to be twenty-eight forever.

Maybe it was too early, you saw how he’d freaked about Danny.

“Hey, five o’clock.” He whispers in your ear, ripping you away from your thoughts.

“What?”

“What about the girl at five o’clock? She seems nice.”

“Spin me.”

He spins you out to see a girl in a nice pastel blue colored dress and bouffant talking to Jonathan. He spun you back in.

“That’s a straight no.”

“What? Why?”

“Come on,” You laugh. “I can hear the sirens coming for you now. She looks like she’s a junior in high school.”

He cocks his brow, “You do too and I still live with you.”

You playfully smack him. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you can't handle seeing me with someone else?” He says smugly.

“Pfft. She’s got babyface. Just trust me.”

The music shifts throughout the night, some electronic, another alternative, or more classical and then back to lovey-dovey.

At the end of “Earth Angel,” you’re just about ready to leave and kick off the heels that just won’t quit squeezing your feet.

“I’m starving.” You whisper into his ear.

“There’s food here.”

“Yes, and I’m still hungry. I need to severely gorge on something big right now.”

Steve chuckles lowly, about to make the joke you feared once the words ‘something big’ left your lips.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Yes, dear.” He snickers.

Once you’re away from the view of family and friends, you unbuckle the straps of your heels and breath in relief at your chains being taken off. Steve walks past you but you whistle to him to catch his attention.

“Well? Come on.” He motions for you.

You throw your head back and whine. “I can’t walk. These things have worn me down.”

He chuckles to himself shaking his head. “Alright, hop on.”

He turns and bends to your level, letting you climb onto his back like a monkey. You wrap your arms around his neck, him holding you up by your thighs.

You nestle comfortably into his shoulder, letting out an audible sigh.

“Don’t get too comfortable up there, you have the keys to the room.” He warns, but you’re fast asleep by the end of the sentence. "So much for being hungry."

He gets soft looks and compliments of ‘being a great boyfriend’ from different guests but he doesn’t have the energy to correct them. The dancing tired him out.

He uses the pointy end of your heel to click the elevator button and is careful with you when entering. Your soft sighs and deep breaths comfort him in some way. Your fingers twitch around his now loosened tie, softly scratching at the nape of his neck. It gives him goosebumps, but he relaxes into it, letting the warmth creep up to his cheeks.

He’s too lost in the feeling to notice when the doors open, the elevator dings to alert him. When he’s out, he shakes you slowly to wake you up. You stir and hum but stay asleep. He maneuvers your bag to face him, getting the key painfully slow. The door hinges creaking don’t wake you at all.

He lays you down onto the side where he sleeps, careful with your shoes and your bag. Putting them aside, he makes a move to close the door but your hand grabs at his wrist and pulls him back.

He glances down at you, still asleep but still holding on. “I have to close the door.” He whispers.

“Steve.” You murmur.

“Yeah?” He brings himself to ask, entranced by you.

You mumble incoherently, letting go of his wrist and turning your side to get comfortable.

He sighs.

"It was a nice wedding." He says, getting the suitcases out of the cab while you tip the driver.

"It really was. Plus I'm glad I got to take one of these suckers home too." You dig through your bag, pulling out the towel teddy bear that had previously been on your hotel bed. It looked a little deformed now but you could fix it.

Steve makes a surprised noise, "We steal things now?"

"It's not stealing if they were just going to put another one back."

"Well, I wish could've taken some of that shampoo. It made my hair smell great."

"Oh don't worry I got a couple of them in my suitcase. You can have them."

He looks at you with intrigue.

"What? We can't live fancy?"

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking as you head into the apartments.

"Hey, sorry I ruined your shot looking for someone at the reception."

He shrugs, feeling it wasn't a big deal. "That's why we have the other three, right? Plus, I had fun. I wouldn't have wanted to be in my head the entire time."

The answer satisfies you but you promise yourself to aim higher at the next wedding.

#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #stranger things imagine #joe keery x reader

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when-to-sit-in-silence · 3 years

Note

Can you please write about Jopper date at Joyce’s house(some sort of a romantic dinner Joyce prepared for them because children aren’t at home).

It was one week after rescuing Hopper from Kamchatka that Joyce figured they have that little date they planned.

Of course, where she lived now, Enzo’s wasn’t exactly an option. They could have gone somewhere else, but they figured it was best to follow Owens’s instruction to lay low for the time being. They weren’t quite ready yet to reintroduce Hopper back to Hawkins after everyone had believed for the last nine months that he had died tragically in that mysterious mall fire. As much as Hopper was eager to return, to check up on the place if nothing else, it was safest to stay here in California with Joyce, El, and the boys until someone could come up with some sort of explanation.

So, here he was, opening a bottle of chardonnay and pouring two glasses over the kitchen island, wearing a brand new suit jacket Joyce bought him after he insisted he have something nice for the occasion. All of his belongings were back in Hawkins, after all, and considering months of imprisonment had resulted in a much leaner figure, he needed a new wardrobe anyway, and clothes were the least that Joyce could do. He met her eyes as he handed her a glass, and Joyce couldn’t help but notice that the deep shade of the jacket brought out the color in his gaze.

Except for the two of them, the house was empty. Jonathan was with a friend for the night and she’d sent Will and El to the movies. This was the only instance she and Hopper had truly been alone together in the house for longer than a few minutes, and if Joyce was frank with herself, she was enjoying herself greatly, for the first time in a very long time. They played a Billie Holiday record and stood at the island waiting for the tenderloin to come out of the oven, sipping at the chardonnay and talking about anything that wasn’t the last nine months of their lives. It happened to be easy. Joyce and Hopper had a lot of history to rehash.

History like the first time they “met”, at age six when Hopper was riding past Joyce’s house on his bike, very nearly running her over and most definitely clipping her shoe. He flashed her a toothless grin and yelled “Sorry!” as he continued on his way, leaving Joyce to stamp the pain out of her toes and withhold an insult in earshot of her mother watching from the front porch.

And that other first time they “met”, when Hopper sat in front of Joyce in the fifth grade, a girl who was quiet most of the time, except for when she read aloud under her breath or bounced her leg or tapped the eraser-side of her pencil on the desk, annoying him unwittingly until he got used to it, until he started to kind-of, sort-of miss hearing those sounds whenever she was absent.

And then that time they met for real, when Joyce was actually glad Hopper had come along on his bike, because the boys who had only been pretending to be her friends dared her to jump into the frigid lake and were seeming more and more like they weren’t taking no for an answer. Hopper had gotten right into that shitbag Ralph Wheaten’s face and told him and his friends to back off, and when they tried to pick a fight, he grabbed Joyce’s hand and ran. They ran, and ran, and ran, and by the time they had stopped running, half a mile into the woods, they couldn’t see each other as anything less than friends.

“We’ve made quite a habit of that, huh?” Hopper asked, smiling at her over the rim of his glass.

“What?”

“Saving each other.”

Joyce glanced down, her heart swelling with warmth. “Yeah,” she murmured, “I guess we did.”

They had a lot of habits over the years. The first was taking walks through the woods instead of heading straight home, which started to bother Joyce’s parents as the nights began earlier and grew colder as winter approached. But Joyce didn’t care. She liked talking to the boy who’s always been there but she never really knew until now. And then, of course, their habit of sharing smokes between periods, which all too often caused them to run late to class. Joyce formed the habit of visiting downtown Hawkins on Saturdays because Hopper’s first job was at the car wash. She’d pass him by between the bookstore and the bakery, acting like seeing him there wasn’t the whole reason she’d come in the first place, offer a wave and a grin and nothing else.

Hopper chuckled. He shifted his weight back and forth to “Easy Living”, and after a moment, the bright expression on his face started to dim. Joyce set her glass down on the island, watching the lines in his face deepen. He peered at her softly and said, “Can I ask you something, Joyce?”

“Of course.”

“Are you never going back to Hawkins?”

Joyce blinked. The question surprised her. Dryly, she answered, “No, I’ll go back.”

“I don’t mean to visit, Joyce. You know what I’m saying.” Hopper eyed her, swirling his drink in his glass. “I mean, you’re never going to live there again, are you?”

Given the uplifted mood of the evening, she hadn’t expected him to bring something like this up. She thought they both wanted to ignore all their metaphorical elephants for the time being, but all this talk of simpler life back in Hawkins must have made him nostalgic for a town that just wasn’t the same anymore. Joyce deflated, her shoulders sinking, and she leaned against the countertop with a sigh. “I just don’t know if I can, Hop.”

“But you really want to stay out here, so far away?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I wanted to get away. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and that place as possible.”

“Do you even like it here?”

Swallowing her pride, Joyce shook her head.

“So why not go back?”

“You know, Hop, I wish I could still feel like I have a reason to be there like you do, but -“

“Are all those good memories not a reason, Joyce?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows at her. The last fifteen minutes of reminiscing really must have softened him, but then again, talking about their childhood in sleepy old Hawkins, Indiana before it became a hot spot for interdimensional terrorism must have been the first time since coming back from Kamchatka that Hopper has felt any kind of normal. And Joyce knew this because she felt normal. Hawkins, for a moment, was normal. And she knew how it felt to wish it could be normal all over again.

Joyce walked around the island and grabbed Hopper’s hand, lacing her fingers between his own. She gazed at him quietly, holding his questioning stare until she could see the ice breaking, the warmth flooding in again. With a comforted exhale, Joyce rested her head on his chest. Hopper set his drink down and wrapped her in a hug. Together, they swayed gently to the music playing from the living room.

“You told me a week ago that you might have never left Hawkins if I hadn’t…” he trailed off, pressing his lips to the top her head.

“Oh, Hop,” she murmured, “Exactly. Don’t you get it? It’s not about Hawkins. All those good memories? They’re good because you were there. It’s about you.”

“Joyce,” he breathed.

She pulled back and raised herself on her toes to kiss him on the mouth. “Hawkins was home, and it’s not anymore,” she whispered against his lips. “And maybe this place isn’t either. But I don’t care. I don’t care because I have the kids and I have you and that’s all that matters to me. Wherever we end up.”

He smiled and kissed her again, hands drawing her against him as they backed slowly against the wall.

They were interrupted by the high-pitched rattling of the timer. Joyce looked over her shoulder, hands still planted on Hop’s chest. “Oh, right,” she chuckled. “I forgot. We’re supposed to be having dinner.”

#jopper #joyce byers #jim hopper #I don't know if this is what you wanted anon #but it turned into this

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jojo-reader-hell · 4 years

Note

imagine being Jotaro's twin, and you wake up one morning. You look in the bathroom mirror, only to realize you have fangs, claws, & slit pupils. You scream for Jotaro, who is groggy from the lack of sleep. He glares at you, "wait that's it? For fuck's sake, i thought it was a spider or something." Then he yells for your dear mother. "It's y/n, they're finally going through their transformation." Holly squeals before rushing over to you. (It turns out the Joestar family is a werewolf clan!)

I loved this idea so much that I kinda got carried away writing for it! I definitely would like to turn this into a two parter, so keep an eye out for the AO3 link! Until then, hope you enjoy!

Werewolf!Joestars and Werewolf!Reader

...

“WAAAAAAAAAAAH!! BUBBA! BUBBA!”

Big brother instincts activated, Jotaro slammed the door to his room wide open, nearly putting a hole in the wall and causing the door to dangle haphazardly off its hinges. His footfall was heavy, bounding through the hallway and nearly knocking down the decorative plants. In the back of his mind, whatever wasn’t preoccupied with getting to you was worrying about his mother’s nagging about the second door he would have to break to find you. But door be damned, he had to get to you. You never screamed this loud unless something was terribly wrong...

He skidded to a halt in front of the open bathroom, thankful for once in his life that you had the nasty habit of leaving it open, and saw you curled into a ball on the floor. Jotaro wasted no time in dragging you up to sit on your knees and asking where it hurt, only to stop dead in his tracks when he got a good look at you.

“B-Bubba!” You whined, an unmistakable edge to it as you clutched your face. “I’m ugly!”

“You’ve always been ugly.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and you only cried harder and more violently, a little blood dribbling out of your mouth where extra canines had been growing over your normal set.

“What’s happening to me?!” You wailed. “Everything hurts, my mouth is bleeding, my hands are furry, there’s a fuzzy thing on my butt and when I tried to pull it off I scratched myself with my nails-...”

“Good God, just shut your yap already!” Jotaro snapped. “You’re alright, stand up by yourself!”

“Jotaro! What’s wrong?! What’s happened??”

The pattering of your mother’s slippers echoed throughout the hallway, she nearly slid on the wood floors when she came to an abrupt halt, watching in horror as Jotaro yanked you up violently by the arm and tried to get you to stop screaming and wailing. Evidently it wasn’t working, because the louder he barked orders at you to shut up the harder you cried, yelping every time he yanked you the wrong way.

“Fuckhead over here is going through the change!” He answered back, as though you’d merely gotten a zit. Jotaro was dangling you by your arm painfully, and you tried clawing at him to make him put you down.

Nothing bullied him into letting go until a dark look crossed your mother’s face.

“Let go Jojo.”

She used a voice you never heard before, and even more shocking was the fact that Jojo finally listened for once instead of bullying her and calling her horrible names. He immediately dropped you into her care, feigning disinterest like a scolded pet.

“Oh, my baby!” She cooed, a huge smile coming over her face as she took over trying to get you to stand on your own. “It’s going to be all ok now, sweet baby. Nothings wrong, and you’re not ugly. You’re growing up!”

“H-hwat???” You blubbered, acting like a child as your mother mopped up your face with her apron, not caring that your bloody mouth was staining the white fabric.

“Look baby! Look how pretty your fur is, oh... how cute, I hope you have the same pattern as your grandpa. Even your little tail... we need to get you all nice and brushed.”

“But I... I don’t understand!” You couldn’t wrap your head around it, your mother was more concerned with gushing over you and reassuring you about how cute you were, and all you could do was babble questions until your brother put it bluntly for you:

“You’re turning into a wolf stupid.”

“Jojo, we need to be encouraging.”

Your mother’s voice had a certain conviction to it, another mystery wrapped in an enigma as she glanced disapprovingly at her son. She began to tell you all about the changes that would take place over the next few months, asking if you remembered those puberty videos they showed you in school when you were eleven, and you did, quite vividly if you were being honest. Every month during the full moon you’d just go through the motions of transforming, until your body got used to it and the process became as natural to you as breathing. She assuaged your fears: no you weren’t going to become a bloodthirsty animal. No you weren’t a danger to your family. No you weren’t going to suddenly find other wolves attractive or any other silly fear you had. All it was she said was an extra step in growing up you had to take, kind of like puberty 2.0. Well, it was sort of like that for the Joestars anyway, going back as far as your great great grandfather’s parents, the mythological monster part coming from his mother Mary who was one of the last of the werewolves. The lineage was diluted, hence the pain at the beginning that was inevitable, because in order to be with her beloved for all eternity she had to bite him to turn him, thus every Joestar since had to experience a rather horrific baptism by blood when they came of age. It could have been avoided if the lineage had been kept human free, and you would have been born a fluffy puppy instead of a baby, but then where would we be if we couldn’t choose the ones we loved your mother reasoned.

“The only tricky little detail is keeping the secret of our immortality. Usually when we’ve felt enough is enough here among humans, we just pop off into the woods and enjoy our nice long life with our loved ones. You’ll even age differently, your face will stay wrinkle free, and the only difference is your hair will turn grey!”

“Wait a minute... you mean we can’t die and we just leave society to live in the woods?”

“Uh huh!”

“Like, the actual woods around our house?”

“Of course baby. Everyone lives in the woods, who do you think you hear howling every now and again when the moon is full? If you’d like, you can spend your moon time with your Grandpa and Granny, or Papa Jonathan and Momma Erina will be there to take care of you too!”

The way your mother put it, it was like being a werewolf was as simple as going on a fucking family vacation every month.

When the pain came back you didn’t care to even acknowledge the insanity of your mother’s nonchalance. All you knew was that it felt as though somebody was taking you by the arms and legs trying to yank them out of the sockets.

“It hurts...” you cried, “Can I please have something for the pain?”

“No honey... Now that it’s taking over, we can’t give you any anti inflammatories for the pain, it’s too dangerous. We have to be very careful with certain foods too, no chocolates or onions, no coffee, no more cooked bones, no nuts, no avocado. You’ll have to be very careful with your diet from now on, those things can make you very sick. But I have an idea, maybe it will help if you shift completely and we get some food in you.”

“How do I do that?”

“Just relax, don’t tense up because of the pain, it just has to happen. Breathing helps as well, if you want, mommy can shift with you and I’ll show you how to breathe.”

She shooed Jotaro out of the bathroom, giving him some sort of a nonverbal signal that made him snap to attention, for obvious reasons she explained that it would be best to do it in private. You could hear Jotaro on the phone with someone, informing them of your latest development with the Joestar gene and instructing them to bring lots of something, whatever it was you didn’t catch it because your mother closed the door behind her. She helped you change and folded your clothes painstakingly, holding your hands in hers as she instructed you to keep your eyes trained on hers.

“In and out sweetheart.” She told you, inhaling through the nose and exhaling out through the mouth. “In... and out...”

She made a soft sound with her pursed lips, and you mimicked her even though your body was in excruciating pain. Eventually you could actually feel the smoothness of the transition, once the tension left your body you noticed the pain had disappeared and your bones just simply shifted out of place and wherever they needed to go. When you finally came to, you noticed that the world was a whole hell of a lot bigger, a fact that made you completely terrified. Your whole body was seized by shaking and it only made your fear worse, but when you looked at the mass of cream colored fur in front of you, you actually voiced your fear with a loud yelp.

“Baby, shhh, it’s mama.”

A large wet nose pressed against your soft cheeks, a large warm wet tongue lathed at your face, so familiar... you felt like you remembered something like this, maybe when you were a baby, a memory of you cold and wriggling against the same warm cream colored fur surfaced and soothed you somewhat. When you finally looked up, you immediately recognized the warm green eyes staring lovingly back at you.

“Mama...” your voice was startling, almost high pitched. When you looked down at yourself, you noticed little beany paws where your feet and hands should have been, completely covered head to toe in fuzz the color of your hair.

Making yourself go cross eyed revealed a soft muzzle and little black nose, but it hurt to focus too much and you had to stop, turning to the side and noticing a soft rotund puppy body where your own used to be. You were still the same size, but when compared to the adult body of your mother, you felt incredibly small. She was gigantic, rear end pressing against the door as she struggled to stoop in the bathroom, a huge bushy tail nearly the size of your body thumping against the sink and displacing a couple of toothbrushes.

“It’s okay baby. There’s a lot of changes happening, and when you’re born into it you’re luckier than if you’d been bitten like your Granny Suzie or your great Granny Lisa Lisa. Everything is gradual, and you’re not going to burn so much energy. It’s so much easier going through this, you will be smaller than the rest of us for a while until you’re out of high school, but that’s ok. It’s just like growing up all over again, except this goes much faster, isn’t that exciting?”

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped as she mouthed your neck and picked you up. Being dangled from this height didn’t exactly help you when you were already a fearful person to begin with, and it certainly didn’t help that your mother was now the size of the mega fauna they had at the museums. But it was all a matter of perspective. You’d never seen a wolf this close before, only from far away at the zoo on rare occasions, and certainly not from the perspective of being small enough that her mouth almost dwarfed your body, her hot breath steaming on your pelt as she scratched at the closed door with a large paw.

When it opened, Jotaro was there, looking far too annoyed at the fact that you made such a fuss about your changes. He raised an eyebrow as your mother tried to wriggle out of the narrow door frame into the hall with you still in her mouth, and even more shocking was the fact that after she’d placed you delicately on her oversized bed to snuggle with you, you saw Jotaro just close his eyes and lose himself into his own impossibly large wolf form, not caring that his clothes ripped. He laid his head next to you, nosing you as your mother’s bushy tail encircled you protectively, and she began to clean you in a similar manner to a cat cleaning a kitten. Was it the same for canids? Probably. You’d never owned a dog before and suddenly you were very aware of why this was. Especially the way your brother acted, he was a grumpy asshole as a person, you could only imagine what he was like as a monster.

Curiosity compelled you to look around the room, everything so different from a wolfy perspective. Your perception of colors was vastly different, as was the way you perceived the room itself. Often you’d find yourself staring at things that seemed to mystify the primal part of your brain. You were compelled to gnaw at the tassels on your mother’s bedspread, but her gentle nip on your ear discouraged you. Things you knew to be red and green were nearly invisible, fading to grey or an interesting shade of yellow that you didn’t think could exist. Her dresser table interested you the most, as you could see your little ears in the reflection. Lifting your head up a little bit more however, that was a different story as the human reasoning part of your brain suddenly seemed to shut down.

“MAMA!” Your voice was a shrill scream!

You stood on your hind legs and began screaming, hackles raised and your poor little tail between your legs. The sounds you made were so loud and scared that it made your brother flinch.

“MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA! THERES A MONSTER ON THE DRESSER! THERES A MONSTER ON THE DRESSER! MAMA HELP ME THERES A MONSTER ON THE DRESSER!”

...

“Oh that’s adorable Jonathan! Where’d you find that?”

“It was mine when I was a pup!” Jonathan Joestar said, a look of pride on his face as Suzie examined the tiny blue collar with a brass bell he had in his hands. “My mother got it for me because I had a tendency to wander, this way Holly can use it on the little one. Jotaro was too big for it, but I figure it’s just the size for my little bundle of joy!”

“I figured it would be best to just bring meat, and lots of it considering how ravenous of an appetite Jotaro had when he turned.” Joseph Joestar insisted, he and his wife carrying two large fresh kills apiece.

“We can’t feed the baby that!” Jonathan’s wife Erina looked scandalized, holding far too many sweaters that looked similar to the ones pet owners got for their spoiled dogs. “We’re just going to get the little one dirty, and then Holly’s going to have to clean up the mess later on after we make sure the little one is asleep.”

“Once we get the little one fed, then we can give out presents, matter of fact it was very smart of Joseph to bring so much. Whatever the little one doesn’t eat, Holly and Jotaro can have.” reasoned Jonathan’s son, a hulking creature named George who was every bit the spitting image of his father, and the only one of the bunch comfortable enough in the open to remain in wolf form. “Better to be full of food than stressing about the new changes on an empty stomach. Especially if the two of them had to waste energy and shift from the sound of Jotaro’s phone call. It wouldn’t hurt to be fully shifted when we see them either. After all, Holly is the alpha, it would be helpful for her to be surrounded by familiar faces instead of a bunch of humans.”

They all agreed, stopping short of the little cabin in the woods where Holly lived with her two children, helping each other to change out of clothes and stashing them in strategic places on the porch before transforming into creatures so large some of them had to hang back, unable to fit on the small space of the porch. Jonathan took the lead, a smile on his canine face as he politely scratched at the door.

“Jojo!” He barked, tail thumping wildly against the wall as he scratched the door again. “Jojo it’s us! Please let us in!”

He was interrupted by the shrill sound of a puppy’s yelping, the door flying open only for the mega wolf to be nearly bowled over by a very frightened young werewolf being chased by an alpha female.

“HELP! HELP! MONSTER!” You cried, taking off into the woods as your mother chased at your heels.

“Baby! Baby please come back! It was only your reflection! There’s no monster in the house!” Your mother barked after you.

“MONSTER!”

A very irritated and nearly naked Jotaro appeared at the door much to everyone’s shock, scratching his rear through the leftover shreds of his pants.

“Good grief, at least you brought me something to eat...”

There wasn’t even time to scold him for taking a large portion of the kill, he simply took it and went back indoors, dragging it off into a corner to gorge while Jonathan tried to help your mother chase you down.

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radiojamming · 4 years

Note

This a weird prompt but would you write jonmichael? Asking solely because I want to read Elias and the archives staff dealing with that

good-ish AU where sasha’s still sasha and everyone’s cool with stuff, i guess? :DDD

- - -

The door-that-wasn’t-there-a-minute-ago slams open against the wall, shaking the shelves and knocking one cheap vase to the floor in a small explosion of sad porcelain shards and accumulated dust. Martin lets out a high-pitched, “Jesus Christ!” in surprise as much as raw shock when Jon Sims himself staggers out the door like a teenager doing the walk of shame. Granted, he’s bleeding from his hairline and one sleeve of his sweater appears to just be missing, but he looks more sheepish than injured.

Just as he makes the last step over the threshold-that-shouldn’t-be, Martin sees a vague person-ish shape wobble in the mysterious beyond. And it is, in fact, wobbling, like a bobblehead or one of those playground toys shaped like horses that waver on oversized springs until they fling some unfortunate child headfirst into sand. Extended metaphor it may be, but the wobbly thing gives a high, wavering giggle before cooing, “Don’t forget this, love!” in a voice tiered in multiple pitches like an eldritch wedding cake. Jon turns just in time for an arm-that-shouldn’t-be-that-long-oh-my-god-what-the-fuck to come shooting out of the door, an iPhone clutched pinched between its enormous fingers. Martin might be hallucinating, but he thinks the razor-sharp fingernails are lacquered in sparkly purple nail varnish.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before Jon gingerly takes the phone with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and the hand recedes back into the hellish landscape beyond the door.

“Of course!” garbles the wobbly thing. Then, with a range of voices topped off with an impressive soprano flourish as light as meringue, it yodels, “Call me!”

As abruptly and shockingly as the door appeared, it disappears with a sharp crack, causing the shelves to slam back into place with a small cataract of old books falling into the pile of broken ceramic.

Jon and Martin stand in the stuffy office, each caught in the awkward position of how the hell do you talk about that?

Finally, Jon gives Martin the most soul-deep, weary look before quietly beseeching, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

All Martin can do is nod before Jon shuffles out to the hallway

- - -

Sasha sees him at the flower stall again.

Through the warped windowpane, she watches him scoop up a great, garish bouquet representing nearly every spectrum in the visible rainbow, and some colours that might not exist save for the eyes of the mantis shrimp. When she gets to ground level and sees him semi-properly, he’s just a blond man in a beanie, carefully regarding a sorry bunch of daffodils held together by what looks like clingfilm cinched shut with twine. Rather than being all spooky and mysterious, Sasha thinks he’s actually deliberating. There’s a pinch in his brow as he lowers the daffodils in favor of prodding the drooping lower lid of a sorry little orchid suffering in London’s less-than-tropical climes.

Sasha kind of feels… sorry for him?

Granted, he’s a monster with terrifying monster hands and monster tendencies and apparently a taste for caffeine, but he really looks caught on what to get. That in mind, she does remember that he bought lilies the last time he was around. Maybe that was less of a coincidence and this Michael creature really does like flowers; or he may have some fellow monster friend that he deems worthy of buying flowers for. Honestly, Sasha doesn’t want to think of what kind of friends Michael keeps.

Against her better judgement and sense of self-preservation, Sasha walks across the street to where Michael forlornly weighs his options. He looks up at her approach, and the first impression she gets is that his eyes are more like spinning tops prone to rotate anti-clockwise. She blinks and sees stationary blue eyes regarding her with confusion, and then… relief?

Huh.

“Sah-shah Jaaayymeeesss!” he almost sings, lifting up the dying daffodils like a salute. “What a pleasure to see your radiant face again!”

“Michael,” she replies, a little colder than she intends. Last time they met, there were far more meaty hands and worms involved, and she’d rather get to work unscathed.

If he thinks the reply is chilly, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he flops the tortured flowers around in his terrible hands. “Actually, I was hoping to see one of you lovely little Institute-dwellers around. I think I gave Martin a bit of a fright laaaaast time!”

Sasha frowns, but can definitely picture Martin having to be peeled off the ceiling after a Michael encounter. “Oh,” is all she says.

Michael goes on, gleefully undaunted. “You see, you and I have a mutual acquaintance! And I think he’s in need of a little—” He gives the daffodils a vigorous shake. “—cheering up these days! But I just don’t know what he’d like! Silly me for not being obseeeeervant!”

“I… A mutual acquaintance?”

“Yeeeessss! Your lovely boss!”

“Elias?”

Michael laughs. Well, more like he laughs in a way that sounds like he laughed ten minutes ago and ten minutes into the future, and then layered the sounds over one another like phyllo dough in a hellish baklava. It’s impossible, but Sasha hears it all the same. “Noooo!” he giggles. “Not in a million endless cycles of time or those dimensions yet unperceiveeeeeed!”

Sasha won’t even start on that statement, except that it isn’t Elias, which means it has to be—

Oh. Jesus.

Grubby, curmudgeonly, insomniac Jesus.

“Jon?” she gasps.

Michael laughs again, louder and higher so that a glass breaks somewhere in the distance. “Yeeeesssss! Poor Jonathan, always working so hard in that dismal cave you call an archive. I offered him office space that would appeal more to a sense of aestheticism, but he… Oh, what did he say? He thought it was a little heavy on the—” And here he speaks in an exact mimic of Jon’s dry voice when he says: “Impossible, improbable, and honest to God, Michael, my brain would shatter into a thousand pieces if I looked at that painting for another minute.” Michael dissolves into a fit of giggles before saying, “It’s just a lost Hieronymus Bosch painting, honestly.”

So Michael McMeatyhands is buying flowers for Jonathan Sims. Sasha’s having a hell of a time wrapping her head around that particular fact.

The infernal giggling stops and Michael seems to circle (spiral?) back to his previous predicament. Dying daffodils or suffering orchids?

For a lack of anything more to say, Sasha wordlessly points to a bouquet of slightly more enthusiastic-looking daisies, bobbing peacefully in a tin pail of water. “Those,” is all she can manage to say.

Michael looks thrilled. He actually hums some impossible tune (in full SATB with orchestral arrangement, all localised in his throat) as he puts the daffodils back, scoops up the daisies, and drops four quid into the stall owner’s hands with a wet, meaty thwap that the owner doesn’t seem to hear. Then, Michael swivels back toward Sasha and grins with the corners of his lips somehow curling up near his eyes like a particularly twisty Cheshire Cat.

“Thank you, Miss James!” he says. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“You’re… welcome? I think?”

But Michael’s already walking away, taking steps in a gait that doesn’t seem to match the rhythm of the rest of his body, like two halves of entirely different people drunkenly attempting synchronicity. Sasha half-expects his legs to walk away from his torso.

Toward Jon.

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face before heading in the direction of the Underground station.

- - -

The boss is dating someone. This, Tim is absolutely sure of. He’s watched Jon like a hawk for a week now, carefully comparing his moods in the morning with how early he left work the night before. Long work nights equal really bad mood. Long not work nights equal better mood with less shouting and calling people morons under his breath. This is good.

This is very good.

Tim is pleased with his enviable knowledge. Whoever somehow won the heart of the boss must be a pretty special person, or at least someone with an endless well of patience. Or maybe they’re Jon’s opposite? Either way, Tim’s got a hankering to send them a box of chocolate as a thank you for chilling the boss out and making him more tolerable to work with.

He tries to picture who this mystery person is, as Jon’s definitely not the type of person to take his personal life to work with him, inasmuch as he likes to take work home. Tim pictures someone easygoing, like a Margaritaville type. They balance Jon’s stick-up-assery out, maybe giving him massages over the back of the couch while Jon watches dry documentaries about the actual speed of drying paint. In his mind’s eye, Tim gives this person a hideously neon Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, but a winning smile that melts Jon’s ice-locked heart and makes it so he can’t help but smile back.

Tim likes them, whoever they are.

And when he gives Jon a little wink after dropping off a follow-up report, says, “Had a good night?” in a way more than a tiny bit suggestive, he only relishes a teensy bit in how dark Jon’s cheek become and how he ducks his head down. He mumbles something before actually thanking Tim for the report.

Yeah, this is awesome. Tim owes Jon’s mystery partner a thank you card and maybe a cake.

- - -

“Eliaaaaas.”

“Michael.”

Staring. Lots of staring. Cold, unflinching irises to a set of psychedelic, rotating disco balls set in a grinning face. Behind Michael, blue and purple streaks like the top of a wildberry Pop-Tart flash about and dance madly as Michael gives him the strangest of staredowns. Occasionally, his head appears to flip upside-down a few times on his swirly straw of a neck, and half of his teeth try to glitch through his lips in a way that Elias thinks of as an attempt at a sneer.

Finally, Elias sighs and calmly folds his hands on the top of his desk, ignoring the waves of tangible static pouring out onto the floor and possibly leaving a stain on the carpet. That’s going to be difficult to explain to the janitorial staff. “We may have to set some ground rules,” he says.

“I’ll bring him home by eleven,” Michael cackles in reply.

Elias narrows his eyes just as he feels Beholding roll its great omnipresent gaze in irritation.

“I mean to say that you’re not to interfere in Institute business any further than you are right now,” Elias retorts. “I should completely ban all Spiral-related statements on grounds of personal involvement.”

Michael grins. His smile rises up to his forehead like a crescent moon before rolling down the side of his face and hooking back up into the empty space where a normal mouth should be. “I can make this weirder. I can spiral any statement in this place. Every little word can bend in and around on itself like a pipe cleaner.”

Elias glares. “You won’t.”

“You can’t stop me!” Michael sings. “But I’ll keep courting your Archivist nice and proper as long as I’d like, or he’d like.”

“If this is an attempt to draw him into the Spiral’s influence—”

When Michael laughs this time, it seems to be drawn from every laugh that was ever laughed in the history of the muscular and diaphragmatic spasms that caused them. It’s so charged, so loud and explosive that Elias nearly winces at it. And when it’s over, there’s a vacuum of sound in its wake, so it takes a full minute for Elias to hear anything properly again.

Then, Michael taps his horrible fingers on Elias’ desk, eliciting a sharp tak-tak-tak-tak-tak that repeats in on itself fifty times over. “Not everything is about influence,” Michael hisses through too many teeth. “Not every attempt on a person is to draw them in and mark them, unlike what you do. Maybe sometimes, one of us can authentically like one of them. Is that too hard for you to understand, Man-of-the-Eye?”

Beholding tries to truly See Michael, but something about the Spiral’s nature twists the image.

“No,” Michael goes on, followed by another round of tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. “I rather like the Archivist. And he likes me. Aaaand if you try to get in the way of us, I will peeeeerrrrsonallyyyyy claw your precious little eyes out of your sockets. Understand?”

Elias doesn’t have time to make a reply. Michael is gone in a gunpowder-bright flash of light and a shock of sound. If there was a door, it’s gone. So he sits alone in his office, staring at the space where the Spiral was, and he feels something terribly empty and terribly familiar.

- - -

Jon picks their next date and opts for something as normal as the last one was strange. He chooses a walk at St James Park, eating ice cream and admiring the pelicans while Michael regales him with some bizarre story that sounds more like a backwards recitation of the Jabberwocky poem. He pauses in between stanzas to eat more of his pistachio ice cream with a delighted gusto before he presses on in gibberish.

Something about it makes Jon feel oddly warm and content, even as the early spring wind chills him.

Their last date was to Annwn, which Jon had originally suspected was in Wales. He was half-right; it was Wales as much as it was also the traditional world of the afterlife in ancient Welsh rites. It was rather lovely and Jon thinks very highly of their honey cakes, although he suspects he probably wasn’t supposed to eat them.

But Michael looks just as pleased to be in this park as he was to be in ancient Welsh paradise. His Jabberwockish story comes to an end and he finishes the rest of his cone before throwing the little paper ring into a nearby litter bin. Then, he stretches his arms out to the side and sighs in contentment. “Just bonny, as they say!” he cheers before reaching down and taking Jon’s free hand in his. It’s got a mind-boggling weight and an odd texture, while appearing to be a normal hand. At first, it gave Jon such an acute sense of discomfort that he found himself involuntarily withdrawing. Now, it’s just another aspect of Michael that he’s learned to like.

Love, maybe. He hasn’t thought on that overmuch.

Yet here they are, holding hands like all the other couples in the park. It’s so simple, so normal. Jon’s life has been so ridiculous lately that the fact he’s holding a Spiral avatar’s nigh-impossible hand on a date in a park is just… maybe the most normal thing that’s happened so far. Michael’s not trying to kill him or throttle his mind to the point of madness.

They’re happy.

Jon’s happy.

He smiles, and so does Michael. Yes, Michael’s smile is making an attempt to summit his head like Everest before flickering back into place like he remembers where he is, but he does smile and it’s perfectly authentic.

It could be weirder, and for once, that thought delights Jon.

#prompt fill #tma #the magnus archives #jonmichael #THIS WAS RLY FUN ;w;#tried to fix the wonky mobile formatting!

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 4 years

Note

Please don't. I can see Rami himself saying it many times

Prooobably not what you were looking for, but this is where the muse went. So, sorry? But maybe not? Enjoy? I hope 🤞🏼

Because Rami was between projects, it meant that the two of you had a little more free time than usual. It also meant that Rami’s sleep schedule could only be described as chaotic. Because you worked typical hours throughout the week, you still woke up within the realm of morning on Saturdays. Rami? He sometimes got up with you, but sometimes he would sleep well into the afternoon.

It was a little after 1:00 pm, and you had just settled back on the couch with some lunch to watch the next episode of Queer Eye. You smiled to yourself as the guys and Jonathan danced across the screen, but a loud clatter that clearly came from the vicinity of your bedroom made you pause the TV.

You listened, wondering if you’d really heard a noise when a low groan sounded down the hallway of your apartment. Brows drawn together in confusion, you put your plate on the coffee table and proceeded cautiously toward the noise.

As you walked through the entrance to your bedroom, you could hear Rami muttering from the bathroom, the door only half-shut.

You approached, then pushed open the door slowly only to see an underwear-clad Rami half-mounting the counter with his face nearly pressed to the mirror as he pawed manically through his dark hair.

“What’s going on?” you asked slowly, your eyes widening as his met yours in the mirror.

Rami’s eyes, which were normally lovely, were more on the bulging side at the moment and his pupils were so dilated that his irises looked dark blue.

Unable to hold his frightened gaze, you tried to puzzle out what had sent him into this frenzied state when a mess on the floor caught your eye. In his haste to attempt to put himself into the mirror, he had knocked your toothbrushes, toothpaste, and a small basket of miscellaneous hair products onto the floor.

“This can’t be happening. It just can’t be. I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Rami muttered, his rapid breath fogging up the mirror as he continued to stare intently at himself.

“Rami,” you stated harshly, trying to get him to focus on you. “What the hell is going on?”

With one last terrified glance at his reflection, he scrambled off the bathroom counter and came at you so quickly, you stumbled back into the wall.

“Do you see it? Do you?!” he asked in a panic, his head bent and his curls nearly shoved into your nostrils.

You put your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, back toward the edge of the counter.

“Is it lice?” you asked, completely baffled and slightly worried that you would need to spend the rest of your Saturday delousing the apartment. Where the fuck does a grown man get lice?

Rami whirled around and faced the mirror, reaching back and grabbing your wrist to tug you forward.

“Right there!”

You leaned in and looked at where his finger was pointing.

And that’s when you saw it.

A single strand of thick, coarse, white hair.

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have laughed.

You knew Rami was sensitive, especially when it came to his appearance, but in comparison with lice, a single grey hair didn’t seem so bad.

“What the fuck Y/N?” Rami growled as he pushed past you and exited the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

You stared at the closed door, flabbergasted by his outrage.

With a sigh, you went after him.

Turned out, you didn’t have to go far because Rami had retreated back into bed, the covers tucked up under his arms as he faced away from the bathroom.

Your eyes scanned over the man you loved so much—his tawny shoulders littered with freckles, his flexed bicep, clearly taut with tension, the dark hair that covered his lower arm, the same color as the dark hair on his head—his gorgeous, dark hair that was clearly going to be the end of him if you didn’t step in to fix it.

“Please don’t do this to yourself, Rami,” you began.

“How about you please don’t fucking patronize me right now,” he bit back.

Part of you wanted to yell, to tell him to fuck off with his narcissistic bullshit, but even though his tone was biting, you knew he was hurting.

“I promise I’m not. I only laughed because I thought you had lice.”

Rami’s shoulders twitched and you smiled, knowing he had just done the same.

“I don’t have lice.”

“Obviously lice would have been preferred to . . .”

“To the end of my fucking life? Yeah. It would’ve been.”

With a slight nod of dismissal, you padded over to the bed and made a spectacle of crawling over him to get to your side.

Rami clearly hadn’t meant to smile at your silly antic, so as soon as you pushed your hair out of your face and looked at him, he dropped his grin, replacing it with a scowl.

“Are we gonna talk this the long way out or the short way?”

He shrugged, his eyes their usual hue of greyish-blue now that his pupils had returned to normal.

You twisted your face up in thought and ran through a few options of what to say before settling on, “Is the grey hair about spoiling your looks, aging, or something I’m missing?”

“You think it spoils my looks?”

“Stop deflecting.”

Rami huffed, knowing that he wasn’t going to sidetrack you.

“Aging.”

“What about aging has you so upset.”

“It’s not so much aging as it is . . .” Rami trailed off, rolling over to stare up at the ceiling as he thought. His fingers came to rest on his chest and they drummed as his silence stretched on.

You reached out and brushed your fingertip over his temple before settling your hand on his shoulder.

“I feel like I just got started, you know? Like this is where I’ve fought for so long to be. But then how long do I get to be here before it’s all yanked away by something as stupid as getting old?”

“Rami. You’re beautiful. You look at least ten years younger than you actually are.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, reaching up to scrub at his face. “These past two years. I feel like I’ve aged a fucking lifetime and now look? I have!”

“I’m not patronizing you because clearly the grey hair is symbolic BUT it’s a single grey hair. Just one.”

“And then tomorrow there’s another. Then the day after another—”

“And then you’ll either dye your hair or let it go. I know Hollywood is . . . vicious, but first of all, you’re a man, not a woman. You’re allowed to age, which is of course total horseshit but I’m running with it right now—”

“I know. I know! I feel like an asshole for even feeling this way when women have it so much worse.”

“I know you do. But your feelings are valid too. So. That brings me to my second of all.”

Rami turned to look over at you and you continued, “Second of all, since when has acting been about how you look instead of how you make your audience feel?”

Rami blinked, then swallowed. Then blinked and swallowed again, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looked away from you, then back again.

“Mmhmmm. Tell me I’m wrong and your goals have changed. Tell me that the roles you’ve been dreaming of are meathead high-schoolers or smoldering male strippers?”

Rami’s lips quirked into a grin.

“Guess I finally need to let go of being called to do a reboot of High School Musical.”

You laughed and slid your hand across his chest, scratching lightly at the thin smattering of hair.

“I feel like we can still hold out for the third Magic Mike though.”

It was Rami’s turn to laugh, and he rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow so he could give you a sweet kiss.

“I’m sorry I was a dick.”

“Forgiven. I remember the first time I found a grey hair.”

Rami narrowed his eyes. “You? No way.”

“Ohhh way. Major way. I think I sulked for an entire week, convinced that my life was over.”

“What helped you get past that feeling?”

“An appointment with my stylist . . . and then three days later, I met you.”

Rami’s grin was large and infectious, spreading from his lips to his eyes and then encapsulating his entire face in its joy.

“So clearly . . . that means the best is yet to come.”

“Uh huh,” you smiled, reaching up to grasp his cursed curls, pulling him in for a kiss.

#rami malek #rami malek x reader #gender neutral #rami malek fluff #rami malek fic #mywriting

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bird-in-a-cage · 4 years

Text

@hotdadlicense, part two of your ask!

#45 “Lets get wasted and then go piss on his grave.”

Release

Hawkins had exactly two bars; the bar out east and the bar our west. The bar out east was called Dixies’, it was definitely the rowdier of the two, notoriously known for not carding so it was wildly popular with college kids returning home for the holidays desperate to escape the crushing boredom of family life, and old enough looking high school kids. The cops tended to leave it alone, maybe raiding once or twice a year but always with a few hours notice. As far as law enforcement was concerned if these kids were in a building drinking they weren’t doing it on the street, so less work for them and the community. For the greater good and all that crap.

The bar out west was called The Tavern. It was a little more old school. The wall behind the bar was lined with whiskey and bourbon bottles rather than tequila and different flavoured sambucas. It had an older clientele. Steve liked working there, whenever he came back from college for the holidays and wanted to pick up a few shifts here and there to help save money to move to Chicago permanently. He didn’t like drinking there though, the air was too smokey and there wasn’t a good looking person in sight, but in many ways they helped. Dixies’ was for fun. The Tavern was for work. Regulars seemed to like him too, only if they could ask about his father and what the old man was up to now, trying to rub elbows for a potential business deal or to get an invite to the Christmas party up at the cabin. Steve was more than used to it, played along just enough to bump his tips.

They didn’t need to know he hadn’t spoken to either of his parents in a good six months, and that his father was busy cosying up to some woman younger than Steve in Milan or that his mother was getting trashed daily in the Bahamas, making eyes at pool boys. Frankly Steve didn’t need to know that either, why they didn’t just divorce years back he never understood. But then, he never really understood his parents on any level.

So, whenever he would come back to the holidays it was purely to make money. He had an empty house to live in and didn’t have to pay a dime for apart from to put food in the fridge. He would rather stay in Chicago though. He liked his life up there. It was so different from being stuck in small town America where nothing exciting happened. The most exciting thing that had happened since he’d been away from January was a new stop sign getting erected by the elementary school. Chicago was alive. He had friends there. Friends he could sometimes make out with. Friends who actually wanted to be around him by choice and not by circumstance, something which he’d learned the difference pretty quickly after leaving the first time.

There wasn’t really anyone around from the old days. Nancy had moved to DC to pursue political journalism. Jonathan had found his way to Seattle, a place which by all handed down stories suited him perfectly. Even Tommy and Carol had gone. The rumor was they’d had a bit of a shotgun wedding after a pregnancy scare and skipped town to New Mexico to go stay with Tommy’s grandma.

Steve couldn’t imagine how fun that was.

He was tending the bar alone. Thursday night, so not exactly a hive of activity. His regulars had come and gone. Mr Jones was propping up the end of the bar, barely awake, not from drink just because he was old now and he just fell asleep sometimes. Things in Hawkins never changed. The entrance was pushed open, and in staggered a face Steve hadn’t seen in years, one he was certain had skipped town by now.

Billy fucking Hargrove.

The last time they’d seen each other was before Steve had left for college. They’d maybe fooled around once or twice that summer but it wasn’t anything serious. Turns out they were only beating the crap out of each other in high school because of some weird sexual tension that would spill over and become beat downs in the parking lot. Outside of the hallways, away from prying eyes, with a chance to actually use their words, they kind of got on. Even if Billy was still kind of a pushy asshole.

Billy didn’t look great though, decidedly drunk as he made his way over to the bar, dressed completely in black. Pants, shoes, belt, his old leather jacket and a plain shirt which he was making quick work of undoing a couple of the top buttons of. His hair was cut short, but not too short, and he’d gotten another piercing in the same ear as his signature hoop. But aside from that, he looked just the same. It was a real blast from the past.

“Whiskey please,” he muttered, rummaging around in his pocket for his wallet. He hadn’t noticed who was behind the bar yet.

“You know, legally, I’m not allowed to serve you if you’re already drunk,” Steve said with a smile, trying to be as kind as possible. He didn’t know what Billy was like now. He could still have that wicked hair trigger for all Steve knew. And he really didn’t want to have to deal with glass getting thrown around. It was a nightmare to clean up. Billy’s head popped up from his lap at the sound of Steve’s voice. His blue eyes were glassy. Like marbles. Just as loose too. He grinned and let on the bar. He was definitely using it for support.

“Stevie!” He slurred around his tongue. Yup, wasted. “What are you doin’ here? Nevermind, whiskey please ol’ friend. For me and everyone here! ‘Cause why the fuck not huh?” Billy slapped a dollar bill on the bar and fought with his jacket to rip it off. There was a light dusting of a boot mark on the side of his shirt, just above his hip. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“You got kicked out of Dixies’, didn’t you?”

“Mayybee,” Billy giggled, before staring right at Steve, waiting for his drink. “And the liquor store closed already so you’re my only hope ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal of mine!”

Steve sighed and checked the time on his watch, there was still an hour before he could close up. There was no way he was going to ply Billy with more alcohol, so he gave him a glass of water instead, which received a very annoyed look in return. “Drink that first then maybe.”

Billy muttered something dark under his breath but wasn’t so far gone he was going to start a fight. He grabbed the glass roughly and took a sip. His ring hit off the rim and echoed dull. “What you doin’ here anyway? Thought you’d escaped this shithole.”

Before Steve left they’d spoken about escaping this town. Billy was more desperate for it than Steve was. He had dreams of going back to California, staying near the coast, surfing everyday, maybe going to study mechanical engineering, something practical he could do with his hands. By the looks of it they were still just dreams. The story he’d heard from Dustin one time was, before the conversation was quickly changed, was his whole home life had gone to even more shit than it already was. Billy’s stepmom got sick so couldn’t work, his dad jumped back on the wagon with abandon so didn’t work, leaving Billy to make sure Max got through high school and all the bills were paid at the end of every month single handed.

“He’s still a dick, but he’s not that much of a dick anymore. Anyway, how’s the pizza there? Is it awesome?!”

“I come back sometimes,” Steve answered. Billy’s body rolled like a chuckle but no noise came out. “What’s with the look? You ditch the metal and go goth?”

“It was my dad’s funeral today.”

Well, if that didn’t just suck the fun out of everything.

“Shit. Shit man, I’m sorry. I was just having a joke-”

“No no it's okay,” Billy interrupted, smiling again like he hadn’t just dropped a complete bombshell into the middle of their stilted conversation. “I’m not commiseratin’. I’m celebratin’! The old cunt’s heart finally popped. Surprised they fuckin’ found one instead of a black hole…”

Billy drank his water back in one like it was hard liquor. It didn’t look like he was celebrating. Steve refilled the glass quietly.

“How is...everyone?” Steve asked. Because that’s what you did when things like this come up. Least that’s what he had done with funerals in the past. Extending empathy.

Billy shrugged. “Everyone’s fine. Happy to be rid of him.” He ran this thumb around the edge of the glass. It didn’t make a noise. “When’d you getoff?”

Steve felt himself get a little hot under the collar. A long time had passed since that summer, but the memories of it sometimes still remained. Echoes of it all would sometimes dance over his skin if someone he was hooking up with touched him certain ways, or kissed certain spots. As much as they’d hated each other in high school, it had made for some pretty fun make up sex. But no, Billy was far too gone for any of that. And Steve wasn’t about to start being that guy, hanging around his childhood home and hooking up with old flames because there was nothing better to do other than watch the corn grow. “About an hour. Why?”

Billy felt around in his pockets for what felt like an age before tossing his keys behind the bar into the corner. They landed with a metallic clatter against the floor. “I shouldn’t drive. Can you take me somewhere?”

“Bill-”

“Please?” For a moment Billy actually looked vulnerable. Steve had never seen that before. It didn’t suit him. Not in the slightest. “I’m a fuckin’ orphan now man just, please? Then I’ll leave you alone. And you can escape again. Just one place.”

There was that too. Steve had learnt through Dustin, who’d learnt through Will, who’d gotten it off Jane, who’d gotten it from Max herself, that Billy’s mom died when he was a kid. Apparently it was rough, but he never talked about it. Just wore it around his neck like a constant weight, let it wear him down and let the sadness feed the anger. Two snakes chasing each other’s tails. And Max wasn’t around back then to have seen it. It was all second hand stories heard through her stepfather. God only knew how much of a reliable narrator he was.

Steve really didn’t want to be a babysitter again, he’d left those days in the past even if Dustin still sent him a mother’s day card for a joke. He really didn’t want to have to babysit a drunk, emotionally unstable adult. But he couldn’t exactly leave Billy to his own devices. Not when he was like this. God only knew what he was capable of anymore.

“One place?” He reiterated, just to make sure. Billy’s glassy eyes lit up as much as they could.

“Just one. That’s all. I promise.”

“Fine,” Steve said, going for sounding annoyed by it all, but he probably just came off as normal. Taking care of other people. That’s what he did best. Even at college he was Dorm Mom, leaving out glasses of water and snacks and advil. It was something that was never going to leave him. Maybe he just had to accept that. Billy smiled, probably about as close to warm as he could manage and leant down to scoop his jacket off the floor.

“I’ll get you outside. Yous still drive that shitty beamer right?”

He was staggering away before Steve even had time to answer. His quiet night plans of just going to sleep were in tatters.

Billy was sitting on the ground when Steve finished and had locked up for the night, clearly not giving a damn about the dry dirt he was getting over his pants, or all up the side of Steve’s car where he was leaning, swigging from a small half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Steve couldn’t even pretend to not be annoyed. It was late, he’d been on his feet for six hours, and he wanted to go home and eat something. Not be taken on a drunken adventure.

“Where did you get that?” He asked, walking over to his car to open it up and get them both inside. He wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible. Billy scrambled to his feet without help but just creating a little cloud of dust.

“I had it’in my pocket the whoooole time. Don’t tell the barman. He might get mad at me.”

“Might huh?” God this was going to be a long night. It was already a long night. Steve got into the driver’s side, Billy sprawled himself into the passenger seat, somehow worse than before. He just had to keep reminding himself that Billy had a rough day. The roughest of rough days whether he would ever admit it or not. “So, where am I driving you too?”

“The church.” Billy took another swig and Steve wanted to just bat that bottle out of his hands already, but he didn’t want the car he used barely three months out of the year to stink of bourbon the next time he got in it and be reminded of all this.

“The church? There’s four churches in this town, you’re gonna have to help me out more on that one.”

Two bars. Four churches. Welcome to the midwest.

“The one with the tree...” Billy slowly spread his arms out to imitate branches, tilting his head to make the shape in his mind.

Steve wound his hand tight around the steering wheel, still trying to give the benefit of the doubt but this was already driving him crazy. “Yeah, no, still gonna have to work a little harder helping me out here man. I’m not a mind reader.”

BIlly sighed dramatic and loud, ripping a flyer from an inner jacket pocket and thrusting it under Steve’s nose for him to take. Neil Hargrove’s funeral flyer. Oh. Oh god they were going to do this? There was no way Steve wanted to sit in his car and listen to Billy cry or whatever while staring at a fresh grave. He signed on for a ride home, maybe once through the drive thru to sober the guy up, not get strapped into the emotional rollercoaster that was maybe about to start.

But they were both here. And Billy had just finished the bottle and tossed it out the door to smash to pieces in a far off part of the parking lot hidden by darkness. Steve couldn’t kick him out now. Nothing about who he was as a person would let him. He still sighed annoyed about the whole thing though, and started the engine, driving off to the edge of town where this church was. Billy was relatively quiet on the drive, staring out the window at passing street lights, warm yellow dots reflecting in his eyes. Steve wanted to make conversation, maybe ask how it had been, what he’d been up to, what his plans were now Max was getting close to graduating, but it didn’t seem right to do so. How do you really flow into a conversation about how you’ve been stuck in a place you despise for longer than you ever wanted to be, and you’re now an orphan to boot. Even though Steve never saw his parents, a fact he was more than used to since he turned thirteen, he still couldn’t imagine them dying. Just being left alone forever. They called a few times a year. They were horrible people but they were still his parents. It was something Steve didn’t want to think about too hard.

Billy still had enough common courtesy left to roll the window down a crack before lighting up a cigarette though. So there was that at least.

The church was quiet and dark. As it should be past midnight. Steve parked up out front and followed Billy’s staggering steps as he suddenly knew exactly where he was going and went with drunken determination. At least Steve hoped that he knew where he was going. He stayed a couple paces behind, had brought a flashlight just in case Billy stumbled or anything and needed to be picked up out of the headstones before someone called the police on them trespassing. Steve didn’t need that on his record, and he dreaded to think how long Billy’s must be by now.

Even in the dark Neil Hargrove’s stone looked brand new. It was light grey granite. Didn’t have a lot of words etched into it. Just his name, the dates of his life, and the words ‘son, father, husband’. Steve flashed his light over it, watched Billy stand to attention and lean over the fresh dirt, a leg keeping him stable on either side of it, body close to the stone. He laughed darkly and spat venom at the letters.

“You fuckin’ deserve this. Fuckin’ cunt.”

For what felt like slow, painful hours there were only the sounds of Billy’s heavy laboured breaths, little metallic echoes of a belt and zipper being undone, then the ungodly splash of piss, quickly evolving into an endless stream that just kept coming and coming. Steve was frozen to the spot he picked a few feet back. He wanted to at least not illuminate the for sure crime he was witness to now, but no part of him could move. Just in shock. Steve had joked about stuff like this sure, but do actually do it? Billy laughed as it just kept coming, cackling and howling in delight to no one but himself.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life to unload like this.

Eventually the stream came to an end, he audibly tucked himself away and spat again, before either the drink or the emotion of the day finally got too much, and he collapsed flat on his back in the grass. Probably where he’d stood earlier in the daylight to check his father was really dead. That seemed like a Billy thing to do. Steve waited a few beats before stepping closer, making sure not to shine the light directly into his glassy marbles and more aim it towards his heaving chest.

“Feel better?” was all he could come up with to say. What’s even normal to say after watching someone piss on their own father’s grave, no matter how much you hate them? Billy grinned wide, his lips reaching to his ears almost, and laughed. He sounded free.

“I’ve been waitin’ to do that alllll day!”

“You don’t say,” Steve couldn’t help but smile, and bent over to help Billy up from his sprawled state. He was quite the lump to move but was soon on his feet with his arm slung over Steve’s shoulder and moving without needing pulled. Steve held onto his waist to keep him upright and in a straight line. He smelt horrific.

“Can we get pizza? Really want pizza.” Billy slurred as his head found its way onto Steve’s shoulder easily, like all the fight and hate and decades of built up resentment and anger had literally just been pissed away.

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah man. We can get pizza.”

#prompt list #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #no smut in this one #still dirty though

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gideongrace · 4 years

Text

For @harringrovetrashh 😊😊😊💜💜💜😍😍😍

There's this tiny, little, oddly upscale pub a few blocks from the bakery that's got these dark red walls, deep, velvet lined booths and waiters that wear fancy all-black suits and ties.

And it also has truly excellent food, which is why they go.

And the drinks are cheap, which is why they stay. Often for hours and hours, just talking about nothing at all in particular and everything they can think of, often at the exact same time.

So one night, after hours of doing just exactly that with Billy, Nancy and Jonathan, Steve starts telling them the story of how Dustin met his girlfriend, Kali. He goes into extravagant detail on just how awkward Dustin was being and how hard he had to work to get him a date.

Nancy and Jonathan both laugh but Billy gives him this funny, one eyebrow raised, Oh, really? kind of look. Then he says, "Like you've never been weird."

"W-well, I… I never said I wasn't," Steve says less than gracefully. He would have loved to have sounded cool and unaffected, but he knows he missed that mark so bad it's three towns over, sleeping soundly, completely and utterly unaware of his existence entirely. It might as well be in the next state, hell, a whole other country, for how badly he's missed it.

So with this in mind, because of this, really, Billy, of course, keeps going.

"First day we met, you were so awkward," Billy says, tone teasing but eyes bright like he's decided to dig in, and Steve means really dig in, like full stop.

"Sounds about right," Nancy says knowingly.

Steve is stunned into silence.

Nancy laughs and reaches a hand across the table to put her hand over Steve's. "After high school, once you stopped with all that cool kid King Steve bullshit, you became the loveable, awkward dork you were always meant to be." She pauses and almost winks at him. Almost, but not quite. "I like you much better this way."

Billy laughs. "Wait. Excuse me, what? Did people actually call you that?"

Steve can feel his face getting embarrassingly warm. "They… ummm… they might have."

This time Jonathan speaks up. "Oh, they totally did. They called him 'King Steve' and Steve 'The Hair' Harrington—"

"Now that one I can believe," Billy interjects.

"He was the most popular kid in school because of his hair and the fact that his parents were never home," Nancy says, continuing on for Jonathan like he'd never even stopped, like they just share one brain now after all this time together, like she just knows exactly what he's going to say anyway.

But underneath the table Billy's knee knocks gently into Steve's and Steve knows without Billy having to say it in words that Billy gets how much it sucks that his parents were never around. He knows that Billy understands the kind of scars that leaves behind. He wishes Billy didn't, he wishes he were alone in this, that the scars he's got in all his dark and quiet, broken places weren't perfectly matched in all of Billy's dark and quiet, broken places, but… they are. And it's sweet, what Billy is doing right now.

Billy isn't that sweet for long, though; in the next instant he's right back to it, giving Nancy this dagger sharp grin and saying, "He 'was', huh?" He even licks his lips expertly, readying himself for the next juicy tidbit of gossip he thinks he's about to uncover.

Steve, unfortunately, knows better. Steve, unfortunately, knows that what Billy's about to uncover is more trap than treat.

And he's powerless to stop him.

"What changed?"

It's like watching a car accident a split-second before it even happens. Steve's insides brace for impact as Nancy's face twists like she's been hit, her lips turning down at the corners and her eyebrows pulling together. Steve can feel the way Jonathan's hands reach out and grab at his knees from across the table, can sense the way his whole body goes tense just by looking at him and the way his shoulders twitch.

Or, in a word, it's bad.

Nancy, without saying anything, looks away and takes a long, slow sip of her wine.

Jonathan, rather bravely in Steve's opinion, clears his throat and picks up the thread of the conversation. "He started dating Nancy."

Billy's eyes go wide. "What?" He waves wildly between Nancy and then Steve. "You two?" He looks caught between laughing and choking before settling on just straight up gawking. "How?"

Steve shrugs and looks over at Nancy. She refuses to look at him, instead deciding to look down at her hand that's still covering his.

She doesn't move it.

"I dunno," Steve says. He puts his other hand on top of hers. "There was just something about her."

The tension breaks as Nancy smiles at this and it's shy at first but as she starts to lift her head, it grows into something bright, something warm. "He was sweet. Even though he pretended to be this cool jock, I knew he was a good person. A good man."

Billy just looks confused. "So…" he starts but trails off and Steve can tell he's trying to find a nice way to ask why they ever broke up if they loved each other so much.

Rather than wait out another live and in person car crash, Steve decides to just answer his unasked question and skip that part. "We broke up for a couple of reasons," he says and as he does so, he pulls his hand away from Nancy's, but he keeps his eyes on her.

She continues the story, picking it up like they're weaving a freaking friendship bracelet or something.

"First," she says, her voice still cracking, even after all this time, "my best friend Barb died. She, uh—" The crack becomes a break and her hand slinks off of Steve's to rest with Jonathan's on the other side of the table, where it belongs.

"Drowned," Steve says. "In my pool. At a party."

Next to him Billy goes tense and Steve's not a mind reader but he knows exactly what Billy is thinking. He's thinking, Shit, I should never have asked. He's thinking, Shit, this is my fault. Billy breathes out once and it leaves Steve with this ice cold feeling, this worry over what Billy's about to do, but then, surprisingly, maybe even to Billy himself, Billy melts. He wraps an arm around Steve's shoulder and draws him close, switches from ice to fire in an instant and starts pouring warmth into Steve just by gently touching him.

Steve still feels cold, feels, sees, smells cold and imagines chlorine and bright, neon blue water but he stays quiet, letting someone else pick up the story.

Nancy carries it on. "We…" She bites her lip and the hand holding the stem of her wine glass tightens until it's gripping hard enough Steve thinks he's about to hear the glass start cracking. "We were distracted. We weren't paying attention. She hadn't even been drinking, she just slipped and hit her head and fell in and…" Her hand drops from the glass and she shrinks in on herself. Jonathan wraps around her without even consciously seeming to decide to do so, it's just an instinct buried somewhere at the core of him to be protective and kind. And especially over Nancy, especially now.

And Billy, Billy's just as protective but he's ten times more wary. Billy's whole body goes tight again, goes rigid and under the table, next to Steve's thigh, Billy's hand clenches into a fist like he's just waiting for something to fight, for a monster to appear out of the table roaring and screaming, with its long, sharp claws brandished and teeth gnashing viciously. Or like he's expecting a man with a shotgun to come barrelling in through the front door and demanding everybody get down and make real good friends with the floor and they better do it real quick.

It's like he needs something, or someone, to fight. Like he's useless in this situation as it is.

"So how did… when did… I mean, how did that lead to..." Billy stammers. His face is carefully blank or at least it's trying to be, but Steve can see the confusion and the panic peeling at the edges. He knows Billy too well not to, at this point.

Not that he's about to mention it, of course. Billy hates getting accused of having emotions in public, even if that 'public' is only a small bar filled only with two other very drunk patrons and a bored-looking bartender who seems much more invested in whatever's happening on her phone's screen than in anything that's happening in the bar.

"Well, we didn't exactly… handle it well as a couple," Steve says, which is the kindest understatement he thinks may have ever been spoken in the English language. Maybe in any language.

"And I was kind of in love with someone else…" Nancy says.

"Yeah," Steve says. He feels frozen in time, feels glued to his seat, until he looks up and sees the way Nancy is staring at Jonathan and the way Jonathan is staring back at her, like they're the only two people who exist for each other in the whole entire universe and he feels himself settle back down into his bones. He can't be upset when they look at each other like that, he just can't.

He can admit, however, he is big enough to admit, that sometimes it still stings a little, what happened between them, no matter how old the hurt might be. He is big enough to admit that there have been a few times, on his worst days, when Nancy's voice in his head chimes in with his father's and he hears her calling him 'bullshit'. He hears her asking him, begging him, pleading with him to just tell her why she wasn't good enough, why after sex with her just one time, he lost all interest. He didn't have a word for it then, didn't know what 'asexual' meant, then. And he didn't know how to be honest, then, either. With her or with himself.

But sometimes he's still just a little mad about it, internally (and only ever just internally) but then he sees them looking at each other like that and he can't be mad. He sees them looking at each other like that and he knows that everything the three of them went through together after Barb died was worth it. Because he's not really ever been mad at her, anyway, but at himself. For not having the right words. For not being honest. For not knowing.

But he knows now. He's honest now. And she has Jonathan. And he has Billy.

So he unclenches, a little.

And then a lot.

At his side, Billy's fist loosens up until it's just his hand and his hand starts stroking a long, soothing line along the seam of Steve's jeans like he can burn into Steve's skin through the fabric and Steve leans into the touch, pretends he can feel Billy's strong, sure fingers against his skin and he feels himself breathe, well and truly breathe properly for the first time in a while.

He leans into Billy with his whole body and allows himself a moment to just enjoy it—Billy's warmth and the sure certainty he brings to every moment he's not looking for something to fight—before tuning back in to some conversation that seems to have progressed without him to hear Nancy saying, "I will never doubt again," in this soft and dream-like way that sounds like she's quoting something Steve is sure he's heard at least a hundred times before and yet is still having trouble placing.

Jonathan clearly knows exactly what it's from, though because on hearing it he smiles at her, his expression just as soft, just as dream-like, and he says, "There will never be a need," like this is some commonly repeated joke the two of them share.

And who knows, maybe it is?

Billy, for his part, snorts. "Really? The Princess Bride? You guys were watching The Princess Bride when you first said 'I love you' to each other?"

Nancy scowls at this but she's still all wrapped up in Jonathan so the look goes nowhere fast. "And what's wrong with The Princess Bride, huh?"

"Nothing," Billy says with this smile Steve just knows means trouble. "It's just a much nicer story than ours and I'm jealous, that's all."

And Steve knows he's not going to be able to stop Billy from telling it, either, so he doesn't even bother. Doesn't even say a word.

"The first time we said 'I love you' to each other was after a fight in a grocery store that started with Steve throwing—" Billy stops short to giggle like a freaking five year old. "That started with Steve throwing down an avocado and shouting"—again, more giggling— "'Fuck the avocadoes! We're leaving!'"

This time it's Nancy's eyes that go wide and Jonathan that says, "Wait. What?"

And then Steve and Billy have to explain that story.

#billy hargrove #stranger things #harringrove fanfic #steve harrington #asexuality #asexual #asexual fanfic

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