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hypnoticwinter · 4 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 1

It's five in the afternoon just outside of Corpus Christi and I and my poor old Elantra with the broken AC are stuck in a traffic jam because some dickhead decided he wanted to cut across five lanes of traffic and got mangled by a semi truck. And then the jam’s compounded by all of the damn lookie-looes slowing down to a crawl as they squirm through the two lanes still open, the metaphorical arteries of the gigantic beast that is the United States highway system, trying to get a good look at something gory on the way home.

I'm slowly melting into my seat, barely able to keep my eyes open. I keep glancing over at the water bottle I'd set snugly into the passenger seat, my cupholders being full with spare change and old receipts and little mini bottles of hand sanitizer, but just the way the sun's reflecting off of it makes me sick thinking about how warm the water would be by now.

I'm a few cars back from the wreck now. A police officer, looking sweaty and tired, steps out into the road, stopping traffic to let a couple of paramedics cross. A loud radio ad is playing in the car next to me and I look over. The guy in it looks about as done with this as I feel. I smile to myself, go back to watching the wreck.

The paramedics have stopped now and are talking to the policeman in the middle of the road. He looks annoyed, gestures at the cars ahead of him. One of the paramedics shakes his head and points back towards one of the cars.

The radio ad ends and the throbbing beat of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" comes on and I find myself singing along under my breath without even thinking about it.

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray

South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio...

Another paramedic joins the group in the middle of the highway and then they hustle over to the wreck. The police officer gestures and we move fractionally forwards, then stop again. The asshole in the giant pickup truck ahead of me has decided to stop and watch them peel the door off the crushed sedan like the scab off a fresh cut. I can see something pink and fleshy and hurt-looking inside, where the driver's seat ought to have been, and I look away quickly.

We didn't start the fire

It was always burning since the world's been turning...

I end up meeting the eyes of the guy in the car next to me. He's bobbing his head along to Billy Joel and gives me a somewhat sheepish, embarrassed look. He's balding, looks about forty. A tired, haggard, sweaty face. I roll my eyes and smile at him and he smiles back. Someone behind me honks and I twist backwards and give him the finger, really slam it at him against the dirty rear window. We're rolling forwards so slowly that it's absurd to even honk, just people blowing off steam. I suppose on some level it's equally absurd to give him the finger for it, but whatever.

Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball

ARPANET, Free Tibet, what's in Mystery Flesh Pit?

Buddy Holly, Ben Hur, space monkey, Mafia

Hula hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no-go...

Wait. What?

Now that we're past the wreck the highway widens out. More lanes open and the guy next to me merges over to the left. Billy Joel's voice disappears into engine noises and honks and the sound of the wind whipping past my open windows, but I still keep thinking about the lyrics I had just mouthed along to.

What the hell is a Mystery Flesh Pit?

I glance over at the phone sitting in its holster on the dash but something about the way the car I’d just past had crunched in on itself like a discarded candy wrapper makes me think better of it. I shift a lane or two to the right, get in line for my exit, and then I'm off the freeway. I make every light on the way to my apartment, all four of them, and it's just enough time that I forget about the line in the song. I jump into the shower and let the cold water run over me for fifteen minutes, which turns into thirty, which turns into forty-five, which turns into an hour.

When I get out I'm shivering but the warm Texas air blowing through my open window wraps me up like a warm hug, and I shrug into a flannel shirt, leave it unbuttoned. I put my cigarette out, leave it crumpled in the ashtray, stifle my coughs. I’m still not used to smoking this much. I eye the half-empty pack laying on the table but I let it alone.

The letter I received yesterday is on the kitchen table where I'd dropped it. The envelope is still on the floor somewhere. I think about going back and reading it again, or going and finding the envelope and throwing it away, but I don't want to. There wouldn’t be a point.

My phone buzzes; I see the name of the contact and let it ring. I don’t want to talk to him.

Outside, down in the courtyard, an old man is taking his dog for a walk. There is a vast darkened array of clouds closing in from the east and it already smells like rain, the wind is carrying it. I might take a walk too, later tonight.

I go back to the dresser and take my shirt off, slip a bra on, and then put the shirt back on. I almost light another cigarette, then I stop myself.

What the hell is Mystery Flesh Pit?

I had almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. Billy Joel got stuck in my head and while I'd been puttering I'd hummed along until I got to that verse.

I shake my head and go get my laptop, type it into google half-expecting to find a porn site. A few travelogue type posts, a Wikipedia page...I click on that one and get hit with a redirect. Permian Basin Superorganism Containment Area? ("Mystery Flesh Pit" redirects here. For the defunct U.S. National Park, see...)

I read the page, and then I stop. The growing sense of unease I felt while I devoured the Wikipedia article is now almost too much for me to handle.

This can't possibly be real. This has to be a prank or something, some kind of internet joke gone out of control. I click on the link to the National Park and see pictures, too many and too high quality to be faked. It's like something out of a Michael Crichton novel but it's real. It has to be.

The Permian Basin Superorganism (Immanis Collosseus), I read, is a subterranean organism unique to modern biology, being the sole occupant of the Phylum Immanemqa. The organism was discovered by a pilot well drilling crew in 1973; later efforts were made to expose more of the organism through drilling and surface mining explosives. The Permian Basin Superorganism is notable for its immense size, being the largest living animal on the planet, its equally immense age, and for the degree and sophistication of human exploitation concerning the animal, culminating in the opening of a National Park largely within the creature’s body, allowing visitors to descend within the Permian Basin Superorganism and…

I read about gullets and bones and digestion, about an ancient animal of some kind living baked into the stone and earth outside of Gumption, Texas. I read about the sheer enormity of it, I read about how a mining company turned it into a tourist attraction, splitting its throat wide open with metal retaining walls and letting people ride an elevator a thousand feet down into its insides. I read about ballast, some kind of secretion exuded by the creature that acts as a kind of panacea, healing afflictions untouchable by conventional medicine. They made great baths out of the glands that produced it, let people bathe in its diluted aphrodisiac waters. I read, finally, about the 2007 disaster that closed the park, when a pump failed to activate and drowned the thing, making it wake up – god, wake up? – and swallow almost seven hundred people, making it spew caustic vomit so high into the air that there are still pockets of it being found here and there nearly a hundred miles away, burning into the ground and poisoning water tables. And the way they managed to get it to go back to sleep is classified by the US Government. Did they nuke it? Christ, Gumption is only...okay, well, it's about five hundred miles away, so I guess I'm a little less concerned, but, god, this happened in the same state as me and this is only the first time I'm hearing about it. July Fourth, 2007...

I realize after a moment, with a strange little knot in my stomach, that actually, I did hear about it. I wasn't in the state in 2007. It was four years ago, I'd just gotten out of school and I was still in Oklahoma, but I remember my parents telling me about an earthquake at midnight that they'd felt, that woke them up, knocked a couple of things over. I had never known...

I feel a little like I've just woken up and gone to the bathroom and looked outside and all of a sudden the sky is a bright green, and everybody I ask about it just looks at me really strangely and says that it's always been green.

I google my way all over the internet, looking at photos people have taken decades ago on their family trips, hosted on filesharing sites or on ancient GeoCities-era pages. I see smiling families, people in hiking gear, people swimming inside biological hot springs, people digging pitons into great sheer walls of flesh, not minding the blood that gushes out. I see a shaky video someone's taken of their television, of CNN back on the Fourth of July, 2007, I see a vast bloody pit, carved into the great flat nothing of central Texas.

I feel like my head is spinning. I get up, get away from the computer, grab another cigarette and smoke it slowly, standing on the balcony, looking out over the sprawling cityscape in the general direction of Gumption, Texas, or at least where I think it should be. If north is that way, then…

Alright. It's real. There's enough evidence, photographs, videos, spread across so many different web sites that it would be impossible to fake. I look up an old rating list of National Parks, making sure that it's from around 2004 or so, and find Mystery Flesh Pit near the bottom. The tiny two-sentence blurb describes it as "strange," "horrifying," and "easily skippable," so I guess that could also explain why I had never heard of it.

And, of course, the ballast. Some kind of miracle liquid. I read on Wikipedia that they’d tried to synthesize it after July 4th, after the supplies had been cut off, but no matter how molecularly perfect they could make the compound it was so much drossy bathwater, without the power to cure even a hangnail. It has to come straight from the source for it to be any good - who knows why.

There is a slow, anxious curl unwinding in my stomach, and for a moment, I fear the results it may lead me to.

I look at the map I'd opened in another tab again; Gumption, Texas; a tiny little county named after a tiny little town, or so I've heard. Now that I’m thinking about it, I vaguely remember passing through Gumption once, very briefly, during a family road trip back when I was six, but I don't remember much more than that. The only reason I even recognize the name of the town is because at the time I thought it was a funny name and I kept saying it to myself after I'd asked my mom what the word on the sign meant when we drove into town. Welcome to Gumption. Did it have more, perhaps? “Home of the Mystery Flesh Pit?” I don't remember visiting the Mystery Flesh Pit National Park, that's for sure. I think that would have stuck with little six-year-old me.

I eye the scale on the map, use my fingers to estimate the distance from Corpus Christi to Gumption.

It'd be a solid day of driving, seven or eight hours on the road, not counting breaks for food, sleep, restroom. I grimace at the computer screen, then zoom the map out. Lubbock, though...I could take a plane to Lubbock. That'd be, what, like two hours? Maybe? And then rent a car, drive down to Gumption...

I swallow, then laugh at myself. Why bother? I think. Why bother driving down to look at some fences and security guards? It's closed off, the Wikipedia page said, nobody in or out, just some scientists and a sedative plant. The fun stopped when it woke up, back in ‘07.

Flights are cheap. Ninety-nine dollars, ninety-five dollars. I start to type in the address to check my bank balance, then stop, fold the computer closed. I want a cigarette.

On my way out to the window my foot brushes against the envelope I'd left discarded on the floor and again I think of picking it up and putting it away, and again I leave it there. It doesn't really matter.

It'd be a horrible waste of money, probably. And I doubt I'd find anything really meaningful. Even if, you know, I use the excuse of going and looking around so I could write a story on it or something, I don't know if Jim, my editor, would really care that much. From what it seems, Mystery Flesh Pit is ancient history.

I take another look at the sheet of paper sitting on the table, curled over on itself like a dead spider. Fuck it, I think, then repeat myself out loud. I stub out the cigarette and go retrieve my cell phone, look up the phone number for American Airlines out of Corpus Christi airport. Fifteen minutes on hold later I am the proud owner of one business class ticket to Lubbock, Texas, leaving in four hours out of gate nine. I hang up the call and say "fuck it" aloud again because it makes me feel a little better, and then I go pack.

The plane ride is okay. Security was a bear and a half but it always is. I realized from the pleasant-unnerving swooping sensation in my stomach when we took off that it had been long enough since the last time I'd been on a plane that I had forgotten what it feels like. I was lucky to grab a window seat next to a little kid and his father; they didn't bother me as much as I'd expected. Once he turned to me to show me something on the handheld video game he was playing but his father quickly intercepted him and apologized to me; I was a little put out, honestly, I would have wanted to look at it. I'd forgotten to stick a book in my carry-on so I had been stuck staring out the window, and about a half hour in the plane had angled in such a way that the setting sun was glaring me right in the face and daring me to enjoy the scenery, so I did the most sensible thing I could and closed the shutter and tried to fall asleep. I think I managed to do so about fifteen minutes before we landed, which lead to me letting out a rather embarrassing yelp when the landing jolted me awake. The kid and his dad looked at me and I blushed, mentally kicking myself for blushing, but I smiled at them and shrugged and said that I'd fallen asleep and we had a laugh about it.

Lubbock is alright, I guess, if you don’t look at it too closely or stay too long. I rent a car at the airport and drive into town, and consider driving to Gumption that night, but I decide after some deliberation that it'll be better to do a little reconnaissance here first, if I really am going to make a story out of this. Am I? I've been treating that as my excuse so far and yeah, I brought my voice recorder and my camcorder and my DSLR and plenty of memory cards and extra batteries...but I guess I hadn't really taken it seriously.

The city's very alive at night, more so, it seems to me, than Corpus Christi, but I also don't get out very much back home, so maybe my perception is skewed. Everywhere I look there are clubs and shows and bars and things, and then, as I pass into the seedier areas, huddled groups of people spotted here and there. I imagine they’re eying me as I drive past and I tamp down the little curl of fear rising in my stomach.

I find a Motel 6 and then I try to find a Waffle House, but seemingly there aren’t any in Lubbock. I settle for someplace called The Pancake House, and then in a couple of hours I feel better, and then a couple of hours after that I finally manage to fall asleep.

I wake up having slept like the dead. I think about going someplace for breakfast but think better of it after I sit up too quickly and my stomach gives an uneasy lurch in protest. I get dressed leisurely – it is my weekend, after all. For a moment I even manage to fantasize that I'll be able to catch a flight home in time to make it to work on Monday but then I laugh at myself, which I seem to be doing quite a lot of lately.

Barely a hundred miles away, Mystery Flesh Pit is waiting for me. I don't know what I'll find there – personally, I feel rather certain it'll be a hell of a let-down – but it feels nice to have a purpose for once, to feel as though my life is being put to some kind of use other than to see how many cigarettes I can smoke in a single day and still retain some dignity.

It's nice to not have to think.

I take a breath and throw some clothes on and get started on the hard part.

* * *

The guy mopping the floor at the bus stop:

"Excuse me, sir? Do you know anything about the Mystery Flesh Pit Disaster of 2007?"

"The what?"

Businessman on the street, approached while tying his shoes:

"Excuse me, sir? I'm doing some research on the Mystery Flesh Pit disast –"

"I'm sorry, lady, I don't have any money."

Lady at the counter of the pharmacy:

"Excuse me, ma'am? I'm trying to find out some information on the Mystery Flesh Pit, do you have a moment to talk about it?"

"Sure, honey, but I'm afraid I don't know that much about it. That was back in, what, 2003? 2004?"

"2007, actually. Did you ever happen to visit while the park was still operating?"

"It was a park? I just remember something about some sort of tunnel collapse."

"Right. Thanks for your time."

Guy at the 7-11, asked while filling up the tank on my car next to him:

"Hey, dude, you know anything about the Mystery Flesh Pit?"

"Went there once when I was a kid. Pretty cool. Why?"

"I'm a reporter, doing a story on it. You remember the disaster that closed it down?"

"It's closed now? That's lame. What happened?"

"Thing woke up and ate everybody."

"For real?"

"Yeah. I've been asking around, like nobody's heard about it. Kind of surprising."

He taps his finger to his chin. "You know," he says thoughtfully, "it has been like five years since then."

"Four years."

"Even so. People don't have any kind of attention span any more."

His pump clicks off and so does our conversation.

Yeah, alright, maybe it isn't a very representative group, but it seems like nobody cares. Is that reasonable? Well...seven hundred plus people died, most in pretty gruesome ways, according to Wikipedia. Then there were the, god, the thousand or ten-thousand-plus people affected by the vomit and ejecta scattered hundreds of miles away. I’m not sure. You'd expect that apathy from the rest of the nation, maybe, I don't know why somebody in Arkansas or Kentucky or Illinois or wherever would give a fuck if they didn't personally know somebody who was affected, but here? Just a hundred miles from the place or so?

Maybe they did a really good job of cleaning up the cities, maybe it's only the little towns and places where the legacy of it has really clung on. I know there has to be a story, somebody who was there, somebody who saw it. That jerky camcorder video of CNN is a start, but something real, something visceral, in the words of a survivor...

That was the one thing I didn’t find much of. No memoirs, no autobiographies, just a few mentions here and there but nothing like a back-to-front story of what that night was like. That is what I’m really after.

I put my cigarette out in one of those trashcan-cum-ashtrays that dot the corners of every city I've ever been to, Lubbock no exception. I get in the rental car and again forget that it has crank windows instead of buttons. "To the library, and step on it," I giggle to myself as I pull out into traffic. I feel a little lightheaded and I remember that I never bothered to eat anything.

Perusal of the newspaper archives at the Mahon Public Library downtown confirmed what I'd already assumed – that there was no big government coverup, there was no conspiracy of that sort. The disaster at the Mystery Flesh Pit was capital-letter Very Big News for about a month, back in 2007, at least in the area. The stories towards the end of the month cast a little light on why it didn't last, though – it wasn't ongoing, it was just sort of a one-and-done thing. Yeah, finding the caustic vomit everywhere kicked up another stink a week or so later but the Powers That Be seemed to get that under control fairly quickly, at least in more populated areas. After that there were grumblings about disclosure and fault and blame and all that, and quite a few articles about Anodyne Mining or whoever going bankrupt but by the end of the month, aside from a few overly sentimental memorial pieces dedicated to delicately sidestepping the exact causes of death of the people they were memorializing, the news had moved on.

A librarian pokes around the corner with a cart and smiles at me; I smile back at her. She's young, pretty, long skirt, dark eyes. I scoot forward so she can pass behind me. I read on for a while, the faint swish of her skirt and the slim sliding sound of books going back into shelves registering dimly and pleasantly in the back of my mind. I put the paper down and stretch a little, and then I notice she's glancing over at me. I smile at her again.

"Doing some research?" she asks, and I nod.

"Yes," I say. "I'm a reporter for a paper in Corpus Christi and I'm doing a story on the Mystery Flesh Pit. Have you heard of it?"

As soon as the words pass my lips there's something dark and guarded lurking in her eyes that makes me perk my ears up. She waits a couple of seconds before she answers, clearly thinking of what to say, of how much to tell me. I mention, after a moment, that I'm surprised that so few people here in Lubbock seem to really remember it or care about it, and she nods, leans up against her cart.

"It was a big deal for a while," she says, gesturing to the stack of papers next to me, "but after that I guess it just wasn't exciting any more. The only people who really remember it are out in all the small towns where it really affected them. Here, in Lubbock, they just had vans working overtime to clean everything up and then it was easy to forget about. Every now and then I hear about them finding another pile of that vomit somewhere just...festering away out there in the desert."

"Were you there?"

"No," she says, "but my brother was."

"I'm sorry," I tell her. I want to reach out and touch her or something but I don't know if she'd appreciate it, so instead I keep my sympathy subdued. "Is he - ?"

"No, no," she says quickly, "he's alright. He was a park ranger there, he just…happened to be working that night. He, ah...it really fucked him up for a while," she says finally, giving me a grimace. "We haven't talked in a long time."

"I'm sorry," I say again. "That must have been hard, for both of you."

"Yeah," she says, cutting her glance downwards. "He always said some strange things about the disaster, real Alex Jones type stuff. But he just couldn't, you know, move on at all. We got in a big fight about it and, well, that was that."

I wonder what to say for a moment before I cross my legs, set the newspapers aside. "You must have gone there, then, while it was still operating."

"Yes, plenty of times."

"What was it like?"

She laughs softly. "God, that's such a...like, where do I even begin, you know? Have you been to many other National Parks?"

"A few," I tell her. "Not as many as I'd have liked. Crater Lake, Devil's Tower, Badlands, Petrified Forest..."

She laughs. "Real Midwest girl, aren't you?"

"Hey, Crater Lake is in Oregon, that's not the Midwest."

"I wasn't knocking it. Um. Well, it wasn't like any other park you've ever been to, I can guarantee that. It was like, you drive up to it and you park and you walk up these stairs to get to the main observatory building, and you get in there and you look down and there's just...skin. In a hole in the ground. It was extremely disconcerting. From that distance it didn't look real, it looked like it was plasticine or something, like it was a model. And there was something...I don't know, kind of lewd about it?"

"Lewd?"

"Yeah. The way they were spreading it open with these giant metal, like, flanges or whatever, and how it was all raw and pink around the opening...Freud would have had a field day with it. Made you feel like you were watching a gynecological exam."

"I still kind of can't believe they found this thing and thought opening a theme park was the best thing to do with it."

"It was the 70s, I guess." she shrugs. "Place is old, you know. Anyway, once you actually got down into it, it was...it was an experience. You rode this giant elevator down and they had a massive visitor center something like 1200 feet down inside the thing's throat, and you could look out the windows and see all this flesh outside. It was honestly like something out of a movie, it was so surreal. I went there a bunch of times with my brother cause he got an employee discount and I could get in for five dollars and I saw at least ten people have panic attacks and hyperventilate."

I think about my next question for a moment. "Would you say overall that it was, you know, a negative thing? Like, the park on the whole."

"No, absolutely not."

"Why's that?"

She licks her lips. "I think that it's really easy to forget how small we are. We've done all these great things, we've built civilizations, we've put people on the moon, we're exploring the bottom of the ocean, I think humanity in general likes to think that we have everything figured out." She shrugs. "The Mystery Flesh Pit is a really good reminder that we know basically nothing. I mean, they were studying it but they knew practically nothing about it, not how big it was, not whether there were more creatures like it elsewhere in the world, not where it came from, not even if it was awake or if it could move or what the thing looked like as a whole. I think what they ended up doing with it was stupid as hell, but as far as the experience of actually going down inside of it and walking around on a trail and, I don't know, watching macrobacteria roll past outside the fence or seeing something really weird moving around down there and seeing the park ranger guiding you not know what it is either, that's an experience I genuinely wish everybody got to have. It'll change your life."

"How did it change yours?"

She laughs. "Besides, you know, everything with the disaster and my brother and all that shit? Just going down there really made me realize who I was."

"How, exactly?"

She shakes her head. "Like I said, I figured out just how small I was and how – I don't know, how insignificant we really are. These days whenever I get worried or bothered or I stress out over something I think about standing there in the elevator looking up through the glass ceiling and watching the light get smaller and dimmer, like I was falling into a bottomless pit, and I find peace."

"Seems like an odd way to find peace."

"Different strokes, right? Anyway. I really ought to put these books away. Was there anything else you wanted to know?"

I think about it for a moment, then shrug. "I'm planning on heading down to Gumption tomorrow, aside from the pit itself is there anything else I ought to check out?"

She lets out a low whistle. "I think you're going to be very disappointed. They don't let anybody go to the Pit any more, it's all sealed off, has been for years. And Gumption, well...that town has seen better days. I'll give you a tip, though, even though maybe I shouldn't. Look for my brother there, I know he still lives in town. I can't give you his number or his address, unfortunately, because I don't have them any more, but I know for a fact that he works at the only gas station in town, a 7/11, so ask around there and you'll be able to find him. His name's Peter; I'd tell you to tell him I sent you but I kind of get the feeling that might not get you very far."

I thank her for the tip and set the newspapers aside. If I head out tonight I might be able to get some good shots of the fence around Mystery Flesh Pit. I think of it, of the sunset, then discard the thought. Forget it. I'll need a whole day to really dig into it, I think. And more's the better. I have plenty of batteries, I have plenty of storage. Easy girl, there's no rush. Assuming they let me just walk up and start filming, but if I really hype myself up I can half-believe I could talk my way into at least getting some shots of the fence, at the very least.

"Oh, and one last thing."

I blink, look back up at her. She has a faint smile on her face, probably from watching me zone out, that fades quickly. "Don't stay in Gumption too long."

* * *

The drive down to Gumption is dusty and hot and boring. I get about halfway before I realize I'm not driving my poor old Hyundai, I'm driving a rental car, and that it has a functional air conditioner, and then I feel very silly, for though the wind certainly felt nice on the whole I would have much rather just rolled the windows up and sat in the cool air. I see a grand total of four other cars, all coming from Gumption, on the two-hour drive. It's mostly a straight shot but my phone tells me to take a county road that turns into just a dirt track towards the end that, after a little meandering, plops me out onto a back street of Gumption, Texas.

The research I'd done suggests that at one point Gumption had been a bustling little town, fuelled by the Pit’s tourist draw, and initially its size would indicate that it still is. But as I drove slowly through the empty streets, the general air of disrepair and decay became more and more apparent. I see a couple abandoned houses, and not the foreclosed sort with realtor's signs out front, but straight-up shattered-glass, boarded-windows, holes-in-the-roofs abandoned. The ones that weren't just looked sad, like no one was taking care of them properly. The cars parked on the street are all at least five or six years old, as best as I can tell. I see only two people out and about while I'm driving around at 15 miles an hour, getting some video footage, cruising down the middle of the road, eyes flicking between the empty street ahead and the screen on my camera. One, a youngish-looking black guy, keeps his head down and doesn't look at me, and the other, an old man in a wifebeater mowing his lawn, stares at me all the way down the street, until I turn the corner and pull onto the main road.

There's the 7/11. I'm tempted to head to it right away but I refrain, look for a diner or something, but the ones around look about as welcoming as the rest of the place. There's a McDonald's but it's so small it doesn't even have a drive-through, which is something I'd never seen before. There's a drug store and a liquor store and one of those tiny little storefront churches, something something Starry Wisdom. I think about going to McDonald's but instead I pull a u-turn and head back to the gas station. The clerk, a haggard-looking woman, doesn't look up from her magazine when I walk in. I wander to the back and grab a Coke out of the fridge unit. The credit-card reader is broken so I have to dig around in my wallet and find some bills. The entire exchange continues without any speech at all until I work up my nerve and lick my lips and ask her if there's a hotel around here somewhere.

She looks at me for a few moments and then jerks her head towards the road. Her voice sounds like a frog croaking. "There's a motel down the road a ways. When you pull out take a left and turn at Third street."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"By the way."

"Yeah?"

"Can you tell me when Peter works?"

I had to think for a moment to remember his name. I have it written down in a notebook but it's out in the car. Her eyes flash a little more lively. "Who's asking?"

I think of what to say for a moment before I shrug. "A friend."

For a moment I think she's going to tell me to fuck off, but something in my face must have convinced her. "He's off today. Come in tomorrow at eight or nine at night, he'll be here. He works graveyard most days."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

I walk out the door and the heat hits me like a thrown punch. I blow a breath out and lean up against the rough cinderblock edge of the gas station building and drink my Coke.

It's four in the afternoon and it'll take me maybe half an hour to drive down to the Mystery Flesh Pit. It'll be cooler, too, in the evening, and if this town is any indication I doubt there'll be much of a line. I wonder where the people who work there live; maybe they have a dormitory there or something. Clearly they don't live here. Maybe there's some little patch of suburbs somewhere, behind those hills over there, perhaps, where all the people are, but it's four in the afternoon and I've seen a grand total of three other cars driving around, so maybe not.

The guy at the motel gives me a nicer greeting than the lady at the 7-11 did, although not by much; at least I get a few dirty molars of a smile out of him as he hands me the key to my room. I had to wake him up from his nap at the front desk in order to get the room to begin with, and though I tried to do so as gently as I could he still started and almost fell out of his chair.

"Here for the Pit?" he asks as I'm about to leave, and I turn back, glance at him.

"Yeah," I say after a moment. "Just going to see what's there now."

"You're heading over now?"

"Yes."

"Huh," he grunts after a moment. "Most of you folks don't do that 'till dark."

I frown. "Us folks?"

"You know, you..." his eyes roam over my face and his mouth drops open very slightly. "Oh," he says heavily. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing, ma'am. Now if you'll excuse me –"

"Wait, hang on –"

"You have a good day now, ma'am."

He disappears into the back room and I stand there, glaring at the door as it swings shut, key still looped around my finger. I have half a mind to vault the desk and head back there and demand to know what the hell he was talking about, but I take a deep breath and let it out. What could he have meant? Maybe he thinks I work over at the Flesh Pit or something, although that wouldn't explain why they only head over after dark...that doesn't make sense. Tourists, maybe? But that doesn't make sense either.

I chew on my lip for a little while and then shake my head, push the door open and let the heat swallow me up again. There's no sense brooding on it; the only thing to do is to move forward.

* * *

The drive down to Mystery Flesh Pit is, if it were possible, even hotter and more boring than the drive down to Gumption. The heat is pounding on the window and begging me to let it in so I turn up the AC, trying to drown it out, but it's no use. No matter where I put my arm the sun is pouring down on me, and if I leave it still for more than a moment I get that unpleasant prickling sensation that tells me I'm starting to burn already. I've already got a pretty terrible driver's tan from the ride down but this is just overkill.

No cars pass me on the long road that my phone assures me is the way to the Permian Basin Superorganism Containment Corporation. It's only wide enough for one so if someone did come by someone's going off the road. Hopefully not me, as this rental Toyota is not built for that sort of thing. It's already been complaining at me creakily and jostling me around. I'll have to get it a car wash or something when I get back to Lubbock, whenever that ends up being. I didn't read over the rental contract very closely but I'm pretty sure if I bring it back this dusty there's some kind of fee.

You can see the outline of the plant, growing larger up ahead. It looks unassuming, exactly like any other indecipherable cluster of industrial buildings you'd see along the side of the highway, all greyish-white, tubes and pipes and tanks and corrugation, warning signs and fences and barbed wire, power lines and scaffolding and light poles, all clustering out of the ground like mushrooms after a cold rain. The guard in the gatehouse is watching me as I pull up, but I turn off the road, turning the car around so I'll be ready to go whenever I need to, well away from the road so anyone trying to get in or out can get by without any trouble.

The sign on the fence broadly proclaims that this is the site of the Permian Basin Recovery and Superorganism Containment Corporation, and says that the administration building is to the right, along with the barracks, infirmary, commissary, and so on.

I get out, shut the car door, take my camcorder with me. I keep it on but held low, taking a shot of my feet. I wander up to the gatehouse and the guard steps out, hand on the butt of his pistol, resting loose but confident. He has an MP helmet on and I wonder whether the National Guard is in charge of security or something, and then I wonder if I'm about to get got for trespassing. Surely there'd be more of a commotion if I was, right?

The guard has a sharp face but disconcertingly watery eyes. "Hi," I tell him.

"This area's off-limits to civilians, ma'am," he tells me.

"I'm not trying to get in," I assure him. "I'm a journalist, I just want to take some photos. Is that okay?"

He relaxes a little, points up and down the fence. "Right now," he says, "you're on public land. You go over that fence, you're trespassing on Federal land. Understand?"

"Yessir," I grunt, reflexively. Some old habits never die.

"You can take photos of whatever you like except for people inside the fence, understand? Before you leave I will check your camera."

"Yessir."

"Any questions?"

"Can I take a photo of you?"

"Am I inside the fence?"

"No."

"Then yes, you can."

I bring my DSLR up, snap a picture of him. He gives me a cheesy grin. I look at the display and then back up at him. "You blinked."

"Better take another."

I do so. "You know," I say to him, "this is a much more civil interaction than I expected it to be."

He pauses, halfway back to the guardhouse, to shrug at me. "You're just lucky that the government doesn't also own the land around the park. On most military bases it's like that, you know, they own a hundred-foot radius out from the fence, but here it's different."

"Cause it used to be a National Park?"

"I believe so."

"Do I have to stay in your sight or anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, there are cameras. Just make sure you don't touch the fence, it's electric."

I look at the sign on the fence again; I'd sort of skimmed over it before but a few more things catch my eye this time, especially the bright red one proclaiming that it's charged to 10,000 volts. I whistle. "Y'all really don't want people getting in, huh?"

"It's dangerous."

"So I've heard. Want to do an interview?"

"Can't do that, ma'am. What paper are you with?"

"Corpus Christi Star-Tribune."

He raises his eyebrows. "You're a long way from home. What brings you down to Gumption County?"

I briefly explain what got me interested in the Mystery Flesh Pit and he nods. "Lot of people seem to have forgotten about this place. It's for the best, I'd say."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No, ma'am," he says, but not unkindly. "I can't talk to reporters."

"Come on," I wheedle. "Who'd know?"

"We're on camera," he repeats.

"Fair enough," I shrug.

He gets back in the guardhouse and I run a hand through my hair and turn my attention to the fence. I take a shot of the gates, of the fence, of the signs on the fence, of the great bulging buildings visible through the fence. I get a nice one of the fence extending along into the horizon, a great metal wall bisecting the flat, hot plain of West Texas earth, extending into infinity, it seems, a shimmer of heat distortion bubbling off of it down in the distance. I get another good one of the sun dipping downwards behind the plant, swallowed by it, casting shadows across my face, long spidery ones that scrape the ground. Then, once I'm at about fifty-percent capacity on my memory card, I put the camera away and sit there on the trunk of the car, kicking my heels idly against the gravelly ground, taking it all in. I read the sign again and I call out to the guard. After a moment he comes out of the gatehouse again.

"What is it?" he asks.

"What's that sign mean?" I ask him, pointing to it. He turns, looks at it.

"I don't think it's very ambiguous," he tells me, and I roll my eyes.

"No, I'm serious. What the hell does it mean? 'Over 500 people die each year attempting to commune with the Organism?' What does that - ?"

"Ma'am, I really can't talk about it."

I look at him carefully but he seems serious, and the sign, well...it's a sign on an electric fence on federal property, so surely it's serious as well. I turn my camera back on and snap a photo of it, then I realize that there's a bit of background noise, coming slowly closer. It's the rumbling of an engine.

There, down the road, is an unmarked white Econoline van. It flashes its brights at me and I step out of the road, let it pass by, while the guard at the gate straightens his uniform. It pulls up to the gate and the guard leans in. He and the driver have a brief conversation before the guard steps back and reaches into the booth to open the gate. The gate opens but the driver of the van sticks his head out, looks back at me. He has a jowly, bristly face, about two five-o'clock shadows away from a beard, and a large bald spot.

"And you, what are you doing here?" he calls, and I get up, a little surprised to be addressed so abruptly. The guard comes out in a hurry, shaking his head.

"Sir," he starts, but the guy in the van isn't having any of it.

"Shut up for a second," he says. "Lady, what're you doing out here?"

"I'm –"

"Sir, you really shouldn't –"

"Look, lady," he says, gesturing me closer. "Things don't have to go this way. There've been a lot of advances with medical technology that can really help you out with those urges. There's –"

"Urges?" I ask. I get a prickly feeling all up and down my spine, like I'm hearing something I ought not to.

"Sir," the guard says, urgently now, "she's a reporter."

The man's mouth snaps shut so quickly he might as well have been a cartoon character. He flushes an angry red and glares at the guard as though he wants to say something but he just ducks his head back through the window of the car and drives through the gate, which closes after him. I shake my head.

"I suppose," I say after a moment, "that you aren't going to tell me what he meant?"

"Not a chance."

"Well," I say, getting up and stretching, "it's been fun."

"You have a good night now."

"Am I going to get a visit from the Men in Black at my hotel room later?"

"I wouldn't worry about that."

"Riiiight." I waggle my eyebrows at him. "That's exactly what they'd want me to think."

He laughs. "Good luck," he tells me.

"I get the feeling I'll need it."

"You’ll be fine," he says after a moment, but I do not feel reassured.

* * *

I drive back to Gumption with the setting sun blazing in my rearview mirror. It slips out of view entirely and coats the sky in dusky purples that quickly fade to black, and then it's the figurative middle of the night. One-handed I manage to wriggle a cigarette out of the pack on the seat next to me and transfer it to my mouth and then feel around for my lighter, and then I groan and pull over. The guy at the rental desk at the airport had seen the pack of cigarettes in my hand while I was filling out the paperwork and told me very strictly that I had better not smoke in the car and I, of course, had managed to forget completely. It's a good thing I remembered before I lit up.

The night is cold but not unbearably so. I spend a long time there, leaning against the trunk of my car, cigarette in my hand but forgotten momentarily, staring up at the sky. There's so little light pollution out here that I can see what feels like all of the stars, practically, great scattered dustings of them sweeping across the whole of the night sky like someone had tossed them there. There's the Big Dipper, there's Orion, there's the Little Dipper... I think that bright one is Mars, maybe, it looks a little reddish. And that cluster there must be the Pleiades.

I take a breath and blow it out and realize exactly how tired I am. It's somewhere lurking in the back of my skull, right behind my eyes, coiled around my neck. If I closed my eyes I'd probably be able to fall asleep out here, right on the hood of the car.

I crack my neck and wince. The moon's bright and full tonight, at least, so I can still see the barren terrain all around me.

I consider the cigarette for a moment before I throw it to the ground and crush it out. I don't normally litter, really, I swear, but the exhaustion creeping over me is making me not care.

There's a long drainage ditch along the side of the road here, terminating in one of those white-concrete tunnels disappearing into the dirt, its mouth wide enough to swallow me whole if I felt like going down there. I stifle a yawn, kick a rock down into the ditch, and traipse around the side of the car, get in and start it up. From where I parked it, the headlights angle downward enough to reveal a sliced-pie cut of the inside of the tunnel and there, inside it, I see for only the briefest second a pale, wide-eyed face staring at me, along with a dark-jacketed body and a hand, curled there on the floor of the tunnel like a spider before, in a flash, the man retreats into the darkness deeper in the tunnel and is gone.

I can feel my heart beating out of my chest and I realize my mouth has dropped open. Real animal fear has seized me and my rational mind cannot jerk back the reins. I put the car into gear, fumbling first and sticking it in neutral, and then push the pedal all the way to the floor and roar off into the dark.

I was very lucky that there was no one trying to get to Mystery Flesh Pit that night, for I probably would have flipped the car trying to go around them. The closer I get to Gumption, the slower I drive, until finally I manage to get myself to stop the car just outside of town. I pull over again and get out, curling my lip at my shaking hands, and light up another cigarette.

It was just a homeless guy, hiding in a drainage ditch. I probably spooked the fuck out of him, pulling up right there on top of him and hanging out. He must be wondering what the fuck I was doing out there. Probably scared him more than he scared me.

Why did I wig out so bad anyway? I like to think I've got a pretty good nerve. Well, stress is a good excuse, I guess. Or perhaps it's because he was simply hiding down there, unknown, unnoticed, the whole time I was sitting there on the hood of the car, completely oblivious. He could have rushed out and attacked me, if he'd had the guts to, and I wouldn't have been able to do anything about it.

I take another drag at the cigarette and glare up at the stars again. Ursa Major, Orion, Pleiades. Sometimes, when it's quiet like this, I allow myself to think about what the coming year, or possibly years, if I'm lucky, will be like.

Whatever.

I crush the cigarette out and drive back into town, head back to my motel room. I feel better once I've showered and put on some shorts. I get into bed and pull the covers up, and even though they're the scratchy, weird-feeling covers used in seemingly every cheap motel in America, regardless of location, I drift off to sleep easily enough.

Continue with Part 2

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#writing #mystery flesh pit #writeblr #Michael Crichton #thriller #novel #alt lit

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dreamwithoutreason · 4 years

Text

Really need people to understand that there is a difference between your diagnosis being stigmatized (what usually happens with mental illness) and your diagnosis resulting in you being subjected to ableism (disability) because those two things are a bit different and the distinction is important.

I want to start by saying that I am in no way attempting to minimize the struggles that mentally ill people face. I am mentally ill and have depression, anxiety, and ADHD as well as a physical disability, Cerebral Palsy. The line between the struggles of people with mental illnesses and the struggles of disabled people is thin but there is still a line. I just want to highlight some of the ways that disabled people are especially discriminated against in a world built and run by abled people and how that can be different from how mental ill people experience alienation or stigmatization. These differences are also why I think that comparing a mental illness to a disability can be problematic. I am, however, also aware that there is overlap and that some diagnoses can be considered to have a foot in both arenas, this is in no way meant to be a hard and fast rule. I also don't claim to speak for the entire disabled community but a lot of the things under the ableism list are things that I've experienced myself which is the place that this post is coming from. I want people to realize that ableism is more than stigmatization and that it is engrained in the world that we live in.

Stigmatization comes from people misunderstanding your illness and how seriously it can impact you and your life. I would consider stigmatization to be things like:

People using your diagnosis as an insult or joke, further stigmatizing it. Ex: When ppl say things like "I'm so ocd" or "I'm so bipolar"

People ignoring your symptoms or attributing your symptoms to your character. For example, instead of recognizing the symptoms of your illness like executive dysfunction, someone might just call you lazy.

General lack of understanding or sympathy towards mentally ill people

Lack of accurate representations of mental illnesses in media. Most of the time the character with the mental illness is made to be the villain or antagonist. Once again, very stigmatizing and gross.

Also, for both mentally ill and disabled people it can sometimes be difficult or expensive to get the right medications you need.

Examples of everyday ableism and systematic ableism that's ingrained in our society which particularly affects disabled people include:

Someone using derogatory language to belittle and degrade your existence as a person. It positions you as less than. Can often be a targetted, direct attack at a disabled person. Ex: the r slur, words like "cripple", and using "deaf", "blind", or "disabled" as insults.

Mocking the way someone walks, moves, speaks, or exists as a disabled person.

No one taking you seriously because you are disabled/being subjected to infantilization. People assuming that you can't do anything for yourself.

Able-bodied people assuming the needs of a disabled person without asking them. Often this comes from a place of trying to be helpful but make sure you always ask what you can do to accommodate someone before assuming what they might need help with because it can be infantilizing

Example: I've had a lot of people assume that I need help putting on a jacket or getting my shoes on so they automatically start helping me with it and they basically end up treating me like a child because they assume that I can't do something.

People touching you or your equipment or mobility aids without your consent. Mobility aids can be like extensions of our body so do not touch them without our permission. This urge to violate a disabled person's space comes from the subconscious assumption that disabled people don't have their own autonomy.

Example: many times when I was a full-time wheelchair user people would come up behind me and just start pushing my wheelchair without asking or saying anything. Their intention was to help me get where I was going but it was very jarring to suddenly start being pushed without asking.

Being denied a job because you are disabled.

Job applications including physical ability requirements for non-physical or desk jobs to discourage disabled people from applying. Ex: "must be able to lift [x amount] of pounds"

Being denied the accommodations you need to be able to function in a school/work/home/other environment.

Lack of captions or audio descriptions

Being expected to work and move at the same pace as your peers all of the time.

Constantly feeling the need to "prove" yourself to the abled majority.

The idea that being abled is the ideal and that you need to do everything in your power to try to be as close to abled as possible. The idea that you shouldn't be comfortable with your disability. The notion that being disabled cannot be a whole or fulfilling identity.

A good example of this that people don't often think about are the viral videos that are like "Sally worked for months so that she could [struggle] to walk down the aisle at her wedding! Isn't that sweet?" Or the videos of kids feeling pressured to walk across the stage at graduation. These videos imply that struggling to perform ability is somehow better than being comfortably disabled.

The idea that disabled people can't be desirable, attractive, or sexy. The idea that they don't make good romantic partners.

Using disabled people as inspiration porn. This happens a lot with viral videos of disabled people where the comments amount to "if they can live with a disability, then you have no reason to complain about your life!" Disabled people do not exist to inspire you.

Also another personal example but one time in gym class I did more push ups than a girl who was able-bodied so she got all defensive and said "well if she can do that many then I'm gonna do more!" Like girl.... anyways...

Having to jump through a million hoops to get disability benefits. Or being denied disability benefits for arbitrary reasons.

Also once you get disability benefits it's barely anything. Also when you're on benefits you're not allowed to save up money and if you get married you lose benefits. I could make a whole other post about how disabled people are expected to live off of nothing but...

MOBILITY AIDS ARE SO EXPENSIVE HOLY SHIT

The world was built by and for able-bodied people. Architectural/environmental ableism occurs when there are no ramps, no accessible bathroom stalls, no elevators, no disability parking spaces, and/or no space for wheelchairs/mobility aids in public places.

This also happens a lot with public transportation. When I tried using the metro with my friends in DC, I had to have a security guard help me get down the escalator because there wasn't an elevator nearby. Right before I got on it, I saw a man force his wheelchair onto the escalator.

A smaller example but it can be as small as there not being a sidewalk ramp. One time I couldn't even cross the street because there was no sidewalk ramp and I was in a wheelchair. Once again, the world was built by able-bodied people.

Eco-ableism. It's when disabled people aren't considered when it comes to environmental activism. The best example of this is the straw debacle that happened last year. Every abled person and their mama wanted to complete ban plastic straws without acknowledging that a lot of disabled people need to use blendable, flexible plastic straws.

Another example that I've witnessed myself has been with automatic doors. I've had to tear down signs at my university that were put on automatic doors that said "save a polar bear, use the other door". Stop blaming disabled people's survival for environmental issues and blame big corporations.

Almost a complete lack of disability representation in media. Disabled kids don't have many people who they can look up to. I know I didn't have any.

The ableism that comes from abled parents of a disabled child.

For years I was told inaccurate information about my disability by able-bodied people, including my mother. It was only when I started researching my disability myself that I actually began to understand it.

Related to the previous point, lack of information or knowledge about certain disabilities

People assuming that just because someone is in a wheelchair that they can't move their legs or walk. This feeds into the idea that disabled people are "faking" their disability. The idea that someone is "faking" can lead people to be attacked or have people tell them that they don't "deserve" things like benefits or parking spaces.

People who straight up pretend they don't see us. I've had so many people try to cut me in line over the years just because they didn't think I would say anything or wanted to pretend they didn't see me.

I have friends who have delayed speech as part of their disability. If you know someone who has delayed speech or a stutter, don't fucking cut them off or try to finish their sentences for them. It's super rude and disrespectful.

DON'T FUCKING SAY THE R WORD. DON'T SAY IT! DON'T SAY IT EVEN IF YOU ARE DISABLED! THE R WORD IS SO ABLEIST AND STIGMATIZING STOP SAYING IT! DON'T PUT IT IN YOUR WRITING EITHER!

Lastly, about half of people killed by police have some sort of disability or mental illness. Disability is intersectional and it's important when talking about things like the BLM movement, women's rights, lgbtq+ rights, etc.

Hope this helped you learn something about ableism and how prevalent it is!

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queeenpersephone · 3 years

Note

Hello! I’d love to see what you have written for the Good Omens/Doctor Who story! ☺️

yay! okay this is literally just copy/pasted from my doc for this fic (about 2k), so the plot probably won’t be obvious but hopefully it’s still enjoyable to read! i just don’t think i’m ever gonna finish it because i never finished good omens

without further ado...

take it up with the badlands

summary: If he wants her to stay, he’ll have to fight those who shaped the universe. And they could, he knows. He is an immortal demon, no longer bent to the will of heaven or hell. She is the Bad Wolf, Goddess of Time and Space, capable of feats even he can barely imagine. That’s not even in question. The question is: would she ever actually want to stay with him?

Deep down, Crowley knows the answer. And it’s not a happy one.

The white haired man looks her up and down, a mask of evaluation on his face, before grimacing in distaste. “Oh, I suppose I know why you’re here,” he announces when he has finished deducing. “Wish you people would leave him alone,” he adds under his breath.

Rose just smiles, playing along. Maybe the man this man speaks of is someone who can help her - the reason Bad Wolf sent her here. “Sorry, can I just wait for him here, then?” She twists one of the hoops in her ears, giving the bookseller a bright grin.

Instead of looking reassured, the gentleman looks even more unsettled.

“I've been working on this top secret project for years now,” she tells them. “The Dimension Cannon - supposed to get me back to my proper universe. Only, someone noticed I wasn’t aging that quick, so they somehow got my blood from my files and ran some tests. Still don’t know what they found, but a couple days later my stepdad was deposed. He only had the resources to get my mum and my little brother to a safe house before they killed him.” She swallows hard. “I was tortured for about four months.”

Aziraphale murmurs a sympathetic “oh dear!” but makes no move to comfort her. Crowley tries to refrain from rolling his eyes: angels have a great sense of empathy, but really know shit about showing it.

“Anyway, I escaped. Been on the run for a month or so - saw something in your window that made me think this was a safe place.” Something in her eyes tells Crowley that she won’t tell them what it was, not yet. “I figure something about this universe makes me age slower, but they thought I was alien. After all the crazy shit that’s happened in the last decade, they felt betrayed, I guess.”

Crowley shrugs. “You are, though.”

Rose starts. “What?”

“You’re an alien,” Crowley clarifies unhelpfully.

Aziraphale takes over. “What Crowley is trying to say, my dear, is that you are neither angel nor demon, but you are an immortal. Quite a powerful one, I sense.”

Rose’s jaw nearly hits the floor.

“Well, love,” Crowley drawls, “seeing as you’re probably going to be here awhile, you might as well come for drinks.” He drapes a loose arm over her shoulder, leading her out the door as Aziraphale closes up shop behind them.

“Are you tempting right now?” Rose teases, but he can see the shock and pain that still hide behind those golden eyes. Crowley’s never had mortal attachments, and he’s not the type to be empathetic, but he still acknowledges that it must be difficult. He’s only known this newly immortal human for an hour, but he can already see how strong she is. “‘Cause I’d rather have a friend,” she admits.

Crowley, thankfully, is saved from responding by Aziraphale’s gentle hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Ah, my dear, I’m quite sure we’ll get along splendidly! My demon friend here is slower to trust, but he’ll come around.”

“Oi, right here,” Crowley grumbles, but he manages a soft smirk at Rose as they stride off to their favorite bar. He’ll get to the bottom of this anomaly if it kills him.

To Crowley, Rose is a walking contradiction.

She has a dark sense of humor and a penchant for danger and trouble, with a generally mischievous air that Crowley has always associated with demons. Yet, her staunch sense of right and wrong and blinding optimism could only belong to an angel. Well, Aziraphale, at least. The rest of the lot are right bastards.

And she’s so far out of the rest of the humans’ league that she might as well be in another universe.

From one, Crowley mentally corrects. Then he wonders when this little goddess-human prototype began to take up so much space in his conscious thought. The space usually reserved for good tea and terrorizing plants and tight jeans - now filled up with thoughts about Rose Tyler’s bright laugh and bad jokes and uncertain fate.

“There’s something you’re not telling us, love,” Crowley observes.

“Yeah,” she admits, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? I trust you.” Crowley makes an impatient shooing motion with his hands. “Yeah, okay, so in my universe, I sort of absorbed the time vortex? Long story short, I controlled all of Time for a few minutes - the Doctor said I would’ve burned, but he took it out of me.” Rose shrugs. “Anyway, the torture I went through.. that’s how I discovered I can kinda… control it, I guess.”

“Control it?” Crowley leans forward into her space, taking his hands out of his pockets.

Rose gestures around. “It’d be easier if I showed you - Aziraphale, do you have anything in the shop you’re not attached to?”

Crowley nearly loses it at his friend’s offended and very concerned expression. Oh, this girl is only proving herself to be more and more precious.

“You’re God, huh?” Rose knows, gazing intently at the shadowy figure in the corner of her dream.

The figure straightens, but Rose still can’t make out any singular feature. It’s a woman, surely, but nothing else. “Bad Wolf, you do not belong in this universe,” God says, and Rose rolls her eyes.

“Took ya kind of long to figure that out, yeah?”

God shrugs. “We couldn’t decide where you fit in with the Plan. And now We’ve decided you don’t fit, so We are sending you back.”

Rose's heart jumps at these words. “Back?” she stutters, “to the Doctor?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Rose squints at Her. “You’re not doing it out of the kindness of your heart though, are ya?” God is silent, and then Rose knows. “You’re afraid,” she realizes. “You’re afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”

“We have no fear,” God says, but it is like She is shouting in Rose’s head.

Rose’s eyes flash gold. “I take your atoms…”

“ENOUGH.”

Rose wakes sweaty and exhilarated to the sweetest sound she has ever heard. To the sound of the TARDIS.

Crowley takes one look at the Doctor and the way he holds Rose’s hand, keeping her slightly behind him in a completely unnecessary protective stance that fires up Crowley’s indignation - he left her, he left her, he has no right to protect her - before shoving him up against the wall in a chokehold. If Rose hadn’t been panicking about the possibility of them killing each other, she would probably be a little turned on. The man she’s loved for years and the demon that made her smile again, both with the body and face of her dreams? It’s probably a good thing she’d only ever think about that possibility in hindsight.

“I fell,” Crowley growls, “through ash and fire. All for pride. Rose Tyler, all annoyingly empathetic and stupidly optimistic and fucking brilliant that she is - she helped me find peace. And that makes things very simple. If you hurt her, if she feels one ounce of pain that you had it in your power to prevent, I will fall to God’s feet and beg forgiveness for my sins just to travel between universes and rain hellfire down upon you.” His words have the same, ancient feel to them as the Doctor’s, the same cadence as holy scripture, as absolute truth, and Rose shivers. His voice is so low and heated that when she steps close between them and lays a hand on his chest to push him off the Doctor, even she can barely hear it. “And I’m quite good at that,” he adds, smirking down at Rose, who shakes her head at him with a soft smile on her face.

“It’s been a ride, gentlemen,” Rose says, sparing Aziraphale a friendly nod before gazing up at Crowley. “Thank you.” She rubs the fabric of the henley over Crowley’s heart, and he groans in frustration.

“C’mon, love,” he tries, “look at him! I’m sure I can give you at least twice as many orgasms.” Rose giggles, used to Crowley’s brand of humor, but doesn’t miss the sharp noise that the Doctor makes behind her. “I’ll make you see heaven,” he promises, but she can tell by his eyes that he already knows her answer.

The Doctor moves up behind her, twining an arm around her and pressing his palm to her stomach. “And with me, she’ll see stars,” his voice is low and dark, and Rose knows that they need to get onto the TARDIS before a full out brawl occurs in front of her.

So she takes the Doctor’s hand from her stomach, pressing a kiss to the back of it before shooing him back to the TARDIS. He goes, but he watches Crowley with sharp eyes.

“You’re better than you believe, yeah?” she whispers to the demon in front of her, cupping his cheek gently. “If I was meant to be here, in this universe, I’d be the one to show it to you. So you just gotta get back out there and find this universe’s match for you. I know they’re out there.” Her eyes dart to Aziraphale for a moment, wondering if something might eventually come from that. There’s history there, and they have the rest of eternity to figure it out. “Rely on your best friend, yeah?” She adds, wondering if a hint could turn into a catalyst.

“Rose-” Crowley begins hoarsely, before Rose dives her fingers into his ginger hair and pulls his lips down to meet hers.

It’s a soft, chaste peck, nothing like that drunken night, but the possibilities hit them both like a freight train. It’s not hard to imagine their endless days: going for drinks with Aziraphale, lounging at his bookshop, Rose following his angry rants at his plants with a soft touch to their leaves, Crowley tempting ordinary humans into sin and Rose tempting Crowley into bed. In fact, it’s easy, and when Rose feels the hint of tears at the corners of her eyes, she pulls away. “Bye, love,” she murmurs, borrowing his nickname before giving him a quick squeeze. His arms don’t have time to come around her before she is walking back to the Doctor, who brushes his lips against her forehead before she walks past him and into the TARDIS.

Crowley ignores the lump in his throat, but before he can walk away, a low tenor stops him.

“I’m the last of my kind,” the Doctor is saying, eyes dark and intent. “I’m the killer of my kind. I’ve spent my life trying to do the best thing for the universe, but rest assured, I’ll now be doing the best thing for Rose. Forever.”

Crowley nods in agreement with this promise, before letting a smile quirk at his lips. “Have you considered whether she’ll let you?” He asks.

The Doctor grins full on at this. “Oh,” he says, stepping into his transdimensional blue box. “I can see why she liked you.”

With a groan and wheeze, the Bad Wolf disappears from this universe. God is satisfied, but Crowley sets out to get really, really drunk.

He won’t stop living, though, he refuses to disappoint his Rose like that. No, he’ll find his match.

After a few bottles of Scotch.

“Did you love him?” The Doctor asks quietly, weeks later, when they have regained some sense of stability.

If she had been the same person she was when she started traveling with him, she might’ve lied. Been afraid to disturb the peace, the delicate tightrope that she and the Doctor always seem to balance on. But now, Rose is different. She understands relationships, understands love and trust and commitment, a little better. She knows the Doctor would never leave her, never let her leave unless he was absolutely sure it would truly make her happy. They’ve already hashed it all out, amongst tears and rage and late night nibbles, sitting at the foot of the TARDIS’ doors and dangling their feet into the cosmos. After everything they’ve been through, honesty comes easy.

“I could’ve,” she admits. She saves the waxing poetic, the memories of the dark quips and burning hugs and blunt speech, for their next visit with Jack. She’ll be honest with the Doctor, but she won’t set out to hurt him. “He’s a good man- demon, I mean,” she corrects. “Misunderstood and angry at the universe. He deserves a love that didn’t already promise someone else forever.” The Doctor reaches over, twining their fingers together. “And I’d never regret that promise, yeah?”

“Good,” the Doctor whispers, tugging her close. “Cause that’s how long you’re gonna stay with me.”

#crowley x rose #rose x crowley #rose x doctor #dw fic #good omens fic #dw #good omens #rose tyler #crowley #i'd love to finish this someday #bc i love a little bit of a darker ten #and i love the crowley rose dynamic #and the scene with her and god #BUT #clearly that's not happening soon lmao #hope it was fun to read anyways!

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himbowelsh · 4 years

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Would you be willing at all to do a similar thing to the BoB boys falling in love for the Pacific boys? Or if that’s too much maybe just Leckies crew? Please and thank you if you do! ✨✌🏻🥳🦖🍰🎉🤸🏼‍♀️🍺🍆🦷🦞🌈🗿

of course!! i love all of these boys, so getting to write any headcanons for them is a treat and privilege (and how could i say no to all those emojis?)

Robert Leckie

more confident than he has any right to be.

umm, excuse you sir, the wedding ring isn’t on their finger yet, hold your goddamn horse

bob is vocal about his affection. actually, he’s kind of a loudmouth about it; when he’s in love, all his friends get to hear about it. his diary gets to hear about it. his dog gets to hear about it, and he’s pretty sure hoosier jr couldn’t care less. if someone’s willing to listen, bob’s gonna wax poetic.

the louder he proclaims his love, the more real it feels to him... concrete, like the next torrential rainstorm or wicked nightmare isn’t going to wash it away. bob’s confidence isn’t a front --- he’s really just like that --- but there’s more underneath than meets the eye.

he likes to dedicate his writing to them. while he eventually grows out of the love poems phase (the smartest choice of his literary career) his love interest remains his muse. he’ll bounce his ideas off of them, seek out their opinions on the things he’s written... yes, he’s hungry for their attention, but knowing that they’ll be reading gives him the motivation to write better.

he’ll rarely admit his feelings outright, always dancing around it in smirks and sly double-entendres. is he talking about how great the filet mignon at this restaurant is, or that he wants to get married soon? knowing him, both, and that’s exactly what he wants to leave them wondering.

Runner Conley

runner in love is very earnest. he doesn’t feel the need to brag --- sure, his friends can tell just by looking at him, but how he feels for the person he cares about is their business alone.

still, he can’t help talking about them. they’re on his mind so much that he’ll just bring them up out of the blue --- his crush said this, his crush thinks that, this reminds him of the time he and his crush did blah-blah-blah... he completely gives himself away. his friends will take the piss out of him, but runner legit doesn’t even notice he’s doing it; he can’t stop.

he is right there with the favors. they need a ride somewhere? they need something picked up at the store? just tell him, and he’ll do it, no questions asked. he gets things done in record time. (meanwhile, leckie asked to borrow his can opener two weeks ago, and runner still hasn’t gotten around to it. the preference is clear.)

loves to just spend time with them. he’ll ask to hang out all the time, inventing excuses just to spend time together. being in their space, enjoying their presence, is the best part about being in love for him.

Hoosier Smith

hoosier’s love is measured in tolerance. if he’s willing to spend time around somebody, he likes 'em. if he’ll spend the whole day with 'em, he’s head-over-heels.

lowkey, no one would be able to tell hoosier’s falling in love. he plays his emotions close to his chest, and doesn’t analyze them too much. yeah, he’s caught feelings, but no sense making a big deal out of it. they’ll probably go away on their own.

except they don’t, and the more they grow, the easier hoosier finds it is to be around them. he’s not taxed by their presence, and hardly ever annoyed with them; it’s easy to banter with them, and when they laugh at his quips he feels all warm inside. it’s weird. he’s not sure he likes it. but damn him if he wants it to end.

the day he finds himself eager to hang out with them... he knows he’s done for.

hoosier is much more relaxed around the person he loves. all his blunt edges have softened; he’s a little gentler with them, a little fonder. he’s not loud about it at all, but as soon as his partner picks up on it, his love becomes obvious.

Chuckler Juergens

he has absolutely no filter, and there is no way he can hold these emotions in. when chuckler is in love, it’s like a golden retriever with a crush.

everything they do is amazing in his eyes. he has to actively work to recognize their flaws; for a while, he definitely wears rose-tinted glasses when it comes to his love interest. he just loves so sincerely, with his whole body, that holding it in threatens to overwhelm him.

that said, he doesn’t rush into love. it builds up slowly in him. he can’t really say he loves someone until he’s known them for a while. by then, they’re pretty comfortable around each other, and on a level of intimacy that he doesn’t feel shy admitting it when he’s certain. (he also wouldn’t have luck hiding it if he tried; to all his friends, chuckler’s pretty transparent.)

he laughs at all their jokes, and would go miles out of his way for them if they just asked for it. his smile is always broader around them, painfully genuine. chuckler’s a social guy, so he loves being out in crowds, but around the person he loves he loves it when it’s just the two of them.

he needs his partner to say “i love you” first, but he’ll say everything but. “you look amazing today,”; “no one dance like as you,”; “i could spend every night like this with you”. he’s confessed his feelings a dozen times over before the word “love” ever passes between them.

Sid Phillips

sid genuinely enjoys falling in love. it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience, right? (for most people --- his aunt janine has fallen in love four times and counting, but if she were the gold standard for romance, she’d still be invited to the phillips family christmases.)

he kind of becomes... not oblivious to everything else, but his mind is very clearly in another place. he’s not as sensitive to his other friends’ feelings; he drops plans without much notice because he’d rather be with the person he loves. sid falling in love becomes self-absorbed without realizing it, and would have to be snapped out of it by a well intentioned (very annoyed) friend.

with his partner, however, he’s tender. sid is a very good listener, empathetic and kind; he’s open about his feelings from the start, valuing communication in a relationship, and nothing makes him grin harder than hearing his partner feels the same way.

sid is a gentleman --- he’s eager to help them out with anything they need. he’s very conscientious of his partner’s feelings, careful not to overstep boundaries. he wouldn’t do anything, even kiss, unless his partner gave him plenty of encouragement.

Eugene Sledge

eugene does not all in love easily. it takes him a long time to ease into it. he doesn’t tumble head-over-heels, so much as cautiously inch down the mountain, taking frequent breaks to have a snack and psyche himself up.

somehow, he’s quieter around the person he loves. it’s noticeable because he wasn’t always like this. eugene as a friend is quite different to eugene as a lover, more tentative and tender in all the ways that count. he gets... not shy, really, but more reserved around them. he doesn’t want to let his feelings show, so the casual banter and easy dynamic they used to have grows stiff and uncomfortable. he’ll jump through hoops to avoid hanging out alone with them.

why is he doing this? god help him, even he’s not sure.

if anyone confronts him about it, he’ll get mad. of course he’s not treating them any differently! this is how he’s always been, he’s fine --- but just as quickly as he flares up for his own sake, he’ll get even more riled over any slight to his loved one. being in love awakes a defensiveness eugene never realized he had. suddenly, he’d do anything for his partner’s sake.

it takes a while for eugene to come to terms with his feelings, and trust himself enough to love. hopefully his partner’s patient --- and straightforward about their feelings, because eugene’s probably going to need a push.

Snafu Shelton

his crush starts finding weird gifts hidden around their house, and no, they have no clue how they got there.

merriell’s not a romantic, okay? he doesn’t know how all that wooing-and-courting works, but he gets the general idea. nothing romantic about coming up to someone and saying outright ‘your hair looks like it’d be cozy to wear as a sweater, when you smile i want to touch your teeth, this feels like love’. like. it’s all true, but that doesn’t mean he can say it.

frankly, he’s still cursing himself for falling in love in the first place, because merriell did not sign up for all this mushy-gushy feeling stuff.

some people just... aren’t meant to fall in love, and he’s one of them. not love that feels like this, that feels... so real. it scares him. he doesn’t know what to do about it.

he’s a weak man, though. it’s not like he can just stay away. merriell can’t help but want to be around them constantly, looking over their shoulder and watching out for them; he’s fascinated by them, and it only grows more obvious as the feelings continue to swell in his chest.

so, he sneaks tiny gifts --- things he finds or things he likes, things that make him think of them --- in their stuff, and watches raptly when they find it. no, he’s not gonna confess to leaving them there. it’s just... nice to watch.

he stares at them for a long time --- not unusual for him, to be fair --- but when they look up, he looks away immediately. very out of character, and honestly more unnerving than if he just kept staring.

able to carry on like normal, unless the topic of romance is brought up at all. then he gets ornery and annoyed, especially if his love interest talks about any past romantic relationships. he’s possessive in love, especially because he’s not sure where he stands in the other person’s affections. merriell hates the idea of them with anyone else, but can’t really believe they’d want to be with him.

RV Burgin

well, next to the hot messes that are sledge and snafu, burgie’s a disney prince.

literally, he goes so far out of his way to not make the person he loves uncomfortable. he’s a gentleman to his core. the idea of caring for someone who doesn’t feel the same way stings --- but even worse is the idea that he could be forcing affection on someone who doesn’t want it.

because of this, he might keep it all a bit too much to himself. he won’t come out and say it, and will be notably more hesitant around them. no casual touches --- if he accidentally does, he’ll draw back like he’s been burned. if his friends (re: snafu and leyden) say anything perverted around them, he’ll quickly steer the conversation away.

still, it would be impossible to think he isn’t interested. sometimes he can’t help staring at his love interest, eyes warm in admiration... and when they catch him, he holds their gaze for a moment, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face, before looking away.

oh yeah, he’s a goner.

when he does let his feelings slip out, it’s always quick and sincere. “you’re the strongest person i know,” he says once, while trying to encourage them in his typical burgie way; “i admire you very much.” he gives compliments without meaning to, or even realizing how he’s selling himself out. he’s just so besotted that he can’t help it.

Jay De L'Eau

he gets nervous, he gets clumsy, and he gets giggly. this is a horrible combination.

he once knocked over an entire candle, set a curtain on fire, and was desperately trying to laugh it off while stomping the flames out... all because he crush complimented him.

jay wants to look cool in front of his love interest, but he’s decidedly not. poor boy hasn’t got a chance. there isn’t a suave bone in his body, and no one knows this as well as jay.

so, he becomes earnest instead. he’s always on hand to do favors for them, always willing to help out whenever he needs it --- jay could be corralled into doing couple’s yoga with little resistance, just because his love interest wants to.

this extreme generosity can get exhausting after a while --- he really has to figure out how to rein it in --- but if it shows how much he appreciates them? and if it means he gets to spend extra time with them? yeah, jay doesn’t regret a thing.

Bill Leyden

he’s being??? nice?? leyden’s being nice??

his friends check him for a fever. they worry he’s been lobotomized. clearly he’s been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person!

leyden is a prickly bastard in general... but when he’s falling in love, the entire world is puppydogs and rainbows, and he’ll sing showtunes to the heavens.

he’s just so much happier when he’s falling in love. it’s hard not to spread that happiness around. he has way more patience for his friends’ bullshit, and is eager to listen to their problems and offer his (still very leyden-esque) advice.

god forbid when his love interest’s actually present. leyden doesn’t have eyes for anyone else; it’s all about them, and he’s a goddamn prince to them. peeling fruit for them, laughing at all their jokes, making cow-eyes... he turns into the person he’d be disgusted by in any other circumstance.

Andrew Haldane

it’s all about the emotional intimacy, boys.

andy could never truly fall in love with someone until he already knows them very well; he has to be comfortable with them, to have an easy rapport. understanding each other is the first step to winning his heart.

he definitely gets a sparkle around them, though. he just looks brighter, younger, less burdened by his many responsibilities. maybe it’s because he knows he can share them with his partner... but andy feels so much lighter when he’s with them.

he’s very generous with his praise. when they do something well, he lets them know it; the last thing he’d want is for them not to understand how much he appreciates them, how valuable they are to him, how glad he is to have them close...

absolutely overthinks it. he’ll turn his feelings over and over in his head for ages, trying to process them before admitting anything out loud? is this real? is this plausible? are they both in the right place in life to be in love? do they really love him back? he’s not an indecisive man, but he puts so much thought into this that eventually, a friend like hillbilly would need to shake him a bit, and tell him to just go for it.

Hillbilly Jones

he’s not going to say it outright. he’d rather eat a live squid than do something that dumb. when hillbilly feels himself falling for someone, he grips a railing all the way down.

anything they need, he’s there to do. his affection reveals itself through how quick he is to help the person he likes. loyalty drives his urge to make their life easier. if they need some repairs done around the house, or some errands taken care of, he’ll offer to do them without a second thought. “not a problem,” he replies with a tiny smile when they worry he’s going to too much trouble. after all, he wouldn’t do it for just anyone.

master of wordless communication. his love interest doesn’t need to hear things outright from him, because they become well-acquainted with all of hillbilly’s various (extremely sarcastic) faces. he loves this easy communication.

he’ll talk them up to anyone who needs to hear it. hillbilly does not take kindly to his partner being disparaged, under any circumstances. it’s not overprotectiveness, he’ll insist to himself --- the protection is completely warranted, and he’s not ashamed to punch someone if his partner’s good name is on the line.

John Basilone

he gets all the points for persistence.

john’s greatest virtue is his determination. no matter what the world throws at him, or how many ways it tries to kill him, he’s going to keep going until he physically cannot anymore.

and... not gonna lie, there are moments when he sees his love interest smile, and it feels like he’s been shot through the chest. he’s got to stop, just to catch his breath, because they sweep the ground out from under his feet.

the first time it happens, he knows he’s in love. yeah, he knew he liked them already, but... like and love are different things. he likes his mama’s panna cotta, but he’s not going to marry it.

when john’s falling for someone, it’s important to him that they know it. no beating around the bush for him; if they don’t feel the same way, they can respond however they like, but they’ve at least got to know.

he misses no opportunity to make his admiration clear. if they do something impressive, he’s the loudest voice on the sidelines cheering them on; if it’s their birthday or a holiday, he hands his gift to them personally, with that irrepressible charming grin.

john is very confident in love, but he’s also very optimistic. it’s not that he’s never been rejected before, or can’t take it... he just genuinely doesn’t believe his heart can break.

#sledgefu: battle of 'i dont know how to be in love' vs 'i dont know if im SUPPOSED to love'#the pacific #headcanons

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falseroar · 3 years

Text

Dog Days Part 10: Limited Supply

((After finally getting some sleep, Abe learns a little more about the lack of silver bullets in the city and where someone might go to get a Google of their own, or four.

This one is back to being on the long side, but I think the next few are going to level out and not be jumping between long Abe sections and shorter Y/N ones.

Warning: reference to using alcohol as a bad coping mechanism.

Links to Part 9 and to the whole series here.))

Abe didn’t remember the walk back to his car, but he did at least remember that this hospital charged for parking by the hour before he gave in to the impulse to try and get a nap right there in the driver’s seat. It felt like a minor miracle when he managed to reach his office/apartment without causing an accident, and a major one when he was finally, finally able to pull off his shoes and little else before crashing on top of his unmade futon bed.

It was a hard sleep, the kind that left Abe feeling somehow vaguely worse when he woke up than when he fell asleep. Might have had something to do with the puddle of drool he woke up in, or the vague confusion about when and where he was when he opened his crusty eyes to a dark room with the only light coming from the streetlights outside.

He sat up with a groan and a slightly worrying crack from his back. How long had it been since he slept here and not in some random hotel room or in his car or those couple of nights spent out in the woods that probably didn’t actually count as sleeping, now that he thought about it? He checked his watch, realized it had fallen off somewhere in the sheets, and stumbled his way to the bathroom to try and make an effort to clean himself up.

One shower later he felt slightly more human and awake enough to realize that despite feeling like he had barely closed his eyes, he had somehow managed to sleep for over 12 hours there. Which meant he was a bit late on the ball for another night at the doctor’s clinic, again.

Then again, Abe told himself as he checked the coffeemaker and grimaced at what he found there, chances were high that other doctor clued Schneeplestein in on a hunter coming around asking about vampires. Wasn’t like he had been super subtle, and he doubted Dr. Iplier had enough vampire patients to not be able to narrow down who might need to be worried. Keeping some distance for one night couldn’t hurt, not when he had a few other things to look into.

He dug out the envelope that Google guy gave him and leaned against his desk as he checked the contents again. Pictures of the doc, those could have been taken by anyone, and addresses were easy to get, but the copy of the certificate was another question. Abe had seen a couple of these before, battered smaller versions carried by various non humans to prove that they were registered and, theoretically, as harmless as anyone else walking on the street.

This one though, or at least the copy of it, was the larger version kept on file. The seals looked genuine enough, and there was no sign of blurring or any other kind of alteration even when Abe checked with a magnifying glass. If it was a fake, then it was the best one he had ever seen, but the only place to find this version was either in the city’s official records (and even then you had to jump through enough hoops to make you feel like a prized poodle at the dog show) or theoretically in the Bronson Institute’s files, although Abe had never managed to wrangle permission to get to those.

Either way, not an easy piece of paper to get your hands on without the right connections, which could give him a leg up on narrowing down who was so invested in finding out more about this doctor. Abe didn’t believe that bull about not wanting to accidentally accuse an innocent person, not from someone who had to send a magic doohickey made to look like a person instead of showing their own face.

Google. That guy had to be a lead of his own too, even if there was apparently more than one of him walking around. There weren’t too many people who could be capable of making magitek that could pass for human, considering Abe didn’t know of anyone who could pull that off.

But he did know someone who always knew how to pull off the next best thing if there was even a hint of money to be made.

The rest of the night passed quickly, as Abe made a few notes and tried (and failed) to connect a few more dots before heading out just before dawn.

A drive by the clinic proved the doctor had already headed out, and despite driving the way he saw him walk off yesterday Abe failed to see any sign of the vampire before he pulled up to his favorite coffee stop.

“Look at that, he came back,” Carla greeted him as he walked in. “How do you look even worse than yesterday?”

“It’s called getting old,” Abe answered, but she just clucked her tongue and reached for an empty cup. “Your musician not here today?”

“The Host? Guess not, if you didn’t see him. Not like he has a set time to be here,” Carla said. She poured the coffee and paused to look at him. “Feeling brave enough to try something different today?”

“Maybe later,” Abe answered, same as he did every other time she bothered to ask. Black coffee as strong as it came had served him well this long, after all. When she shrugged and slid the cup of coffee toward him, he hesitated and asked, “You still make those sandwiches here?”

Despite the fact that the coffee shop was completely empty except for him and Carla, the hunter took one of the far corner booths by the front windows so that he could keep an eye on the people walking outside while he ate and drank his coffee. Carla would throw him a question or make a comment out into the air every now and then, but otherwise she let him sit there in a silence that was only broken by the occasional other customer.

Even when the number of customers started to pick up and more and more people took empty tables and booths and filled the coffee shop with talking and laughter and general noise, Abe just sat there in his own bubble of silence, watching the street without really seeing it.

The house. Why had Google told him to go there, what was he supposed to see? Someone had performed a ritual there, or at least tried to, and Abe could only hope there was enough of whatever poor fool thought that was a good idea to walk out of there. No body to be found anyways, but sometimes that just made things worse.

He swallowed, hard, and tried to focus.

What was the connection to the Colonel? Celine had been into that stuff, but Abe somehow doubted the Colonel was the type to have a head or the patience for magic. Then again, neither was he, because when he looked at the symbols he had copied into his notebook, they still looked half a step away from scribbles.

And the next page was a copy of the doctor’s list of weapon shop owners.

Abe chewed on his thumbnail as he stared at that page, his thoughts of that used silver bullet in the doctor’s office shifting to the memory of small, twin piles of gleaming silver bullets in his and the Colonel’s palms. One of which ended up in his own chest, and the other…

Next thing he knew, he was shoving the notebook back into the pocket it came from and hurriedly gathering all of his trash together to throw away.

“Heading out?” Carla asked, like she had been keeping an eye on him.

“Yeah, I’ve got—I’ve got some things I need to look into,” Abe said, avoiding her knowing stare. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Abe,” she said, so sharply that he had to stop and look back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just working on a case. You know how it is,” Abe answered. He had maybe camped out here in the coffee shop for an hour or six before, going through cup after cup of coffee while working through a particularly difficult problem.

So it was a little surprising to hear the genuine concern in Carla’s voice when she said, “Don’t let it get to you. You can always turn down a case if it’s not sitting with you, right?”

“Of course I can,” Abe answered, mostly out of reflex.

Because as he stepped outside into the crisp but quickly warming up air, he knew that as true as that was in theory, he really couldn’t. Not when he could feel the edge of a thread, of something connecting all of this that he couldn’t see yet.

The hunter glanced at the bench outside of the shop, but there was still no sign of the Host. Not that Abe was sure he wanted to talk to that guy again anytime soon, but he felt an itch in the back of his mind whenever he spared him a thought, like there was something he was forgetting.

Abe paused at the door of his car and looked back, then all around, but there was no one there out of the ordinary, nothing to explain the fleeting sense of being watched that he quickly put out of his mind.

---

Every weapon shop on the doctor’s list, and a couple more that Abe knew of from his own shopping, had the same response when the hunter asked: no one was buying silver bullets, at least not anytime recently.

“No market for them,” one shop owner explained. “If you want, I can put an order in, but it’ll take a few weeks unless it’s an emergency.”

“Haven’t kept them in stock in three years,” a clerk at another store said after checking their computer. “And that was after not selling them for even longer. Wound up selling our last batch back to the smith who made them.”

Guy at another store outright laughed at Abe when he asked, and he had enough clues to tell he wasn’t the first to ask long before one manager Abe had dealt with before joked, “We had a guy in asking about silver bullets yesterday. You two know something we don’t?”

“That depends. What’d the other guy look like?” Abe asked.

“I don’t know, white guy, brown hair. Wore a red hoodie and didn’t look much like your typical hunter, but that’s about all I noticed,” the manager said with a shrug as she went back to wiping down her glass counter. “Told him I could order him some if he had an ID, but he didn’t care about that. Sounded more like he was interested in telling where a particular bullet came from, and I had to explain to him that you can’t really do that just by looking, you know?”

Abe nodded. If you knew what to look for, you could tell what kind of gun had fired a bullet, but narrowing it down to a particular weapon would require an expert. There were forensics guys with the police and the Institute who could do that, both of which would have a lot of questions for a doctor who showed up with a used silver bullet, starting with just who he pulled that bullet out of.

Werewolves were always the first thing to come to mind whenever silver bullets came into the conversation, although Abe knew they weren’t the only ones to have a weakness for silver. Vampires had a problem with the stuff too, if not as much, but most people were more familiar with the holy symbols and wooden stakes. Really, the only debate among hunters was whether silver crucifixes or wooden ones were better, and even then it usually boiled down to cost and the fact that one version could just as easily become a stake if you were desperate enough. No hunter would bother using a silver bullet on a vampire, since it wasn’t even a guaranteed kill like it was with a werewolf; do it wrong, and you really just ticked off someone who was probably already angling to take a bite out of you.

So, probably only one reason any reasonable person would be packing silver bullets. The problem was, there hadn’t been a werewolf within the bounds of the city in years, as everyone seemed keen to remind Abe today. The District Attorney hadn’t been the last one, with the odd one or two that supposedly ran afoul of the Institute and then were never seen again. From what Abe heard among other hunters and his not quite human contacts, the rumors about what happened to them were enough to keep any sane were from taking that risk.

“You looking to buy some?” the manager asked, in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer before Abe shook his head.

“Still got a few of my own rattling around,” he answered.

Five bullets, to be exact. The five bullets that remained in his gun after that party, the five he had been left with when all was said and done.

Well, that and the bullet the Colonel put in his chest, bit hard to forget about that one.

Abe walked out of the weapons shop and rubbed his face, hand audibly scratching against the stubble on his chin. According to the manager, the guy in the hoodie had come in to that particular shop during the day yesterday, so unless the doctor was topping up on blood and using the hood to keep out of direct sunlight, he had friends to do his day work for him.

Was it one of those friends who had a silver bullet put in them, or one of his patients? Couldn’t be a real werewolf, even a shot that a regular human would be able to survive could kill a were if the bullet was silver. When just the touch of the stuff burned, having it suddenly in your system generally didn’t do a body good. So probably a case of mistaken identity, or just using whatever weapon happened to be at hand, although that second one didn’t sound likely considering the general lack of silver ammunition lying around.

Really, the only ones who would have silver bullets these days would be hunters like him who kept a supply of just about anything that might be useful on hand. Which gave Abe’s mind fuel for his next theory of who might want to send Google to get him to keep an eye on the doctor: a hunter who mistakenly shot someone they believed was a werewolf would have a reason to get rid of the doctor who both treated and possibly saved said victim and possessed the evidence that could track the shooting back to them. Hiring another hunter to dig up dirt on said doctor and discredit him before that could happen would be one way of dealing with the problem.

Or, alternatively, someone really was worried about the doctor and wanted to have someone else on standby and ready to prove his innocence, but for some reason Abe just wasn’t ready to believe his client had the best motives at heart here.

There was also the problem that if someone did survive that bullet, why would they need to risk asking around town about it? Either the victim didn’t know or see their shooter and had another reason not to go to the police without some solid evidence to back them up first, or the victim wasn’t in a position to tell anyone about it afterward.

So, possibly a victim out there, who was just as possibly dead or alive at this point, and a doctor who was possibly trying to solve their attempted and/or actual murder, and then there was the hunter who was possibly being setup to do something possibly very stupid and regrettable. Or, possibly, Abe was barking up the wrong tree entirely, which was also something he considered while he groaned into his steering wheel and questioned all of his life choices for a solid five minutes at least.

No matter how many theories he could come up with, they all came back to the same idea: he needed to figure out just who was so interested in this doctor and why, and at least Abe had an idea on where to start there.

---

The next time he parked his car, it was on the seedier side of town. This had less to do with the people living in this area and more the businesses that thought these few blocks were prime real estate, or at least within the range they were willing to shell out for. The kind of places where the abundance of signs about “genuine” and “high quality” merchandise for prices that were low enough to make any reasonable person tilt their head, but it was the stuff that wasn’t advertised that tended to lead the owners to make “charitable contributions” to the local police and to the campaign funds of certain officials. In exchange, the powers that be were willing to look the other way on the sale of the occasional fake designer handbag or charm of questionable origin.

For example, there was a while where this was the place to go for dragon eggs, back when there was a craze going around that the eggs supposedly had all kinds of miracle properties when properly prepared. The government actually had to step in on that one when it turned out the eggs were really coming from an enchanted goose grown to giant size and hidden away in one of the warehouses around here. And even that was only after the gander got out and surprised no one by causing general mayhem and havoc across the city with the simple vindictiveness of a goose with nothing better to do. Took an entire team of hunters and a bread van to lure the fowl out of the city and to a nearby lake, and that was after they figured out how to return it to normal size.

Today though, Abe went into the bargain bin store whose name changed every time he passed through here, same as the strange array of items on sale in bulk. The owner, however, never changed, and it didn’t take the hunter long to find him slapping a box that according to its label contained one hundred rubber ducks and talking to a customer in an exaggerated southern drawl.

“Tell you what, you take these and I’ll give you a 10% discount on that there drowning charm you were checking out. Guaranteed to keep you afloat, in the bath or out on the open seas, your choice.”

“…Do you mean the ducks or the charm?” the customer asked.

“Both!”

Abe took a walk around the warehouse-like store at that, but he didn’t have long to snort at the rack of labeled potion bottles that claimed to cure everything from rheumatism to bad breath before the bell over the door rang and the customer walked out awkwardly holding the massive box of rubber ducks.

“You’re kidding me,” Abe muttered, but the salesman who was already bearing down on him heard him and grinned.

“I know what people need, and I can see you’re checking out our excellent selection of potions. The one to treat baldness is right there on the—” Ed Edgar stopped short and visibly swallowed when he found the muzzle of a gun pressing up against his jaw. “Top row, next to the other jokes, of course. Good to see you again, Abe.”

“Sure it is,” Abe said, lowering his gun but not putting it away in case Ed started the salesman routine again. “What do you know about magitek?”

“Yeah, that’s what I like about you, never a man to beat around the bush,” Ed said, switching gears once again. It was hard to see his eyes behind those sunglasses that he always wore, even inside, but that grin said he hadn’t given up on finally selling the hunter on something. “What are you in for, I’m sure I’ve got it! We’ve got tablets, we’ve got mice—the kind that’ll clean up your place while you sleep, I mean—and we’ve got word-activated lights that never need a battery, boxes that’ll follow you wherever you go—”

“What about magitek that can pass for human?” Abe interrupted. “You ever hear anything about that?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ed hummed, nodding his head like he was just waiting for Abe to ask. “Should have known you’d be up on what I expect will be the next big thing, soon as we can get the kinks knocked out.”

“Kinks?” Abe repeated, even though he immediately wished he hadn’t.

“There’s that whole ‘uncanny valley’ thing that bothers some people whenever you get something lookin’ a little too human that ain’t,” Ed admitted. “Especially if you maybe make one that forgets which way their limbs are supposed to go, but we’ve mostly worked that out at the warehouse. Got a prototype right here in the back, if you wanna see it. Gotta warn you, you might be tempted to put in an order of your own, and you’ll want to do it fast before everyone else catches on.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Abe said, but his sarcasm couldn’t hide his interest.

Ed nodded and immediately yelled toward the back of the store, “Get out here, you bucket of bolts! We’ve got a customer!”

Not exactly the most stellar introduction, but it didn’t seem to bother the man who skateboarded out of the back and came to a slightly uneven stop near them. Said man tried, and failed, to kick his skateboard up and catch it, but he quickly picked it up and tucked it under his arm like that didn’t just happen before flashing them a surfer gesture with his free hand.

“Suh, dudes! How’s it hangin’?” asked the man, who like Ed was wearing a pair of sunglasses inside but otherwise couldn’t look anymore different than the salesman. While Ed was dressed like a wannabe cowboy from his boots to the ten gallon hat on top of his unkempt mullet, this guy seemed to be going more for the sanitized LA skater boy look. “Name’s Bing. Whatcha need to know?”

“You’re magitek?” Abe asked, even though after Google he was quicker to notice the obvious signs. No breathing, not exactly blinking behind those sunglasses, and something a bit plasticky about that grin were the big ones.

“That I am, dude! Perfect blending of that dope magic and some seriously sick technology to create the perfect blend of family-friendly information searching and sweet tricks.”

Bing started to put his board down as if to demonstrate, but Ed shot out a hand with a quick clear of his throat.

“Still working on that last bit, but my guys in the shop are sure the young people today will love this guy,” Ed said. “Nothing else like him.”

“Nothing?” Abe asked. “Funny, cause I’ve run into two magitek men that both called themselves ‘Google.’”

“Well, nothing like Bing on the market,” Ed said. He flicked the brim of his cowboy hat and cockily said, “That ship sailed, and me and Bing-a-boy here are going to be the first to pick up the slack, ain’t that right?”

“Yeah, that old fart Google has nothing on me,” Bing said, his grin growing wider and somehow more unsettling. Abe suspected someone may have added a few too many teeth to that mouth.

“Why did Google never make it to market?” Abe asked, even though he could think of many, many reasons why this whole concept bothered him.

Ed shrugged. “Lab that made ‘em was bought out by the Bronson Institute, and apparently, they’re not interested in making any more for some reason. Not into printing that money, I guess! Rumor is they only made four of those Google units before the Institute got involved.”

“I saw one at the hospital yesterday,” Abe said.

“Yeah, that one was a charitable donation, bit of a pilot project to see about how they’d do in a healthcare environment. Can’t get sick of course, so you can see why that’d be tempting,” Ed answered, although considering that Google had been running the receptionist’s desk, Abe suspected his bedside manner hadn’t matched up there. Or maybe it had something to do with the “incidents” that doctor mentioned. “Scientist who made them kept one to help in the lab, and I hear that big studio downtown managed to snatch one up. The institute probably took the last one, if I had to guess, cause I ain’t heard anything else about it.”

“Impressive that you were able to make your own version so soon,” Abe said, fishing.

But it was Bing who took the bait and said, “One of my creators used to work in the lab, until that bogus institute let him go. But I’m not just a copy of that defective Google, I’m an improvement.”

“Yeah you are,” Ed said, slapping him on the shoulder and then wincing. “Remind me to have a talk about that extra padding on your frame.”

A bright tone came from Bing’s chest and he straightened slightly as he said, “I will remind you to have a talk about the extra padding. Is 2 AM an acceptable time for this reminder?”

“No, why would I—” Ed, remembering that there was someone else there, stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Just remind me next time I’m in the warehouse.”

“Understood,” Bing said, a second tone coming before he “relaxed” into his standard posture.

“Could I meet this creator?” Abe asked, and almost immediately Ed tried to change the subject.

It took a bit more questioning, and managing to get Bing on his own while Ed ran to the other side of the store to grab some gadget he had convinced himself the hunter would love to buy, but Abe gradually gathered that when Bing said his creator used to work in the lab, he actually meant said guy used to take out the trash and may have “acquired” a few copies of Google’s design before he was “let go at ultimate speed,” which meant that he knew pretty much nothing that could help Abe.

Disappointing, but at least Abe was walking out with more info than when he walked in, and with the same amount of money in his pockets despite Ed Edgar’s best efforts. He even had an address for the lab the Google quartet came out of, but considering it was technically Institute property now he somehow doubted he could just walk up and start asking questions without getting more attention than he’d want right now.

It was something to consider at least, as Abe once again parked his car just far enough away from the clinic to not draw suspicion while he kept watch on the entrance. By the time he got there, it was already growing darker by the second despite the early hour, and despite the fact that a full moon tonight meant he should have been looking forward to a bright night to work with. Something that Abe should have noticed, but he was too focused on the settings of his camera to pay attention to the clouds gathering overhead until the first raindrops began to patter against his windshield.

The hunter swore under his breath and hastily moved his car a few spots closer to the clinic to make sure he would still have a clear line of sight through the rain that quickly escalated from a drizzle to a downpour. He turned off his headlights just in time, as a car pulled up in front of the clinic and sat there just long enough for him to roll down his window and get a good shot.

His camera clicked multiple times, catching the license plate of the car and the three men who jumped out and huddled around the front door while the doctor hastily fumbled with his keys. The light came on in the clinic and Abe managed to catch one or two more shots before the door shut behind them and blocked his view.

He sighed and rolled up his window, left arm soaked but hoping that the ambient streetlight plus the light from inside the building would be enough to get at least a couple of them to turn out okay despite the lack of flash.

Before he could take a look, a different kind of flash lit the street.

Seven seconds later, the boom of thunder followed and, despite the warning flash of lightning, Abe still flinched, the familiar pain in his chest a dragging weight against his pounding heart.

Maybe the storm would pass soon, if he could just wait it out—

There was a second flash of lightning, and Abe’s car started in the space between it and the following rumble of thunder.

Not like he could hope to get close enough to see anything tonight, Abe lied to himself as he drove back to his office, accelerating just that much faster with each new round of thunder and lightning. There would always be other chances.

Whether that was true or not was something he could care less about in the moment, as he hurried into his office mere minutes later and immediately shut his blinds to the rain hitting his windows. Never one to bother much with music, he still found a familiar album and turned on his record player loud enough to drown out the noise outside. If anyone was trying to get work done in the neighboring offices, they apparently knew better than to come by and complain, or just weren’t loud enough to make themselves heard.

At least he had plenty of practice in drowning out painful memories, Abe thought to himself as he pulled an emergency drink out of one of his desk drawers and poured the first glass of many. Not as much in actually dealing with them, but taking care of the person who caused them in the first place seemed like as good a place to start as any.

If he could just find a way to get to him.

((End of Part 10. Thanks again for reading, and sorry if this one felt all over the place. I may have written that whole “possibly” bit when I realized I had Abe going down way too many rabbit holes on something the reader knows the answer to already, and I seriously can’t wait until everyone’s finally on the same page and confused together. XD

Link to Part 11: First Moon.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch @autumnrambles @authorracheljoy @liafoxyfox ))

#markiplier #fanfiction #detective abe #monster hunter au #ed edgar #bing iplier #silver bullets #abe didn't expect this case to throw up so many unwanted memories #it's almost like there's some kind of connection to what happened at the house #but that would just be ridiculous right?

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thepaininurneck · 3 years

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so not to literally get on my Tumblr for no reason and vent some but I saw a TikTok today talking about how Tumblr affected them/treated their eating disorder so I wanted to add my two cents for any of you remaining pro-anas or whatever you’re fucking calling yourselves now that tumblr banned your stupid tag or whatever, I haven’t checked since I was 14 and I won’t be changin that.

I started restricting my eating when I was 14. I’ve never been as bad about it as some people and I quickly learned to avoid pro-ana content ( to the point of avoiding Tumblr entirely for a while ), but I still avoided food where I could and it caused a lot of fights with my parents. But I’ve always been a small kid, so when I stopped putting on weight, it wasn’t obvious. The only time anyone would notice something was when I was trying to eat a meal around them.

I wasn’t active, either. I was homeschooled and, after moving twice, I wasn’t in any sports or groups ( like Girl Scouts or whatever ), so I could stay home and do nothing. I didn’t need energy - I just stayed in bed all day and ate when I was forced to. I stayed at around 90 pounds from ages 14-16, with no changes to my lifestyle until early 2019. I think I was 5’5 when I started restricting my food, and I’m currently 5’8 and a big bag of bones.

The first thing I want to say is this: it’s not pretty. My body is boney and angular in a way that’s reminiscent of horror, you can count every rib and every plate of my spine with your eyes. I can stick a finger under my collarbone, and if I suck in a little, I can get my hand under my hipbones. I feel ugly and like I can’t be graceful: I wear baggy clothes constantly and if I wear revealing clothes they can’t show my arms, or my back, or I feel gross. My legs were a huge insecurity for me for years too, and up until I made some huge changes recently, I had a fairly big thigh gap and my knees were as bony as the rest of me. It’s not pretty. There is nothing gorgeous or attractive about being this underweight, and not only does it make me despise my physical appearance more, the effects it has on my health are bad too.

I had blood work done in November 2019 that showed I have low iron, b12, and d. I am constantly tired in a way that makes my bones ache, and I get dizzy and have to sit down a lot just from walking or leaning over a little bit. I feel sick, physically, and on bad days even my teeth ache. I’m always insatiably hungry but I can’t stomach much food and only certain textures are okay for me now. Thankfully I never started calorie counting, but portioning was an issue for me and I’m trying to use that to my advantage. It’s hard. I always feel like I can’t sleep enough, I get sick quickly if I do too much physical activity for too long, if I eat too much, if I think about food too much.....etc.

I started doing aerial silks in July 2019 thanks to a video Markiplier had posted a while prior. At first it went great - my first few lessons made me so sore I couldn’t notice what else was going on. It was doing these once weekly, one-hour lessons where I was spending at most 20 minutes on the apparatus that was making me faint and dizzy and sick and horribly tired in a way that felt wrong. I also developed lactose intolerance during this time, something that showed up completely randomly, but for all I know it could be because of how I was restricting myself. But that’s why I went and got the blood work, and a few months later in March 2020, I started really trying to gain weight again.

Let me tell you - I am miserable. I have been working since March to correct my eating habits and to gain weight and the last time I checked, I had gotten up to 107.5. I can, in a good mood, eat a plate of certain foods. Sometimes I’ll even manage three meals a day, an on really good days I can do a little extra. None of this feels like enough and I feel worthless because of it. In my class I am the tallest and the thinnest, and because of my awkwardly bony joints and thin upper body, I lack grace and beauty and look like a Halloween skeleton on a pole. I feel miserable, and cramps, and tired, and I often make myself sick pushing myself to try and be just a little prettier on the silks or to just try that drop one more time. Three days ago, I puked after a rough session at Open Aerial. I’ve spent the days since sleeping and can remember eating two meals max. Writing this down, my head hurts and I’ve forced down some food, but I’m tired of seeing posts in fucking 2020 glorifying eating disorders in any way - even seeing jokes, or comments made about not eating dinner, make my stomach clench and it reminds me of the four years I’ve wasted because of this shit. I can’t do what I love like this - aerial is too physically demanding for what I’m capable of, and what about long term? What about my girlfriend, my aspirations? They’re all incredibly out of reach because of this. Because I can’t stomach a full meal and if someone’s mean to me I won’t eat for three days.

My eating disorder has not been diagnosed professionally. I have considered seeking hospitalization but mine has never been life threatening. I have gone days without food, I’ve watched my portions and I’m miserable now. I feel disgusting and my body can’t hold its own heat. But there’s a million people who are worse than I am, and there’s a few that have lost their lives because of it. And for all all of us - recovering or not - seeing this shit glorified on social media is a slap to the face. It’s a disappointment to see the community even still exists, and a failure on the part of whoever owns Tumblr to not outright fucking ban it ( like it should’ve been in the beginning, before a whole generation of small teens found it.) and I hope that by explaining that I feel like my body is failing, my mental health has never been worse, and even my fucking teeth are suffering, I can get through to at least one idiot on this website and get it through their head that you will not be beautiful if you stop eating or even restrict yourself in a significant manner. You aren’t guaranteed to drop any fat, fat that you need on your body - it’ll stay. Your teeth will fall out, you’ll be fainting daily, but all that weight you’re trying to drop? It’ll stay. Depriving yourself and ruining yourself is not going to make you pretty.

I can continue on, I think. I’m really upset and I don’t think any of this stupidly long ramble makes sense, but here’s my last words for anyone considering doing this shit. Imagine the ugliest, worst version of yourself. Now amplify it - that’s how you’ll feel. You’ll feel nothing short of worthless.

And for anyone reading this in recovery, or having made it past that, I’m proud of you. It’s so hard to force myself to eat even one plate a day, much less trying to keep up with the exercise I force myself through, and the mental hoops you have to jump through to get past this mentality. It takes a lot of strength and resolve that I’m just now realizing is a learned skill. I hope you continue down the path of recovery and health and happiness.

#pro ana #ana thoughts #anareksya #damn that’s a lot of ways to say that #vent #tw eating disorders #tw ed #tw ed things

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tropicalfreckles · 4 years

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Friends Again CH 1

Hey guys, decided I’d post this here, too! An obvious Disclaimer beforehand, B**TLEB*BES DNI MASTER LIST found here

Now then. I started writing this about two months or so ago, had the idea in my head from the first time I watched the musical. The first two chapters didn’t have anyone beta reading it, and my writing is super rusty since I haven’t posted fanfiction online in 10 years until now. Here’s the quick summary from AO3! Rating: M (for body horror mentions. other than that the content would be T for the cursing)

Warnings: Body Horror, Blood, they talk about how Lydia impaled Beej, some violence, at some point they will brush up on Beej’s child abuse from Juno (though it won’t be detailed), Bug eating, Beej pervs on the Maitlands just a little, Lot of cursing. (i’ll add more warning tags if you guys give me a heads up about anything I missed!)

Characters: Lydia Deetz, Charles Deetz, Delia Deetz, Adam Maitland, Barbara Maitland, Beetlejuice & a few OCs made for the fic along with the introduction of my demon BJ oc, Antares!

Summary: It had been months since her face off against the ghost with the most, it ending on a very mixed note for Lydia. But, the events won't leave her dreams, and she is slowly coming to terms with her suffering from trauma because of her actions. Would it lead to her confronting them, and in turn, seeing the source of it all once more?

(fic in read more)

Eight long months had passed since Lydia finally decided to open herself up more to her father again. Along with accepting Delia as being apart of their new, weird, happier family. Lydia definitely saw the Maitlands as part of that family with how much they've done to help her, her father and her recently made step-mother. She would've been surprised with how fast those two had gotten married after the engagement if it wasn't for the whole near death experience by angry demon thing. They figured after that life was short, especially compared to the Maitlands and got married only a few months after they finally were settled in. Unfortunately for poor Lydia, the nightmares she had after her clash with her demon ex-friend still clung to her. They started about two weeks after everything happened. It was enough time for Lydia to let things sink in about what they did and even if he deserved it, how she killed a person. They happened almost every night, then every other night, and by month four had stopped. Then the month after they started up again and even though Delia tried her hardest, she just couldn't help with Lydia's mental health deteriorating again. So she began to see a family therapist. She had to leave out some details for obvious reasons and changed the story a little, but it was only helping so much. Every time she would recount the nightmare in vivid detail to her therapist.

'Everything around her was distorted, like it was the inside of a funhouse mirror. The colors around her varied from a mix of eerie, bright and ghoulish colors to more monotone colors blending into each other. Her heart was thumping into her chest as everyone played the part that she had given them. I'm doing the right thing, he won't stop. He's a demon so it's okay! That's all she was able to think about to justify her actions. The joy of being alive after their 'green card' marriage soon came crashing down onto the dirty recently revived Beetlejuice as he went off on one of his tangents. Going on about the mixed emotions of humans that were overwhelming him all at once. He started getting a look in his eyes, going straight to murderous thoughts just as she knew he would. Her breathing picks up as she grabs onto the broken piece of rebar from the poor taste of art that her father hands to her. She fixes her footing and screams as she plunges the make-shift weapon through the back of the demon, screaming as she used all the force she could muster. Everything becomes distorted around her after that; everyone else becoming shapeless blobs. Except for the dying Beetlejuice who stares off like he's gazing at an unknown force. In typical fashion he cracks a joke with his dying breathe. The blobs were all shocked at the action until Lydia told them why she did it. They started to move in an off-putting way to get ready to be rid of him when he would rise as the recently deceased.

Before it could play out just as it did in reality everything went black around her. Terrifying mouths appeared into the view everywhere she looked. The adrenaline that spiked when she stabbed him now was replaced from anxiety to dread as blood poured out from the mouths. Their laughter echoed with twisted and distorted voices. The blood swallowed up the demon before her. She tried to wade through the blood in vain trying to reach him as fear engulfied her.

"No... NO! Beetlejuice-!"

It's not supposed to be like this; he's supposed to go back to the netherworld, he's supposed to be okay! Everyone is supposed to be okay! She reached out, crying out his name in an attempt to save him,

"Beetlejuice!" She saw his body surface in the sea of crimson. It was carrying him further and further from her as her dress became heavier with every passing second. Blood coated her face as she kept an outstretched arm to try and grab onto him.

A cackle echoes from the darkness as a giant hand pulled him out of the blood, belonging to a woman she only was briefly introduced to. It was his mother, the head demon in charge of the more bureaucratic side of the Netherworld. Juno. His body is still, lifeless now, his hair color changed to a purpleish-blue.

" BEETLEJUICE !" She screams one last time. A giant sand worm jumps out of Juno's mouth and eats both the demon she cried out for, and herself. Then she wakes up.'

Well, at least she would partly tell the truth. She left out a lot of key details from her nightmare when talking about it, such as marrying a centuries or millennia old demon as a green card thing to bring him back to life. About ghosts in general. Lydia had to switch many things around, along with the murder. The story changed to her having a horrible fight with an old friend who she 'stabbed him in the back'. More metaphorically than in actuality being physically. Talking about her trauma to anyone outside of the family was really difficult. Which is why she didn't see the point to seeing a therapist in the first place. Thankfully most of the facts could be turned into metaphors with some hoop jumping. She finally got the story 'straight' with her family prior to opening up. What she would tell the therapist is she betrayed a friend who had mental health problems and was threatening her family. She told them she called the cops on him and made it out that his abusive mother beat the shit out of him. Then shipped him off to military school instead of him going to juvey. The therapist took the strange nightmares she would have as a vivid imagination of her guilt of betraying someone she thought as her friend before. She wasn't even that close to him, they only spent a few days together and she was more focused on seeing her mother again. Yet killing the man is something that made her stomach turn when she thought about it again. It was different than the thrill of scaring people with him from before. Sure he was 'fine' in the sense of he was just back to square one of being a ghost and a demon again. However she still took something away from him that was bigger than she thought before. Life. Even if it did make him go crazy after being alive for less than five minutes.

He didn't seem too bothered by it when he left following his melodramatic farewells. After feeding his scary mother to a giant sandworm of course. He seemed a little happier, even. Unfortunately she never really got true closure. Sure she gave him a small hug, even though that was a little hard because he smelled so bad. It was probably his clothes since the man looked like he never washed a thing in his life. After a two months of seeing them, her therapist suggested that maybe all she wants is closure to her traumatic experience. The therapist didn't recommend actually going to visit her 'friend' in case it would be too overwhelming for her. A phone call or something was suggested if she thought she wanted to talk to him. Tell him how much of a jerk he was before and how he took things too far. Tell him how she felt bad about the way she ended things. That was going to be complicated though for a number of reasons.

One, even if she did want to go back to the Netherworld which she definitely didn't. It was just like when she had her realization it would take possibly eternity to find her mother. What luck would she have finding Beetlejuice? Two, even though she saw him comically swing his mother's torn leg around after he took her out. What's to say she still wasn't 'existing' and back running the netherworld's social services for the dead. Or whatever it was she did. She didn't want to come face to face with that horrid woman again. She wasn't even sure if demons could die still and she had to have been a demon just like Beetlejuice. Sure she got eaten but once again she could've somehow came back. Three, her family would NEVER let her go back in there. Four was the most important though; did she even want to see him again? Could she even see him again? He certainly wouldn't want to after what happened. Even if they left on neutral terms he might be feeling a bit miffed that she stabbed him in the back. He was still a demon.

"Feelings are stupid." Lydia groaned, flopping on top of her bed dramatically as she gave a deep sigh. She had just gotten back from another appointment and curled up on the bed.

"I can't believe I miss when Delia would be the one 'life coaching' me. I shouldn't feel guilty for what happened; he deserved it. He was going to kill dad, possibly everyone. He tricked me into almost exorcising Barbara!" Lydia wrinkled her nose, kicking at the air with her legs as she grabbed onto her pillow then tore at it a little."That big, smelly jerk."

She sniffled a little then buried her face into the pillow. Why should she care. He only ever cared about his powers and about himself. Even if he stood up for her and saved her from his crappy mom. Who only was there because she ran into the Netherworld and abandoned everyone. In hopes of seeing her mom again. She wasn't at fault, though; it was just a big mess.

"Lydia sweetie, are you okay?" A concerned voice came from behind her door with a gentle knock following it.

"Is it okay if I come in?" Lydia lifted her head from the pillow then looked to the door. She gave a one shoulder shrug.

"Only if you want to, Barbara." She shifted, rolling onto her back as she stared up at the ceiling. Barbara phased through the door deciding she would practice on her ghostly abilities some more. Even if she still felt it a bit rude to not use the door. She walked over to the bed, then sat down on the edge of it while reaching out to gently stroke Lydia's head.

"How was your appointment honey?" She gave the sweetest, caring smile she could muster for the young girl as Lydia blew one of her bangs out of her face.

"Was okay, I guess; I don't know why I still have to go to these.." The goth teen closed her eyes, finding it soothing in a way to feel the cold fingers of her friend comforting her. Barbra quirked a brow at her, then stopped for a moment as she gently patted Lydia's head in response.

"Are you still having those nightmares?" Lydia inhaled deeply before sitting up as she swung her legs around.

"...yes." She spoke softly, just barely above a whisper as her gaze cast downwards. Barbara inched closer to her then wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Oh, Lydia. I know that man was awful. Yet, I understand if you feel bad for him. I still.. really do not like him. Although I hope he's found peace in whatever he is doing now, in the Netherworld. Even if I will never forgive him." A frown creased the lips of the ghostly woman as she knit her brows. "I'm just glad he left on his own at least. Only good thing he did while he was here. Besides saving you." She sighed then gave a shake of her head. Lydia looked up at her while playing with the ends of her lacy black dress.

"I know.. he. I mean, he wasn't.. I don't know. He's a jerk, yeah, a real asshole. But, I think he did care about us, even if it was a little. Scaring people with him was fun, I just didn't.. want him to kill my dad. Even if I was mad at him. Upset. I know now dad acted the way he did because he was hurting as much as I was. He just masked his grief differently than I did. But, I hated the tantrum Beetlejuice made. I didn't want him to hurt you or Adam." Lydia gently moved her hand over Barbara's hand, eyes softening a bit. Barbara moved her hand away from Lydia, opting to gently grab her cheek.

"You put too much on your shoulders, sweetie. You're a good kid. You were so brave.. we should've been the ones to protect you, though. Not the other way around. You know I don't hold anything against you for what happened. Adam and I should've not put our trust in Beetlejuice in the first place. What we should've done was shooed him away. But we were just so desperate. Losing everything in such a short amount of time." She moved her hand away, resting both of them now in her lap as she stared down at the floor. "Gosh. I wish I became more assertive sooner. At least now if anything like that happens again, we'll be better about it." She looked back to Lydia, giving her a comforting smile. Lydia nodded to her in response.

"Well, you don't have to worry about me. I'm not gonna make any more deals with demons I barely know again." Lydia snorted. Barbara gave a small chuckle as she bumped her shoulder.

"I hope you mean any deals ever again."

"Eh, we'll see." Lydia snickered, Barbara giving her a small scowl of disapproval.

"Lydia." Lydia laughed, then gave Barbara a hug.

"Okay, okay. I really need a nap now." She let go then smiled up at Barbara. The woman took the hint, getting up after giving a small wave. She turned around then phased through the door once more. Lydia kicked her combat boots off her feet, then got up and walked over to the door. She locked it just for some privacy and moved back over to the bed, jumping on it. A nap.. another nightmare? Her expression soured as she stared out to the window of her bedroom. The sky was cloudy, dark grays and purples covering every bit of the bright blue endless sky. She shifted her gaze to the mirror that was on the other side of her room. Reason number four. It would be crazy. She shouldn't even try. How could she be so sure that she could even summon him if he was in the Netherworld. It would be safer to try that than going back into it. Wrapping her arms around herself, her mind was battling all the possibilities of things that could go wrong. A thought occurred to her as she remembered the handbook for the recently deceased. She still had the copy Beetlejuice gave her. Maybe there was a chapter about how to deal with a demon besides marrying them and killing them. Hopping off the bed, she ran to her dresser, digging around in the bottom one. Just as she left it; under her old clothes she never wore anymore. Taking it out, she sat on the ground then began sifting through the pages. A faint glow coming from each one.

'This is crazy, what am I doing.' Lydia thought to herself after looking through a couple of chapters, sighing as she began to close the book. She couldn't endanger everyone. She didn't want to put them through.. hm. Hold on. Her eyes flickered as she noticed a color change in a page, big red letters spelling out the name of a new chapter. DEMONS, and how to handle them. Her fingers smoothed over the page as he brought the book into her lap once more.

"You can summon special demons by chanting their name three times, without breaking the pattern. If your demon guide however is unhelpful, and causing more problems than you need. You can send them back by chanting their name once more. Three times, unbroken..."

Her eyes widen as she bit her lip. If it was in this book, then it had to work, right? This was given to the recently deceased to help them after all. She thought back to after everything happened with Beetlejuice, remembering her dad now having crosses around the house even if that didn't really work when he used it before. However he had also acquired holy water and given Lydia some as a precaution. She thought it was silly, since back then she had no reason to believe Beetlejuice would come back. Now that she was faced with a new option, however. She slid the dresser drawer back in place, keeping the book tucked under her arm. She walked over to her bookshelf and pulled down a squirt gun that her dad had poured the holy water in. Would this actually work? If it didn't it probably would either piss Beetlejuice off or make him laugh at her. Or both. Either way she still liked the security of it. Maybe he'll be too entertained by her squirting him with holy water to hurt her or the others. Holding this in her hand meant that this was real. She was really going to do this. Walking over to her curtains, she closed them quickly. Lydia then went to her phone on the nightstand then picked it up. She turned the Bluetooth on, changing the volume of her music to the max. It wasn't uncommon for Lydia to listen to her music loudly some times. A good excuse to cover up whatever noise the demon would bring; the others wouldn't question it. Her dad wouldn't be home for a little while longer so she didn't need to worry about him. He was the only person who was ever bothered by her listening too loud.

"Alright.. you can do this, Lydia. Just. Just one quick conversation can work for closure, right? Right. This isn't the dumbest thing you ever did at all. Besides summoning him the first time.." She tossed the book on the bed, then held up her squirt gun. It might not even work, so that would be good. Right? This is just an empty attempt. Whatever it took to reassure herself she wasn't going to get killed. Sitting down on the end of her bed, she stared out at the mirror. Okay. You can do this, Lydia Deetz.

"Beetlejuice.." Everything seemed normal so far. Just the sound of her music, nothing eerie whatsoever. There was a chill however she felt against her neck, though she figured it was just her nerves.

"Beetlejuice." A gust of wind started knocking hard at her window. It had to have been the oncoming storm. Just another coincidence. Or so she thought. Her music started to change songs at a frequent pace. Shit. This was really happening. Was he really going to come? She gripped her squirt gun, gritting her teeth. She couldn't show fear. Lydia refused to let him have the upper-hand.

"Beetlejuice!"

#beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice bway #beetlejuice #betelgeuse #beetlejuice fanfiction #lydia deetz #barbara maitland #chaos siblings #my writings #friends again ch1

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lostinfantasies38 · 4 years

Text

Sun Touched Chapter 1: A mage, a warrior, and a dwarf

Alistair watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked into the ancient stone ruins. No, she didn’t walk – she prowled. Dark eyes shifting constantly, wary, hesitant, not trusting that something didn't lurk in the shadows of the toppled stone. Her leather clad fingers fidgeted nervously, just itching for an excuse to rip her daggers from the sheathes strapped to her back and he was sure there were other blades concealed elsewhere on her body.

Alistair swallowed a little thickly in between his verbal sparring with the mage as she filled up the space next to them. He could feel the tension rolling off her like a tidal wave, but it was no match for his own, as he tried in vain to keep his gaze from flicking to her. He could only pray that she wouldn’t notice his distraction. She didn’t; she was too engrossed with her examination of their surroundings.

A mage, a warrior, and a dwarf walked into an elven ruin – it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. He shook his head to drown out his inner idiot, playing it off as minor annoyance when the mage exited the conversation in a huff. He was forced to turn his attention to her now. There wasn’t another person to pretend to be engaged with.

Alistair was awkward at the best of times, but around women he was utterly hopeless. He was vaguely aware of saying something stupid about the Blight bringing people together and she frowned deeply, cocking her head slightly in appraisal, sending his stomach plummeting to his feet. Maker, he wished the earth would open up and swallow him.

She was slow to respond, but he didn’t rush her - too mortified of saying something equally ridiculous. Instead he studied her: dark hair braided halfway down her back, the rich brown a match to her fathomless eyes, a trio of geometric tattoos in black stamped across her cheeks and down her left eyelid. But the starkness of the marks on her fair skin were offset by a generous, full mouth that very suddenly pulled into a quick smile. Her eyes flashed with amusement, the gold hoop in her nose glinting with the movement. Alistair’s heart raced at the impish quality that expression lent her face.

Shit, shit, shit.

“You are a very strange human. Not entirely wrong…just strange.” Her gravelly voice washed over him, the raggedness falling from such lovely lips surprising him, yet still alluring in its huskiness. Alistair smirked and tried to keep his tone light.

“You are not the first to tell me that.” She snorted and crossed her arms over her bosom that wasn’t fully contained by the layers under her leathers and he swallowed hard again.

“So…you’re Duncan’s new recruit?”

“Call me Sirra. You are Alistair?” He nodded and held out his hand to shake hers. She leaned back, wary again, and he quirked an eyebrow at her hesitancy. Taking a deep breath, Sirra lowered her arms and cautiously extended her hand to his, but she gripped him higher around the forearm instead of his hand and gave him a single, firm shake before releasing him. Nervously, she tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear out of habit and refused to meet his eyes.

“Right,” Alistair cleared his throat, trying to ignore the heat on his arm where her gloved fingers recently touched him. “Let’s go meet the rest of the recruits. Duncan has a task for us.” She merely nodded and fell into step with him. He noticed that she fell behind him when they walked down the second ramp depositing them back into the main camp. She was trying valiantly to keep up with his long stride on her shorter legs and he cursed himself mentally for being an ass, immediately reining in his steps so she could keep up.

Sirra was flushed when she reached his side again. He shot her a small smile and muttered an apology, but she dismissed it with a shrug. They reached the center of camp where Duncan and the others awaited them. The Warden-Commander quickly informed them of their task for the evening before the Joining could take place that night and then they were off to scour the Wilds for darkspawn blood and mysterious Warden treaties.

It was Alistair’s first time with any of the recruits in battle and he was nervous how they would work as a team since he didn’t already know their strengths and weaknesses. He knew that Ser Jory was a seasoned warrior and Duncan had raved about Sirra’s prowess with her daggers in his letter, but Daveth was an unknown. Oh, well – he could pick up the slack, if he needed to.

No sooner had they entered the dense forest outside the camp then a pack of starving wolves descended on them and he heard Sirra suck in a shocked gasp, but she kept her wits. A flick of her wrist and one of the hidden blades he suspected she carried flew into a wolf’s eye, taking it down instantly and tripping a couple animals that followed. The four of them made short work of the beasts. Daveth and Sirra used stealth and brutal backstabs in vital organs to debilitate and the warriors finished what they started with massive swings and slamming shield.

Yanking her throwing knife from the first animal, the dwarven woman wiped down her blade and used the time to collect herself. None of the men said anything – afraid of embarrassing her, or worse, making her so angry they found themselves staring at the pointy end of her weapon. Once it was tucked back into place, she finally turned and blew out a shaky breath.

“What. The. Fucking. Ancestors. Were. Those?” It was the first time Alistair heard her break up her words, as she tended to string them together, and they sounded harsh in her low pitch. Her barely concealed fear was obvious.

Daveth barked out a laugh and then stopped when no one joined in and he stared at her in shock. “You’re serious? She’s serious?!” He turned to each of them taking in Ser Jory’s uncomfortable blush and Alistair’s glare as understanding dawned and he looked at Sirra sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I-I thought you were a surface dwarf…”

She shook her head and crossed her arms defensively, nervously swaying from one foot to the other. Ser Jory was the first to find his tongue in the awkward silence. “Wolves, my lady. They roam wild places like this and hunt in packs.”

Sirra frowned. “Wolves.” She rolled the strange word around her mouth and bent down to examine one more closely. “They kinda look like the beasts in camp…same teeth.” The dwarf shivered a bit and stepped back from the sharp canines, as though expecting one to still bite in death.

Alistair shook his head and reassured her. “No, the war hounds only bite enemies. They are loyal and domesticated. These are wild creatures and will attack anything.”

“Okay. Good to know.” She finished wiping down her main daggers and re-sheathed them without making eye contact with her human companions. “Let’s keep going. I don’t want to make us fall behind.”

Alistair studied her closely during their foray into the forest. He realized belatedly, like Daveth, that she would have no concept of life above ground and he wondered what would cause her to leave Orzammar. The surface must be completely alien to her. He watched her jump at the whistle of a bird or howl of a wolf and it opened his eyes to see the world the way she did. Her eyes flicked to the sky and he noticed her nauseated expression which lead to her occasional need to steady herself against a tree trunk. Curiously, she examined the crumbled bits of bark left in her glove after pressing heavily on the loose tree casing. Sometimes she stared into the branches, following stray patterns of light that the sun cast through the leaves into the murky undergrowth with her dark eyes.

Maker, how strange things looked to him now. No wonder she had been so hesitant when she entered the ruins earlier. Everything was foreign and untrustworthy until proven otherwise. It was hard to believe that until two weeks ago, she’d never seen the sun, never felt the wind on her skin, she didn’t have a word for ‘tree,’ much less an understanding of them.

Yet, when it came to combat, she was a whirlwind of flashing blades and grenades – a silent Mistress of Death. The men were careful to stay out of her way to avoid accidently coming too close to the woman’s fighting perimeter, as wolves and darkspawn alike fell under daggers. Alistair spun to help her with the final darkspawn archer on the ridge, but she planted her foot in the creature’s back and shoved it off her blades with a soft grunt. Slipping the vials Duncan provided from her pack, she quickly slit its wrist and filled the three vials with the thick, foul smelling blood. Smiling in approval at her, Sirra couldn’t help returning the grin as she stored the vials and continued their trek. He noticed that she didn’t even put her daggers away now, idly running her gloved fingers along the hilt, waiting for the next band of spawn to attack.

He was curious if she’d fought the creatures before or if they were new, too. Either way, she dashed fearlessly into the next group they came across, warning her companions of the traps that littered the ground. Reaching into a pouch on her belt, she tossed a handful of metal shards, triggering the line of traps across the bridge and disappeared into a cloud of smoke only to reappear behind the darkspawn mage.

Alistair barreled around the clumsy hurlock the others were capable of dispatching and ran to her aid. The emissary roared when her poisoned blades sank under his ribs, but before he could turn his fury on her, Alistair was there. Swinging his shield, he caught the darkspawn’s jaw with the edge of the hammered metal. The move stunned the creature and Sirra peppered it with jabs and cuts, twisting the daggers slightly with each removal so the wounds bled faster while Alistair swung his sword deeply along its front.

Even weak it fought tooth and nail, summoning a magical cage to snare the warrior and squeeze around him, seeking to crush the life from him. Alistair watched fretfully when the mage swung his staff and caught Sirra on the temple, sending her stocky frame skidding along the ground. The corrupted creature chuckled darkly covered in black blood, as his quarry struggled to regain her footing after the hit. She managed to rise and growled something he couldn’t make out. The mage shot a bolt of lightning at her and she was too slow to completely evade it, hissing as it scored her right side and tore through her leathers.

Where were the others? Maker damn it! He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe now, and that emissary was acting far too alive for his liking. A ball of fire erupted in the creature’s palm, but before it was able to lob it at his target, a throwing knife buried in its wrist and it screamed in surprise, fingers unclenching and dropping its staff. Of course, it could still cast, but it would be difficult for it to concentrate through the pain and in that moment the spell holding him broke. Alistair took a deep breath, but didn’t bother to chug a health potion before he rammed the spawn with his shield and knocked it to the ground, toppling with it in his weakened state. He managed to stay on top of it and hold it down, but he was too weak to do anything else.

Before the creature could regain its senses, Sirra was there and the sound of her honed blades whistling through the air sent a shiver down his spine.

“Alistair? Are you okay?”

He stared at her and the blood pooling near her hairline, smeared by her unmarked eye where she’d rubbed it with her hand and wondered why she was wheezing. He opened his mouth to reply and dark blood bubbled over his lips and he realized in some fuzzy part of his brain that he was the one struggling to breathe.

“Fuck! Hang on!”

He wanted to laugh at the way that crass word sounded coming from her pretty mouth, but the world was darkening around the edges of his vision and noises were quieter than before. Someone tilted his head back and forced him to drink something – Maker, it was bitter! Who in the Void distilled that ale? They should be fired – immediately.

His body was gently eased down and he landed on something soft and warm and he was tempted to give in to the darkness, until the warmth of the potion flared in his broken body. His ribs realigned and the puncture in his lung began to knit itself together before suddenly stopping. He coughed when he breathed too deeply and spat another clot of blood as voices (damn, those were loud) demanded another drink. Ugh, no – he wanted to protest, but words failed him and yet again he was forced to drink more bitter plonk.

The heat was back, chasing away the chill he’d been tempted to give in to, and finished repairing the extensive damage caused by the emissary’s cage. Alistair’s hearing attuned first and he could hear the sounds of birds singing in the distance as he slid his hand up to his chest, breathing deeply to make sure there was no pain. He released the breath slowly with a quiet sigh of relief. It took a couple extra heart beats before he realized his head was laying in someone’s lap causing his breath to hitch again.

Nervously, he cracked his eyes open and met Sirra’s concerned gaze. He smiled wanly and tried to sit up, but the world was still wobbly and she gently pressed him back down and shook her head sadly.

“Be still. You may be a warrior, but you aren’t indestructible. By the Stone! You know that you are crazy, don’t you?”

He chuckled weakly and gave a listless shrug. “Couldn’t let you get roasted on your first day.” Her lips quirked at the corners and she glanced away quickly, but she gave his hand a tight squeeze.

“Thank you,” she breathed so quietly he almost missed it. A new kind of warmth suffused him then and sent wriggles of anxiety deep in his gut. From his current angle, he noted her feminine nose and jawline and traced her tattoos with his eyes. A broken ‘s’ on her right cheek, a rectangular bar ending in a sideways ‘g’ on her left cheek, underneath an obelisk pointing into her hairline and extending under her eye, with a small ‘g’ shaped open space over her eyebrow. She had to be tough as shit to sit through that one.

Her beauty was edged with danger with those unconventional markings, but it was there and Maker, he found himself willingly ensnared by her deadly mien. It seemed he was not immune to the allure of danger when it wore a pretty face and fought like a rabid marbari.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered. This time when he sat up the world was only slightly off-kilter and he needed to regain his distance from her soft curves and gentle touch. Once he was standing, he extended a hand to help her rise and caught sight of the dried blood still on her face. It had been shadowed when he was on the ground and in his state, he’d forgotten about her own injury. Now he frowned softly and lightly touched the side of her head with his fingertips. Sirra hissed and jerked her head away from the contact. He shook his head with a quiet ‘tsk’ and passed her one of his own potions. She nodded in thanks and swallowed it quickly, not even grimacing at the taste and tossed the bottle in the bushes.

The others rejoined them now that he had collected his weapons and they continued up the incline to the ruins on the hill where Duncan was sure the Warden treaties were stashed. They all groaned to see the next band of darkspawn milling around the crumbling building, but readied themselves. This time, Alistair issued orders for a plan of attack – the warriors would focus on the alpha and the rogues would concentrate on the closest archers. Once the alpha was down the warriors would join them. Thankfully there wasn’t an emissary in this group, but no one wanted any more surprises.

It worked pretty well. Daveth snuck behind an archer and slit his throat with a single deep slash, freeing him to move onto the next one, so Sirra stole to the archers flanking them while the warriors handled the alpha. Ser Jory was a master of the two-handed sword – his final upswing literally eviscerated the creature and by the time they rejoined the rogues, only two archers remained. In mere minutes the entire band of darkspawn were dead at their feet and they trudged towards the section of the dilapidated outpost marked on Duncan’s map.

They found the area indicated and had to dig the chest out from under some ancient rubble. Alistair sighed in frustration to find that the chest was empty, most likely looted hundreds of years ago. A throaty chuckle bounced around the stone and a raven-haired woman wearing clothes so skimpy they could hardly be called such emerged from the shadows. His templar training sized her up in an instant; a hand carved staff, the formidable surge of her aura pressing on the Veil – an apostate and a powerful one.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, listening as she honed in on Sirra and they bantered back and forth in a duel of witty words. “Don’t answer. She looks Chasind. That means barbarians could be nearby.”

The apostate scoffed with a sneer, but did not even deign to look at him when she replied. “Ooooo, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair crossed his arms defiantly. “Yes. Swooping is bad.” Sirra shot him a bemused glance and he flushed slightly, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. Maybe she would blame his injury for addling his brain – he could only hope.

The woman – Morrigan – revealed that her mother was in possession of the scrolls and after some debate it was decided that they would go with her to reclaim them. Her mother seemed like a crazy old bat and he didn’t give her much credence, only remembering to thank her for keeping the treaties safe when she told them the seal wore off a long time ago. The old woman had Morrigan escort them back to the edge of the army’s camp and the four of them re-entered the barricaded site with a shared sigh of relief.

Duncan smiled approvingly when Sirra passed him the vials and Alistair showed him the treaties. The Warden-Commander sent a runner to alert the Circle mages to prepare for the Joining and intoned gravely that it was almost time for them to commence with the ritual that would see them finally become Wardens. Alistair suppressed a shiver and tried to ignore the clenching around his heart – he knew what was coming and he did not relish it for any of them. Sirra bravely told Duncan that she was not afraid and was ready for whatever came next and he swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact with them. With her.

“Alistair, take them to the ritual site.” Alistair only nodded and waved them to follow him. Maker, hear my cry – don’t let her die. Please…for me.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age fanfiction #original wip #original oc #my writing #alistair theirin #sirra brosca #alistair x warden #alistair x brosca #Alistair x Sirra

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buckyscrystalqueen · 4 years

Text

S.S. Desperation

Pairings: Bucky x Named Reader, Bucky x Lemon Breeland (Hart of Dixie)

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 5.765

A/N: More content for y’all from the paused fics file. Doesn’t have a definitive ending but probably won’t get one. Sorry!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the fact that you had never been there, and had only spent a few hours there, Los Angeles looked like a chaotic, dismal mess. Even from a distance, you could practically hear the people yelling at each other over the obnoxious, blaring car horns that seemed so barbaric. It made you miss the silent serenity that was Bluebell. You scoffed to yourself, and shook your head as you finished your drink, almost disappointed with yourself for thinking that Bluebell was serene.

“I know that scoff.” A man with an accent you didn’t her back home chuckled next to you. You turned in your red heels and respectfully took off your sunglasses so he could see your whole face.

“I’m sorry?”

“That scoff.” He repeated as he showed you the blue wristband on his wrist, letting you know that he was part of the ‘singles cruise’ group, and reminding you that you needed to find a bracelet to cover the matching band you had on your own wrist. “That scoff either means ‘I can’t believe I let my friends talk me into this shit.’ Or ‘shit, I forgot my charger’.”

“Well, you happen to be wrong on both accounts.” You giggled in your Alabama accent. “I was scoffing because I had a brief moment of insanity where I thought that my hometown was serene.”

“What, you don’t think this is serene?” He joked as he gestured to the city in front of you. “Because I bet you win on that one.”

“I don’t get it.” You sighed as you pointed to Los Angeles in general. “Is it always so… loud?”

“I’m from New York, originally, so this is nothing on that. You get used to the noise, though.” He said as he reached up and pushed his long hair back behind his ear before leaning on the white rail. “And once you get used to it, it’s hard to live without it.”

“Oh, I didn’t sleep well at all last night in the hotel.” You said with a shake of your head as you put your sunglasses back on. “I’m used ta cicada’s and the state bird of Alabama flying in your ear.”

“What’s the state bird of Alabama?”

“Mosquitos.” He burst out laughing, and in the half second he looked away, you quickly fixed your hair and straightened out your thin strapped, light blue and white checkered dress from Draper James so that you looked presentable.

“So what’s your name, Ms. Alabama?”

“Lemon.”

“Lemon.” He repeated with a disbelieving tone. “Like the fruit?”

“The flower.” You giggled as as you pushed your hair back over your shoulder. “The lemon blossom.”

“I honestly don’t think I know what that is, sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be.” You said with a swipe of your hand. “Most people don’t. But now it’s your turn for a name.”

“Bucky. James, technically, but my middle name is Buchanan and I’ve gone by Bucky my entire life.”

“That is an interesting jump.” You laughed as you gently touched his arm for a moment, which made his gorgeous blue eyes dart down to the connection as if he didn’t believe it was real. “I like it all the same.”

“Can I get you a new drink?” He asked as he stood up and pointed to your empty glass.

“A Southern Belle.” You said as you handed him the empty glass with a smile. “Easy to remember, easier to make. Used to order it as a joke in college, but I’ve fell in love with it over the years.”

“One Southern Belle for the Southern Belle it is.” He said with a smile as he turned to head over to the bar. You habitually bit your lip to contain your smile for a second before mentally scolding yourself for doing.

“OK, so maybe this wasn’t the worst idea.” You set yourself up on one of the many lounge chairs on the back of the ship, where the singles group were told to meet in the welcome letter, and set your carry on bag on the chair beside you so that one of the other 100 singles didn’t claim it. You laid your dress out tastefully around your knees, the years of etiquette classes that had been pounded into every ounce of your being since birth still reigning supreme even though you had told yourself that you were not going to be the uptight Belle you were at home. You had a brief thought about taking your shoes off, when it was interrupted by a shadow and your drink.

“So let’s just get it out there.” Bucky said as he held out your cup while you put your bag down on your chair by your bent legs. You nodded your head and sat up just a little bit straighter in your lounge position as you took your drink from him with a smile. “What made you come on a singles cruise? And I know it wasn’t willingly, because you are way to gorgeous to have to resort to this to find a man.”

“Oh!” You gasped as you stirred your drink with a small shake of your head. “Well, I own a restaurant. Fancy’s, Bluebell’s number one fine dining restaurant… well, Bluebell’s only fine dining restaurant. And I should say ‘was’ because right now, it’s a wet ash covered mess because no matter how hard I work to go somewhere in my life, it seems to just burst into flames, figuratively and apparently literally. And on top of it, I have apparently ruined my reputation in the Southern social circle after getting left at the alter by my fiancé for another woman that didn’t even want him when push came to shove. So I was banished to the S.S. Desperation to find a man by my grandmother so I don’t become an old maid.” You gasped to catch your breath and quickly took a long gulp of your drink as Bucky tried to sort through your accent.

“Wow.” He said with a nod as he set down his beer. “OK, first of all, fire at the restaurant- is everyone OK?”

“Yes. Everyone is fine.”

“And, your hometown is called Bluebell?”

“Yes.”

“And your grandma made you come on the cruise because you got left at the alter?”

“Yes, well… in a round about way. Yes, she did.”

“Damn.” He said as he picked up his beer. “And I though getting dragged on to a singles cruise by friends after the Army was bad.”

“Oh, no. I’m probably the most screwed up person here, don’t worry about that.”

“No, doll. I’m almost positive I have you beat. See, I think you missed it but I was in the army. I willingly ran toward bullets and bad guys on a regular basis.”

“Thank you for your service.” You said quickly with a tip of your glass in his direction. “But I was Miss Cinnamon Cider…”

“I used to pick fights with kids twice my size with my boy, Steve, just because I could and I usually won.”

“I have worn a hoop skirt on a regular basis and not for Halloween.”

“I spent my cab fair trying to win a bear for some girl at Coney Island when I was a kid, and she didn’t even accept the bear when I won it so I had to carry it home on my back.”

“I raised my little sister when my mom walked out on us when I was 16.”

“I…”

“My grandmother forced me to go on a singles cruise.” You interrupted with a shake of your head. “I will always win here.”

“Alright, I’ll concede to that one just this time.” He chuckled as he tapped his bottle against your glass. “But this game is not done, Miss Apple Cider.”

“Miss Cinnamon Cider.” You said with a smile as you finally took your shoes off and pushed them down toward the end of the lounge chair. “And I can play this game all dame day. I lived in a small town where everybody is up in everybody else’s business. I got into a lot of fun in my day.”

“I got two weeks.” He replied as he kicked off his flip flops and got comfortable on his chair. “And probably just as many stories from growing up in Brooklyn.”

——

You were apprehensive about heading down the library, where the welcome event for the registered singles was being held. You could almost feel the desperation seeping through the door, and your stomach almost turned that you had been forced to debase yourself to this level, but at the same time, it wasn’t like there were any worth while options left in Bluebell. So just like you always did, you held your head up high, ran your hands over the front of your knee length black dress, and walked into the room.

“Hey! You made it!” You smiled at the sound of his voice and looked over at Bucky as he stepped away from the group of people he was talking to and came over to say hi.

“Didn’t realize I was late.” You said, honestly, as you kissed his cheek.

“You’re not.” He chuckled. “I’m just used to running fifteen minutes early.”

“See, now I didn’t want ta be standin’ down here all alone to add insult to injury so I’ve spent the last twenty minutes pacing my room.”

“Well next gathering, I’ll make sure I come get you so you’re not showing up early. Guys, this is Lemon. This is Sam, Karen, Channel, Steve, and Chelsea.”

“Kerri.” The first woman said as you shook her hand. “Your name is Lemon?”

“Like the flower.” You confirmed with a nod.

“So Bucky tells us you’re from Alabama.” Sam said as he sized up the new single woman in the group.

“Yes, I am.”

“She was Miss Cinnamon Cider.” Bucky said as he took a subtle half step toward you. “We have out very own beauty pageant queen, here.”

“It was a small pageant.” You insisted, modestly.

“My mother put me in beauty pageants when I was a kid.” Channel said as Bucky stepped away to grab you a glass of wine. “I think it’s monstrous to do that to kids.”

“My sister insisted on putting my nieces in pageants. Lasted about two months before my youngest niece flipped off a judge and the other one set the stage on fire. And good thing, too. Parent girls seem to always turn out… well… you know.”

“I feel like we should be concerned that your niece is a pyro.” Steve laughed, which made the small circle laugh as well. You nodded your head in agreement and startled the slightest bit when Bucky tapped your arm and handed you your glass.

“Got anything stronger?” You muttered under your breath before taking a drink as the small talk moved on to stories involving a camp fire. He looked over at you and smirked before nodding his head.

“Excuse us, guys.” He said as he put his hand on the small of your back and lead you away from the group, purposely taking your wine and putting it on one of the tables. “Let me show you something.”

“But your friends?”

“Screw ‘em.” He laughed as he pulled the door open for you and gestured you out of the library. “I see them all the damn time, and the whole point of this singles cruise is to meet someone you want to get to know. I met someone I want to get to know and I did my obligatory rounds on the deck and in that room when you left to take a nap and get ready.”

“So what, you’re not gunna give me a chance to shop around?” You teased as you stopped at the elevator beside him.

“OK, let me lay this out for you.” He said with a cocky smirk. “I know I rock a man bun, and I know I’m pretty buff. I know I’m pretty attractive but I’m no Dr. McDreamy by any stretch of the imagination.”

“The fact that you even know who that is is slightly disturbing.”

“My ex watched it.” He said quickly as he gestured you into the elevator in front of him. “Now, between me, and my two friends who you just met, we are the hottest guys in that group. I also know that you are not their type…”

“And I’m yours?” You interrupted again with a smile as he hit the 14 button.

“I haven’t figured that out yet.” He admitted as he leaned back against the wall and looked over at you. “But I’ll be damned if I have to compete with someone to figure it out.”

“And I have no say in the matter here, hmm?” You countered as the numbers rolled up to bring you to your destination.

“Oh, you do. Not interested? You are more than welcome to leave me by the pool and go back to the party. But my guess is, you will be as bored as I was. You’re looking for an adventure, Lemon. Let’s find it together. Even if it is for two weeks.” You stared at him in shock as the elevator binged and the door opened, and he gestured for you to walk out first. You took a half second to debate your options, before you took his hand and nodded your head.

“Alright.”

“Alright.” He repeated as he put his other hand on the small of your back and guided you out of the elevator. “We got about an hour until dinner. Want to watch the sunset?”

“Can I show you somethin’?” You asked as you stopped him from heading to the front bar on the lido deck. He nodded his head and let you turn him around to head toward the bar at the back of the deck instead. You placed two drink orders and continued walking along the deck, past the spa, and down the hallway of rooms on the floor.

“Wait, is this your room?” He asked as you stopped at the Cannes suite, which was the last corner room on the aft side of the ship.

“Please, please don’t look around.” You begged as you opened the door and stepped inside the unnecessarily large suite. He whistled as he followed you into the room with a shake of his head.

“Damn. I’m stuck in a tiny ass room with no view with Sam and Steve, doing toss ups every night for who gets stuck on the couch and you’re living like a Queen.”

“Well I deserve to live like a Queen.” You laughed as you tried to rush him outside to the back balcony so he wouldn’t see the ‘mess’ you had left behind, which realistically consisted of your dress from earlier that you had left on your bed and your two empty suitcases that hadn’t been pushed under the bed yet. “You know, beauty pageant and all.”

“Yea, I’m so sorry I brought that up.” He said as he held your hand while you sat down on one of the seats. “I didn’t realize those girls were so stuck up…”

“You get used to it over the years.” You said as you crossed your legs, smoothed out your dress, and turned toward him. “But it’s understandable. Most of us do turn out to be hot messes. But that’s what makes it fun, right?”

“Valid point. Looking back on it today though, would you do it again?” You sighed and took a sip of your drink as you thought back on your past.

“I don’t know.” You looked over at him with a small shrug and slowly spun your straw in your drink. “I did the pageants because my mama was a pageant queen. I was head cheerleader in high school, because my mama was. But my mama decided she didn’t wanna be a mama anymore and now, all those memories are tainted by the memory of the woman that didn’t want me.” You sighed and took another sip of your drink as bits and pieces of your life flashed by like a movie in your mind.

“I spent most of my childhood trying to be just like her. Everything I did was a mirror image of her life. But when I had to fill her shoes with Magnolia… my sister; she was only two. I just put my foot down, made an about face, and became everything she wasn’t. I worked… so hard… to become the strong woman I am today, but what’s the use? All I have to show for it is a failed engagement, a burned down restaurant, and I’m not even a Belle anymore.”

“What does being a Belle mean to you?”

“It’s everything.” You said instantly. “It’s the definition of being a proper lady. It’s charm, manners, and hospitality. It’s…”

“Doll, isn’t that exhausting?” He interrupted before you could go on. “Lemon, sit back in your chair for a moment. Like actually sit back and relax your back and shoulders. OK, don’t make it look so awkward.”

“It is awkward.” You said as you tried to get comfortable in this new position.

“Alright then, come here.” He said as he stood up and pulled you to your feet. He lead you over to the lounge chairs and sat down on one of them before putting his feet on either side of the chair. “Sit. No funny business, just a lesson.”

“This is not Belle behavior.” You informed him as you handed him your drink and sat down between his legs.

“Now sit back and relax.” He breathed as he handed you back your drink and gently pulled you back against his chest. “There. That’s comfortable, right?”

“Because I’m practically laying down.” You pointed out as you shifted a bit to find a comfortable spot.

“You’re letting life pass you by because you are so concerned with what everyone else thinks about you.” He whispered as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “You have manners, babe. You have charm, and class, and a whole lot of sass. But if I can be so bold, you are acting like an old lady to impress people that will never appreciate what you are doing. But let me ask you this… do you know what color my eyes are? Because I know that you spent an awful lot of time looking down to make sure your dress was pulled up to cover your cleavage and that it was covering your knees completely. Your glasses are a little see-through, doll so I saw it all. But did you?”

“They’re blue, right?” You said as you leaned to the side to look at him.

“Yea.” He huffed with a smile and a nod. “I know you were listening but how much were you enjoying just existing in the moment? Like now. Don’t look, what color is the sky?” You smirked as he put his hands up and blocked your view so all you could see what the white wall beside you.

“I don’t know.”

“But you made sure that your dress was covering your legs four times already.” He said as he moved his hands so you could see again. “You can still be a Southern Belle and enjoy life. And I assume that you are like this because you think that if you can control every aspect of every single thing in your life, that you can control all the outcomes of what’s going to happen. That you can stop yourself from turning in to your mother.” You couldn’t help but stiffen the slightest bit as you turned around to look at him in shock.

“I wouldn’t…”

“No, you wouldn’t. But I think you think you will if you aren’t the perfect Belle. My guess is, you hyper focus on the things she didn’t. Which is why you think a single dress on your bed is a mess.”

“How did you…?”

“I read a lot of psych books in the army. Gave me something to do. And the army made me pay attention to little details.”

“So you’ve been psychoanalyzing every move I’ve made all day.” You gasped as you sat up and turned on the chair to look at him straight on.

“Yep, just like you have been analyzing every single move I make to make sure I would be a respectable candidate to date a Belle should this turn into something serious.” Your jaw snapped closed and you huffed through your nose as he took a swing of his beer and pointed at the colorful sky behind you. “Your missing the show.”

“You are a monster.”

“Yea, yea. You love that you found someone who’s not afraid to put you in your place… you touch that dress again and I’m tying your hands behind your back with my shoelaces.”

“You know what, I’m workin’ real hard on not slappin’ you silly right now.”

“Yea, yea. Sunset. It’s almost time for dinner.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You planned on sleeping in on your first day at sea since it was supposed to rain all day, but apparently, sleeping in meant getting woken up at 7:30 when someone kicked your room door. You jumped and bolted up right in bed as the kicking continued.

“Alright!” You called out as you threw back the blankets and got out of bed. You adjusted your tank top and straightened out your bottoms before ripping the door open with a scowl. “What, is it OK to wake people up like that in New York?”

“I brought breakfast so you didn’t have to venture out in the rain.” Bucky said with a smile as he held up a full tray in front of you. “And coffee.”

“Never should have showed you where I was staying.” You grumbled as you pushed the door wide open and headed back in your room to go back to bed.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” You grumbled ‘morning’ back to him and climbed right back into bed as he set the tray down on the table in the small living room. “Black?”

“Cream and lots of sugar.” He hummed to let you know he had heard you, and fixed your coffee as you curled back up under the blankets in your ice cold room.

“Here, scoot over.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Well I want to sit anyways.” He said as he set your coffee down on his table and leaned over you to grab the remote from your bedside table.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to be graced with your pleasant presence first thing in the morning. Imagine my surprise when I found the wicked witch of the west in your bed instead.” You growled at him and scooted over a bit more so that he could get comfy as he looked for something to watch.

“You’re not very nice.”

“Drink your coffee, doll.” You peeled one of your eyes open to look up at him as he threw your blankets over his lap and sipped his own drink while watching the news. His smile grew and he shot you a wink, which made you groan and sit up.

“I want a refund on my single man choice.” You grouched as you held out your hand for your coffee. “I don’t do early mornings on vacation.”

“You don’t have two roommates that woke up at five AM to work out. I didn’t have a choice but to get up.”

“Shoulda got your own room.” You countered as you grabbed the remote and changed the channel.

“Or I could just continue to bug my new favorite person.” You scowled at him out of the corner of your eye as you pulled up the movies on demand menu and scrolled through the list. You took another sip of your coffee and stopped on ‘Hostel’.

“Think you can handle a little blood with your coffee?” You asked as you rolled your head, and looked over at him.

“You’re a freak.” He said as he reached out and hit play on the remote. “Trust me, I’ll handle it a lot better than you.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Horror movies are my guilty pleasure. Bet you cringe before I do.”

“Oh, you’re on.” With a nod of your head, you paused the movie, and got up to use the bathroom and grab a sweater to wear until you got dressed while Bucky carried over the tray of food he grabbed from the buffet. “Don’t you dare put make up on!”

“I hate you!” You called out as you stopped unscrewing your mascara and threw it back on the counter. You finished up and grabbed an old, worn hoodie from your sorority days and pulled it over your head as you climbed into bed beside your new friend. “So where are your friends today?”

“They are meeting up with some of the girls they met last night for breakfast then going to the theater to play bingo and trivia or some shit. I don’t know, I didn’t look at the app this morning.”

“Oh, speaking of. There’s a hula class this afternoon I wanted to check out. You coming with me?”

“I will come and watch.” He said as he handed you half the bagel he had been putting cream cheese on and sat back against the head board.

“If you dance with me, I’ll let you sleep in here on the other side of a pillow wall so you don’t have to get up at 5 am as long as you promise to never tell a soul that I let you sleep in my bed.”

“Oh, you drive a hard bargain, Ms. Breeland.” He laughed as you hit play on the remote and sat back as well. “I promise my lips are sealed, and I promise I’ll dance with you.”

——

“You better put that camera down.” You giggled as you stood at the very back of the group of mostly older women, learning how to hula and the culture behind it. “And you promised you’d dance with me.”

“Oh no.” He laughed as he looked up from his phone and shook his head. “You are way better at this than I could ever be.”

“You’re just saying that.” You said as you slowly rolled your hips and moved your hands in little waves like the teacher was doing. “Because you can see my belly button.”

“It’s so scandalous.” He teased. “Such a scandalous belly button.”

“You hush. Come dance!”

“Two seconds.�� He said as he set his phone down on the table, propped it up with his empty beer bottle so he could keep recording, and got up to come dance with you. “Alright, teach me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doin’.” You giggled as you looked over to see him tying up his above his belly button, too. “What are you doin’?!”

“Shh! I’m trying to listen!”

“Oh, my Lord!” You squeaked as you covered your face in embarrassment, but he reached over and bopped your arm.

“Pay attention!” He hissed with a smile as he shook his hips rapidly, purposely doing the exact opposite of what was being demonstrated to mess with you.

“Dang it anyway.” You sighed as you grabbed his belt loop. “Slow… like a gator crossin’ the road on a hot summer day.”

“I’m from New York.” He chuckled as he let you push his hips back and forth. “We don’t have gators except for in the sewers.”

“Our mayor has a pet gator named Burt Reynolds… alright, just come here.” You sighed as you pulled him over toward you. “Feel the waves move the boat.” You said as you put his hand on your hip. “The gentle back and forth. Feel the rhythm down to your very core.” He nodded his head and let you guild him the way you wanted him, which was his intention all along.

“You have that down very well.” The instructor said on her way past.

“Thank you.” You said softly as you moved your free hand into Bucky’s. “Like a wave.”

“I think you are much better at this than I am.” With a giant smirk, you shrugged your shoulders and looked away from him for a moment.

“Hey, you said it.” He laughed and stopped dancing as he turned his hand to lace his fingers with yours.

“Come on. We’re the only ones still dancing.” Your hips stopped moving as you turned around to look at the group that was slowly starting to head off in different directions.

“Oh! Well that was fast.” He nodded his head as he grabbed his phone to turn off the video.

“Wanna go wander around…?”

“You wanna go dance in the rain?” You asked him as you picked up your small purse. He looked at you with his eyebrow raised before he huffed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Why the hell not? Let’s swing by my room so I can grab some dry clothes for dinner.”

“Just… grab your whole suitcase.” You said quickly as you looked away for a moment. You reached up and bit your thumb nail before shrugging and looking up at him again. “Even if this goes absolutely no where in two weeks when the boat docks. You said it yourself, might as well have fun while we can, right?” He stood almost frozen and searched your steel blue eyes for almost a solid minute as he figured out how to phrase what he needed to say.

“As friends.” He clarified as he held your hand a tad bit tighter. “I expect nothing from you, OK? I will happily take every moment I can with you and I do not mind sleeping on the far side of a pillow wall or even on the couch if that’s the case. I will let you make whatever calls you want to make, and I will move at a glacial pace until you make a move otherwise, OK? I am in no rush.”

“I know.” You said with a small bob of your head. “I can tell you have class.”

“I mean, I try to at least.” He joked as he used his hand to pull yours until you turned around to head toward the elevator. You stopped short of the doors and pulled him to a stop as you spun and pointed at him, as threateningly as you could.

“You better not wake me up at five AM to go work out, you hear me?”

“Oh, I’d be way to scared to do such a thing. Pretty sure you could rip my face off if you were pissed.”

“I am a Southern woman.” You said seriously as he pushed the up button for you. “My method of warfare is purely psychological.”

“That’s an even scarier thought.” He chuckled as he followed you in and pushed the button for the tenth floor.

“Why, I’m an innocent angel.” You joked as you tried to make your smirk look as innocent as possible.

“Ha! I severely doubt that.”

“So, are your friends are gunna be mad you ditched them?” You asked as you reached out to pull the hair tie off Bucky’s shirt for him.

“Probably won’t even notice. My guess is, if they even go back to the room, it’ll be to just shower and change before they run out again.”

“Y’all met in the army?”

“Steve and I have known each other out whole lives.” He said as he gestured you out of the elevator in front of him. “We met Sam at the VA couple years ago. He was in the air force. Steve just kinda adopted him one day and he never went away. Pain in the ass.”

“So you’re secretly in love with him.”

“Yea!” Bucky laughed as he stopped at his room door and pulled out his room key. “Yea, totally secretly in love with him.”

“Hey, whoa!” Someone yelled from in the room as you and Bucky stepped inside. You ran into Bucky’s back and he turned around with a loud laugh.

“Keep the bed, Wilson. I’m just grabbing my shit.”

“What, you goin’ to stay with that hot Southern chick or did you find another single…”

“I’m right here!” You called out as you stuck your hand out to the side around Bucky and waved.

“Shit. Sorry!”

“Are you two decent enough that I can grab my shit or what?”

“We’re decent!” A woman called out, which made your cheeks flush a bit in embarrassment not just for you, but for her as well.

“I’ll just wait in the hall.” You giggled as you turned and walked out of the room with your hands over your cheeks. You heard it close behind you and you walked a few feet away to safely burst out laughing as quietly as you could. You had just started catching your breath when Bucky stepped back out of the room with a duffle on his shoulder, a pile of shirts in his arms, and an empty bathroom bag and all his bathroom products on top. You looked over at him as the door closed and your laughs bubbled to the surface again. “Way to go, sugar!”

“How was I supposed to know he was gunna be banging some chick?” He asked as you grabbed his bathroom bag and started putting his things in it for him as you headed down the hall toward the back of the boat.

“We just ruined their whole afternoon.”

“No we didn’t. They’re probably right back at it already.” You shook your head and shuttered as you reached out and tried to take the pile of dress shirts from his arms for him, but he pulled away. “Not happening. You have your hands full with that very important bathroom bag.”

“And why is it so important?” He huffed and stopped at the second set of elevators.

“Because it’s in the hands of this gorgeous woman I know.”

“You are just trying to butter my biscuit today, aren’t you?” You giggled as you stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the fourteenth floor.

“I’m sorry, what the hell did you just say?”

“You… are… just…”

“OK, I heard you!” He laughed as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “I’ve just never heard someone say that before.”

“That’s because you’ve never met someone like me.” You reminded him as you stepped out of the life and turned to head back to your room.

“You are definitely one of a kind, doll. Definitely one of a kind.”

#Bucky x reader #Bucky x named reader #Bucky x Lemon Breeland #S.S. Desperation

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bisexualterror · 4 years

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Fandombend: Nova into GoT?

fandombend au

send me the name of one of my ocs and a different fandom from their original one and i’ll write 5 headcanons of what their plot, love interest, etc would be!

We’ll say she’s another Sand Snake, daughter of Oberyn Martell, her mother is an unnamed witch (born in the Summer Isles, but currently traveling throughout Essos) who healed him

Her mom genuinely loves her and Oberyn, but she prefers her nomadic lifestyle and using her gifts to heal people but she wants her daughter to have a stable life she leaves her with Oberyn

Nova Sand lives life pretty freely, safe in the water gardens with her giant family. The most dangerous thing she’s done at this point is learning how to milk venom from snakes from her dad, or that time she snuck out to ride to Sunspear because she missed Ellaria and Oberyn.

It takes her longer to remember her past life this time around, because of how removed Dorne had been for most of the plot in the television show, even the name Martell wouldn’t be enough to trigger her memories. But once she figures out where she, her process is pretty much the same. Write down what she remembers about the plot, and figure out how to influence the plot in her and her family’s favor.

Nova kind of throws herself into studying and learning how to fighter(her choice of weapon are poisoned twin daggers), because her magic is pretty weak in this universe and her mother never finished teaching her about it. Other than dancing, Nova doesn’t like doing many physical activities, but she’s willing to do whatever she can to stop her family from getting killed, and you know, she needs to prepare for the ice zombies.

Romance? Hmm, Daenerys/Nova for sure, or maybe Robb/Nova. I mean, I tried not to pick an obvious fav character, but, I failed.

Nova may flirt and joke around a lot, but she’s clever, good at reading people, resourceful, confident with her body and also generous despite her attitude, so I figure that would appeal to Daenerys at least in an ally way if not romantic.

Nova would find a way to put Dany on the throne because even though she’s more concerned about the ice zombies, the people will still need a better ruler than the Lannisters, and ignoring the mess of the finale, Nova knows no one else better to actually help the people of Westeros. In return, Dany would in return legitimize her and make her an adviser, and on the road to go help out the North from the most important villain in the show, the ICE ZOMBIES, they’d become lovers.

Nova is not good with romance, so it’d take a while for her to fall in love/realize she had fallen, but even then she wouldn’t expect much considering how important marriage alliances are.

I dunno I think that Dany would be down for a poly marriage, considering that’s what her ancestors used to do.

Anyway, so we can wrap this up, I’m just gonna say Dany married Robb Stark because Nova would totally jump through hoops just to save him. they all have kids running around because I refuse to let their family die out like it did in the show

Happily ever after~ (after defeating the ice zombies of course)

tysm for the ask, i am so sorry by the length of this bad boi!

#oc: nova bennett #GOT

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calleo-bricriu · 5 years

Text

Gotta be honest: I dislike that "OC Struggles in the RPC" post that occasionally hits my dash.

This one, right here.

In short, because it comes off very, "If you won't RP with my OC you're an elitist dick" even though I'm certain that wasn't the OP's intent.

But, as someone who has been writing the same Harry Potter OC (this one, right here) since 2001 and has played dozens of OCs in MMO settings, D&D, etc...starting from about 1988 on through now, let me just address the post point by point.

1. "That soul crushing feeling when you see 'no OCs' in someone's rules."

That's a you problem.

Nobody is obliged to write with you.

Perhaps that person has had numerous poor experiences with OC players in the past and just wants to avoid it happening entirely.

Perhaps they find it difficult to find ways to interact with OCs.

Perhaps they simply don't care for OCs when there are dozens of canon characters, including characters that are so minor that they might as well be a skeleton outline of a character.

None of those are invalid reasons and none of those are personal insults toward your OC or your writing; grow up and move on.

2. "Constantly having to dumb down your canon"

Look, if you're finding multiple people over multiple fandoms are telling you that your OC is too overpowered--just to cram it all into one word--you do need to stop and consider if they may be right and, if they are, if you care enough to change it.

There have been times I've looked at criticism I've had on Calleo and decided, "Yeah, they're right, that is a bit much" and other times when I've decided that yes, they are correct, but I don't care because I'm having fun as are the people I write with, and times where I've just plain disagreed.

It's also possible that your OC just isn't a good fit for whatever person is telling you that, and that's nobody's fault; not everybody likes the same things.

3. "Adjusting to adapted canons"

Literally nobody is forcing you to do this.

Everyone makes concessions now and again so things mesh with the group, that's part of what roleplaying is: A group activity.

If you feel as though you shouldn't have to adjust to someone else's adapted canon the problem is on your end and you're clearly not a good fit for the other player so maybe look elsewhere.

4. "The amount of your own canon and lore you have to sacrifice to do that."

Again, nobody is forcing you to do so.

This comes up a lot with people whose OCs are related to major canon characters and some of it is a big reason why it's generally recommended to not try and write those outside of established games.

In established games, the other players know this aspect of your character and, since you're part of the game, have implicitly agreed to go along with it.

For independent blogs, it does take longer to find regular RP partners because by having a backstory like that, it can feel like you're trying to force your, let's call it, adapted canon, onto canon and not everyone is going be on board with that idea or, at the very least, are implying that anyone who writes with you has to go along with it.

Again, that is not their fault and it doesn't mean you can't write an OC like that but you do need to be aware that if you choose to have something like that in your character's background, it's going to make it more difficult to find regular canon RP partners and that fact is entirely your fault, not the people who RP canon characters.

Same applies for those times when your OC has multiple rare abilities; the abilities might be canon but, sticking with Harry Potter as it's the main fandom I play in, if your character is a genius at everything, has the Standard Abusive Upbringing, is a metamorphamagus, is an animagus (usually unregistered and mastered by age 12 or so), is part-something-not-human, is a "transfer student to Hogwarts", is a major canon character's until now unknown sibling/cousin/best childhood friend, can cast all sorts of difficult magic before they even hit school because they're just that smart, is an orphan, and can sass Voldemort to his face without consequences--people aren't really going to want to write with you for several reasons.

- It looks like you haven't fleshed the character out well and are just throwing a pot of tropes at the wall to see what sticks.

- Writing with characters like that always feels like a dick measuring contest and if you dare try to hint that the OC might not be better at or just as good at something as a canon character, the most typical response is for the OC's player to get mad and tell you you're being elitist or bullying them.

5. "When you mention wanting to write a canon, people that have never shown any real interest in your OC jump out of the woodwork to encourage you to do it."

Yeah, there's no polite way to say this: If this is what happens to you, it generally means your OC is poorly thought out and can only hit one note (i.e. YOU only show interest in writing certain things; angst, shippy threads, etc...but never want to branch out to anything else) in your writing. That gets boring after awhile.

In short, your OC is probably a little boring and a little two dimensional and the reason your friends are encouraging you to write a canon is because they don't want to tell you that and know that a canon will be more interesting on virtue of you not having to make up all the source material the way you have to do with an OC.

6. "When you do it, that canon gets more attention than your OC ever did."

See #5. Your OC was probably a kinda dull one trick pony and your friends were trying to be nice about it.

7. "The alternative of that: When your first character was canon and you transition to writing an OC, people suddenly disappear."

See #5. Your OC was probably a kinda dull one trick pony in comparison to the canon character you were writing, and your friends were trying to be nice about it.

8. "Fandom OCs that outgrow their fandoms and muns tha tfeel they have nowhere to put them."

That's lack of creativity on your part, not an "OC struggle".

This character of mine has had fragments of his personalty spawn off into roughly thirty or so different characters across multiple fandoms. On occasion, I've directly ported him into another fandom, just changing the Harry Potter specific things into things that fit the new fandom.

9. "Endlessly worrying if your character is too sue-ish, even after x-amount of years."

Stop caring.

Seriously, stop caring.

Caring about that usually ends up making you kind of less than fun to write with on an OOC level and on an IC level most people take it too far in the other extreme and end up with a character that's about as engaging as wet cardboard.

Not to mention, no matter what you do, there are always going to be people who will think your OC is "too sue-ish" no matter what, simply because they're an OC.

Focus more on people who are interested in your OC and not on the people who don't like your OC (and block them if you have to). You'll have a lot less stress and a lot more fun that way.

If you can't stop caring due to anxiety, get to a therapist and get on meds or--stop roleplaying until you get your house in order. If you get that stressed over roleplaying, it's not worth your mental health to continue; just go write fanfic.

10-13. All the stuff about female OCs being held to higher standards than male OCs.

This, unfortunately, is true. It's extra true if you're a female OC that gets into any sort of relationship, platonic or otherwise, with a canon character.

It's a pretty across all fandoms thing too, and it's definitely unfair.

I know 100% that if Calleo were a female OC, he would not have even a fraction of the interactions and threads that I have with him; people would think he's bitchy, stuck up, and annoying as all hell--and he is, but he's a guy, so it somehow funny and endearing I guess.

I think he’s often bitchy, stuck up, and annoying as all hell and I’ve been writing him for close to 20 years now.

He'd also probably be written off as some kind of slut because I've always written him as being in open relationships and often having multiple open relationships going at one time.

14. "People assuming simple, stupid things"

Yeah, that's not OC specific. Not even close. It's good form to always read someone's about and rules page, even if it's a canon character, because nobody plays even canon characters exactly the same.

15. "Feeling like you have to jump through hoops to keep up with everyone else and keep your character fresh and interesting so people don't lose interest."

Again, this is not an OC specific thing. Canon, unless a series is ongoing, is pretty finite, and anyone writing any character has to keep their character fresh and interesting and not just write variants of the same thing over and over or people will get bored of them as well.

A pretty good litmus test here is to look at it and see if it's just one or two people who lost interest or if it was a whole lot of them.

If it was just one or two people, that sucks, but it happens. We've all been dropped at some point.

If it's a LOT of people, it's time to take a close look at your OC and what you're writing to make sure you haven't just turned into--well, the literary equivalent of wet cardboard.

16. "Canon blogs that shit on OCs--you realize you were OCs too right? What would the original writer of your canon think?"

Well, if it's Anne Rice, she'll probably think to send a cease & desist.

That joke aside, be glad they do; it's a big red flag to avoid them as they're likely overall unpleasant people even if their writing is good. It also saves you from wasting your time trying to interact/write with them.

Remember that part about not focusing on the people who aren't interested in writing with you? Go read it again.

17. "No seriously, it can be so discouraging writing an OC. How many ideas are you killing by snubbing OCs? The future of creative media is in our hands."

Miss me with this emotionally manipulative bullshit.

Nobody is obliged to write with you and nobody is obliged to like your OC.

If a canon blog rejecting your OC is enough to kill your ideas, that's your problem, not the canon blog writer's problem.

If you can't find someone to RP your ideas with you and you really like those ideas, I'd suggest writing fanfic.

If you really want to RP those ideas, you'll either have to keep looking until you find someone who also wants to RP those ideas, or you'll have to be willing to do some compromising to make those ideas work in a way that other players will find interesting.

If your OC always has to be center stage and the best at everything, or you only want to write ship threads, or you only want to do angst, or your OC is always being injured, nearly killed, in emotional distress, etc...all the damn time, that gets boring for everyone else really quickly.

That's a you problem, not an other writers problem.

18. "Has someone stolen my canon?"

Look, if the stuff further up on this list is an issue for you, I guarantee you nobody has stolen your canon.

In general, nobody will steal your canon; there are not infinite numbers of ideas and tropes are very common both in canon canon and for OCs.

Unless someone straight up lifted everything about your character and just changed the name and whatever face claim you're using, there's about a 0 % chance they stole your ideas.

19. "Is my canon too similar to someone else's?"

See the bit in #18 about common tropes; given that, probably.

The bigger question is does it bother you enough to rework your OC? If it doesn't, stop caring.

If it does, get to work reworking your OC.

20. "Do they think I stole their canon?"

Have they said something? Do you have overlapping RP circles? No? Then they probably don't know you exist, let alone think you've stolen from them.

21. "And what do you do when somebody does steal your canon? It can be so hard to prove and it's so easy for it to be dismissed."

If it's hard to prove, it's too generic to have been stolen unless they just did a direct copy paste.

22. "Having your OC written off because of the face claim choice - that face is constantly typecast, nobody takes it seriously, they've been overplayed and ruined."

The only people I've had, 7 years of Tumblr RP, give two fucks about face claims are:

- Control freak admins of organized games that usually fall apart within 6 months due to drama typically caused by the control freak admins. I actually had one game have the admins get angry at me because I wouldn't stop doing cosplay for Calleo's pictures and just pick a celebrity.

Bullet dodged there.

- People who are also just generally unpleasant OOC; if a face claim alone is enough to make someone not want to RP with you (and it's not a case where the person whose face it actually is has been clear about them being uncomfortable with people using their pictures in that manner), that's a red flag that that person, if you somehow still want to write with them after seeing that, will likely be incredibly, bizarrely dramatic in all the wrong ways.

Sure, some of them are fine and they just have a hard time picturing an OC who also looks uncannily like Taylor Swift, but people who have things in their rules about refusing to write with people who use certain icons should be taken as either a red flag or a, "Well, I dodged a bullet here."

Also, in case nobody has told you this: Icons are not necessary for RP. They often add absolutely nothing to the post or thread that isn’t just as easily accomplished by using words. There’s nothing wrong with using icons but, you know, run far, far away from people who require that you use them.

Maybe instead of getting into the mindset that nobody wants to write with your OC because they’re an OC, take a look at your OC, ask people to give you honest and constructive feedback about the character (even if they tell you things you might not want to hear), consider working on your OOC personality as the victim mentality or using emotional manipulation about ~*~*how hard~*~* it is to write an OC to try and guilt people into writing with you is incredibly off putting on every level.

The more someone whines and complains about how nobody wants to write with them, honestly, the less interested I become in writing with them.

You also have to put some effort in, and that includes answering submitted memes or people who write you starters (or like an open starter call from you); if you fail to do that more often than not (and no, ‘low/no muse’ is not an excuse when you use it all the time, especially when you clearly have muse and are responding to whatever Themed Thing--usually angst or shipping--you get but ignore anything else or take ages to reply to anything else), the people sending those things in will assume you’re just not interested in writing with them and will stop trying.

And, bottom line?

If even you can’t sell your OC as being interesting and write off lack of interest from others as Unfairness Toward OCs, why should anyone else be interested?

If you have an OC that’s legitimately interesting, engaging, and not based around generally disliked tropes (across fandoms those are usually related to a canon character, multiple rare abilities, the OC being able to somehow always ignore or overtly go against social norms and suffer exactly zero consequences--or worse--be adored and admired for it by everyone, and Not From Around Here, in that order), and aren’t unpleasant OOC, people will want to write with you.

If you don’t, well, that’s your problem, and no amount of posting about how hard OCs have it will make people interested.

#ooc #ocs #roleplaying #roleplaying advice #original characters

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shaniahnoel · 6 years

Text

Buttercup Pt 8/?

Word Count: 3164

Warnings: Maybe swearing?

Master List

“Sweet Pea! Stop!” Sophia yelled, shoving her hands into his chest.

“Nope,” he smirked, attacking her sides once more. Her protests gave way to laughter as she writhed under him. Sweet Pea inhaled sharply as her foot flailed between his legs. Grunting, he rolled onto his side while Sophia sat up horrified.

“Geez, you coulda just said stop.”

“Y’know what? I don’t even feel bad, you deserved it.” She glared playfully as his lips curved into an easy smile.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you dare start again,” she commanded the Serpent who slithered towards her.

He tackled her, pressing her softly into the carpet. His large hands easily captured hers, pinning them above her head. Rolling himself gently, he crossed her hips with his own, keeping her legs behind him. The annoyance slipped out of her eyes as they met his playful expression. Silently he dared her to try and stop him. She relaxed under him, the apparent submission causing him to loosen his grip. Sophia pressed her advantage and rolled him quickly. Now she had his hands over his head, staring triumphantly into his shocked eyes.

“Right,” he muttered, “my girlfriend is a self-defense guru.”

“Nope. You’re just not as strong as you think you are.”

The familiar bristling that crept up at her joke was all too easy to subdue. It was pleasantly strange for him to find how calm he’d become in the few weeks since that night at the Wyrm. He was determined to be the person that Sophia deserved, and her voice echoed in his head whenever he felt that he wasn’t. If life were Harry Potter, he may have considered her his Patronus, a happiness that clung to his every fiber. He still got into just as many fights, so few people of the South Side realized the beginning of this transformation. Of course, none of them saw him like this, giggling like a four-year-old and stealing forehead kisses as if they’d run out. Well, except Fangs and Toni.

“Could you get a room? We wanna watch the game!”

“No one’s stopping you,” Sweet Pea said smugly, settled over Sophia once again.

“Well, I’d like to see what’s happening and your head is huge,” Toni quipped as she settled onto the loveseat behind them.

“For you, Topaz.” Sweet Pea conceded, pulling Sophia to her feet and throwing her into Toni’s lap in one quick motion. “Whoops”

“Sweet Pea!” They yelled in unison while Fangs joined him in laughter.

“You’re a child,” Sophia rolled her eyes as he crammed his way between them, throwing an arm around both.

“An overgrown child,” Toni chimed in.

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Fangs muttered, prompting the girls to launch throw pillows at his head.

“You’re just as bad, Fogarty.” Sweet Pea smirked.

Rachel came to stand in the doorway, chuckling softly as the scene before her. Fangs sat in the worn armchair, arms raised to deflect the pillows that headed his way while the other three looked comfortably squished into the too small loveseat. It reminded her of why she’d joined the Serpents years ago, why she stood by her husband now—the Serpents were family and here was part of the next generation. She’d always worried about Sweet Pea, fearing that the anger of her son’s best friend would be the death of him. Her smile grew as she looked at him now, smiling easily and relaxed with her niece under his arm. Sophia looked happy, too, it was the happiest Rachel had ever seen her. The four teens groaned in unison as the flash on Rachel’s phone went off. Shrugging at their protests, she sauntered back into the kitchen. After the game, Sophia resumed her studying for the exam the next day.

“Ugh, how am I supposed to tell everyone that I’m dating a nerd,” Sweet Pea groaned, throwing himself back on the bed dramatically.

“The same way I’ll own up to dating a child, now leave my socks alone!”

Sweet Pea snickered, backing away from her flailing legs. He was attempting to behave himself, but she was too cute when she studied and even cuter when annoyed. It didn’t help that he knew she couldn’t resist his puppy dog eyes. On cue, her eyes softened, and she let out a sigh.

“Why aren’t you studying for calc? Everyone says Lewell’s tests are the worst.”

“Eh, it’ll average out to a D.”

The pencil that she’d been absentmindedly twirling spun out of her hand. The perfectionist within was having a heart attack, and she was confused.

“You’re not a D student.”

“This’ll be my third year, I’m big on commitment.”

“You committed to becoming a D student?”

Sweet Pea burst out laughing; Sophia’s voice and face both indicated that he’d just admitted to kicking puppies as a hobby.

“Well, not exactly. I just decided I’d be what the lovely educators at South Side High thought I’d be the day I came to school with this.”

He gestured to his neck carelessly, the Serpent partially obscured by the hoodie he wore. Sophia could detect the slightest hint of anger in his voice. It was an old wound, clearly, but she could tell it had never healed quite right. She replaced her bookmark and snapped the book closed. Sweet Pea looked up eagerly, expression falling slightly when he saw her face.

“Yesssss?” he hissed, playfully encouraging her to say whatever was on her mind.

“Why would you wanna prove them right?”

“I’m not jumping through hoops. It’s all stupid. I’ve seen Serpents try and they get accused of cheating or get a bunch of lectures about wasting their life away with us. It’s just easier to coast.”

“You could do so well though!”

“I’m not concerned about that.”

“Don’t you wanna go to college?”

“Nope.” He popped the “p” and watched her face. Shock flickered across it.

“Why?”

“What do I need college for? Nothing on the South Side requires it.”

“So, you just want to stay in the South Side, forever?”

“What’s wrong with the South Side?” He challenged, working harder to subdue the frustration. Sophia sighed.

“Don’t make this something it’s not, P. I’m just saying it’s nice to have options and with a mind like yours, you could have so many.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Sophia stared at him, but he averted his gaze to the ceiling, practicing his deep breathing. She bit her lip and opened her book again. Sometimes it was best not to push. While she flipped through the pages searching for key phrases that might be on the exam, Sweet Pea stared a hole into the ceiling. Finally, he sighed and threw himself gently onto Sophia. He supported most of his weight, but she still felt the pressure of the 6’5 Serpent. A gentle kiss on the back of her neck was his apology and she rolled under him to accept.

“I don’t want to make you be something you’re not. I just want you to be all that you can be.”

“I think we have different opinions on what that looks like,” he said as he leaned into her hand on his cheek.

“I’ll try not to push,” she promised solemnly, but they both smiled knowing that she could never resist pushing if she believed it would help.

School buildings must exist outside of the realm of time, Sophia was absolutely sure. Second period dragged on as the teacher discussed math formulas that she’d already memorized. It wasn’t necessarily that she was smarter, just that her prep school had been more academically rigorous. Rather than focus on the lesson, she began drafting up a song. The lyrics had floated around in her head for weeks putting into words what the South Side made her feel. It’d been months since her hands had tickled the ivories, but it’d have been a cold day in hell before her mother allowed her to have their piano, and the South Side had no true music program. Her heart ached as she considered the hours that she and her brother had spent together, him patiently teaching her how to let her fingers flow rather than rigidly strike.

When the bell rang, she decided to skip her third period to find a piano. Surely there had to be some instruments somewhere, it was a high school after all. Ten minutes later she found herself outside of a door with a peeling sign on the window identifying it as the music room. The door swung open easily, but the lack of use was apparent. The music stands, and instrument cases were covered in dust making the disconformity of the bare patch on the floor even more uncomfortable as Sophia tried not to consider the other uses of this room. In the corner of the room sat the piano looking as desperate to be played as Sophia was to play it.

Sliding back the cover, Sophia straightened her back and let her fingers go to work. She started simple, going back through her paces. It was something her brother had always insisted upon as an exercise of humility. After progressing through her scales and warming her fingers up, the music inside bubbled out. The keys told a story of darkness giving way to light and hope bubbling forth. She thought of Sweet Pea and the music became light and airy with a deeper beat resounding through. By the time she finished, her heart was beating loudly. For her, music was always an emotional experience and she’d been so engrossed in it that she hadn’t heard the door close as someone else entered the room.

“That was beautiful.”

Sophia stifled a scream, whirling around on the bench to find herself face to face with Jughead.

“Jug you can’t do that to people!”

“You’re right. Too many compliments and everyone will think I like people.”

“Ugh, Serpent boys are the bane of my existence.”

“That lie aside, seriously that was amazing. How long have you played?”

“Since I was six months old.” Her serious and pompous manner lasted mere seconds before she lost it at Jughead incredulous face. “Okay, okay, if you’re counting when I started slamming the keys every time my brother tried to play, it’s six months. If you’re not, I formally started learning when I was five so nearly twelve years.”

The bell rang again, and she scrambled to grab her belongings. Jughead shook his head in amusement as he watched her realize that she’d skipped class for the first time. He threw an arm over her shoulders and pulled her along to lunch, assuring her that her Mrs. Phelps probably hadn’t even noticed. As they walked through the lunch room doors, Sweet Pea’s head turned. His eyes narrowed slightly at Jughead’s arm, but Fangs elbowed him in the ribs. Jealousy was still his weak spot, but he was learning to relax. It didn’t help that their relationship wasn’t explicitly public and, so he had to endure the scum of the student body try to woo his girl. Every time he brought it up, Sophia reminded him that it was his idea to keep the relationship quiet.

“Fangs did you know your cousin is basically Beethoven?”

“Oh, yeah, her last concert was amazing. I mean, I hated the music, but the way her fingers flew was insane.”

“You were there?” Sophia’s eyes were wide.

“We scrammed before you came off the stage, so your mom wouldn’t ruin your moment.”

“I had no idea. Thanks,” Sophia replied, emotion constricting her throat. Sweet Pea leaned forwards.

“I didn’t know you played?” There was note of jealousy in his voice, probably spawning from his interest in Jughead knowing before him.

“That’s ‘cause I haven’t since I came here from the prep. I, uh, I actually skipped last period to track down a piano and played.” Her face reddened despite knowing that all of them skipped class, sometimes entire school days just for the heck of it.

“And of course, I had to investigate the possibility of Mozart being resurrected in the midst of South Side High.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, but flushed under Jughead’s praise. She’d missed playing more than anything. While her joy in it came from the feeling of creating something beautiful, it helped that her mother considered it an appropriate hobby. When she played, her mother would sit and listen and until the last note sounded, it felt like they were connected. She blinked back tears as Sweet Pea’s hand found hers under the table. Maybe playing had been a mistake.

“Play for me?” The Serpent whispered in her ear. She raised her eyes to his, their warmth flushing out the sudden chill.

After the final bell rang, Sweet Pea and Sophia made their way to the music room. She waited to the side of the door as he unceremoniously booted a couple from the room. The guy turned halfway out of the room, but Sweet Pea crossed his arms and hardened his face and the protest died in his throat. When they left, Sophia went to the piano while Sweet Pea hovered uncertainly. Only ever allowing her brother to join her on the bench, she directed him to a nearby chair.

Sweet Pea sat quietly as she began. The start up was basic, things he could probably play if he wanted to. He realized that she was only warming up as her fingers flowed into the true piece. The music she played was light and delicate, a stark contrast from what he was used to. It was even more surprising because she listened to, and said she liked, all his heavier music. Music moved him, but he’d never been moved like this. Instead of feeding his aggression, this music was calming and happy. He moved to stand behind her, resting a hand gently on the small of her back, watching as her fingers danced.

She was beautiful. Her eyes were closed, relaxed as if she were asleep. He could tell she’d played the next piece thousands of times and could play it thousands more. The movements were effortless, and the sound was hauntingly delightful. Any mistakes she made were apparent only in the smallest of creases in her forehead which quickly smoothed over as she pushed herself on. Time passed without notice as Sophia continued to play, Sweet Pea lost in the beauty. The key changed, the music slowed, and suddenly he realized Sophia was crying. She stopped playing and put her head in her hands as he quickly straddled the bench to hold her.

“What’s wrong? You did great.”

“N-nothing. I just, I had started playing one of my father’s favorites.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Sophia chuckled at the puzzled concern in his voice.

“No, it just… It’s been so long since I’ve been allowed to play it.”

“Allowed?”

“Not here,” she muttered into his chest.

Without a word he stood up and took her by the hand, leading her out to his bike. He cruised through the street lazily, taking the longer route. The bike had made her nervous at first, but now it was something immensely relaxing for her. They finally ended up at their place—the park where they’d first really talked. As before, Sophia took the only swing while Sweet Pea flopped on the ground. This time, he sat up straight, arms around his knees loosely, and looked at her expectantly. She took a deep breath, playing with her fingers.

“My dad was my best friend. I’ve told you a little about him, I think. He was a doctor and he wanted either my brother or I to follow in those footsteps. I actually hated that.”

“I thought it was your dream since you were five?”

“Sort of. I first decided that when I was five because that’s when dad got sick. He told us that he hoped he would live on through one of us becoming a doctor, and I took that statement very literally. My heart wasn’t in it though, not like Marcus. He wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Anyways, my dad went into remission, but the cancer kept coming back. Mom started to act different. She was testier, more concerned about appearances. She wanted us to be the best, the absolute best, in whatever we were doing. In some ways, that was great. In others it was overwhelming. That’s when Marcus’ anxiety really started to take off. Then, when I was 9, I caught my mom cheating on my father.”

Sweet Pea’s fists clenched as he looked up to see tears falling freely down her face. Her hands were curled into tight balls, and her teeth sank into her lip. He wavered, uncertain of what to do. Sadness still wasn’t his forte. If it were him, he’d be punching something right about now to cope. Her next words came out, shaky with tears.

“She told me it was none of my concern and not to tell my father. I didn’t know what to do. A year later, he left. Before he left, he told me that he knew that I had known, but that it was okay. He understood my dilemma. I didn’t understand why he left us with my mother until a few months later when he died. The cancer had come back, and no one had told me or my brother.”

At this, Sweet Pea was on his feet. He wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed. The hate that he thought he’d had for her mother was nothing, nothing at all, compared to this. Betrayal of trust was an unforgivable sin for Sweet Pea and in his mind, she had failed both her husband and children in that regard. Reflexively his arms tensed around Sophia. They sat like that for a while, Sophia sobbing and Sweet Pea fuming. Eventually, she was able to continue.

“That’s when everything really changed. Mom became a dictator. I think the affair made her feel guilty. Anything that called her character into question had to go. Eventually that meant Marcus. He overdosed on a mixture of alcohol and pills and that was it. My dad was never to be brought up: my doctor goal was gone, his favorite pieces forbidden.”

“I’m so sorry, Soph,” Sweet Pea whispered, pressing his lips to her temple.

“It’s okay. I’m away from her now. I can be the doctor my brother wanted to be, fulfilling my father’s dream. I can play freely again. There are good things in my life that weren’t there before.”

She unconsciously stroked his arm as she spoke. It was such a strange feeling. No one had ever considered him a good thing in their life. Nor had he met someone so fragile and strong. She had lost her father, was missing her brother, and her mother had taken everything from her, but she was still fighting. It was so frustrating. He could fight his way through anything, but he couldn’t fight this for her.

Taglist @serpentsweetspea @reinadelaserpiente Here’s a late Christmas gift for you, I hope you enjoy!! Feedback is always welcome! <3

A/N: Obviously I don’t own any of the Riverdale characters, but Sophia and her relationship with our beloved Sweet Pea are my personal creation as well as the plot lines herein. There may be some basis on events currently happening in Riverdale, but not necessarily.

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