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#such a good chapter for Jonathan

thanks-for-the-crabapples · 10 months

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the voice acting at the beginning of today's dracula daily was *chefs kiss*

#I got chills #such a good chapter for Jonathan #dracula daily #June 25 #re: dracula #mine

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plush-rabbit · 9 months

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Too Soon

Part 5 to the Pouts and Spots Series

Word Count: 6.1K

A/N: sorry this is so late!! im like going through it and it sucks!! but here it is!! next chapter is gonna be my personal favorite and i wanna finish up cookies and cream mainly to get to one line that i really wanna use

The book is held carefully in your hand, spread just enough for you to catch the words, but not too far to ruin the paperback cover. Words turn over in your head, voices filling those for the characters, cadence heavy in your thoughts, but when spoken out loud to nobody but yourself, the words fall flat- so you’ve chosen to remain silent. Your home is quiet, the moaning of pipes and life outside from your walls echo through, and it’s the perfect background noise save for the barking dog that howls loudly in the confines of its home.

Pinched between your finger and thumb, the page turns, and your eyes skim over the words. Your tongue traces over the letters, and you startle when your phone buzzes beside you. You close the book gently, and place it beside you, careful to not let any of the corners be bent. It rests flat on the armrest of the couch, and you reach for your phone that continues to buzz harshly in the soft of your hand.

The name reads “Johnathan”.

You swipe at the green phone symbol and put the phone close to your ear.

“Hello,” you rasp out, your mouth dry and tongue rough.

Your name is called, nervously with only a hint of confidence laced into the last sound. “Hi, it’s Johnathan.” You can tell that he almost immediately regretted adding in that sentence. “What are- What’s up?”

You smile and tilt your head closer to the phone. “Hi Johnathan,” you tell him, stretching out your hand and looking at your nails, unpainted and pink. “I’m just at home, reading.” You flex your hand and think to yourself that you should paint your nails. “What about you?”

“Oh- I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to interrupt your reading.” He says it as a nicety, but there’s no genuine sorrow in his words. and you bring your hand down.

“You’re good,” you reassure. “I needed a break anyway.” You glance at the book and trace your finger over the title. Your finger traces over the curves and sharp lines, up and down, and down and up. “The words were starting to look like words,” you mumble, tipping at the last point of the letter. “What are you doing?”

“I just got out of work-” and as if to prove himself, he yawns. “I’m-” the yawn still stretches through the words and you scoff a laugh. “I didn’t mean to yawn. I’m just,” he sighs, “tired is all.”

Pulling the phone away, the screen lights with the call and in the corner, the time reads much later than you had expected it. And to show how late it is, you yawn, and turn yourself away from the phone. You pull the phone close to you and blink away the tears. “You’re out late. Did you get a new schedule?”

“No,” he says dejectedly. “I’m close to something big, and the later I stay, the earlier I can finish the project.” You bite your tongue to refrain from asking anything about the project. “We’re close, but not close enough. But these late nights are killing me.”

“You’re there practically all day and every day. It’s definitely going to take it out of you,” you sympathize. You look over to the book, the spine unblemished and only little indentations give away that the book is being put into use. “You gotta see people other than scientists, ya know.”

He falls silent. “I’m sorry,” he tells you again, and this time, he sounds apologetic. You wait for him to continue. “I know that we’re-” he pauses- “something. I haven’t meant to be busy, but- it’s work and I can’t just stop working and-”

“It’s okay, Johnathan,” you tell him. “I hadn’t meant it to sound backhanded.”

“You said you were reading?” You hum into the phone. “What were you reading?”

“Um.” You turn to your book, mouth pulling into a thin line. “It’s kind of difficult to explain. It’s about cowboys? It’s supposed to be a classic,” you tell him.

“You think I could borrow it once you’re done?”

You snort a laugh, and then slowly let small giggles escape past your lips. “You never struck me as the cowboy type.”

He scoffs. “Why because I’m a scientist?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

“I will have you know I loved horses as a kid,” he says boldly.

“Really?” You ask not quite believing him.

There’s a pause. “Sort of,” he confesses and you smile, leaning into the back of the couch. “Their teeth freaked me out but I’m sure I owned a toy horse.”

You laugh and stare at the decorative pillow at the end of your couch. “I had these toy lions that I loved. They were like figurines for miniature sets, I think. They didn’t do anything special but I liked them a whole lot.”

“Do you still like lions?”

You shake your head to no one. “I’ll watch a video about them, but I’m not out there buying lion themed things, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. In the background, you can hear a car honk and you scratch over your knee mindlessly, the sharp curves of your nails leaving your skin with a light sting. “We should go out again.”

“You think so?” Your feet are flat on the ground as you stand up, grabbing at your book gently and letting it rest flat over the coffee table. You walk away from the living room. The bedroom door creaks open and it clicks shut. You’re in complete darkness, and only memory serves to be your guide.

He clears his throat. “I want to take you out.”

You step on your rug, the plush soft and a comfort compared to the cold floor. “Now it sounds like you want to kill me, Johnny,” you mumble.

“We should go on another date.” Your hands stretch out, the pads of your fingertips touch against the edge of your nightstand, and your fingertips bump against a candle that sits close to the edge. You hum in encouragement. “We can get coffee and go for a walk.” You find the body of the lamp and trace up the cool glass. “Afterwards, we can come back to my place-”

Your hand bumps against the lampshade harshly and you feel the lamp tumble. You gasp and both of your hands reach. The phone falls to the floor and you can hear his concern, cracked and trembling with static, through the phone. You rush to turn the lamp on and a warm glow fills the room. You blink away from the light and reach to grab your phone. You wipe the screen against your shirt and clear your throat.

“Sorry, sorry,” you repeat. “I um- I accidentally tipped the lamp over and I let go of my phone-”

“You’re okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum. ‘I’m good, sorry.” You pat the palm of your hand against your cheek, and in your chest, your heart drums rapidly. “You were-” your voice comes out in a squeak and you clear it away- “you were saying?”

“You know, after coffee, maybe we could come back to my place and-” he lets out a shaky breath- “watch a movie?”

Your smile stretches and you collapse onto the bed, trying to stave off the burning feeling that you have. “Yeah, definitely. When are you free?”

“Would you like to meet this Sunday? I should be able to have a day off.”

With your arm stretched out, you grab at your pillow, the silk case crumpled into your hand, and nails scratching at the fabric and feeling the soft cushion that rests underneath. “Sunday works,” you say quietly. He makes a noise, and you stare at your ceiling, a patch of white paint stains the blade of the fan. “How was work?”

“Work was good,” he answers softly. “I’ve been closer to figuring out how the-” he stops himself and you frown. “I’ve been busy and things are making more and more sense, but I still need to figure out how to actually make it work.”

He doesn’t want to tell you about it. That sentiment doesn’t stray away once you acknowledge it, it only lingers, and it feels like a heavy weight on your chest. You let go of the pillow case and rest your hand over the soft swell of your stomach. Your hand finds comfort over the fabric of your shirt. “I hope you figure it out soon,” you tell him earnestly. The lack of information that he shares with you can only be blamed on your profession and the way that the two of you had met. You sit yourself up, the bed creaking under the change, and you notice how the dog had stopped barking, leaving you in silence save for Johnathan on the other side of the phone.

“I just got home,” he tells you and you hear the car turn off. His words linger, and leave room for you to talk.

“I’m glad that you got home safe.” You stare at the corner of the bed, where the comforter is wrinkled and where your blanket is folded neatly, corners meeting corners. “I think I’m going to head to bed. You should do the same.”

“Oh- Yeah, of course. I- I’m sorry for keeping you.” You don’t reassure him this time, instead, you keep quiet, not a click of your tongue nor a sigh escapes from you. “Goodnight,” he says your name with the same gentleness that he always has, and you lean into it.

“Night, Johnathan.” The bed whines as you move, and in the corner where the wall and the ceiling kiss, you spot a spider, still and silent, and you watch it. And in the darkness, it disappears, and you can only imagine it in your mind until you think you feel something phantom over you.

The door clicks behind you, and you roll your lips to stop a smile from forming, but the effort is futile as your grin grows. “Johnathan,” you chirp, taking a step forward to look around, “your place is a mess.” You catch his eye and he visibly winces.

“I- I haven’t had the chance to tidy up.” He picks up a pillow, and attempts to fluff it. It’s placed delicately on the corner of the couch, and you both watch as it flops over. You huff a silent laugh over it.

You hum, taking a peek over to the kitchen. “Do you want me to take off my shoes?” You tap your heels against the floor and grab at a severely thinned pillow. The pad of your index finger traces over the edge, the fabric worn and threads pulled along.

“No, no. It’s fine. It’ll give me motivation to clean after I return.” He edges further into his home, and you follow, tossing the pillow back onto the couch without much care for delicacy unlike the one given to its match.

“Oh, so knowing that I was going to visit wasn’t motivation?” You cock your head to the side, and lower yourself to a squat to read over a stack of books that are cluttered onto the end table.

“That’s not- I was busy.” You give him an impish grin, and he rolls his eyes. “I haven’t been home in a minute, okay?”

Your smile falters, and your fingertip traces along a spine. Looking over to him, you quickly turn away when he catches your gaze. “Long days at the office?” You ask, focusing on a book. “Hah, “Does Any Of This Matter?’” You tap the spine of the book. “That’s funny.”

His gaze is resting on you, a soft look that makes your skin itch. “Yeah,” he breathes out. There’s movement in the corner of your eye, and you force yourself to read the other titles despite the lack of amusement. “Long days.”

“If you want-” you rise slowly, bending your leg behind you to give yourself some relief- “you can just rest and we can go out some other day.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.” And with his body betraying him, he lets out a yawn that he hides behind his hand far too late. Looking at you and your disheartened smile, he waves his hand. “I want to go out today.”

You force yourself to look at a whiteboard that is mounted over a counter. Black marker draws equations that only make your brows knit together. Orange and green are contrasted against the black and white. In the bottom-left corner, there is a crudely drawn person near a black swirled circle.

“Hm-” you cross your arms over your chest- “I don’t understand any of this.”

He laughs loudly, and his hands cup over your shoulders. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he tells you, giving what you’re sure is meant to be a reassuring squeeze.

Your mouth drops and you practically hurt your neck to whip around to look at him. He refuses to meet your eyes, and can only smile coyly. “You are so rude to your guest.” You pull away from him and swat at his arm. You can’t help but want to wander all over his flat, to peek at every nook and cranny, wanting to see more of him, the him that he is when he’s alone and no one is watching. Glancing at an empty water bottle, you find that he lets things clutter around him. A part of you entertains the idea of getting to clean his home together, to sit with him after a long day and have his arms wrapped tight around you. You shake your head at the thought and turn your attention elsewhere.

A bulletin board decorated with various images and newspaper clippings catches your attention and you let yourself be taken to where it hangs. There are sticky notes with random numbers stuck to the bigger poster that’s been layered with other items. You pinch over the edge of an old newspaper, and suck in your bottom lip. “I didn’t know there’s gonna be a new Alechmax in India.” You turn to him, your smile a poor mask for the anxiety bubbling in you. “You’re not getting transferred, right?”

“No!” He yelps, before clearing his throat. “No,” he says in a more controlled tone. “They’re hiring in the area. I might have to visit in the future, but even then it's just a possibility.”

You nod to yourself, and walk around his flat, peeking at every loose leaf of paper, and you can feel his eyes on you. In the kitchen area, you look at the refrigerator. You smile, looking at him with your finger pressed against the photograph. “Awe! Is this you?” He stands with other scientists, all pressed side-to-side, and his smile is small and stiff, shoulders hunched and head slightly bowed.

Soft footfalls quickly approach where you stand, and when you look up, he’s peering at the photo. “It was taken around the time when the new batch of scientists- including me- had started.”

You bump your back against his chest, and his hand wraps around your hand. “I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” you muse. Against you, he shrugs. “We can always take pictures together, too, ya know?”

“We can?” He asks in a timid voice.

“You know, I may be a writer, but I can also take really good photos.” You lift up your free hand and make a motion of pressing a camera button. “Haven’t gotten any complaints about my skill.” His hand squeezes around yours and your grin stretches. “Anyways, you gotta go change, remember?

“Hm? Oh- Yeah. Right, right.” He lets go of you and you turn around. “I’ll be-”

Something else grabs your attention, if it were just one, you could have spied on it on your own, but when grouped with so many, you have to ask. “Why do you have so many cages?” You brush past him and lower yourself, trying to find something inside the clear plastic boxes. They’re not labeled, and nothing seems to be inside. “They’re all empty,” you mumble. You tap against the clear screen, and your fingerprint is left behind.

He grabs you, pulling you away and putting your attention elsewhere. You gasp in shock, and give him a confused look. “Snakes,” he answers, practiced and perfected.

Your reporter senses tingle. “Snakes?” You ask, not believing the story, giving a side glance to the cages.

“Yeah, snakes.” His hands leave your body and you watch him. “Do you want a drink? I never offered you- That was my bad. You want water? I’ll get you water.”

“Johnathan,” you start, and he turns towards you. His eyes are scanning you, and he takes a brief look over to the empty cages. You follow his gaze, and return to him. Taking a deep breath, you take a step closer to him, and pull down the hem of his shirt. “We’re already getting drinks, remember? You need to change. I have an appointment early tomorrow, so I can’t really be out so late.”

“Right,” he breathes out. His eyes glance to the cages and you bite your tongue to avoid asking him anything more. “Let me go get changed,” he mumbles. “I need- I’ll be quick.” Without waiting for an answer, he brushes past you, and behind you, the cages sit empty.

Left alone, you walk back to the couch, grabbing at the thinned pillow and placing it on your lap. You fiddle with the corners, and turn to the end table, the lamp surrounded by books and binders, and giving a quick glance to the room that Johnathan disappeared into, you grab the binder and have it rest on top of the worn pillow.

You’re careful to open it, and your caution pays off when loose paper is at the front of the binder. It’s scribbled out notes, corners bent and highlights made upon certain lines. There’s a business card stuck through a ring. You read the name- Dr. Owens. You stick your tongue out and move on. You find more of what you found in the beginning. Notes that are scribbled out, some crossed out in angry pen strokes or in permanent black marker. Equations that make your head spin, and you flip through each page with care to not let anything slip out. Some pages are decorated with sticky notes that are wrinkled and brightly colored against the black and white pages- letters, question marks, exclamation marks, and doodles decorate each sticky note.

Whatever Johnathan has chosen to write about in this binder is not your concern. You don’t stop to read past a few words of what you can recount from what he’s said previously. In the middle of one page is a recipe, the words smudged, and smeared across the page. You wonder if he’s already made it, and another wonder passes in your mind if it’s something that he would like to do with you. On one page, is a roughly drawn picture of a spider. You stare at the black-inked spider, your finger tracing over it, practically covering half of the drawing.

You hear a rush of steps, and when you look up, the binder is snatched from your hands, and it is snapped shut, and held protectively in his arms.

He wears a white button-up, decorated with black squares and black outlined squares. It’s tucked into his pants. “Oh, you’re ready,” you chirp. The pillow is placed beside you, and you walk past him, standing by the door. “You got everything?”

“Why did you look at it?”

You scoff, a thin smile stretching across your face. “I was bored-” you shrug- “it was just there and I thought-”

“You thought what? You thought you could take a look at my things?” His tone makes you stand a bit straighter, your hands curling inwards, and your mouth goes dry.

You brows knit. “Johnathan-”

“I invited you here so you could wait-”

“You didn’t mind me looking around before-” You spit out, confused about what is unfolding.

“Because I was here,” he snaps. “I was letting you walk around, not open up my things. I don’t look through your things.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I just- It looked interesting. I’m sorry, Johnathan.” You know that you shouldn’t have looked through it and he has every right to be upset, but you don’t enjoy this feeling of him looking down at you.

“His hand slides through the air and you bite the inside of your cheeks. “Don’t touch things that aren’t yours. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

You feel your ears burn. “I’m sorry-”

“What did you see?” You turn your head, and your nails bite into your palms. “What did you see?” He repeats.

“Just equations and doodles. Nothing else that I could have understood,” you say meekly. You hate how you feel right now. You hate that it’s him that’s making you feel so small.

“I don’t know why you thought it was okay to look through my things,” he hisses out, and you never thought you’d see him so upset- “but I didn’t give you permission. You come into my home and touch everything and-”

“I’m sorry,” you say loudly, stomping your foot on the ground, and finally he stops. “I can’t do or say anything more about it.” Your face burns, and your hand has begun to shake and even with your nails piercing into your skin, you can’t stop the trembling. “You know what-” you turn your head and try not to feel cold in his home- “you said it yourself that you’re overworked and tired, and obviously I’m not helping, so I’m leaving. We can-” you turn to him, and the stress is leaving, his face softening, and worry replacing any previous emotion- “pick this up some other time. But I’m gone. I’m going home.”

The doorknob is cold in your hand, and it twists softly and you let it go with suddenness when a hand holds your wrist. “Wait, no.” You stare at the door, finding paint staining over the metal. “I’m sorry. I don’t know- It’s just that there are important notes in there and I shouldn’t have left it out-”

“It’s fine, Johnathan,” you say in a tone that makes it quite obvious that it is indeed not fine. “I’m just gonna go home. It was my fault; I shouldn’t have looked through it.” You stay silent, and weakly, you pull your arm free, and he lets it go without resistance. Your teeth glide over your bottom lip. “Good luck with your research or whatever.” You give a wave without looking back, and keep yourself focused on the doorknob, and your hand wraps around it once more, and it opens easily.

You don’t hear the door close behind you, nor do you care to look back. Your ears burn and your chest is hot. The outside air is crisp, and you keep your gaze on the sidewalk, carefully stepping out of people’s way by the position of their shoes. You focus on the weeds that bloom between the cracks. And you only stop when a hand grabs at yours.

Tears prick your eyes, and you pull your hand back to you, ready to spit venom at the other person, only to find Johnathan looking at you, out of breath, and glasses askew.

“You walk fast when you’re upset,” he says between breaths. You stare at him, your eyes wandering to the other side of the street. He follows your gaze, and he reaches for you again, only to stop when you step away from him. “Can we talk, please?”

“I’m going home,” you tell him. “Go get some rest or something.”

“Let me buy you a drink. I- I told you that I wanted-”

“I don’t want a drink,” you snap. And just as quickly, you regret it. You turn away from him, and wait at the crosswalk. You watch the pixelated red hand, and when it turns into the off-white figure of a man, you walk quickly, rushing between people, hoping that he isn't following you, but wishing that he is. You hope that you’re someone worthy of being chased.

Your stomach drops when he grabs at your hand and walks with you. “Then let me take you home,” he says in a whisper. “At least let me do that.”

“I don’t want you to,” you tell him, still walking with him hand-in-hand.

There’s far too many people, your body is growing restless. You walk without purpose, your steps quick and heavy and he follows without a sound, his hand neither tightening nor softening his hold as if in fear that once you’re reminded of him, you’d pull away again. You round the corner of a building, the back of it is empty save for the stray cat that naps over the dumpster. With his hand still wrapped around yours, you step away from him, your arm stretched and your hand clammy.

You take a deep breath and look at him, eyes wide and already filling with tears. He takes a step closer to you, concern creasing over his features. “I’m sorry,” you say in a choked voice. “I shouldn’t have looked through your place.”

Johnathan shakes his head. ��You were just curious,” he tells you in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you.” You turn your head and blink rapidly. His hand lets go of yours and he cups at your face, his thumb arching over your cheekbone. “Please, don’t cry.”

Shaking your head, you tilt your head away from his hand. Your fingertips find themselves pinching over the bridge of your nose, your eyes shut tight where light doesn’t peek, and where organic shapes are the only thing that you can see. “I just wanna go home, Johnathan.”

“Let me take you home, then. We can walk back and-”

When you open your eyes, the sun blinds you for a second. “No.” You hold your hands in front of you, your palms facing him. You turn your head, and let your hands fall. “I just want to be alone for a minute. I know that if I go back with you and we talk, we’ll just-” you stop yourself- “I just-”Your hands shake, a trembling that’s rapid and and makes you feel too seen, too vulnerable, and with the way that his hand stretches out as to grab yours, only makes you want to retreat away from him.

Something speeds by, a gust of air and a mechanical whir to it that has Johnathan reaching towards you. His arms wrap around you, and you’re pressed against his chest, your vision clouded by blue until you shift, pushing yourself away from him. You look up in time to see Spider-man swing by, his attention focused on whatever had just rushed by. Your hands reach for your phone, and you glance at the battery- seventy-eight percent. It’s enough.

You turn to Johnathan, and stare down at your shoes- while not ideal for chasing around the city’s web-slinger, it’ll have to do. Looking back up at him, you find that he’s staring at you, no movement, and no sound. You turn to look the way that Spider-man had just swung towards. You turn back to him, your phone held tight in your hands. “I gotta go,” you tell him.

“You’re going to chase after Spider-man and some villain of the week rather than talk to me.” His tone is a mixture of hurt and accusatory, as if you’re doing something wrong- again. And you know for sure that you are this time, you know that you should go back with him and talk it all out, but the thought of being alone with him right now makes you upset.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Yeah, I will. I am. Get some sleep or something, we’ll talk later.” Your heels spin against the concrete, and you rush to chase after Spider-man.

As you trudge down the sidewalk, your camera is heavy around your neck and despite the padding, the straps make the soft flesh around your neck raw. All you want right now is to collapse on your bed, or take a shower. You hum, a shower would be nice. In your pocket, your phone buzzes- something that it’s been doing all day. If it’s not emails, it’s notifications from social media, and if it isn’t that, it's phone calls and messages. You answered the people who you wanted to talk to but when the name ‘Johnathan’ appeared, you promptly ignored it, the buzzing thick in your pocket and continuous.

You should talk to him. It was a fight- an argument, really. But you can’t look at him right now, nor do you have the energy to talk to him. You’ll figure it out in the morning. You’ll have a light breakfast and message him some type of apology and then he can make the difficult decision of replying or not.

Closer to your home, on the steps you see someone and you halt. Your hands grab at your camera, and you tap your fingers against the sides. You could turn around, find some other entrance. If people can use fire escapes for something other than their intended purposes, so can you. The heel of your shoe scrapes against the concrete, and before you can spin on your heel, the person looks up and sees you.

Jonathan stands up and pulls the hem of his shirt down, and you hold on tighter to your camera. Canines worry at your lip, the flesh soft and tender underneath the sharp points. He takes a step toward you and you glide your foot against the concrete, ready to run, ready to look at anyone but him. But he falters, and his shoulders slump, and the sad look on his face makes you walk nervously up to him.

You say nothing, and he stands at the bottom of the steps, and you stand above him, and he says nothing. Neither of you make a motion to talk to the other, and a part of you wants this to end. You don’t like the difficult bits, you like it easy. You like not having to worry about what the other person is thinking of you, but now, it’s all that you can do. You hold your breath, unable to think of anything other than the beginning of your supposed coffee date.

He points towards his neck. “When did you get your camera?”

Covering the lens of the camera with the palm of your hand, you tap your foot against the stair. “I was lucky Spider-man was near the office. I was able to pick up a spare.” He nods, and you move down a step when another tenant enters the apartment complex. “Do you want to come up?” He nods, and follows closely behind you.

Your apartment is cozy- littered with personal objects and mail that sits at the coffee table. The spare camera joins the mess of your stuff on the table. He makes a motion to his shoes and you wave your hand, not caring at the moment, only wanting to distract yourself. He nods, and slips them off. You keep him in the corner of your vision, watching as he walks gently to the couch, sitting at the end of it with his legs bent and knees and thighs close together. The blanket that you use is crumpled and he sits beside it, grabbing at the corner of it and testing it between his fingers. You hold your breath and walk toward the fridge, opening it and pulling out two bottles of water. The frost over its wipes away with your touch.

“Were you waiting long?”

“Since 8.” You look at the clock on your stove. It’s 9. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I was busy with work.” You're quick to get to the point. “Where there’s Spider-man and a villain, there’s always bound to be some sort of danger.” You place the water in front of him and sit a cushion apart from him. Your water is in your hands, the cold slowly numbing and wetting your palms. “Got some good pictures, still and all.”

His eyes scan you over and you look away. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” You press into the bottle and a droplet of water traces down your arm.

“I’m serious.” He turns himself to look over to you.

You hunch over, your forearms resting over your thighs. “I’m not in a hospital, am I?”

He swallows. “I don’t like how we left things.”

You sigh and dip your head down, before lifting it with weariness. “I already apologized, what more do you want?” The water bottle is placed carefully on the floor, and even with your carefulness and gentleness, it still falls over.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” Your lips pull into a line and you grab a bunch of the blanket and dig your hands into the soft plush. “That was wrong of me. But-” you push yourself against the back of the couch and he stops. “I apologize.”

Your chest rises with your inhale, and falls down at the quick release. “What more do you want me to say, Johnathan?” You turn to him and he pushes his glasses up by the bridge. “Let’s just forget it happened. I won’t go to your place and look through your things. We’ll just- I don’t know- meet at my place. It’s not like I’m doing anything other than journalism.”

He says your name delicately, whispered as if saying it out loud would be too much and said with strain as if your name is too heavy for his tongue. “That’s not it. I’m really sorry.” His voice breaks and you flinch, looking away. “Work’s been a lot, and Dr. Octavius and Mr. Fisk are breathing down my neck-” he waves his hands, rolling his hands and flexing his fingers- “but- but that’s no excuse as to how I talked to you. I don’t want- The less that you know, the better.”

“I know,” you say curtly. “I remember our conversation from before.”

He sighs. He crosses over to sit beside you, the blanket held in his hands, the corner edge of it now held tightly. “I’m sorry,” he tells you. “I’m not good at this. I’ve dated before, but that was before things at Alchemax were getting serious. I’m not- I like you a lot. When I saw you reading through it, I-” he shakes his head, and his knee touches yours. “We met because you were determined to know more about Alchemax.”

“I told you before that I’m not using you to get to that.” Your back is straight, and your hands curve over your knees, the knuckle of your littlest finger grazes against his knee. You want to take his hand. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything else.” He takes your hand, and holds it tightly between the two of his. “We can put this behind us if you want, but I promise, I won’t talk to you like that again. I- I didn’t like getting mad at you. And I didn’t like the feeling that it left me with.”

“I didn’t like it either,” you mumble. “It felt like you were talking down to me, rather than to me.”

His hands tighten around your own. “I won’t do it again. I promise.” You nod and you feel much more tired than you had before. “Is it okay if I hug you?” You nod, and he lets go of your hand, and embraces you.

You lean into him, your hands fisting at his shirt, clawing into him to keep him against you. Unlike your feverish grasp onto him, he holds you gently, his hands laid wide and flat against your, curving over your body, and holding you close to him. He leans into your touch, whereas you push yourself against him. His hair tickles at your nose, and you keep your eyes close, full intent to sit there until he’s ready to pull away. You’ve made your peace to sit there, to let vines grow and keep you tethered to the couch, to not let go of the smallest comfort that he's given you. When you feel his lips press against the side of your head, you press a faint kiss over his shoulder, content when he runs his hand upwards and presses another kiss against you.

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go-to-the-mirror · 8 months

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feeling super normal emotions about how tma is just all about the intersection of fear and love, and what makes your wants and your self you. what if it's just trauma/mental illness/the thing in your head that is a part of you, but isn't you, not really.

what are you? what are your wants? what do you love? what do you fear? how much of this is influenced by trauma and mental illness and other factors? how much of yourself is yourself? is it still yourself if your self has been warped irreparably? do you want it if you only want it because of the trauma/mental illness/spooky entity? do you fear it if you only fear it because of the trauma/mental illness/spooky entity? do you love it if you only love it because of the trauma/mental illness/spooky entity?

how much of your mind is you? is it still you if it's changed? can you even define the difference?

#tma #FEELING SOOO NORMAL #mag 32 #jonathan sims #jane prentiss #the magnus archives #tma meta #abt everyone but mostly jon and jane #im having Thoughts #anyway see my essay it's linked in my pinned post it's pretty good delves into all this #titled: becoming a fear entity avatar in the magnus archives and trauma #landscaping your mind chapter one #landscaping your mind is garbage and here's why

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afewproblems · 9 months

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A little sneak peak from my In My Heart Is A Memory (And There You'll Always Be) moving a little forward in time for this snippet!

Slight spoilers for the next update so this will be below the cut!

When Steve meets Nancy Wheeler he finds that it is infinitely harder to hide his condition around people that actually care about him.

Or, perhaps it wouldn't have been if he hadn’t had an asthma attack after fighting a literal monster that emerged from the wall of the Byers home.

“That was crazy, what was that,” Steve asks, his breaths growing more shallow as he speaks, “that was fucking crazy,” he wheezes and clutches at his chest, crumpling the fabric of his shirt in his fist. The bat in his hands falls to the floor, thunking into the carpet as he sways slightly. A sudden bout of dizziness hits Steve hard as he tries to take a deep breath only for his lungs to stutter.

Shit.

Shit, not now, he hasn’t had one of these in years, not since that day at school when Eddie left.

“Steve?” Nancy says softly beside him, she crouches low to try and look at his face, he hadn’t even realised when he had doubled over.

Steve shakes his head, his breaths come shorter now, he can’t even seem to gather enough air to form a sentence. A horrible wheezing sound begins to fill the destroyed living room as Jonathan takes a hesitant step closer.

“Thats, what the fuck,” Jonathan mutters under his breath, “thats an asthma attack,” he continues slightly louder this time, cutting through the eerie silence that has overtaken the Byers living room.

“What?!” Nancy hisses, her movements stop and start, reaching for him only for her hands to twitch helplessly beside him, “what do we do?”

Jonathan hesitates for just a second, glaring around the living room with nervous eyes before he turns on his heel and heads down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Nancy’s voice climbs an octave as she grabs Steve this time, gripping his shoulder painfully hard, making Steve bite down a groan. It comes out as a pitiful wheezing whine instead.

“Make him sit,” Jonathan calls out from the other room, “I think, we might have an --yes, okay”.

Steve tries to focus on breathing, even if it feels as though he’s sucking the air through a straw as Nancy gently pushes him into a sitting position on the carpet, she places her small hand on his back and rubs it in between his shoulder blades.

“Here,” Jonathan says as he races back into the living room, mindful of the discarded nail bat and glass on the floor around them as he drops to his knees in front of Steve and Nancy.

He takes Steve’s hand and places a familiar object in it, an inhaler.

Steve uncaps it with shaking hands and brings it to his mouth, pressing down on the release mechanism greedily. He holds the medication in for nearly five seconds before breathing out and doing it again.

“Will has it too, asthma,” Jonathan breathes out, his voice laced with something in between surprise and concern.

"Thanks," Steve manages after a minute, he sucks in a deep breath through his nose before slowly releasing it through his mouth, "I haven't had an attack in years, since--" he cuts himself off with a click of his teeth.

The last time had been with Eddie, after he dropped him like a sack of rocks.

#In My Heart Is A Memory and There You’ll Always Be #steve harrington #stranger things #afewproblems writes #sneak peak #jumping forward in time to 1983 #spoiler warning for chapter 3 #childhood friends au #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #nancy is pretty good in a crisis when there are monsters involved #anything else and her brain goes off-line #asthma attack #which i would say is warranted after a demogorgon attack

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musicalchaos07 · 3 months

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A very tiny WIP Wednesday

The lab looks just as empty as he expected. A lone security guard is at the main entrance. There’s bright yellow caution tape marking an X on the door. But curiously, nothing else seems taped off. Jonathan tries to canvas the building without drawing too much attention. He’s halfway through convincing himself that he’s overreacting when he spots a window open just enough that someone Nancy’s size could sneak through and go looking for clues. He has an overwhelming feeling that he’s going to regret this. Nevertheless, he pries the window open and sneaks his way through. Surrounded by darkness, he gets the sense that this is irrational. Nancy isn’t here, she’s in Brooklyn, working. Someone else has the light on in one of the rooms, someone else is sorting through the wreckage, someone else has warm vanilla scented perfume that's haunted him for months. He’s sure when he peers into the room it’ll be some corrupt intern or some gang member that used to run with his dad and not… Nancy in a purple cocktail dress, with her hair pinned back and a furrow in her brow frantically trying to photograph documents she pried out of a filing cabinet. Jonathan quickly looks away before she can spot him. He breathes hard against the wall caught somewhere between dumbstruck and lovestruck. From the hallway, he hears her pause her work, an eternity passes before she continues. He could leave now, shimmy his way back out the window and… his phone is ringing. He’s on a super stealth Spiderman mission and his phone is blasting Young Folks because Will’s calling. He fumbles trying to decline the call and his phone nearly slips out of his hand. “Who’s there?” Nancy calls out from the room. Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment. Or maybe he’s just plain stupid. But for whatever reason he rounds the corner and leans against the doorframe. “Spiderman?” she gapes, and he can see the gears turning in her head as she prepares to interrogate him. “Oh hey, how’s it hanging?” he cracks, waving. Ok, so definitely just plain stupid. His phone starts ringing again and he wonders what Will could possibly need that’s this important. Nancy gives him a once-over and he has an extreme sense of deja vu. “Are you going to answer that?” she questions.

#she's about to put him through the ringer #alternative chapter title is Jonathan Byers and the horrible no good very bad day #spidey au #my fic #wip wednesday #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy #stranger things

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potato-elf · 2 years

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shout out to this person who decided to record an audiobook version of dracula daily so that all of us can participate in our little vampire book club

#has been a major help for me to keep up #adhd thought 'understimulation time'#so i couldn't get myself to actually read the chapters #but now i can participate in hellsite culture!#dracula daily #dracula daily audiobook #audiobook #my good friend jonathan harker

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emily-mooon · 7 months

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Entering my jancy era too so I'd like to know ur thoughts and HC! <3333

Hi El!

I have two posts talking about some random off the top of my headcanons here and here but I’ll add some more that I have not mentioned yet alongside some random train of thought thoughts. So let’s get into them!

- I think the reason why I like them so much is because I’m actual trash for two people who understand each other in a way no one else can. I’m also just trash for shared trauma (Dimitri and Marianne from FE3H has something similar going on in feeling like they are both monsters and I love their paired ending to pieces).

- The matching scars never go away for them. Like it’s a bit faded but it’s still there.

- Jonathan being horrible at realizing he has a crush on someone is real to me. He had a light crush on Nancy in middle school but didn’t know about it until after the events of s1 cause his feelings came back and now he’s a dork. I am once again projecting cause I’m also shit at that and I have that headcanon for Nancy too.

- I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Jonathan is the Joy Division boyfriend and Nancy is the New Order girlfriend. There are a lot of songs from both of those bands that suit them very well (looking directly at Disorder for Jonathan and Dream Attack for Nancy).

- In a modern au, Jancy goes to see the Barbie movie and then they go home to watch some underrated indie film for Jonathan. I rest my case.

- bi4bi jancy is important to me. I cannot explain why they just are.

- Like the Joy Division boyfriend and New Order girlfriend headcanon, I’ve said it many times and I will say it a again in a band au, Jonathan plays guitar and Nancy plays bass.

- Jancy can’t die next season, they need to live to see the release of James Cameron’s 1997 movie Titanic. Again, I rest my case. Sincerely the person who came up with the Jancy titanic au and still needs to get it done but my attention span of a fly is making it hard to do that.

That’s all I can think of right now so I’ll stop here. Thank you for the ask El and I hope you have fun in your Jancy era!

#once again I love getting these types of asks it really makes me think #and again keeps me creative cause my track of being consistent with updating chapters is horrible #and also it’s good to take breaks from drawing sometimes #stranger things #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy #‘currently in jancy brainrot’#mutuals! :)#mutual asks

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plush-rabbit · 10 months

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Phantoms and Memories

Continuation to Spots and Stops

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: If i let if go any further, it would have been well over 5K so I had to cut up the chapter ( ◕ᴗ◕)っ✂ (its also in his pov this time!! and so will next chapter)

As Johnathan runs, he’s thankful that the effects of the Super-Collider had given him longer legs. He doesn’t think he’d be able to run as long if not for the long strides that he takes as police chase after him. This most certainly isn’t fair- he hadn’t even stolen anything! When the cops had stopped and shined their light at him, he panicked and immediately set off.

The lights of the vehicle flash behind him, red and blue filling the night and people move out their way as a cop shouts at him to stop. One in the cruiser and the other pursuing him on foot.

Turning a corner, he grabs at a spot near his wrist- the jacket he wears pushed to his elbows- and holds onto it. He doesn’t trust himself to throw it and jump into it- knowing his luck, the hole would be much too small, and he’d just get stuck in it. No. Not again.

Instead, he jumps up, and the creaky ladder of a fire escape bangs down. Once more, he’s thankful for the long legs that allow him to climb easily and take two stairs at a time compared to the cop who is trailing behind. Reaching the roof of the building, he puts the spot in front of him, and taking in a shuddering breath, he stops. He hasn’t done a long jump with one of his holes before. It’s been something quick and nearby- nothing faraway. But hearing the cop behind him, there isn’t much time to ponder about where he’ll end up, he just hopes that wherever the spot leads him to, is home.

Like blinking, it’s a moment of darkness, falling into nothingness, until he realizes he is falling. His legs kick out until just a second later, he falls onto a soft surface- bumpy, but soft. He lifts himself up on his forearms, scanning around what appears to be a dark room. Maybe he did manage to control where he went this time.

His hand pulls at whatever it is that squishes under him. In the dark room where the only light comes from a streetlamp behind closed blinds, he sees that it’s a pillow shaped like a flower. The fabric stretches down where his hand has fisted over one of the stuffed petals. He turns, and he freezes. He holds tightly onto the pillow and he can barely make it out, he can barely make you out, but it’s you. Asleep on your bed and asleep in your room.

How you didn’t hear or feel him fall onto your bed is beside the point- even with being a heavy sleeper, that must be a stroke of luck for him. Why are you here? A better and appropriate question is why is he here? He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be here. Sure, you had invited him to come if he needed something but he doubts that you actually meant it- more as a nicety than anything- and even if you had meant it, he doubts that you meant it like this.

The flower goes behind him, and he waits- quiet and still, he hopes that you don’t wake up. Please, don’t wake up. To whatever deity that listens to him, he promises that if you don’t wake up, he’ll never see you again. He can’t handle seeing your reaction if he stopped by unannounced. Crawling slowly, he moves to get off of your bed. Even with you being such a heavy sleeper, every time the bed creaks under his weight, he pauses, the bed creaks under his weight and every creak has him go rigid.

His feet are flat against the floor and he turns, your phone lighting up as a message enters. His curiosity gets the best of him and he takes soft footsteps to peek. It’s from an unsolved number that simply asks if you’re awake. Hurt grips at him in unforgiving claws.

The time is ten past two. Your phone is fully charged, and he takes another look at you. You still sleep soundly and undisturbed. He unplugs your phone, and lets the cable hang over the drawer knobs. No matter how many times he told you that charging your phone overnight is harmful for the battery, you never seemed to listen. You continued to charge it.

Turning to you, he sees that the blanket is askew, draping over the side of the bed. Adjusting it, so that it now covers your body, he tucks you in, pulling it up to your shoulders. He lifts his hand up and hovers your head, and as his fingertips brush against your skin, he pulls back. The memory of you reacted when he last touched you is fresh in his mind. You recoiled away. He wonders if you washed yourself of his touch right after he was kicked out. Instead, he watches you, asleep and unaware of him. Your phone lights up again, and he frowns. Taking another peek, it’s the same unsaved number. Looking back to you, he fists his hand at his side. He wishes that he could touch you one more time- just a final touch, a final kiss to allow him to let go of you. But he can’t do that- he’d feel awful knowing that he did something to you. You’d probably be disgusted with him if you knew what he was doing.

He should leave.

You didn’t wake up. He did promise that if you didn’t wake up, he wouldn’t return- he wouldn’t see you again. You’ve moved on, and he should too.

Still, he can’t pull himself away. He wants to look at you like he would before. He wants you to look at him like you would before. He wants to slip into the bed beside you and pull you to his chest and feel you rest your hand over his stomach. You sleep, and he stares and it’s creepy and gross and an invasion of your privacy, but he can’t help it. He needs to look at you, needs to engrave you into his memory until he can picture you without even trying.

His hand lifts again, shaky and unsure as it reaches over, and just as he’s about to trace over your features, your phone rings. Scurrying, he hides himself behind the bottom edge of your mattress. He pulse himself down, making sure that not an inch of him is seen over where you sit.

The ringing stops, and he hears your voice.” Hello?” It’s raspy and heavy with sleep. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation no matter how much he tries to strain his hearing. “Yeah, well I was asleep.” You mutter something under your breath too light for him to hear. “I’m listening, I’m listening.” You pause. “Yeah, no I’m not really in the greatest mood considering that I was woken up in the middle of the night.” You never liked being woken up- he’s made that mistake a few times. “Look-” you exhale- “I’m sorry that I led you on-” it doesn’t sound sincere but rather annoyed- “but it’s over, okay? Like for good.” Another pause. “No, no. It’s over. I’m done. Good luck or whatever. Bye.”

Your phone lights up the room in a bright glow and as quick and blinding as it came, it’s snuffed out. He hears you fall back into bed. You groan and the bed shakes as you turn.

Silence fills the room and Johnathan’s heart beats in fear. He just has to wait a few minutes until you’re back to sleep. It won’t take long. You’ve always been quick to fall back to sleep and after being rudely woken up, you’ll slip off into slumber in no time.

He waits and waits, and after what feels like eternity, he hears soft thumping- you’re kicking into the bed. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck.” You toss and turn, and he can hear the assault on the pillow as you try to make yourself comfortable.

Oh no. You can’t fall back to sleep.

He should have left when he had the chance. This is his punishment.

Carefully, he peels off a hole, and places it beside himself, maybe he can slip away like this, he enters his hand into the hole. Keeping his gaze fixed looking above, he pushes his hand into the hole, fingers outstretched, fluttering about looking for a flat surface. He’s elbow deep, the hole on his face contorting into what would be frustration if he still had his face. He can’t find it, and you’ve already begun to kick at the blankets and grumble at yourself.

You’ve already lost your sleep- taken away by a phone call from someone who you used to date.

Johnathan tries not to dwell on that. It’s too fresh of a wound. You’re too fresh of a wound.

As he reaches further down, his body presses against the floor. All he needs is to know that something is on the other side, something that might break his fall or would at least get him out of your room. Too focused on looking up to see if you’d peep your head over, he feels something ghosts over the side of head, fleeting and spindly, and he yelps.

Oh fuck. He turns, hoping to find a spider, but it’s just his hand, the portal made to just be a few feet away from where he made it

“Hello?” Your voice is alert. Even if he were to be quiet, you’d never buy it.

The light clicks on, and he can hear you rummage through your nightstand. “Hello? No, fuck. I- I have a weapon.” Your voice is shaky. He stays silent, pulling away the spot and making another one that ends up on your wall on the opposite side. “I'll call the police.”

He lowers his head and lifts an arm. “It’s me. It’s just me.” He hopes that he’s the only one with white skin that you know.

“Johnathan?”

His head knocks against the wooden frame of the mattress, and he lowers his hand. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pop in unexpectedly. I just- I got myself into a pickle and I just threw a spot and now I’m here.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

He had wanted to go home. Or at least pop in anywhere but here. He can’t believe that his holes would betray him like this.

The bed creaks, and he pulls his arm back from the spot, watching above him, seeing if you’d peek over to see him. You don’t. “A pickle? Are you okay?” He can hear the soft rustle of the blankets. “Are you hurt?”

He shrugs, but you can’t see him. “Oh, um. Yeah, yeah.” His knees feel as if they’re on fire and he’s ready to put this day behind him. “I’m okay.”

You stay silent.

“I’ll get out of your hair, I just- It’s hard to control my holes and where they take me.” He fumbles with another spot. That one pools on your ceiling.

“Jonathan?”

He pulls the spot back. “Yeah?”

“You can say no, but um, can I see you?”

The spot of his face stretches, and he feels his body tense. He remembers how you reacted to him the first time. And the second time- granted he did catch you in a vulnerable moment, but it was because of him that you were so- so vulnerable. He should tell you no. He should leave and never look back, and never think of you. But then you call his name, and his resolve crumbles. When the two of you were together and happy, he could never tell you no; he could never deny you anything that you had wanted.

His hands brace themselves against the edge of the bed frame, and he stands, looking down at the ground, unable to see you. Never has he felt so bare and exposed.

The bed creaks, and he sees a shadow approach and a familiar shirt peeks in the corner of his vision. He can feel your eyes on him, and your hands flex and unflex in want. He should look at you. He should give himself that grace, he should take one look at you while you look at him. When he looks up, he’s tilting his head down, head cocked to the side, as you look at him with doe eyes shining in unshed tears. Your hands fist into his old shirt, and you look at him.

“It’s rude to stare,” he mumbles.

You still continue to stare. You suck in your bottom lip, your teeth teasing at it, and he hates that he can’t kiss you, that he can’t touch you without one of you resulting in tears. You swallow, and part your lips once more. Would you still taste like mint? Or would you taste like sleep? Would you close your eyes and pretend that he was someone else if he leaned towards you? Are you pretending that he’s someone else right now? Are you only able to stomach him and his appearance because you think of someone else?

“Can you eat?” You ask, and it’s almost laughable that all that you could tell him, and it’s that. A simple, curious question. It’s entirely you.

“Yes,” he answers. What would you say next? Would ask if he could chew? If he still has teeth that would tear apart meat and grain? Would you ask if he still has lips? Would you continue to ask him questions so that he could stay a little while longer in the comfort of your bedroom? “Why do you ask?”

“Are you hungry?” Your hands fist over the stomach of his old shirt. “We- I can make you something if you’d like.”

He’d eat glass if it meant that he could stare at you some more. “I can eat.” You give him a ghost of a smile, and he takes it eagerly. “What do you have around?” Is he allowed to be greedy? Can he ask and ask until you can no longer give him what he wants?

You climb off the bed, adjusting at the shirt and pulling down the legs of your shorts. He follows you out of your room, and now as a stranger in your home, he feels like a ghost invading your space- walking past memories that he no longer has access to. He walks past the living room, the weight and tension a swirling mess, threatening to pull the both of you in and keep you stuck forever in a loop of grief. He holds his breath until he enters the kitchen. Motioning for him to sit at the table, you open the fridge, a cool blast makes goosebumps prick your skin.

Turning your head, you look just like how he remembers you. “Are you okay with sandwiches?”

“Do you have chips?” He’ll be greedy and gluttonous- stuffing himself full of food in order to sit with you longer.

Nodding, you begin to pull out the ingredients to make sandwiches and he watches from the chair, stiff and cold, wanting to believe that he won’t be back after tonight. But as you bring out the plates and pull out the drinks- his favorite is still in your fridge even after all this time remains unopened and cold. You place the ingredients in front of him and alongside you, he prepares his sandwich.

You’re done with yours fairly quickly, and you turn on the television, and a late night show fills the room. Fake laughter, and fake applause is all that rings in him, and in his hand is a sandwich made with a gluttonous desire to take all that he can.

When he takes a bite, it’s sour.

“We probably should have toasted the bread,” you tell him, peeling off the crust. “Untoasted is fine and all it if we were going to make sandwiches-”

“-We should have done it properly,” he finishes. Looking up at you, he can’t finish the sandwich- not when it tastes like it’ll give him heartburn. “Chips?” The drink remains unopened, collecting condensation on the side and dripping onto the placemats on the table. Hissing comes from the soda, and he looks at the opening.

“In the pantry.” You take a bite of your sandwich and glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “You’re free to check.” You close your eyes, humming at the mouthful of food in your mouth.

He stands, and searches through the cabinets, a brand new bag of chips sits, and he grabs at it, the colors popping against his skin. Reaching down into a drawer, he pulls out a reusable straw. A metallic one, the silver distorting his image in the reflection. It sits beside yours- iridescent and solid colors.

The chips sit at the table and the straw- his straw- sits in his drink. He turns his head every time he takes a sip. You don’t look at him. This entire time, you haven’t casted a glance towards him except in the beginning. You make small conversation as you eat your sandwich and place a few chips onto your plate. Your drink is opened, and you never take your eyes off of it. The television still plays. He’s only taken small bites of his own, the taste not returning, and the bitterness staining him.

“Why did you ask me to stay?” His holes are shifting, swirling and constricting as he waits for your answer.

You cast him a glance. Finally, you look at him. “I just-” you let out a long exhale- “You want the truth or a lie?”

“The truth.”

Shrugging, you take another sip and look at him, turning your body in the chair to fully face him. “I-” the words get stuck in your throat and you look away- “I have no right to say it, but I missed you.” He stills. “I know what I did was awful, but-” you hold the can and the aluminum bends under your touch- “you were right. It’s still you.” You look at him again, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look so saturnine. Even your tone is sorrowful and empty, and the words hang in the air, unanswered to.

He stays silent. And you continue, keeping your gaze on him. It must be taking all of your willpower to even do so.

“Do you think you could stay a while?” He’s silent. “You can say no.” You turn away from him, and push yourself away from the table. “I know that I shouldn't be asking you anything of the sort, but I hope you’ll say yes. If not, then you know, just lock up when you leave.”

You have the gall to ask that of him. You open your home to him, and offer him food, and he takes it with acid poisoned in him, with hands stained with muck and gunk, and his pale white skin is stained with holes and spots. And still, as if it were the first night that he spent with you, anxiety chills him to his core and roots him in place.

He’ll get up and lock the door behind him. Johnathan will rid himself of you, and let all of this be some dream that felt too real. He’ll do it. His chest fills with air, and the chair scrapes against the floor. He’ll leave a mess behind, and when you clean it in the morning with the bird chirping outside and the soft rays of light shining against your table, you’ll miss him. Every step that he takes is heavy, and slow, weights placed on his ankles to pull him back so as to not make a dumb mistake. You can hope that he’ll say yes, and he can hope that when morning comes, you’ll still miss him. And he stands in the living room, back where he stood before you all those nights ago.

The room looks so different. Emptier.

Every step has him hoping that he’s making the right decision. What more could you ever say to him? What words could ever mend him back together? What tenderness could ever replace the cold and callous nature that you bared at him in his weakest moments? He holds the doorknob in his hands, and he hopes that he’ll never get to find out. He hopes that when he closes the door behind him, he’ll have it all figured out.

#the spot #the spot x reader #johnathan ohnn x reader #johnathon ohnn #jonathan ohnn headcanons #johnathan ohnn #im gonna start using the h in the fics #but will i go back and fix the rest #probably #porbably not #i dont know #im lazy #i have to go to work so tags are rushed but yeah #hopefully the next part is tonight or tomorrow #i had to split it up #it was gonna be way to long #as a single chapter #plus the mood shifts so ya know #i think that was a good break

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go-to-the-mirror · 11 months

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Every day I think about episode 160 and cry. Like. Like. Jesus christ! The. Everything. Like. Every so often I think of TheOestOfOCs’ tag on their Dracula fusion fic, “this is still a fix it fic compared to canon” AND IT IS??? Fucking. Apparently Elias kidnapping Jon and turning him into a vampire and generally being the most awful person ever is a FIX IT FIC compared to what we’ve got.

And I’m like, I’m not complaining, I signed up for this, but like yeah, signed up for this (emotional ruin), but that doesnt make me HAPPIER ABOUT IT?

Okay, so, it’s three years, about. Starts in 2015, 2016. Ends in 2018. Because. Goddamnit. And it’s just. He gets eaten by fucking worms. You know that line, “one hand on the gas release from the start”? That line lives in my head rent free, because it’s… Elias is holding the cards, he has Jon’s fate in the bloody PALM OF HIS HAND and just… yknow how. Like. Fucked up Jon is in MAG 40? How he keeps asking them to Please Not Talk About The Worms, I Know About The Worms, Stop, I Beg Of Thee. And Elias is there, Elias is talking, Elias is seeing all of this and he’s just like “jolly good, job well done, 11 more to go!”

And just… Sasha. Tim. Melanie, Martin. Basira and Daisy. Everyone who got caught in the crossfire. Sasha, who died, unintentionally on Elias’ part, for a mark that was redundant. Tim, who died saving a world Elias knew was never in danger from the Unknowing. Melanie, who had to gouge her bloody eyes out, because Elias decided she was useful to him.

Useful. Fucking bastard.

And then, and then, season 3, right! God, I’m just thinking about Jude Perry’s mark, because that’s a burn, he probably didn’t go to a hospital, since he was on the run for a murder, so considering Lightless Flame nonsense, that’s probably a severe burn that probably caused nerve damage, caused a difficulty moving that hand, presumably the right hand, because I don’t think they were doing a scouts handshake. And while I do try make all my blorbos left-handed, Jon’s most likely right-handed. And even if he’s not, he still probably can’t move his right-hand right because someone decided to end the world through him, like a fucking bastard! That’s what gets me, right. It’s that everything, everything Jon’s bloody been through for Elias’ plans is immortalized on his skin, with his scars. Psychological trauma just isn’t enough for him, there has to be a constant reminder every time Jon looks at himself.

And then! And then! Speaking of season 3, what the fuck was that second kidnapping? Like, first kidnapping was horrifying but it was “for the plan” and the third kidnapping was in America and somehow “not that bad,” yknow, compared to finding out you’re like, physically dependent on reading horror stories, and your fucking awful bastard of a boss decided to drop that bombshell on you while you were actively, yknow, GETTING SICK FROM IT! Oh Joy. But second kidnapping was a) redundant, he’d already gotten the Stranger mark. b) completely fixable.

Completely fucking fixable. Just. Tell them. Tell them where he is, or tell them that’s he’s been kidnapped, if Elias doesn’t know, I think he did, because I think he’s exactly the kind of bastard who would just let it happen despite knowing exactly how to stop it.

And you know why? Why I think? Because that’s easier, right. It’s harder to be self-destructive, it’s harder to throw yourself into Situations, it’s harder to be isolated when you have one extra month to reconnect with your colleagues.

A month. Maybe the month would have done nothing. Maybe the month would have helped Jon and Tim. Or Jon and Melanie. Or Jon and Basira. Jon and Martin were already fine, and Jon and Daisy at that point is… ah… Nope.

And you think a month is bad? 6 months. And I know, everyone was suffering — Martin especially— while Jon was gone, and I know that it’s other people’s trauma that he’s watching and actively perpetuating, but! That’s also traumatizing!! It’s traumatic to have to watch other people’s worst nightmares for six months straight with no end in sight. It’s traumatic to have to. Everything??? Fucking everything in MAG 120??? I can pull quotes but that’ll detract from the rambliness of this. I’ll do that sometime, I will.

And honestly, season 4 is just a fucking mess, it’s. It’s. I’m sad about it. I’m Very sad about it, and. God. Like. It’s just. Melanie hates him, and part of that is because Elias used him as a meat shield in MAG 101, not all, not most, but part. Jon’s a monster now, and he’s hurting people, and there’s got to be a little voice in his head telling him he’s just like Elias when Elias is the one who made him like this. And they’re tearing each other apart and Jon is diving into Situations and Elias is watching from prison all fucking smug and then MAG 158 happens, god. damn. MAG 158 happens.

“I called you.” Like a fucking dog. Like. Like. “Are you scared, Jon” “Yes” “Good”

I have the words for MAG 159. A bet. A fucking bet. A motherfucking bet. I do not think I need to detail how horrifying and dehumanizing and horrible that is???? I don’t think I need to do that.

A bet. A bet.

And it brings us back to MAG 160. Make him monologue every fucking time this happened, every fucking time Elias used him to end the world, marked him, can’t word. But. Horrifying. Jesus.

2, 3 years. “You are a living chronicle of terror” what kind of fear. Over two years, just. Two fucking years.

But it’s not two. Not three.

It’s his whole bloody life, his whole life, leading up to this. End the world. Spread it. This is it, his purpose, he’s spent so long hurting himself for a purpose.

And at the end, after everything he’s done, after everything that’s been done to him, by Jonah Magnus, by the Web or fears or-

He can’t break free. He follows his purpose. He dances the steps he was assigned.

#im so fucking upset about him #jonathan sims #mag 160 #tma #the magnus archives #tma meta #tip: i am so fucking mad #landscaping your mind chapter one #jonah magnus #ITS NOT FAIR #ITS NOT FAIR THAT HE HAS TO GO THROUGH THIS #FUCK YOU JONNY AND FUCK YOUR FANTASTIC WRITING /nsrs #(ty jonny ty for your fantastic writing)#i want to kill. i want to give jon a hug #mr. jarchivist sims i care you.#anyway good morning. it’s being really upset about jon & hating jonah magnus hours #(all hours)#landscaping your mind is garbage and here’s why

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polyamorous-eleven · 2 years

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler Characters: Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Robin Buckley Additional Tags: Steve Harrington-centric, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Jonathan Byers, Bisexual Nancy Wheeler, Everyone is Bisexual, Except Robin, steve contemplates how he wound up here, Steve Harrington is Bad at Feelings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Jonathan Byers is Bad at Feelings, Nancy wheeler is great at feelings, Got-together, polyamory Summary:

Steve Harrington has never been great with feelings, and then he fought a monster from the beyond with Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers and everything got infinitely more complicated.

#NOT MINE NOT MINE #BUT ITS POLY #robin x nancy x jonathan x steve #stronancy #stoncy ft ronance #st polycule #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #robin buckley #stonabin #robin + boys love each other platonically of course #stoncy #stonathan #ronance #it's good guys #and second chapter is way looooooonger #really really go read it

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musicalchaos07 · 3 months

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Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers & Will Byers, Argyle & Jonathan Byers, Jonathan Byers & Steve Harrington Characters: Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler, Argyle (Stranger Things), Steve Harrington, Will Byers, Murray Bauman, Other Character Tags to Be Added, Background & Cameo Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Spiderman AU, Jonathan Byers Has Powers, He also has a crush, Jonathan Byers Loves Nancy Wheeler, Good Sibling Jonathan Byers, College Student Jonathan Byers, New York City, I'm not gonna lie to y'all I have put blorbo in a situation and he's about to go through it, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Argyle as the guy in the chair, Steve being a rich boy, Crazy Conspiracy theorist Murray Bauman, and his unpaid intern Nancy Wheeler, Flashbacks, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, No beta we die like Barb Summary:

Jonathan Byers is just trying to protect the neighborhood, avoid the police, and finish his freshman year at NYU in good standing. But when a girl from his past shows up demanding answers. Jonathan finds himself thrown into a mystery that might force him to be more than just a friendly neighborhood Spiderman.

... Three Months Later

#the good news is that I think it's a really good chapter #and hopefully y'all agree bc this is all I got #I debated making the caption hey... hey.. how y'all doing #but I restrained #stranger things #st au #spidey au #my fic #Jonathan Byers

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andallthatmishigas · 1 year

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Short chapter of the morning after, and we’re getting to the real good stuff now.

#hart to hart #jonathan hart #jennifer hart #this should have been longer #could have been longer #but it's a good stopping point for now #and next chapter will be murder stuff

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faithfulcat111 · 1 year

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Not me stubbornly refusing to not use Jonathan in Puzzle Tales in protest of them refusing to add S4 Jonathan yet or any version of him in ultra tier. And hell yeah, I'm going to keep using him despite the fact that he is vastly underpowered comparably considering I'm on chapter 17. What can I say, none of the other healers can match his poison or healing abilities in my humble opinion.

#I've been grinding at this game for months now #I'm so hooked for some reason #i hated the billy chapter but the rest were really good #also this games timeline is very wonky as alexei is dead #and robin knows about the upside down #kinda #but hopper is still around #and jonathan and nancy still work at the post #so yeah very weird #faith talks #st puzzle tales #jonathan byers

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