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wynnyfryd · 5 months

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Trailer park Steve AU part 28

part 1 | part 27 | bonus stobin scene | ao3

cw: anxiety attack, graphic thoughts of death

Chapter 7

Steve's mom leaves the week before Thanksgiving.

No preamble, no notice, no "so long and thanks for paying rent," just— poof. Gone. Ta-ta, kiddo. Have a great life!

(Or don't!

Who cares?

Not me, that's for sure!)

The worst part is Steve finds out from Ernie of all people. Ma couldn’t even tell him to his face that she’s abandoning him to the gaping maw of this hellish town because she’s a good-for-nothing coward. Some day this place is gonna swallow him whole, splinter the bones and cough up the pellet, and Florence Harrington will be somewhere far, far away, sighing empty condolences over a fresh glass of red. “Just dreadful, isn’t it? Such a pity; what a shame.”

Steve’s hanging towels on the clothes line the day after the party — after the ride to drop off Max and the hangover brunch with Robin; after drowning his headache in Tylenol and finally getting home, only to realize that he can’t shower yet because all the towels are soaking wet — when Ernie looks up from his yardwork and casually ruins his goddamn life.

“You're wastin' your time with that,” he says, propping his weight against a rake and squinting at Steve in the mid-afternoon sun.

“What?” Steve frowns; hangs another towel. It's not like they're going to dry themselves. "Why?"

"Too cold."

"It's not supposed to rain, though, is it?"

"No, but the humidity—"

Screw the humidity. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Ernie shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He turns his attention back to his yard, dragging the rake over a smattering of damp leaves; obsessed with keeping his little patch of lawn pristine; and Steve reaches into the hamper and sincerely hopes that Ernie’s wrong. He needs a shower, and if the towels don't dry fast enough they get that gross mildew smell to them, and then it gets in Steve's hair, and how is he supposed to flirt with Eddie if he smells like musty lake water?

"Where's your mom off to, anyway?" Ernie asks after a moment. "Saw her leave this morning with two big suitcases,” he explains when Steve throws him a questioning look. “Figured she was off somewhere nice.”

Steve blanches.

Two big suitcases?

He didn’t even notice that she wasn’t here. Feels like a stupid, selfish asshole now, because he’d called ‘ma, I’m home!’ when he got in earlier and had thought nothing of her complete lack of response, the peaceful silence of the house; had welcomed it at the time, even, and what if—

Oh, god, what if she’d died?

What if she’d been lying there dead in her room, and Steve didn’t bother to check because he was too busy thinking about himself and how nice it was not to hear reruns on the TV for once? How long would she have lain there, rotting and bloated, and— and how long would his dad have, if the gunshot hadn’t rung out? How long; how long? Bleeding out on the carpet gurgling fish sounds everything red and Steve can’t breathe—

“Did she—?” he pants. Brings a hand to his throat; tries again. “Did you- see who she left with?”

“Some woman. Relative of yours, maybe? I didn’t get a good look at her. Had a real fancy car, though. Mercedes, think it was.”

Steve chokes on his own spit. Feels his throat close up, his heart pound and his ears ring and the yellow-purple-black start creeping in like vines at the edge of his vision, like demogorgon claws; like death’s shark-toothed grin. Hungry, howling, happy as it takes a bite out of him.

“You alright?” Ernie asks.

Steve grinds his jaw so hard he feels something crack. "Excuse me," he grits out, stomping back into the house.

—

"Fuck!" Steve shouts to his empty house — to the sun-faded paneling, to the weird stain in the orange carpet. Fucking Cecelia; fucking hell.

He cleans the house in a rage, eyes hot with unshed tears, and there's a note on the breakfast table. Crisply folded on plain paper, prim cursive letters, almost comically estranged:

Steven,

Apologies for short notice. Gone to stay with Aunt Cece in Evanston. Call or visit if you like.

— Mom

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving

The words leave papercuts in his throat. Steve rips the note to tiny pieces, can hardly see for the tears swimming in his eyes, but he's not crying over this; he's not. He fucking refuses.

Somewhere along the way, the cleaning turns to blind destruction, demolition of the all the little scraps of life mom left behind: her creepy angel figurines, her vintage Pyrex dishes, an empty bottle of old perfume. Steve hurls them all against the living room wall, delights in the shimmering pile of broken glass at his bare feet. Wants to crawl over it on hands and knees. Wants to burn this place to the ground.

When the sun dips below the trees he goes back out to check the towels. The air is wet, bitterly cold; nips at his hands when the wind blows, and the towels hang heavy on the line, just as damp as before but now the slightest bit stiff with the first creep of frost.

"FUCK!" Steve roars, ripping a towel down off the line. Yanking each one down in turn, throwing them into the dirt, raging, "What! Is! The fucking! Point!"

His tears spill over then, hot and wet as he sinks to his knees with a wounded growl, and he chokes there in the dirt; the cold, wet mud, the patchy grass. Gravel digs into his shins, and sobs wrack his chest, capsize him like plunging waves, and he can't do anything but shake and cry where the whole neighborhood can see. Making a commotion; making a scene, as his mother would say, but his mother's not here. She fucking left. She left him here, and his dad did, too, and Steve is utterly, truly, hopelessly alone.

"Come on, son."

And there’s Wayne Munson, coaxing him up off the ground with a sure, strong grip. Steve makes animal sounds as Wayne lifts him under the arms — ruined hiccups, mangled wails. There's mud in his lungs. Ocean silt; sucking sludge.

His mother's gone.

"Easy now," Wayne shushes; hugs him hard against his side. "You're alright, kid. You're alright."

—

part 29

tag list under separate reblogs, comment if you’re over 21 and want to be added tomorrow

#trailer park steve au #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #my writing #my fic #wayne munson #cw: angst

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starflungwaddledee · 2 months

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💘 happy valentine's day! 💘

#cw: angst #cw: blood #cw: violence #<- hope these are enough. this is a misleadingly “cute at first glance” image on purpose. ask to tag.#running a little bit late but i figured i couldn't do a Whole Month of cute ships and miss one on The Day.....!! :) :)#so here's a totally normal one for today! :) :) happy day! rhomance!! whee! wahoo!#galacta knight #🎀💖#“no ask prompt?” there is one (👍👍👍👍) but we'll come back to it. imo this wasn't a good enough prompt fill #okay you know what i'll tag her even though she's barely visible bc it is rather the whole point isn't it. sorry sorry sorry #starstruck dee

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rileyclaw · 2 years

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first friend, final protector.

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slushrottweiler · 10 months

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Never has a kiss hurt me so good

I cannot do the absolute Agony of this scene from Book 3 justice. The desperation of their kiss. The way they both knew it was a bad idea and that they just…. Needed it regardless. The absolute, earth-shattering terror A feels because, despite everything they’ve done, this human has gotten in past their endless walls and it’s ripping their world apart - because they’ve lost everything before and honestly don’t know how they’re going to survive losing them.

Jesus Fuck I have so many feelings about this. So many and I sobbed and cried and just…. omg you fucked me up Bk 3! Characters belong to @seraphinitegames

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc bk 3 #adam du mortain #twc Adam #adam x detective #NB!detective #Quill x Adam #Commanding Agent A Du Mortain #CW: angst #sobbing crying throwing up #no matter how hard I tried I cannot draw the feels this scene gave me #i don’t even know if I read this scene right it’s just the feels I got from it - soz if I’m wrong

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boundinparchment · 5 months

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“If There Is a Substitute For Love, It Is Memory…”

“…To memorize, then, is to restore intimacy." In which Il Dottore mourns. Inspired by a quote by poet Joseph Brodsky.

Reader is gender-neutral, referenced as being deceased. Contains grief, mourning, and the topic of death in general. Might eventually write a companion for this one. Also on AO3 here.

He considered preserving you, once upon a time. Cryogenics were simple, although that wasn’t to say that a Segment with your consciousness was not an option.

But it was one you vehemently turned down every time he suggested it. Your body, full of carbon and water and prone to breaking, was continuing to fail you anyway. Why did you want to persist as flesh when he could remove the common factor of your suffering?

Why did you want to be a slave to fate?

Why did you want to leave him?

Didn’t you love him?

Of course you did, you said. And that your time was limited made the moments together all the more precious .

For if there was no limit on time, what would be special? What would be sacred?

He looked upon corpses thousands of times in his extended lifespan but seeing you still and stiff atop the built pyre broke something deep inside of him. You only ever exuded life. Bright, cheerful. If he was a slow-burning star, churning on regardless of devastation, then you were brilliant like a diamond in the sun, your clarity only visible to those who dared to cast you into perfect circumstances.

To continue looking would ruin what he still held in the recesses of his mind but he could not ignore these final moments.

A book clutched to your chest, your fingers still stained with ink. Every time you touched him, he thought of how your profession lived in your skin, in your veins, as if you lived and breathed the ink you committed to paper.

Dottore touched the leather cover of the book, tracing the letters he helped you etch.

You read this one aloud to him. A field of Zaytun Peaches and a friendly bee accompanied the two of you. A confession wrapped in an allegory of words that were as carefully placed as an artist’s brushstrokes or a mechanic’s blueprint lines.

He had another copy, of course. Not that he needed it. He could recite that poem backwards and in at least four languages.

Gloved hands fixed that stupid strand of hair that never cooperated. It was as stubborn as you.

Preserving your form would be a disservice in every way; it took every ounce of self-control to not listen to his Segments and his own burning pain. In your place at his side was an echo of a shadow and whatever he saved would be the worst imitation of your likeness.

Funny, that you could do that: curb his curiosity that way. A perfect opportunity to attempt to raise the dead and seek a solution and yet he did not want it.

Dottore stroked your cheek and pressed his lips to your cold forehead. He flicked his fingers as he stepped back, sparks catching and finding sustenance on the dry kindling.

He stayed until the moon’s glow revealed nothing but ash, your presence all but erased from the world. Your words, your smile, your laugh remained etched in his heart: that he had you at all, for however short a time, gave him all he never needed.

#tw: death #cw: death #tw: angst #cw: angst #cw: grief #tw: grief #dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #dottore x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #I like to think that he not only attempts to back up memories with reader but that he ensures every segment has them #For the sake of this idea I’m curbing his curiosity but he absolutely would attempt to keep you on this earth #and he would find and try all means necessary #Anyway don’t look at it too closely!

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izvmimi · 1 year

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cw: angst. third person pov reader.

“You’re awful, you know that, right?”

Izuku usually smiles when she says this to him, as she has so many times before, because it’s usually in jest, accompanied by a cheeky smile, perhaps also by her elbowing him in the ribs. He’d shift and bump her back, making sure to reach an arm out to catch her if she stumbled. It was always excessive, but he’d never let her fall.

At least not in his sight.

Today is different. Today, instead, Izuku says nothing, and her whispered accusation goes unanswered. Her voice is soft, but the gravity of her words feels like an insurmountable weight on her shoulders, perhaps enough to shatter her bones.

She swallows but with a throat so dry it feels like sandpaper. It occurs to her for a moment that she doesn’t remember her last meal or the last time she drank anything, and yet this unloading of her feelings is far more important than filling her stomach.

“You could have left me alone,” she finally chokes out.

He could have, and he should have. Yes, there was a time that she wanted him more than anything else on this earth, and perhaps that is true even now, but what did that bring her? A pain that she would wish on no one, something that she wouldn’t have imagined was within the realm of human experience, something intangible but so unbearably real.

He should have left her alone.

Izuku still doesn’t answer, but she can imagine him, in a world where he had made a better decision for them and not just for him and his dreams and the world, saying something to the effect of -

Wouldn’t you have been lonely?

He would have been right then, and yet she is still lonely now despite this best efforts, and this version of loneliness is amplified a hundredfold.

Is it more tragic to have known warmth before being thrust into the cold anew?

“... Or just loved someone else.”

Someone different, someone strong enough to understand him the way he is.

She can practically hear his voice, even though he’s not speaking.

There’s no one else I want, sweetheart.

She clenches her teeth.

“You selfish bastard.”

But he’s not. He’s far from selfish. The 1% of him that knew selfishness was just the one that was willing to wound her. Everything else that comprised him - the selflessness, the kindness, the determination that practically dripped from his skin was so real, real enough to have led to this very moment.

“I hate you so much.”

She shouldn’t lie to the dead.

But she’d spent enough time pretending to be strong from ceremony to ceremony, controlling her tears and her breathing the entire time. How mournful is she allowed to be? He died a Hero, and that’s all he had wanted.

To be immortalized as the greatest one who ever lived.

She’s not allowed to hold that against him, is she? There’s a gentle titration of anger, of sadness, of bereavement, of righteousness required to be a perfect widow.

A Hero’s widow. A Hero herself.

“You should have been all the way selfless. You half-assed it.”

Her voice is harsher now and bile rises in her throat. There’s nothing close to vomit in, only his burial urn, set on the shelf, taunting her in its cruel beauty. It doesn’t even have all of him. Even in death, she never had all of him.

Her hands shake at her sides.

“How dare you love me?”

Dead bodies can’t defend themselves and regardless, there will never be an answer good enough for her.

Tears cloud her vision and she sinks, bringing the ashes with her, cradling the urn in her lap as she weeps. He was always the one to hold her when she cried, and now it’s the other way around. How ironic it is, for such a large presence to be reduced to a small vase, no larger than a baby.

“I wasn’t finished loving you back.”

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #izuku angst #cw: angst #daydreams: bnha #thoughts: izuku #mimi's notes

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wield-the-mighty-pen · 28 days

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Adrien Agreste as Family Line By Conan Gray

#jdfasklfjasklfj was listening to this song #and it just fits him so well #cw: angst #angst #adrien needs a hug #adrien agreste #gabriel agreste #adrien agreste angst #can i tag emilie if she's just inferred and not actually mentioned #eh ill refrain #conan gray #family line #miraculous ladybug #mlb #miraculous #ml #gabriel agrestes a+ parenting #also do i know why the last gif looks strange?#no. but im too tired to fix it

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cheerycherrycandy-resurrected · 3 months

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Cling to the Light

The greatly delayed acespec ghouls fic I've been teasing for like 3 months, I'd say Enjoy but this became like 80% angst so nothing new then

Mountain and Zephyr had always known they were different from the other ghouls in the Pit so when they found each other, they clung on tight. Mountain's struggles when Zephyr is banished back to the pit, and with the new feelings he is experiencing for his pack.

Rating: M to be safe, vague allusions to sex but nothing explicit or nswf Content: grey-ace/demi mountain, asexual zephyr, dysphoria/self doubt, heats/ruts, they/them zephyr, discussion of sexual repulsion and associated dysphoria, ghouls in the Pit having unhealthy relationships with sex, character sent back to pits, Angst, hurt/comfort Words: 4782

Read below or on AO3!

Mountain and Zephyr had each always known there was something different about them. Growing up in the Pit, they had been anomalies, leading solitary lives, struggling to find connection with other ghouls. In a landscape where battles were fought, allegiances won, and futures decided with sex, they had both felt that the world they had been created in wasn’t for them. When they had seen the opportunity to claw their way topside, it had been an escape to a different life, a reset.

Life on the surface was better, granted. Here they had a purpose and safety, but more importantly they had met each other. Zephyr; slight, fragile, and shy Air ghoul that they were had initially been frightened of the solemn and hulking Earth ghoul. But they had soon come to realise quite how much they had in common with each other after many evenings of retiring to bed early once activities between the other new ghouls had begun getting heated.

Ghouls naturally seek comfort and warmth in each other, and as Mountain and Zephyr became closer, they appeared to Dewdrop, Ifrit and Aether to be developing their own relationship. Monogamous ghouls weren’t unheard of in the Pit, they were certainly a lot more common than solitary ghouls. But whatever relationship the others thought was developing behind closed doors, the reality was far tamer, and yet just as exciting for the pair.

For Mountain and Zephyr, sitting together in the den then going their separate ways each evening had slowly morphed into them staying up late reading together in the comfortable silence of Zephyr’s room, and later Mountain spending the night. In truth, it had taken a long time for either of them to feel comfortable sleeping in the same bed, let alone cuddle together as they now did each night.

Zephyr was entirely repulsed by most sexual activity. They always had been, and yet the physiology of their ghoulish body still put them through the inescapable agony of heats. These times were the worst, as in addition to the physical pain they felt a strong sense of dysphoria coupled with the lingering terror from the Pits of their scent being detected and them being hunted as a conquest.

Mountain was the only ghoul they would allow to help them through it, because he understood in a way the rest of the pack could not relate to as much as they tried. For the others, heats were still painful if ignored, but were free of the emotional pain that accompanied Zephyr’s. Mountain understood, and sought to make sure Zeph always knew that no matter how their body and mind may be betraying them by behaving differently to normal, their feelings were still valid and nothing they did during these times would change anything between them. He brought them tea to try and calm their fraught nerves, and to supress the urges of the heat they hated so much.

For Mountain, he wasn’t actively repulsed by sex in the same was Zephyr was, more just apathetic. Helping Zephyr through their heats the same way a healer would assist someone through a sickness in the infirmary. Together they had figured out what Zeph felt most comfortable with, striking a balance of what their body and mind could handle.

After Mountain’s first rut topside, he would no longer let Zeph be involved. They had offered to help him through it, but even through the haze of hormones he could tell how uncomfortable it was making them, and he had fled to his bathroom to take refuge. After a few more hours of misery, he had sheepishly emerged to ask Aether for help. Now, he knows that any of his other packmates would be more than willing to help him out, and let him direct what he needs and can tolerate.

As Mountain and Zephyr’s own connection had grown, they had eventually both become more comfortable with the other ghouls in their pack. One night after a movie in the lounge, Dewdrop, in his characteristically to-the-point manner, had asked them outright why neither had ever been interested in a physical relationship with their other packmates. After explaining their own feelings as best they could, the pack had embraced this knowledge with open arms and grown even closer as a result.

Things had been a little awkward for them as a newly summoned pack from the Pit: Dew, Aether and Ifrit had never interacted with ghouls who weren’t all over each other all the time, but they had soon come to understand each other. In the Pit, both Mountain and Zephyr had felt like anomalies, but their new pack had worked hard to rectify that feeling. After a while, the three guitarists were able to playfully tease them when they would retire to bed early to drink tea and read together. They would frequently refer to them as the pack’s old married couple, safe in the knowledge that Mountain and Zephyr knew it came only from a place of love.

A year of touring the world had also helped the pack to bond. Many a post-ritual night on the bus had ended in a pile of sleepy ghouls cuddled together in the back of the bus, all too tired to fight over bunks.

Since returning, Mountain had occasionally found himself wanting to sleep with his packmates outside of his ruts. The first time he had these feelings, he had been confused. What did it mean for his special platonic bond with Zephyr?

Zeph had, of course, been wholly supportive. They would do anything to support the pack who had given them everything they could never have dreamed of having in the pit. Even if they would never feel the same way about their packmates that they felt for each other, they found other ways to show them how much they were loved.

After many moons with his pack, Mountain had reached a point where he felt comfortable initiating sex with Ifrit, Aether or Dew, and they with him. He knew that this was how they shared their love for each other, and he was overjoyed to be finally comfortable enough in his own skin around them to be able to show them how much he loved them, in their language. Mountain sometimes still felt put on the spot midway through these encounters, but his pack had become strongly attuned to his tells for when he was uncomfortable and wanted to stop, and when he genuinely wanted to continue but wasn’t taking his own pleasure from it. In these circumstances, Mountain had emphatically explained, he just wanted to make them feel good without the pressure on himself to finish.

He had described it once to Ifrit as “like brushing your teeth or something”, in an attempt to describe it as something neither overtly positive or negative, and Ifrit had almost fallen over laughing. Mountain knew better than to be offended, even when the next day Ifrit had winked at him across the dinner table and asked if he wanted to brush his teeth after eating.

The others tried to understand as best they could, even if they didn't fully get it. The same went for Zephyr. Nowadays, they knew that Mountain was never offended to be asked, and likewise they knew to never be offended to be turned down and offered an alternative pack bonding activity.

The five packmates had found so many other ways to show their love besides intimacy, sharing interests, sweet words, even just existing in proximity to each other. Zeph had introduced everyone to ceramic painting one cold winter's afternoon when they were craving closeness from their pack. Mountain had painted a vase with flowers representing all his pack, and it was unironically Aether's favourite thing in the whole world.

The pack's close bond had been shattered when Zephyr and Ifrit were sent back to the Pit. Zephyr had been deemed too old, not befitting of the Clergy's desired image of young and active ghouls. Ifrit had ruffled too many feathers, and been removed for being too outspoken in the days after Terzo was ripped offstage. The three remaining ghouls had spent their next few days glued to each others sides, their evenings spent huddled together in the den, terrified of another knock at the door and a summons for one of them.

On yet another evening like this, Mountain has his head tucked into the space between Aether’s shoulder and neck, his legs resting across Aether’s with Dew curled up tightly in both their laps, finally sleeping. Overwhelmed by fear, sadness and a desire to be as close to what was left of his pack as possible, he had pressed his lips to Aeth’s collar bone. He had needed to feel the connection to his pack, as the pain of bonds cut loose ate away at him inside and left a hollow, empty feeling. Aether had frozen, the gentle hand rubbing soothing circles into Mountain’s back pausing in its movement.

“Hey, Sapling, we don’t have to do anything, you know we love you without any of that.”

“No, I want to.” Mountain shook his head vehemently, and entwined his tail with Aether’s like a boa constrictor. “Need to feel you. Need to know you’re still here.”

Aether turned his head to place a gentle kiss to Mountain’s forehead, humming softly. As he pulled back, Mountain tilted his head up to meet swirling violet eyes. Aether’s love and loss for his pack seemed to be radiating from them behind a film of unshed tears matching Mountain’s own, sucking Mountain into their depths as though to hold him next to his very psyche. In this moment, Mountain couldn’t ever recall feeling such a strong physical pull to his packmates before and slowly leaned in towards Aether, letting him surround all his senses.

Time seemed to slow, as Mountain pressed his rough lips to Aether’s own chapped and bitten ones. It wasn’t like the many romance novels he’d read; there were no sparks. Instead, Mountain felt something far stronger and deeper, a connection more than mere physical contact. In that moment, it felt as though their souls were intertwining, twisting together as their tails did beside them. He felt the tears in his eyes finally spill over and run down his cheeks, but the hot bitterness from before was replaced with a host of new emotions he struggled to name, all condensing to one he was familiar with though: love.

As Mountain moved to deepen the kiss, he let out a breathy noise that he almost couldn’t believe came from him. He could sense Aether’s hesitation, so he pulled back to catch his eyes once more, matching tear-tracks staining his lavender-tinted cheeks.

“I love you, my Moonlight.”

“Oh Sapling…” Aether seemed just as affected as he was, pulling the arm around Mountain tighter, trying not to jostle the sleeping ghoul in their laps. This time, Aether leaned in first, moving at a glacial pace. Mountain closed his eyes, and let himself drown in the sea of emotions once more.

The pair continued to kiss as though the world around them was ending, which wasn’t too far from the truth, until Dewdrop slowly woke from his fitful sleep and smiled to himself at his packmates. He let out a sleepy chirp, and nuzzled his head deep into the warm bodies of his packmates. Mountain broke the kiss to smile down at him and move his arm to pull him securely against his body. Pressed against Aether, with Dewdrop’s comforting weight in his lap, Mountain felt more peaceful than he had since the last Ritual.

Mountain ran the tips of his fingers up Dew’s spine, counting every vertebrae as though to check he was all still there. He tangled his hand in the hair at the nape of Dewdrop’s neck and gently scratched glamoured claws along his scalp the way he knew Dew liked. The little ghoul started up a low purr in response, which must’ve been contagious as Mountain and Aether soon also began to purr in sync. Before long, the evening turned into night and the fire burned low in the hearth, but none of the three ghouls seemed to notice as they fell asleep in a pile of sleepy kisses, soft touches and sweet words.

This was just the first of many nights the trio of ghouls spent curled into each other in front of the fire or in one of their nests, the constant need to touch and know the others were there becoming more desperate over time. Mountain didn’t fully understand where this newfound desire had come from. It felt to him as though his close bond with his packmates was overflowing, that he had to let it out or it would burn him up inside.

After a few weeks, it had become clear that no one else was at imminent risk of being returned to the pit. One of the more respected Cardinals, who had long shown interest in the activities of the Ghost project, had taken over as figurehead and he appeared to have ambitious plans. Aether, Mountain and Dewdrop had already had a few rehearsals with him, trying out new songs, so it seemed their positions were safe for now.

Cardinal Copia had big plans, bigger than Terzo, even. He had announced his intentions early on to introduce live backing vocals, multiple sets of keyboards, and to hold even larger Rituals. Mountain had been sceptical, there had never been this many ghouls in the project, and what did this mean for a pack dynamic? Aether and Dew had been more keen, although Mountain suspected this was in part due to Dew’s switch to lead guitar – he was half fire ghoul after all – and the Cardinal encouraging their playful bickering, suggesting they bring their regular antics to live performances, too.

In the end, it turned out Copia was equally worried that too many new ghouls would fail to integrate into the pack if summoned simultaneously. It would seem that he had had many conversations with the previous Papas about ghoul pack dynamics, and he was keen to ensure his ghouls were as happy topside as they could be. He had even made a point of apologising for the Clergy’s actions regarding Ifrit and Zephyr, and he had seemed sincere. Plans were therefore made to stagger the summoning of new ghouls.

First, a new water ghoul was summoned. They had all agreed that a new bass player was their priority for rehearsals. The night of the next full moon, with torrential rain pounding against the windows of the Abbey, they had gathered in the summoning chambers. Cardinal Copia had spoken the required spells and incantations and a slender, cobalt-skinned water ghoul had clawed their way out of the pits. Even hunched naked on the floor, his eyes darting around in suspicion and sharp fangs bared, the ghoul had exuded a lissom gracefulness.

He was beautiful, Mountain had to admit. This was apparent to all of them, but none more so that to Dewdrop. He had immediately been fascinated by the pretty new water ghoul, the pair spending hours together down at the lake each day. A week into being topside, he was well on his way to integrating into the little pack, bonding with Aether and Mountain too. Mountain had invited him to the greenhouse one afternoon and, beneath his initially prickly exterior, the water ghoul seemed to be a sweet and somewhat shy ghoul. Mountain could however attest to overhearing much evidence to the contrary from Dewdrop’s room late at night.

Seeing how quickly and closely the two had bonded had sparked something within Mountain that felt partly like jealousy, partly still grief from losing Zephyr and Ifrit, but also something like… guilt? He understood for the first time just how much Dewdrop and Aether had lost, losing Ifrit. Mountain found himself feeling conflicted every whenever he spent time with Rain, and pulling away from physical contact with Dew and Aether again.

It didn’t take long for Aether to notice something was up, his quintessence deeply attuned to the emotions of his packmates. One evening, when Mountain had excused himself immediately after dinner, Aether had hunted him down to Zephyr’s old room to find out exactly what was bothering him.

“Mount? Can I come in?” Aether knocked gently. He was met with a non-committal grunt, so let himself in. He found Mountain curled up in one of Zeph’s old hoodies, knees tucked up inside it.

“Oh Sweetheart…” he moved to the bed to scoop Mountain into his arms. “It’s ok to still miss them, you know.”

Mountain nodded silently, letting Aether rock him gently from side to side. After a few minutes of silence, he finally spoke,

“Was it even real?”

“Was what real, Sapling?”

“Everything! With Zeph… I never had the kind of relationship with them that I do now with you and Dew, but you did with Ifrit. I miss Zeph so much every day that it feels like I’m drowning, but how can I even understand how much more you and Dew must miss Ifrit when you had a real relationship with him?”

“Mountain, listen to me.” Aether tried his best to keep his voice even, even as Mountain’s words made his heart break for the ghoul.

“What you had was real, as real as any relationship I’ve ever seen. You and Zeph were two halves of a whole, you had a deeper relationship than any I could ever hope to understand. Whatever relationship you have now with me and Dew doesn’t devalue what you had with Zeph in any way. It’s different but it’s not any more special.”

Mountain sniffed, burying his face tighter into Aether’s side,

“I miss them so much, Aeth.”

“I know, Sapling.”

The pair stayed curled around each other until Mount was all cried out, and fell asleep the same way.

Next on Copia’s list of summons had been a new air ghoul. This was the summoning they were the most worried about – unlike Rain this ghoul would be a direct replacement of one of the original pack. They had discussed summoning an air ghoul last, however the ritual to summon a multi-element ghoul was by far the most complex and took the longest to prepare, so it had made more sense to summon them last instead.

The first surprise of the summoning was the appearance of a ghoulette. Only once before had the Ghost project had a ghoulette amongst their ranks: they were notoriously resistant to being summoned against their will. The second surprise had been the second ghoulette clinging to the first, a veritable stowaway. It was quickly revealed that the ghoulettes were Mates in the pit and, having heard of the topside activities of the Ministry, had made it their goal to be summoned.

Aether had initially taken the lead on welcoming the ghoulettes, sensing Mountain’s hesitation. It was impossible to ignore the similarities between the new ghoulettes and Zephyr, from their icy blonde hair to the graceful way they held themselves. However, it had soon become apparent that while they were visually similar, the ghoulettes were both very different from Zephyr and each other in personality, and Mountain had made more of an effort to bond with them. This, along with the inherent independence of the ghoulettes and Rain’s fast bond with Dew had been a blessing for Aether, it didn’t take much to see just how tired he was from his self-imposed role in charge of integrating the new pack.

Cirrus, the taller of the two ghoulettes, was outwardly the most confident. She had broken through Mountain’s barriers almost immediately, dragging him out on walks to explore the grounds of the Abbey and asking a million questions about the nature around them. While reluctant at first, Mountain quickly recognized a kindred spirit in their respect for the topside world around them. He found her presence deeply calming, and Mountain grew to consider his afternoons incomplete without them sharing tea in his greenhouse, sometimes with Rain joining them as well.

Mountain had taken longer to bond with Cumulus. While she had appeared to be the shyer of the two at first, once she realised Copia wasn’t about to send her or Cirrus back to the pit she had opened up and become more confident. Mountain was a little intimidated by the short ghoulette: she spoke a million words a minute, and was filled with an enthusiasm for the mundane that Mountain often didn’t feel up to reciprocating. The benefit of this however was her ability to pull Aether out of his shell. Mountain had no idea how she had managed it, but Cumulus’ infectious optimism was able to relax the increasingly shy and withdrawn Aether in a way no other packmate had succeeded in. Mountain had first-hand caught her, and later also Cirrus, slinking into his room late at night to help with just that.

However as the weeks passed and the newly summoned ghouls bonded more and became closer with his original packmates, Mountain found himself feeling more alone once more. He missed Zephyr’s simple comfort more now than ever, and their quiet evenings together just existing in the same space. It hurt to see the others enjoying the same closeness he so deeply mourned. It was especially clear between Dewdrop and Rain where the two seemed to orbit around each other, each on their own path but guided by tremendous forces beyond their comprehension. This time when Mountain began to withdraw again, it was Dewdrop who sought him out.

Mountain was working in the Abbey gardens, when he heard light footsteps padding his way. Looking up, he saw blond hair blowing in the breeze and Dew picking his way through the maze of flowerbeds towards him, clutching a thermos and two mugs.

“Hey Sprout.” He plopped to the ground, cross-legged next to where Mountain knelt, looking at him with his head tilted expectantly. Mountain, sensing this was more than just a casual chat, put down his trowel and also folded his long limbs into a more comfortable position. He accepted the steaming mug from Dew, inhaling the comforting scent.

“Nice to see you out here Droplet, what’s up?”

“Why are you hiding from me and Aeth?” Dewdrop was blunt and to the point, as ever. Mountain sighed into his tea as Dew tilted his head to the side, questioning.

“I’m not avoiding you-” he started, going silent again at the cut the crap look on Dew’s face. “I’m not trying to avoid you?” he suggested instead.

“You don’t even join us all for dinner anymore! Aeth’s been really struggling, and he doesn’t need to worry about you too.”

Mountain hung his head. He knew Aether had been finding the changes difficult, but he thought he’d been feeling better, he didn’t think he had been adding to his stress.

“I’m so sorry Dewbug, I’ve been trying to protect you all from me being so down all the time, and I’ve just made things worse.”

“Oh Sprout, you know you can always talk to us right?” Dew crawled towards him on his knees to wrap him in a hug. “I know how much you miss Zephyr.” Mountain leant his head down on top of Dew’s, comforted by the heat radiating from the smaller ghoul.

“How do you do it, Dew? How have you let Rain in so quickly, when Zeph and Ifrit’s rooms still smell like them and their voices still echo through the den?”

“I don’t think I ever had a choice, Mount. It’s like I was pulled to Rain by a siren’s call, like the second I saw him there in the summoning circle this door opened in my heart to let him in. I never had to think about it, it was so easy.”

“As easy as breathing, right?” sighed Mountain, pulling his arms tighter around Dew, neither noticing or caring as the damp of the grass soaked through their jeans. “That was Zeph…”

“I miss Iffie every day, but it’s not like the hole he left in my heart has gone away or healed, more that it’s grown space for another.” Dew fiddled absently with one of the rings in his ear. “The more acute pain might be healing, but there will always be a hole.”

Mountain hummed in agreement, gently rocking the pair back and forth but careful not to spill the remainders of their cooling tea.

“I am happy for you, you know” Mountain ventured after a while. “You and Rain. It’s like your souls have linked already, you’re good for each other.”

“Like you and Zeph.” Dew looked up at Mountain with wide and sincere eyes, “I saw it. You were soulmates. No one’s expecting you to ever be okay about it.”

Mountain made another noncommittal noise of affirmation. “I’m am sorry for acting so jealous though, just because I miss what you have.”

Dew shrugged, “Don’t sweat it Mount, I’d have been far worse if our positions were flipped.” He chuckled drily, before silence stretched between them again.

Mountain drained the rest of his tea and refilled it from the thermos. “Tell me about Rain, Dew? Tell me how he makes you feel, why you love him?”

“Who said anything about love?” Dew’s cheeks gained a slight coral tint, which he shook his hair to disguise.

Mountain levelled him with a look, eliciting a small giggle from Dew before he began talking.

“Well…”

That evening, once the sun had set and Mountain and Dew had finally traipsed back inside to find dry clothes and warm food, Mountain had set out to locate Aether and forcibly extract him from whatever task he was overworking himself with. He had found him in Copia’s office, going over the paperwork for the summoning request for the final new ghoul. Mountain had nodded politely at the Cardinal, grabbed Aether by the hand, and silently pulled him from the room, his tail coming up to bat the pen from his hand.

Mountain led him back to the den, tugging him through the corridors, not letting go until they reached the door to Mountain’s room. He looked back at Aether, unspoken question clear in his eyes. Aether nodded, and Mountain held the door open for Aether to enter. Mountain moved to sit in the pile of furs of his nest, and beckoned Aether to join him. He pulled Aether into his chest, gently knocking their horns together and entwining their tails.

“What’s all this about, Grasshopper?” Aether was the first to break the silence.

“You work too hard Aeth, you need a break. I’m sorry I’ve been so checked out, I promise I’ll be here for you and the pack from now on.”

“I’m fine, I just–”

Mountain cut him off with a small, chaste kiss. Aether looked up, violet eyes meeting green, and Mountain offered him a small smile in return.

“Enough, my dear Evening Primrose. We’re pack, even if I haven’t acted like it recently. But that means we share our burdens, and you’ve been carrying them all. Let me take care of you, now.”

As Mountain drifted off to sleep that night, with a purring Aether still wrapped in his arms, he felt at peace for the first time in months. He had pack who loved him, and he had purpose in loving them. The rest could follow.

With the summoning of the new ghouls, Mountain hadn’t felt the physical pull to them that he did to his existing packmates. Even now, that still grew and fluctuated day by day. However, he had come to realise that the biggest difference between these new summonings and his own was that there was no longer a feeling of wrongness. He understood that he didn’t feel that attraction right now, he possibly never would, but now he could explain things in time.

This time, he knew how deeply he was loved, and how deeply he could love, even if it wasn’t in the way that was initially expected of him. And now he understood that no new love could ever replace or invalidate his bond with Zephyr; each of his relationships with his packmates are as different as the ghouls themselves are. He will never forget Zephyr, the wounds of their banishment may never fully heal. However his love for them will always remain a fundamental truth, regardless of their separate futures or if their paths ever cross again.

And if he starts to feel something for the handsome new multighoul… well, he knows that if he leans into those feelings, his heart can only grow bigger.

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latenightsimping · 1 year

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THE EDGE

“...There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who’ve gone over.” - Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels

Summary: A part of the deal to freedom included a stay at Pennhurst. It’ll take everything to keep the hope that one day the locked doors will open, the windows will no longer have bars that block the view, and that one day, the name Eddie Munson will be synonymous with the word ‘innocent’. The hope, he never realised, would also come to be synonymous with your name.

Chapter: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: angst, heavy themes of inpatient treatment/hospitalisation, heavy themes of mental health, institutional deprivation of liberties, body injuries, mentions of suicidal ideation, themes of institutional abuse, can be a dark read (continue with that in mind, look after yourselves), canon divergence, Eddie survives the demobat attack, post-S4 timeline, slow burn romance, eventual smut, 18+, eventual fluff

AN: This was an idea that I’ve had for a little while, and finally getting around to writing it. There will be multiple chapters, and we’ll get to meet the reader in chapter 2. I’m pulling on many references, some of it being my own experiences of being in an inpatient facility a couple of times in my teenage years. Write what you know, and get some catharsis through angst relating to it, innit. I will say though, look after yourselves, and seek help if you need it. Inpatient sucked, but it’s what I needed to keep myself healthy and alive. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, I promise. And if you think it needs extra tags, please lemme know. I can see replies but cannot answer due to this being a sideblog, so keep that in mind. Anyway. Hope you enjoy.

Taglist: (lemme know if you wanna be added): @edsforehead

Eleven vertical steel bars, five horizontal. eighty-seven bricks on the wall just past them. Sixty-four pinstripes on the pillowcase. One hundred and twenty one days since the last breath of fresh air.

There’s only so much counting to be done, before you go as insane as they report you to be.

Eddie had prided himself in independence, before everything went to shit. He could get up when he wanted, go to bed at a time of his choosing. Choose what clothes to wear, when he wanted to shower, what food he ate. But that had all been stripped away. A uniform of white was given to him on arrival. White undershirt, white button down and pants, white vans, white socks. A colour that he typically hated, now forced upon him with no room for argument. The food was shit, the attitude of the staff even worse. Bed so uncomfortable that what little sleep he could manage with the screams and yelps of the damned ringing in his ears, he would always wake up with a soreness that could never be taken away.

He thought he’d witnessed hell. Skies of red and thunder, twisted vines and flapping of wings and razor sharp teeth. But this?

This was worse.

He had woken up bathed in bright light, and for a second he wondered if this was Heaven. Only took a couple of seconds to realise that it was likely that the promised paradise wouldn’t smell of disinfectant and have incessant beepings of heart monitors. A couple of times in his life, he had been in handcuffs. Drug related charges that Hopper had conveniently lost the paperwork for, letting him go with a stern talking to and a slap on the wrist. But this time? This time, the steel that connected him to the bedframe of the hospital bed felt permanent. He was lucky to be alive, according to the doctors, who told him with disgust evident in their features. It should have been you who died, was clear to translate from furrowed brows and the thin press of their lips. Eddie couldn’t help but agree with them sometimes. Nurses would often ‘forget’ to give him the pain medication prescribed, leaving him in a near constant state of agony.

The demobats had really done a number on him; lacerations and chunks of flesh torn from the left hand side of his body, trailing up his neck and ending on his jawline and cheek. More on the right pectoral muscles, the backs of his hands, forearms and upper bicep. If he wasn’t facing the barrel of the death penalty, he would have cracked a joke about losing his nipple. Each and every wound was a constant ache, his jaw near permanently set to grinding his teeth to bear with it. Only when Wayne was finally allowed to visit, hollering his lungs out about how much pain his boy was in, was he finally given those syringes of relief that he so desperately craved for. Not for long, only until they decided to neglect him again. But those moments were the reprieve that were sorely needed.

It had been Hopper’s idea to turn himself in and feign insanity, when he had visited his bedside. Something about a plan, and that he would just need to hang tight for someone high in the food chain to be contacted to fix the mess. He was promised that the chief of police would make sure he wouldn’t go to jail. Just to have trust, have faith, and repeat the words told to him to plead insanity. He couldn’t remember anything past the point of letting Chrissy into the trailer. He couldn’t remember killing Fred Benson or Patrick McKinney. Couldn’t remember attacking Max Mayfield, putting her in the hospital. Couldn’t remember how he got hurt. Deny, deny, deny. It had been easy to convince the cops that he’d lost his mind; easy enough that it was borderline insulting. The last of Vecna’s victims had wounded him to find out about, and had nearly caused him to lose face. He didn’t know Red well, but he’d seen her around the trailer park, looking as lost and broken as he did at that age. Got to know her better over the time they spent together, and had admired the strength and tenacity that was in her, too much of those qualities for a fifteen year-old to carry. He just prayed to a God that he didn’t believe in that she’d pull through.

Many years ago, he had made a promise to himself not to ever turn out like his father. That waste of space that chose drugs over his own flesh and blood. But getting processed in what remained of Hawkins police station, ink still damp on his fingertips as he clutched the name board while his picture was taken, that’s exactly how it felt. The hospital booted him as soon as he was medically stable, no doubt not wanting to harbour a serial killer in the halls that were meant for healing. At least he could be thankful that the station was only a detour, a short stop to what would be his home for God knows how long.

Pennhurst Mental Hospital.

In four months, life had blurred into a monotony that was barely endurable, with no end in sight. He was afforded no luxuries; the cell he was kept in made up of nothing more than necessities. Bed, sink and toilet, desk and a chair. No windows, and the only view past his bars being a dirty grey brick wall.He’d counted the cracks in it the first week in. Counted the ones on the ceilings in the second week. The rest of the time had been spent packing back and forth, like that tiger he’d once seen at some shit zoo. The lack of fresh air had suffocated him long ago. He could swear that he hadn’t taken a deep breath since Chrissy’s body flung itself to the ceiling.

It was the boredom that was the thing that was slowly poisoning him the fastest. The unending, unyielding, mind numbing boredom. Where all he had was his thoughts, and no possible escape from them. Thoughts of the past and the future threatening to pull him under, to drown him in regrets and missed opportunities. He was going to finally graduate from high school. Corroded coffin could have gone somewhere. He was going to start a new campaign for Hellfire. He was planning to finally move out of the trailer, and into a place of his own. Back and forth, the rumination so intense it made his head spin. Made him pace even harder, until he was near the point of over exertion. The only outlet for a man that barely ever stood still in his life.

A nurse that must have had a shred of humanity left passed a book through his bars the first couple of weeks in, evidently having enough sense to realise there was no possible way for him to do damage to himself or others with it, and most likely sick of the sound of rubber soles against cement. The Count of Monte Christo was a book that he vaguely remembered from school, no doubt an essay that he didn’t hand in considering he’d never read it in his life. But by this point? He could have recited it in his fucking sleep.

It was during another countless repeat of reading it that his attention was caught by the calling of his last name, a loud bang of a fist hitting metal that snapped him out of whatever dissociation he found himself lost in. Snapping his head towards the sound, he was met with the unkind face of one of the orderlies, one that seemed to have it in for him since getting here. Eddie had heard him be called Bradford before. He must have caught the confusion on Eddie’s face, considering he followed it up with an eye roll.

“Get your ass over here,” was the gruff response he got, the jingling of keys audible as the one to his cell drove home into the cylinder. “Must be your lucky day.”

Though there were multiple questions ruminating in Eddie’s mind, he knew better to push his luck. Gift horse in the mouth, and all that. The steps he took towards the door were methodical; slow and steady, as if it was all one sick prank, getting him into trouble and thrown into the solitary confinement cells that he’d been borderline threatened with multiple times.

A firm hand planted to his chest stopped him in his tracks, the contact to the still healing scars making him wince and take a sharp breath. It was instinct to lower his eye contact upward, though it quickly dropped to the floor as the man loomed over him. “Any trouble, so much as one foot out of step, and I’ll make it my fucking mission to put you back in here. Do I make myself clear?” the man warned under his breath. The smell of stale coffee and cigarettes hitting him square in the face, making his stomach churn.

Swallow down the disgust and agony, as much as it hurts, the reasonable voice inside him whispered. Don’t do anything stupid. In another life, he would have given this figure of authority hell. A sarcastic quip heavy on his tongue, a middle finger to those who wanted him under their boot.

But this wasn’t that life. And he needed to play it smart.

“Crystal, sir,” he mumbled, fight well and truly snuffed out from the system that wanted him locked up and the key thrown away.

It seemed to have appeased the orderly, for now. The man took sure steps towards the exit, Eddie following his heels at a close yet respectable distance. Head lowered, frizzy curls now wild and unruly falling like a curtain in front of his face. It was near laughable to him that the ability to walk in a straight line further than ten feet was now a luxury. Could finally properly stretch his legs, though the destination was still a mystery.

The shift from dim lighting to sunshine with the ascension of a set of stairs that he’d only travelled down once made his eyes screw near closed on instinct, turning his head away from the windows that let it in. Once upon a time, he enjoyed sunny days. Like the feeling of sun on his skin, and the wind in his hair. Nowadays he didn’t even know what season it was.

Being led through winding corridors, for the first time he saw other patients, all eyeing him with paranoid looks. He couldn’t blame them. But he could feel the tendrils of fear beginning to grip at his gut. Would he end up like these people eventually? How long would it take? A couple of months? Years? A subtle shake of his head as he tried to dislodge the thoughts. He couldn’t think like that. Hopper promised he’d be out of here soon. He just had to have hope.

The orderly came to a stop in front of a door, deep green and paint chipping off with age. The nameplate on the front gave him pause, when he finally spared a glance at it. DR. EDITH MILLER, etched onto the brass. He’d had meetings with Dr. Miller since he got here. Once a week, the nosey bitch would try and get information that didn’t even seem relevant. He’d managed to evade some of the questions, embellished the truth on others. But if he was being summoned to her office? This couldn’t be good.

The orderly’s knuckles rapped on the door three times, a call of “enter,” being audible seconds later. Eddie was ushered inside, the homely looking woman with already greying hair barely looking up at him from her paperwork as she motioned with the pen in her hand towards the chair nearest to them. At least in his cell, he was somewhere that he knew back to front. This was completely different, completely new, and his nerves were already on edge as he shuffled inside.

“Need me to stay?” Bradford asked, hand still grasping the door handle as his eyes flickered around the room. No doubt his mind was already thinking of possibilities of what could happen with a suspected murderer left alone in a room with a defenceless woman. The thought of people thinking that he was capable of atrocities weren’t new, but it still made Eddie sick to the core.

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, hazel eyes finally shifting upwards to look at the two men. Her monotone voice gave nothing away, face devoid of any emotion either. Bradford faltered for only a second, before Eddie finally heard the door close behind him. Only then was he given the barest hint of a polite smile as she motioned her hand towards the chair again, to which he obliged out of the need to be polite. “How are you feeling this week, Eddie?” she asked, head slightly tilted.

She was the only one to call him the name he preferred. Everyone else just called him Munson. He wasn’t stupid; he knew it was a ploy to get him to trust her. Make him comfortable with small signs of respect, though it was likely she didn’t in the slightest. His hands settled on his lap as he fidgeted with his fingers, eyes glued to the worn tiles of the linoleum and absentmindedly counting the cracks. “Fine,” he replied, the word devoid of any emotion or energy.

The truth would be sharing too much; the fear of being honest bringing the risk of even more restrictions under the guise of safety. There wasn’t a delicate way of saying “I want to close my eyes and never wake up some days.”

He heard scrawls of the pen, no doubt more notes that would dig him a grave of pills and cell bars. A pregnant pause before she spoke again, and an intake of breath. “And how are you feeling with the medication changes? Is your mood still low?”

He had to bite his tongue, to stop his lips turning up into an incredulous smile. The truth again being evaded in the answer. “Fine,” he repeated, this time with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “The pills make me feel sick every hour of the day, make me into more of a ghost than I already am.”

Another scratch of ink on paper. “Your case was brought forward to the panel this morning. We’ve decided that we should ease your restrictions, given that there’s been no record of violent tendencies to yourself or others since the time you’ve been with us.”

That made his ears perk up, the sparks of hope threatening to ignite in his chest. Head snapping up to finally make eye contact with the good doctor, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What does that mean?”

Her eyes studied his face for a few heartbeats, a small smile gracing her features, one that seemed to be an attempt at easing anxieties. “It means we’ve decided to move you to a medium security wing. It comes with certain privileges, but also with expectations, Eddie.”

The words coming out of her mouth seemed to blur together, becoming a background noise to his rapidly beating heart. He was finally getting out of the damnation he had been trapped in, perhaps finally allowed into the light. To be able to breathe lungfuls of outside air from a crack in a window, to not have to sleep just to evade the hollow boredom. It was relief; as if the hand of an angel had reached into the pits of hell, to bring him to salvation. And if that hand was one of the likes of Miller, he’d clasp it with both hands and not let go until the end was in sight.

“-we’ll still need to see improvement to give you certain privileges, but we can play it by ear. How does that sound?” Her voice finally tuned back in, a little hazy at the edges, tears of joy and relief threatening to fall from his eyes.

“When can I go? When do I move?” he blurted, the only question that mattered. Fuck, if she’d asked him to crawl through broken glass right now, he’d do it with a fucking smile on his face.

Her eyes flickered downwards as her wrist came up, a brief glance to her wristwatch as she pulled herself to a stand. “You’re just in time for recreation, and there’s no time like the present.” She rounded the desk, taking sure steps to the door and looking back. “Shall we?”

It was instinct to move as fast as his legs could take him, quickly snuffed out with the realisation of where he was. Slow, sure movements, make yourself as least threatening as possible. Keep hands visible at all times, open and by his sides. Three steps away from the doctor, passing many twists and turns of the corridor and being led through multiple sets of steel doors, until one was finally opened for him that he was expected to step through alone.

It wasn’t until the door slammed behind him that he finally looked up to take in his surroundings. Chipped and scuffed beige linoleum tiles, walls in just as sorry a state. Large windows that bathed the room in natural sunlight, though the bars on the windows were a reminder of where he truly was. A couple of tables and chairs dotted around the room, most occupied with other patients. Who seemed to be in various stages of lucidity. A couple of benches, some more chairs crowded around an ancient TV.

In any other situation, he would call this place what it was; an abject shithole. Somewhere he wouldn’t be if you paid him. But recent events had changed his mindset, had lowered his expectations until the bar was practically on the floor. This was a damn palace, compared to his last recent address. It had the lack of staleness in the air, albeit now replaced with bleach and something he couldn’t place. It had space, and light.

It had hope.

But with the luxury of choice, came the immobilising aspect to it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Where was he going to sit, or do? Strike up conversation and hope that the person didn’t know about what had put him here in the first place?

He was still making his choice when he heard a voice. A woman, tone bored yet slight amusement playing on the words.

“Are you just going to stand there? You’re making the place look untidy.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #cw: angst

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sinkingteethinwhitenoise · 3 months

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Limoncello - Chapter 11

Pairings: Nick Folio x OFC, Bad Omens x OFC

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Blood, Mention of a gun, Use of a gun, MDNI

Word Count: 1.5k

Series Masterlist

“Will you release me, my friend? There’s nowhere to run or hide.” ~ I See Stars, We’re Not In Kansas Anymore

When Nick heard the ping of a notification from his phone, he expected to see a text from Maeve saying that she was on her way. What he actually saw was quite the opposite.

‘I need help. Call 911.’

“Fuck,” he whispered. He shot up from the couch and ran to the kitchen. He looked out the window that had a perfect view of the front of Maeve’s house. A chill ran down his spine and his stomach dropped with dread when he saw one of her windows smashed in. “FUCK!” He rushed back into the living room, where Jolly was seated on the couch, staring at him, worried. Nick glanced at him as he rushed past, bolting to his room. He reached under his bed to pull out a small safe.

Trembling fingers punched in the code and grabbed the contents once it clicked open. A pistol. He double checked that it was loaded before stuffing it into his waistband and rushing back out towards the front door.

“Where are you going?” Jolly called out from his spot on the couch.

“Someone broke into Maeve’s house,” Nick muttered, voice shaking as he placed his hand on the doorknob and swung the door open. “Call the cops. I’ll be back.”

Before Jolly could protest Nick’s decision to insert himself into a dangerous situation, the door slammed shut. Jolly had no choice but to pick up the phone and dial the number.

Maeve was in the process of whispering her address to the operator for the 3rd time. She was getting frustrated with the operator saying that they couldn’t hear her. She was trying so hard to stay hidden. Heavy footsteps stopped outside of her bedroom and she heard the aggressive shaking of the doorknob. Her eyes widened as she set the phone down next to her, not hanging up. She clasped her hand over her mouth as tears spilled down her face, trying her hardest to keep her breathing even.

When the locked door wouldn’t open, she heard a growl. “Oh you’re in for it now,” Tanner chuckled darkly from the other side. The next thing she heard was the deafening crack of her door being kicked down. It took a couple of kicks before he was able to get inside. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into herself in an attempt to hide further from him. His heavy footsteps stopped right in front of her closet door before it was ripped open. “You really thought you could hide from me,” he growled. “Stupid fucking whore.”

He grabbed her by her ponytail and dragged her out of the closet. Maeve’s screams ripped through her throat like razor blades as her hands shot up to where his hand gripped her hair. She held onto it to try to alleviate the agonizing pressure on her scalp, to no avail. Her nails dug into his hand and scratched him as he threw her to the ground, her head bouncing off of the floor with a sickening thud. A loud, choked sob left her as she attempted to scramble away from him, only for him to pin her to the floor by sitting on top of her.

She struggled beneath him, squirming and bucking around frantically to get out of his hold. His hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed. Her eyes went wide as she tried to suck in a breath. Her hands shot up to try to pry his hand away. “You fucking left me,” he spat, his face disgustingly close to her own. His breath smelled of alcohol and something rotten. She nearly gagged at the smell and the feeling of his slimy saliva hitting her face. “Now you’re getting what was always coming to you, bitch.” He tightened his grip around her throat.

“P-Please,” she choked out. “Don’t do this, w-we can t-alk about this. Let me g-” Her face started to turn purple. Her vision became clouded with dark spots as Tanner’s sinister smirk and enraged eyes got blurrier and blurrier with each passing second. She was lightheaded and she felt like her eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. All she could hear was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Tanner was too caught up in the pleasure of watching the life drain from Maeve’s eyes to hear the footsteps approaching the bedroom.

Nick approached the doorway with pure rage coursing through his veins. He sprung into action so quickly that he barely registered that he was moving. He came up behind Tanner as he pulled the gun from his waistband. Even though Nick was enraged, he really didn’t want to have to kill anyone. So, with the safety still on, he came up behind Tanner and smashed the side of the pistol into the back of his head.

Blood began to gush from the back of his head as a pained scream tore through him. He instinctively let go of Maeve’s neck to cradle his wound, falling off of her body and curling into himself on the floor. Maeve began to cough and gasp for air.

Nick shoved the weapon back into his waistband, not caring that there was blood on it. He rushed to Maeve’s side and without a word hoisted her up into his arms. He carried her outside, leaving Tanner bloodied on her bedroom floor.

Maeve coughed and hacked as she held onto Nick for dear life, fat tears streaming down her face. They heard police sirens as Nick carried her outside. He set her down in the driveway to remove his gun and place it on the ground next to her car before the police arrived. Then, he picked her back up and carried her to the sidewalk. Maeve’s coughing quickly turned into sobbing and gasping as she held onto Nick.

Nick’s breathing began to shake and his throat began to tighten as tears of his own sprung to his eyes. He gently caressed the back of her head. “I’m here, baby. I’m here,” he whispered, voice pinched as he held back tears. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Nosy neighbors had filled the sidewalk surrounding Maeve’s house. They heard the sirens and saw the lights and couldn’t help themselves. Of course, Noah, Nicholas, and Jolly were also outside watching, relieved upon seeing that their bandmate was unharmed and that Maeve was alive. The crowd began to thin as the police began wrapping up and the ambulance left.

The police had asked both Maeve and Nick numerous questions to get the whole story. Maeve could barely speak without stuttering and tripping over her words. She tried her best to give a coherent recollection of events and did surprisingly well for what she had just been through. Nick was able to get his gun back after the situation was sorted out. Tanner was under arrest, but was being taken to the hospital for stitches before going to jail.

Once cleared to go, Nick wrapped an arm around Maeve’s waist and led her across the street to his home. The guys were waiting in the driveway. They all walked inside together.

Inside, Maeve didn’t allow any of them to fuss over her. “Can I take a shower here?” she asked them, voice meek. She didn’t care that she’d just taken one. She felt disgusting and wanted to wash any remnants of Tanner away.

“Of course,” Nick answered softly. “C’mon.” He led her to the bathroom, grabbed her a towel and showed her where everything was. “You want some clothes?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms while looking at her, his brow furrowed with worry. She nodded in response. “Wait here,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. He rushed off to his room and grabbed one of his old Harley Davidson shirts, boxers, and basketball shorts. He came back and set the clothes next to the sink. “Do you need anything else?” he asked, sincerity in his tone.

She nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Can you join me? I don’t wanna be alone.” It was clear by the look on her face and the tone of her voice that her intentions were pure.

“Of course, doll.” He whispered back in response.

As they stood under the stream of hot water, Nick washed Maeve’s hair. His fingers rubbed against her scalp in the most soothing way. Maeve’s eyes were closed as she allowed herself to get lost in his gentle touch.

“I’m sorry,” Nick whispered, just loud enough to be heard above the water hitting the tub.

“What for?” Maeve murmured, her eyes fluttering open.

He sighed. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I should’ve come inside with you.”

She turned to face him, his fingers leaving her head as she did. “Don’t do that,” she sighed, her hands cupping his face. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

All Nick did was shrug in response.

“You saved my life anyway,” she told him, eyes welling up with tears again. “You had no idea what you were walking into and you still risked that to come save me.”

“Of course I did,” he murmured. “Why would I do anything else?”

“There’s not many people out there that would’ve done that,” she said softly, stroking his cheek with her thumb. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

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