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buckys-little-belle · 4 months

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Chapter Three - Raindrops and Goodbyes

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SFW - Please keep all interactions with this post, and this blog, SFW.

Warnings - Talks about past (bad) Caregivers, talks about fear of abandonment, some heavy negative feelings, comparing oneself to others, fluff but ends in some angst, Bub eats, food mentioned, Bub cries

Word Count - 1751

Note - Sorry this took so long to get out! Things got hectic, and crappy, and I haven't been able to edit, or format, or really write lately! Luckily things are going well and I won't start school till the 16th so I'm hoping to get some stuff out in the next week or so! Part four will be posted tomorrow! I can't leave us on a sad note for too long! I just can't!!

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Y/n always hated wearing her yellow raincoat, the material feeling odd against her skin, and the crinkle of the fabric was never music to her ears. But on days like this, grey skies and heavy raindrops falling to the ground, she had no choice but to suit up. Her matching rain boots on, allowing her to splash in any puddle she felt needed to be played in.

As she neared the Cafe she got excited, Bucky said they would go to the park today, and although it’s running she has hopes that he’ll let them go anyways, her umbrella overhead creating enough of a dry patch to maybe, at the least, run around in the mud without catching a nasty cold.

“Mr!” She cheered as she walked in, something she did every time she saw him sat at his usual table, early as always. “I has something for you!” She smiled big as she unzipped the front pocket of her backpack “Here.” Her smile grew as Bucky’s mirrored hers, the small baggie with flowers printed on it full of chocolate chip cookies her pride and joy.

“You made these?”

“Yes!” Y/n says still standing, ready to leave for the park wherever Bucky is ready. Shifting her weight from one foot to another, growing impatient. “All on my own!” She cheered, proud of her baked goods. “Park now?” Bub asked, her smile still huge, both hands grasping the straps of her bag, now back on her back.

“It’s raining, Bub.” Bucky frowned, causing Bub to mirror his expression. “But we’ll go next time, okay?” He asked, his hands immediately helping Y/n out of her raincoat, the buttons soon undone.

“But you promised?” Y/n frowned, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “I wanted to go to d’park.” Y/n held back her tears, though she wished to stomp her foot and throw a small fit, she didn’t know Bucky well enough to truly let him see her little side completely. So instead she fixed her clothing after her coat had been taken off and sat in her usual seat.

“I know I promised, Bub.” She smiled at the nickname. “But I brought us a fun game to play today.” He was quickly making her forget about the park trip altogether, now excited to see whatever game he had brought. She hoped it wasn’t UNO, she sucked at that. “Here.” He said as he placed a game on the table, the pink and blue of Candyland making Y/n let out a small squeal.

“I love Candyland!” She grabbed the box and bounced in her seat. “Can we play now?” She asked, her eyes turning to Bucky, him already looking at her. “Please?” She added on for good measure.

The moment he nodded his head she opened the box, pulling all the pieces out. “Why don’t you set it up, and I get us some snacks?” Bucky asked, Y/n didn’t even look up at him, but nodded her head. Too busy pulling out the different characters.

Y/n didn’t know how long it took Bucky to get snacks, but by the time he got back to the table she had created a whole plot amongst the characters and their kingdoms. “Here, Bub.” Bucky said as he placed a plate on the table. It was more than the usual cake pop he got her, though one still sat on the plate. This time he got vegetables and dip, some goldfish, and a cup of juice.

“Thank you, Mr.” Y/n smiled up at him, grabbing a celery stick and dipping it. “Can I be the ice cream cone?” She asked, showing him the character she had in her hand. Bucky nodded but stayed sitting. “You need’a pick a lil guy.” She pointed to the characters situated around the board.

“Right.” He said, his expression growing serious as he looked each one over. “I’ll pick this one, he looks tough.” Y/n broke out into a fit of giggles, the marshmallow definitely not a ‘tough guy’.

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They got to playing the game, Y/n winning two times in a row. She wasn’t surprised, while she knew it was all down to luck, she had played the game a ton of times so clearly the Candyland gods liked her more than Bucky. “Are you cold bub?” Bucky asked her, making her realise she was shivering slightly.

She knew not bringing a sweater might be a bad idea, but she thought they were going to the park. “Um, yeah.” She nodded then shrugged her shoulders. She hoped he wouldn’t make her go back home and get one, she only had so much time in a day to spend at the cafe. “Bu’ I’m all good, can we play again?” She asked, moving their pieces back to the star.

“Yeah we can play again, just wait a second.” Bucky stood up, she wondered where he was going, but instead of leaving to grab something or go to the bathroom he stood at the side of her booth with a black sweater in hand. “Hands up, Bub.” He said, holding the sweater out.

“I don’ need your sweater, wha’ if yous get cold?” She asked, not sure if her being so comfortable around Bucky her little side couldn’t help but come out now was a good thing or a bad thing. While she was 100% sure Bucky was a safe guy to be around, she didn’t want to get too attached to him just in case.

“I won’t get cold.” He answered in a softer voice. She knew he was special, that’s what everyone in the newspapers said, that he’s indestructible. But she’d hate to be the person who gave a super soldier a cold because she took his sweater. “Bub.” His voice drew her out of her worrying. He was now crouched down so they were eye level. “I won’t get cold, but you’re shivering.” He didn’t wait for her to put her arms up, instead just putting it over her head and waiting for her to put her arms through on her own.

“Tanks.” Bub murmured, looking at Bucky with a small smile. She was thankful for the sweater, now warm, but she still worried that she was too much to handle. He had given her a lot, crayons, colouring pages, so much of his time, and now his sweater. She hadn’t given him anything but cookies that she hoped tasted okay.

“Why don’t we play again?” Bucky asked as he settled back into his seat. “I can feel it, I’m going to win this one.” He teased, she shook her head, he had no clue that the Candyland gods were on her side, and she hoped he would never know.

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Y/n frowned as she saw Bucky pacing around outside. It had stopped raining but he said that they should wait till a sunny day to go out, because ‘everything would be slippery’. Buck’s phone had rung five hours ago, well maybe two minutes ago, but it felt like forever as she just watched him pace with an unhappy look on his face.

She grabbed the last few goldfish and got back to her colouring, when she had won for a third time Bucky had to quit, saying his ego couldn’t handle anymore. Y/n giggled at the memory.

The doorbell rang out and she quickly turned, though her smile turned back into a frown when she saw Bucky’s sad expression. “I’m sorry, I have to go, Bub.” He said, his sad words said in a kind tone.

“Oh, otay.” Y/n answered, watching him pack up his things. “Will you be back tomorrow?” She asked, her crayons laid on the table instead of in her hands.

Bucky sighed, then sat down, his hands clasped on the table. “I’m going to be gone until next wednesday.” Y/n’s back straightened up, he’d be gone for nine days. That was a lot of time to be gone, and a lot of time for him to think and change his mind about her.

“Oh, do you, do you wan’ your sweater back?” She asked, wiggling her hands out of the sleeves before Bucky got to her. His hands covering hers, a painful smile on his face.

“You can keep it, I’ll get it back when I come back okay?” Y/n nodded. “I’ll put my phone number in your phone, and I’ll text you if I’m going to be back later than wednesday, okay?” She nodded her head, at least he wasn’t just up and leaving, he was giving her a point of contact if needed. She handed him her phone, watching as he took forever to type out his name and number. It was a little silly to watch. “I won’t be able to text or call you while I’m away.” He admitted. “But you can text me all you want and I’ll read them when I’m back.” Bucky offered, though she knew she wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t bother him while he was away, she knew people hated that.

She just nodded her head, watching him as he put his coat and backpack on. “Stay safe.” She whispered as he stood in front of her, ready to leave.

“And you be good, Bub.” Bucky whispered back, and then he was gone. She watched him get into his jeep and drive away. She knew her mind was being silly when she couldn’t help but think he wouldn’t come back, but it didn’t mean it stopped that train of thought.

She knew deep down that he had to leave, he didn’t want to, but he had to. She knew he wasn’t like the other people who became her friends and then left and never came back, she knew that, somewhere in her mind she knew that. But she still couldn’t help it as a few tears slipped down her cheeks as she cleaned up. She couldn’t help but let out a small sad noise as she put on her coat, and she couldn’t help but sob the moment she got home and into bed.

“He had to go save people, he was needed by the world because he's a good guy, that’s why he left.” She whispered to herself all night, but she still felt as though he had left because of something she did.

#buckys little belle #age regression fic #age regression #little!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x little!reader #bucky barnes x little!reader #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #little reader #little fic #cafe bignsmall #bignsmall

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ameagrice · 5 months

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chapter twenty-nine | little talks

percy jackson x fem reader

“Help me,” you whispered, so lowly you worried it was too low for Travis to hear a thing you said. “I can’t stay here.”

The wind howled wherever he was outside of camp, and car horns blared in the background. Outside of your bedroom, your dad raged in the hallway, steadily making his way to your room. One by one, thick bangs indicated new holes in walls. Rachel was screaming, too, but not in anger—she was pleading with him to stop, as the baby screamed like he never had before.

That had set him off—Finney’s screaming in the night. Maybe it was a nightmare, or maybe he was in pain. Nothing changed. And you had no control over it.

“How far even is Sydney from here?” Travis asked desperately, exhaling slowly. “Like, a day’s flight?”

There was the issue of getting out. Getting here had been easy—your dad’s money; your dad asking for a do-over; your dad’s want. How was it possible to leave now, with ten dollars to your name, Finney in pain, and Rachel alone with him? How would you make it back to the States without his money? Which, he would without a doubt, notice missing.

“You’ve gotta help me,” you whispered helplessly into Rachel’s stolen phone, watching the sea from your bedroom window. It calmly lapped the shore.

Nothing but Travis, poor Travis, and his helpless breathing on the other end of the line.

“I’ll see you soon, Travis,” you uttered softly, taking the phone away from your ear, ending the call with a press of a button, before smashing it over, and over, against the corner of your drawer.

You’d find a way to pay Rachel back for breaking her phone.

As you threw things into a backpack—leggings, toothbrush, favourite plushie and iPod—you muttered aloud to whatever Gods you could think of.

Hermes, for safety, the patron of travellers.

Ares, for the strength your anger gave you, and bravery you needed, hands shaking.

And your mother, to save your life. To watch over you.

They were so into their arguing, nobody noticed you slip out of your bedroom and racing down the stairs, raincoat on, and sneakers messily laced. Every sense in your body screamed run! and your eyes drifted over a hole in the wall with no photograph to cover it just yet. Your bones physically ached to take Finney in your arms and hush him to sleep, to save his poor throat from the soreness that would come from all his terror.

Maybe Rachel would see sense.

Unbelievable to yourself, Ares was the god you prayed to, not stopping at the bottom of the stairs, heading straight for the front door.

Annabeth’s house was the exact image of happy, and well-lived in. A little kid’s winter coat lay on the floor, and the whole house smelled of cookies. The coffee table in the living room was stacked high with books of all kinds, from wars to fairy tales, the wood stained with what must have been years of being used.

Her dad, for all the bad that Annabeth had said about him, seemed lovely. He seemingly wasn’t fussed about the children’s clothes on the sofa, or the gaggle of random teens in his house…the kind of parent you wished for.

You sighed, eyeing the home. Annabeth didn’t know how good she had it.

Photographs lined up along the walls, and stood in pretty framed on the windowsill. You were sure, almost certain, that if you moved aside the frames on the walls, there would be no holes underneath them, plaster torn through from anger, covered up in odd places with different-sized frames.

Your fingers itched just to see.

There were Lego robots on the stairs, when you turned around to admire the house, and a cat stretched out in a patch of dying sunlight at the bottom of the staircase. Jazz music floated throughout from the kitchen.

You were so jealous, you could have strangled Annabeth for giving this up.

“Dad!” A little boy screamed. You jumped easily. “He’s taking apart my robots!”

“Bobby,” Mr. Chase called absently, “stop doing that.”

“I’m Bobby!” The boy protested. “He’s Matthew!”

“Matthew, don’t take apart your brother’s robots!”

“Okay!”

Annabeth’s dad turned to you, looking you over properly. He hadn’t so much as really looked at anyone since inviting you in. “Let’s go upstairs and talk in my study…”

You knew what it was the second that he paused.

“Are you…?” He blinked, wide-eyed. “Do you know my Annabeth?”

The eyes. Always the eyes.

“My

Annabeth”

And, Gods, would anyone talk about you like that? Earnestly, and wholeheartedly? Not as a possession to be moved around at will, as you’d experienced, but somebody who was wanted, and very clearly, loved. To belong to somebody with care.

Annabeth was due a lecture. You decided that firmly.

You shifted on your hip, hands in pockets. “She’s my sister.”

He ah’d silently, and then waved his hand briefly to you. “I figured. The—”

“Eyes?” You finished at the same time, and heat spread across your cheeks. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Frederick?”

Your gaze fell behind Annabeth’s dad, to a pretty Asian woman standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She was taller than you, shorter than Mr. Chase, and her hair—god, you would have died for hair like that—was glossy-looking and tinted red, and she held a pair of kids’ shoes in her hand.

“Who are our guests?” She asked.

“Oh, uh…this is…”

He stared at your group blankly.

“Frederick!” She chided. “You forgot to ask them their names?”

You introduced yourselves a little uneasily, but Mrs. Chase seemed nice. Especially when she offered cookies.

“Dear, they came about Annabeth.”

You weren’t sure what you expected from her reaction-wise, but a simple concerned look wasn’t enough for you. “Alright. Go on up to the study and I’ll bring you some food up.” She smiled. “Nice meeting you, Percy. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

It was as if the blood in your body halted, and a strange feeling overcame you. Without really meaning to, you were sure you pulled a face. Thalia, beside you, snickered quietly.

The ‘study’ wasn’t what you’d expected at all, certainly not for a grown man with children. Then again, perhaps he’d built this just for them. The thought made you feel warm inside, and oddly, spiteful; planes you recognised from history movies dangled on clear string from the ceiling, circling over a home-made demonstration of a fort, all cliffs and grass and the sense of death.

A war, Frederick Chase had built in his home.

You didn’t care much for whatever they talked about behind you; Zoe muttering something about enemy lines, Percy’s butting in, and Mr. Chase’s answering patiently. Instead, your interest piqued at a globe sitting on a tabletop to the side of the room, surrounded by well-loved books, slightly dusty and sitting askew atop of one another. You reached your hand out, and gently pushed the globe around, spinning it idly. Your eyes wandered.

A ratty, once-adored stuffed animal, now vaguely resembling an elephant, sat alone in a corner made by books, staring up at you. Was this Annabeth’s? Had she at one point abandoned this little guy in search of peace the way you had recently done to Finney?

It hurt so bad to think about, that it didn’t bear thinking about at all.

Either way, your heart clenched for your family.

The afternoon light was quickly changing, darkening, and you found the strength to speak up and bring to attention the problems that needed solving—ones that you were not at all prepared to take on any time soon alone. Your mind, for all people praised children of Athena, was not well-equipped for these situations. You weren’t smart enough, you felt.

And it was proving itself to be the case, too.

Just luck something in you persuaded. It’s all just bad luck.

You allowed Percy and Thalia to explain everything to Annabeth’s father, who, after paying great attention to even the side-tracking Percy inevitably talked, collapsed into an old armchair beside the desk you perched on the edge of. He laced his hands, looking worn and stressed.

“My poor brave Annabeth,” he said, quietly.

The cookie in your hand crunched and crumbled all over the desk, and pure bitterness scraped your insides.

“Sir,” Zoe brought you out of your thoughts. “We need transportation to Mount Tamalpais. And we need it immediately.”

He nodded. Mr. Chase blinked at his coffee table, absent in thought. “I’ll take you. Hmm…it would be faster to fly in my Camel. But it only seats two…”

Your mind snapped to attention. “Wait, you have an actual Sopwith Camel just chilling around?”

Mr. Chase nodded as though it was normal as anything. “Down at Chrissy Field. That’s the reason I moved here. My sponsor is a private collector with some of the world’s finest World War I relics in the world. He let me restore the Sopwith Camel—”

“Sir,” Thalia cut in, “a car would be just great. And it might be better if we went without you. It’s too dangerous.”

Mr. Chase visibly deflated in his armchair, frowning uncomfortably. “Now wait a minute, young lady. Annabeth is my daughter. Dangerous or not, I can’t just—”

“Snacks!” Mrs. Chase announced, bustling into the room with a tray of goods.

“I can drive, sir,” said Zoe. “I’m not as young as I look. I promise not to destroy your car.”

Mrs. Chase knit her eyebrows. “What’s this about?”

“Annabeth is in danger,” said Mr. Chase. “On Mount Tam. I would take them…but apparently it’s no place for mortals.”

To your surprise, Mrs. Chase nodded, not questioning it. Maybe she was used to this stuff by now. “They’d better get going then.”

“Right!” He jumped up, and started patting his pockets. “I…need to just get my keys…”

His wife sighed. “Honestly, Frederick, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t constantly in your hat.” Relatable. “They’re downstairs, on the peg by the door.”

“Right!”

Zoe grabbed a sandwich, and you stuffed a couple of cookies in your backpack, uncaring for the crumbs. “Thank you both. We should go. Now.”

Everyone headed for the stairs, Mr. Chase first—he walked quickly with urgency in his steps, and you wandered, would anyone ever act this way for you? Travis, maybe, at some point, if the time ever called for it. He’d shown that he cared. Or at least, you thought he did. Percy, too, who pulled you back-to-back with him earlier, protecting one another.

“Percy!” Mrs. Chase called. You waited at Mr. Chase’s side, at the front door, hands in your pockets. “Tell Annabeth…tell her, she still has a home here, will you? Remind her of that.”

For a second, you closed your eyes, and let yourself be lost in imagination. The sound of happy children playing, standing beside a father who cared, who was light with warmth and love. The feeling of pure safety in the home.

For a second, you let yourself feel this.

After the car blew up, and you spent a good few minutes with Percy picking car pieces out of your hair and skin, you had thought perhaps nothing else could go wrong.

But this was a quest you were supposed to be a part of, so of course something else did go wrong.

“Silence, fool!” Zoe hissed, pulling Percy and big mouth down behind a rock. “Do you want to wake Ladon?”

“You mean we’re here?” You asked. This was it? The road was shrouded with thick fog, ahead of you, the mountain was even darker.

“Very close,” she said. “Follow me.”

Fog drifted across the road, and shivers crawled up your back. Zoe stepped out into it and disappeared completely.

“Focus on her,” said Thalia. “The Mist is really strong here. Just step into the fog and focus on Zoe.”

Apprehension became you, but you did as she said. Zoe was nowhere to be seen at first, but the more you concentrated on finding her, the dog cleared, and the road became dirt, and the dirt lead to the mountain. And then there was Zoe and Thalia, and Percy just behind you.

Your breath was stolen pretty quickly. The grass was thicker, the sunset a bloody slash across the sky, hues of peach and amber colliding. The summit of the mountain was closer, now, swirling with dark clouds and power above. There was only one path right in front of you, leaden with beautiful flowers and trees, pink blossoms and bright purples you couldn’t name. It lead to a darker forest of shadows and flowers that glowed.

You weren’t sure how you knew, but…

“The garden of twilight,” you muttered. Zoe’s head snapped to you.

The grass shimmered with silvery, dewy light, the flowers such brilliant colours they flowed and lit the darkness around you. Black, polished marble steps danced around a five-storey tall golden apple tree, literal golden apples, glimmering and glowing amongst the rich green leaves.

“Hera’s apples of immortality,” Thalia said lowly. “A wedding gift from Zeus.”

You were tempted to step right up and grab one, except you found the danger quickly.

The dragon, curled around the tree. The dragon, bigger than you could have ever imagined one, and with more heads than it was possible to count. He appeared to be sleeping.

Something in the darkness caught your attention. The shadows began to move, an eerie singing beginning. You clutched your dagger harder.

Four figures appeared, girls in white greek chitons. They were beautiful, and, with a shiver, you noticed they resembled Zoe Nightshade. Or, rather, she resembled them.

“Sisters,” Zoe said with a small sigh.

“We do not see any sister,” one of the girls said coldly. “We see three half-bloods and a Hunter. All of whom will soon die.”

“Don’t worry about being pessimistic,” you muttered. Percy elbowed you, firmly.

“You’ve got it wrong,” he stepped forward. “Nobody is going to die.”

But…you had that feeling again. The one before Bianca. And you couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or foreshadowing. Whichever it was, it made you feel sick, nonetheless, and helpless.

“Perseus Jackson,” one of them said.

“Yes, I do not see how he is a threat.”

“Who said I’m a threat?”

The first girl glanced behind her, toward the top of the mountain. “They are unhappy that this one has not yet killed thee,” she pointed to Thalia. “They fear thee.”

“Tempting, sometimes,” Thalia said. “But no, thanks. He’s my friend.”

“There are no friends here, Daughter of Zeus. Only enemies. Turn back.”

“Not without Annabeth,” she moved forward.

“And Artemis. We must approach the mountain.”

“You know he will kill thee. You are no match for him.” One of the girls scoffed.

“Artemis must be freed. Let us pass.”

“You have no rights here anymore.” Harsh. “We have only to raise our voices and Ladon will wake.”

“He will not harm me,” Zoe shook her head gently.

“No? And what about thy so-called friends?”

Then, Zoe did the last thing you wished she would. She clapped her hands, and yelled. “Ladon! Wake!”

The dragon’s eyes snapped open instantly. He glittered like a mountain of coins, just as everything in your body shivered.

Your heart took cover.

Zoe’s sisters scattered. One of the girls was furious. “Are you mad?!”

“You never had any courage, sister. That is thy problem.”

You’d never seen Zoe so forward, and confident. Confidence outside of your comfort zone was different. But you knew to be confident and strong against your family was a different kind.

Ladon was awake, now, a hundred heads hissing and swirling. You wanted to back up, and leave this place. Zoe, standing ahead of you all, looked up at him with nothing but surety. Thalia had shifted, and Percy was still as anything beside you, the two of you looking with your heads tipped back.

Your lungs chose the awfully wrong time to deflate. Because in the light of the glowing flowers, and the danger on the breeze, Percy’s eyes were bright green, his tan skin aglowing, and his dark hair looked glossier than ever. The perfect edge to his nose, shining ever so slightly. His mouth was slightly agape in—shock? Confusion? Horror?

The most heavenly boy to exist.

“Let’s go,” you decided, the first to make a move.

“Ladon is trained to protect the tree,” Zoe said, moving forward toward the dragon. She raised her arms out to him as if she were welcoming a best friend home, not a killing machine. “Skirt around the edges of the garden. I am a bigger threat. Go up toward the mountain. As long as I’m here, he should ignore thee.”

“Should?” Percy snapped. “Not exactly reassuring.”

Your body turned cold. “No. Come on. Let’s all just run for it. Nobody gets left behind.”

Thalia looked at you and nodded. “Zoe. Let’s go.”

“It is the only way. Even the four of us together cannot fight him.”

Ladon opened his mouths. The sound of a hundred heads hissing at once sent a shiver down your back, and that was before his breath hit your nose. The smell was like acid. It made your eyes burn, your skin crawl, and your hair stand on end. Combine all that with spearmint, and you were good to remember it for life.

Thalia and Percy had already left your side, skirting around the edge of the garden as Zoe had told them to. But something didn’t feel right about that, to you.

You crept up beside Zoe. Very firmly, you said, “I’ll stay with you. We ain’t leaving anybody.”

She looked horrified, and it was such an un-Zoe-like expression that it instantly freaked you out. “No—go, now.”

“No! You don’t leave friends behind!” You fought, gripping your dagger for dear life. An awful, awful feeling had taken over your body.

She pressed her mouth together unhappily, but some other look drew over her face, and she nodded once, determinedly.

She walked toward the dragon, voice calm. “It’s me, Ladon. I’m home.”

As long as I’m here, he should ignore thee, she had said. You waited for her to get closer to him before you shifted into gear, too. The aim being to draw attention away from Thalia and Percy. When they were past, you’d try to make your way up the mountain, and hope that Zoe going last would mean the dragon would let you mostly pass before you had to fight for your lives.

The eldest of Zoe’s sisters’ voice flowed in the air as they left. “Fool.”

“I used to feed thee by hand,” Zoe continued in a soothing voice. “Do you remember?”

There were many words you could think of to describe Zoe Nightshade in that moment and what had come before, but only one came to mind, full force—Brave.

She kept talking, and the heads switched their attention between you and her. Trying to keep it all solely off of Zoe, you watched it carefully, walking backward up the mountain, unable to watch your footing. Zoe caught on to what you were doing, and began to move, too.

For whatever reason, the air shifted.

The dragon lunged.

Two thousand years of training kept Zoe alive. She jumped over one set of heads snarling and snapping at her and tumbled under another set, springing to her feet. You ran together, at pace, at the same footsteps, toward the others. Your heart pumped furiously, pushing you onward, getting ready.

Percy had drawn his sword, but Zoe panted. “No! Run!” She screamed.

Something tensed inside of you. You looked to Zoe at your side, and your eyes widened, horrified. “Move!” Your hand reached out…

Too slow.

The dragon snapped at her side, and she yelped, crying out. Her footing slipped, but you didn’t hesitate to snatch her by the arm, holding her up. She didn’t stop, despite the obvious pain she must have been in.

You ran up the mountain, Thalia and Percy not too far behind. The dragon hissed and stomped, but as Zoe had said, he was trained to protect the tree. So he moved no further, no longer persuing you.

A song was in the air. Of sadness, of death.

At the top of mountain were ruins, blocks of black granite and marble as big as houses. Broken columns. Statues of bronze that looked as though they’d been half melted.

“The ruins of Mount Othrys,” Thalia whispered in awe.

“Yes,” Zoe said. “It was not here before. This is bad.” You watched for any aspect of pain, heart pounding.

“What’s Mount Othrys?” Percy asked.

“The mountain fortress of the Titans,” Zoe said. “In the first war, Olympus and Othrys were the two rival capitals of the world. Othrys was—” She winced and held her side.

“You’re hurt,” you said. “Let me see.”

“No! I’m not. It’s fine. I was saying, in the first war, Othrys was blasted to pieces.”

“But…how is it here?”

Thalia looked around cautiously as you picked your way through rubble and dirt, blocks of marble and broken archways.

“It moves in the same way that Olympus moves, right?”

Thalia blinked. “Right. It always exists on the edges of civilisation. But the fact that it is here, on this mountain, is not good.”

“Why?”

“This is Altas’s mountain,” said Zoe. “This is where he holds—” she froze. Her voice was ragged with despair. “Where he held up the world.”

You had reached the summit. A few yards ahead, grey clouds swirled in a heavy vortex, making a funnel cloud that almost touched the mountaintop, but instead rested on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old girl with auburn hair and a tattered silvery dress: Artemis, her legs bound to the rock with celestial bronze chains.

Zoe gasped and rushed forward. “My lady!”

Artemis shook her head as best she could, shaking. “No! It is a trap! You must go now!” Her voice was strained, and she looked to be in so much pain, that your soul cried out to help. She was covered in sweat, and visibly struggling.

Zoe was crying. Despite what Artemis said, she ran forward and dropped to her knees before her, tugging at the chains.

A booming voice spoke from behind you. “Ah, how touching.”

Everyone turned. Zoe sniffled, shifting on her knee to look as well. There the General stood in a brown suit. At his side was Luke Castellan, worn and weary-faced, alongside over a good hundred dracaenae bearing a golden sarcophagus. You didn’t need anyone to explain. You knew who that was for.

A head of dirty hair caught your eye. She was small next to Luke and the monsters, with a gag in her mouth and her hands bound. Luke held the tip of a knife against her throat. Her eyes were wide with pleading, and glassy. Annabeth. Your sister.

She met your gaze. And sent you only one message.

RUN!

“Luke,” Thalia snarled. “Let her go.”

Luke’s smile was weak, so weak, and pale. “That is the General’s decision, Thalia. But it’s good to see you again.”

Thalia spat at him.

Observant, as you always were, you paid attention to many things all at once; Percy’s awestruck eyes on your sister; Thalia’s pure disgust; Annabeth’s pain; Zoe Nightshade falling to rest from her knees; Artemis’s silver eyes drifting between every member present.

The General chuckled. “So much for old friends. And you, Zoe. How is my little traitor? I will enjoy killing you.”

“Do not respond,” Artemis groaned. “Do not challenge him, Zoe.”

It clicked instantly.

“Wait a second.” As it did for Percy, too. “You’re Atlas?”

The General’s eyes laid lazily on him. “So, even the stupidest of heroes can finally figure something out. Yes, I am Atlas, the General of the Titans and the terror of the Gods. Congratulations.” He drawled. “I will kill you presently, as soon as I have dealt with this wretched girl.”

“You’re not going to hurt Zoe,” said Percy. “I won’t let you.”

“You have no right to interfere, little hero. This is a family matter.”

“A family matter?”

“Yes,” Zoe said bleakly. “Atlas is my father.”

Pain. That’s all it is.

Y/N understands girls watching out for girls, and friends looking after friends. Nobody gets left behind.

songs I listened to writing this chapter:

— little talks, of mice and men

— riptide, vax

— dog days are over, Florence

all on the capsize playlist! :)

Taglist: @bl6o6dy @embersparklz @lilyevanswhore @rottenstyx @rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @twsssmlmaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky @emu281 @charlesswife @jessiegerl @crackerphobic20 @jessiegerl @mata0-0mata @jccc1000 @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138 @i-love-books-and-the-bible

#capsize #percy jackson #leo valdez #annabeth chase #asks #jason grace #nico di angelo #percy jackson x reader #pjo x reader #anon #percy Jackson fic #Leo Valdez x reader #travis stoll x reader #Travis stoll #connor stoll x reader #connor stoll #jason grace x reader #percy jackson series #Spotify

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almostshamelesspenguin · 7 months

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capcom: got some straight gas 🔥😛 this strain is called "the forgotten turnabout" 😳 you'll be zonked out of your gourd 💯

me: yeah whatever. I don't feel shit.

5 minutes later: dude i swear i saw the guy in the red raincoat walking in midair

my buddy Mr. edgeworth pacing: the p.i.c are lying to us

#is this anything #ive just finished the forgotten turnabout :D #poor sebastian tho :(((#ace attorney #ace attorney text post #ace attorney textposts #ace attorney investigations #ace attorney investigations 2 #aai #aai2 #aai2 spoilers #kay faraday #miles edgeworth #the forgotten turnabout

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random-thot-generator · 5 days

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Better Not to Know + Pt. 2

KYLE GAZ GARRICK x FEM READER

Summary: It's been months, but you've not been able to forget the stranger you hooked up with in a night club bathroom. Then again, it hard to forget someone who left such a lasting impression.

Warnings/Tags: no serious warnings, mild profanity, no smut this round, no use of Y/N

(Notes: This one wouldn't leave me alone either, so here's a second installment. Bit of a cliffhanger at the end. Yeah, I'm a literary sadist.)

banners & dividers by: @saradika-graphics

March comes in a like a lion, the wind and rain making it a misery to step foot out-of-doors. Small wonder that your boss decides to send you to pick up his dry cleaning for him instead of doing it himself. Why risk ruining his tailored suits and Italian shoes, when he could just send you, who bought your clothes off the clearance rack?

Umbrella clutched in your fist, you hurry along the sidewalk, dodging puddles and people as you make your way to the dry cleaners. You're relieved to see there's not a line, counting your blessings as you step through the door. An automated chime announces your arrival— bing-bong.

"Hullo. Can I help you?" A young woman with colorful tats sleeving her arms and teal hair gives you a customer service smile from behind the counter.

You pull the ticket from the pocket of your raincoat and slide it over with a tight smile. "Just a pick-up."

The young woman picks up the slip of paper, heavily lined eyes scanning the ticket before flickering over your damp, bedraggled form. "Be just a tick, luv," she murmurs, disappearing through a curtained doorway.

With nothing better to do, you drift over to a display of travel-size stain remover sticks, not bothering to turn around when the door opens, a gust of wind fluttering the hem of your coat. The automated chime sounds, drawing Tattoo Girl out of the back with what you assume is your boss' dry cleaning held aloft in one hand.

"Well, hullo, handsome!" she greets her new customer with a wide, toothy smile. "Got your uniform ready. Just need to take care of this lady first."

You don't look back to see who she's addressing, all your attention focused on fishing your boss' credit card out of your pocket. You do absently notice that the new customer smells nice. You catch notes of sandalwood and pine, a hint of musk, definitely masculine and strangely familiar. You also don't fail to notice how Tattoo Girl keeps glancing over your shoulder as she rings you up, the remnants of her wide smile still lingering.

"Here you go," she says, handing over the dry-cleaning bag and receipt, her eyes already focused on her more desirable customer.

"Thanks," you mutter, drawing the bag over the counter and draping it over your arm. Pulling the sides of your coat together, you turn, curious eyes flicking up to catch a glimpse of the man who has so distracted the pretty cashier, then almost trip over your own feet as you stumble to a halt.

"No bloody way," you breathe in a shocked whisper, staring up at the face that's been haunting you for the last five months.

His eyes widen at the same time yours do, recognition clear in his expression. "Christ, I don't believe it," he mutters, a mystified smile curving his sensuous lips. "It's really you."

You feel the same way. You can't believe it's really him, the gorgeous bloke from the club, Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous himself. "Um— wow. H-Hi."

His soft brown eyes register surprise but also pleasure as they lock with yours and his mega-watt smile appears. "Long time, no see, pet. How ya been?"

You gaze up at him dumbfounded, shaken all the way down to your sensible shoes. It's really him. Holy shit! "I, uh... I'm g-good. And you?" Christ! When did you develop a stammer?

He steps closer, his smile turning into something softer and intimate. "Been doin' alright." His eyes dart over your face, taking you in as if he still can't believe you're real. "This is bloody mad, innit? You wouldn't believe how many times I've..." He lets his words trail off, shaking away his dazed expression. "Ah, never mind. 'M just beyond chuffed to see ya again, pet. You look— lovely."

At least he's pleased to see me again, you think. That's a good sign, isn't it? You adjust the dry-cleaning bag in front of you, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Tattoo Girl clears her throat, drawing your attention back to the counter. You glance over to see a perturbed little frown on her face, her eyes bouncing back and forth between you and the gorgeous man standing by your side.

"Oh! Sorry," you apologize, stepping away from the counter. You glance back up at him, feeling flustered and more than a little overwhelmed. Gripping the dry-cleaning bag closer to your body, you ignore the fact that you're probably wrinkling your boss' clothes.

"Ha. Making a right nuisance of myself, aren't I?" you murmur with a nervous titter. "It was, um, nice seeing you again, uh..." You give him a sheepish little grin, feeling terribly awkward and thoroughly embarrassed. "I-I'm so sorry. I don't think I ever got your, uh... name." God, how embarrassing...

He shuffles his feet and grins, looking a bit sheepish himself. "It's, uh, it's Kyle," he answers in a soft voice, holding out his hand. "Kyle Garrick." He dips his chin down to meet your eyes, giving you a teasing little smirk. "I don't think I got your name, either."

Taking his hand, you utter your name with a dazed expression as his touch sends warm tingles of awareness shooting up your arm. Neither one of you let go until the Tattoo Girl clears her throat again and sniffs in irritation.

Kyle's brows tick together in mild irritation as he shoots a quick look in her direction, then flicks his gaze back to you. "Would ya mind waiting while I take care of this? It'll just take a moment," he says, sounding anxious. "I'd really like to catch up with ya, maybe buy ya lunch or a coffee?"

Your head bobs in eager agreement. "Yeah, sure. I've got time."

Honestly, you didn't, but to hell with your boss. This is far more important to you.

Stepping out of the way, you wait by the door for him, your mind racing. As you stare at his broad back, your teeth worry at your bottom lip, wondering what he will have to say, then fret over what you're going to say to him. Is he just hoping to hook up again or does his interest go deeper than that? The way he's acting, it seems like it's more than that, but who knows? It's not like you really know him that well. Or at all, really. Jesus, this is nerve-wracking...

By the time Kyle has paid for his dry cleaning and is turning around, you have worked yourself up into a jittery mess. His smile dims as he takes in your nervous expression, concern plain on his face.

"Ya alright, pet?" he asks, stepping close to grasp your elbow. "You look like you're about to be sick."

Shaking your head, you offer him a weak smile. "No, no, I'm fine. I just feel a bit peckish," you lie, not wanting to make a scene. You can see Tattoo Girl staring daggers at the two of you, a petulant frown on her face. "Could we go ahead and get that coffee now? I think I need to sit down."

"Yeah, of course, love," Kyle murmurs, caressing your arm with a worried look. "C'mon, let's go."

He takes your umbrella from your numb fingers and opens the door, holding it for you as he snaps the brolly open over his head. Lifting his arm, he lays it across your shoulders, pulling you into his side as he shifts the umbrella to shield you both from the rain. Casting another worried glance down at you, he leads you to a nearby sandwich shop and quickly ushers you inside.

"Here we go," he murmurs, guiding you over to a table. He takes the dry-cleaning bag from you and drapes it over the back of a chair with his own. "Here, love. Let me take your coat," he offers as he steps behind you, and you're so flustered that you let him slip the coat from your shoulders before realizing your mistake. Quaking in your shoes, you turn to face him.

Kyle stands frozen, his mouth open to say something, his eyes now riveted on your waistline. You glance down as well then stare up into his shocked face, your hands going to your stomach to splay over the gentle swell of your baby bump.

A pained grimace twists your features as you whisper in a shaky voice, "I suppose I should explain."

part 1

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #cod gaz

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ppnuggiex · 9 months

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hii <3 if possible, I would like headcanons about how they would be for vil , riddle and azul,being parents ^^ but their son came out as a rambunctious and very naughty hehe (as a plus, his mc also used to be like that so anyway his son reminds them of how his wife was when they met her, like mother like son xd) that would be all , tkmm have a nice day :))

　　　　　　TWST x fem reader

　　　　『　azul ,, riddle ,, vil ,, female reader 』

　　-> twst as parents w/ rambunctious child that acted like their mother

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, crack

　　— tysm for requesting !! hope you enjoy it 🫶 there is a reference to one of kevin hart’s stand up comedies in here ,, but i explained it at the end :) so even if you dont watch stand up or his ,, youll know what i mean !

- riddle

| • he'd have a hard time dealing with a rambunctious son . he's used to following the rules ,, and he has let off that a lot since getting together with you .

| • he'll be known more as the less fun parent ,, while you take that role . he'd be the one to make him wear a raincoat to go outside in the rain whilst you'd encourage him playing in the rain and puddles without one .

| • though he'd smile fondly at him ,, seeing as he definitely gets it from you . he would sometimes share stories about your past and how you acted at nrc .

| • it doesnt stop him from parenting his child the way he wants to in a way . he does take a firmer hand with it ,, but with your help he does it in a way thats not too harsh .

| • he still loves his kid though . sometimes he’ll let him get away with things ,, especially if hes just woken up .

- vil

| • he finds it infuriating some days ,, and funny the others . on the days he finds it infuriating ,, he usually lets you deal with him as he doesnt want to say something that’ll end up hurting his kid . other days ,, he’ll just laugh under his breathe before trying to point his kid in the right direction .

| • he definitely comments on how hes just like how you were though . then he goes down the memory lane ,, remembering everything you two did together at nrc . his heart warms at the memories ,, seeing you in your kid .

| • he isnt as strict as riddle ,, as he wants his child to be able to live his life without vil controlling it for him . you also play a factor into that ,, telling vil to let your son decide for himself how he wishes to live .

| • though sometimes vil cant help himself and fix his son’s clothes if theyre messed up ,, or poking and prodding at his hair to make it look nicer .

- azul

| • lord save his soul . having a rambunctious son is quite the handful for mr . ashengrotto ,, especially with how much he does have on his hands . juggling between running a restaurant chain and spending time with his family ,, he is quite the busy man .

| • usually when he comes home hes quite exhausted ,, ready to relax for a moment’s time before having to look through paperwork .

| • and then you have a rambunctious son to deal with . he’ll be honest ,, he almost pulled a kevin hart move (if ykyk 💀💀 ill explain later) and went right back to his work .

| • on his days off he enjoys spending time with his son ,, he doesnt have a problem but sometimes he can be a little too rowdy and then you’ll have to come in and help wrangle the both of them . honestly you should make azul pay you to do alla this /j .

| • azul loves his son though . and if he happens to inherit his mer traits ,, he’ll struggle even more to try to parent him underwater .

* in one of kevin hart’s stand up comedies ,, he says how after coming home to a day of hard work and men have toddlers waiting for them at home ,, they’ll see them when they pull in the drive way and pull right back out and drive away .

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #🌊.octavinelle #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto #♥️.heartslabyul #♥️.riddle #☁️.twst #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #🔮.pomefiore #🔮.vil #vil x reader #vil shoenheit

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columboscreens · 2 years

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#columbo #season 9 #rest in peace mrs columbo #he is BRIMMING with excitement lol #god i know raincoat iconic but. he looks so good in black.........

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stevethehairington · 1 year

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[read on ao3]

"We're making a fort."

Steve is barely even halfway through the door when he is accosted with the declaration. His slick raincoat is still zipped up, his wet umbrella still wide open and dripping onto the porch behind him.

"What?" He asks, fumbling to close the umbrella and shake it out before a stack of blankets are being shoved into his arms.

"We are making a fort," Eddie repeats, grinning at Steve. He's got his own heap of blankets bundled against his chest, and when Steve glances past his shoulder he can see that the bones of said fort are already mostly established — Wayne's armchair has already been moved from its cozy corner of the room to now sit directly across from the couch, and the coffee table has been pushed to the side so as to not be a nuisance to the building process.

And, well, it sounds like a lot of fun, actually.

"Yeah, sure, alright," Steve replies with a huff of a laugh. "Can I take my coat off first though?" He asks, scrunching his nose at Eddie and holding the blankets back out for him to take.

Eddie presses his lips together, pretends to mull it over for a second before he nods. "I guess so," he says, mouth quirking at the corners. He accepts the blankets from Steve, adding them back to his own pile.

Steve toes out of his shoes, nudging them together neatly amongst the mess of the rest of the shoes by the front door. He tugs the zip of his coat down next, and shrugs out of it before draping it over the back of the nearby chair so that it can dry. Then he goes to join Eddie by the couch.

Eddie has set the blankets down and is standing there, hands on his hips as he assesses the fort structure.

He's still in his favorite plaid pajama pants, probably hasn't changed out of them all day if Steve has to guess. It's not like he had anywhere to go today, unlike Steve, and the weather certainly wares itself to pj's all day. A pair of green knit socks (a gift from Mrs. Henderson; Steve knows because he recieved the exact same pair in a pretty shade of sky blue for Christmas) poke out from the bottoms of those pants. Eddie's also got on a thick knit maroon sweater, one that Steve recognizes as his own. Ah, so that's where it ended up.

Eddie looks so cozy like that, and Steve can't help himself as he pads across the room and immediately drapes himself over Eddie's back. His arms slip around Eddie's middle, earning a little gasp and a flinch and a "shit you're cold!" as he dips his icy finger beneath the warm fabric to get even closer and to leech some of that warmth. Steve tucks his chin over Eddie's shoulder, pressing a kiss to the juncture of his neck before he looks out at the fort too.

"Where do we go from here, boss?" Steve asks.

Eddie melts into Steve, dropping his head back against Steve's shoulder and tilting his chin so he can give him a sidelong glance. "Think it's time to put a roof on this bad boy," he says.

"Grab a blanket then, Munson, let's get to work," Steve replies, leaving one more kiss to his neck before he, begrudgingly, peels himself off of Eddie and moves towards the stack.

They work together to spread the blankets out and lay them across the open space between the backrest of the sofa and the top of Wayne's armchair. It takes about three blankets to get it all covered, and they have to weigh down the ends with a couple of heavy books stacked on top of each other so that they actually stay in place instead of caving in and slipping right off.

It takes a delicate hand and a balancing placement to create the outer walls, carefully draping new blankets over the already secured ones and hoping nothing falls. Eddie finds a couple of clothespins in their junk drawer and decides to use those as an extra precaution. It's a pretty smart idea and seems to do the trick.

When the shell of the fort is finally finished, Steve and Eddie high five each other and take a moment to beam at their creation.

It takes up most of the living room, nearly stretching from corner to corner. They hadn't skimped on using every available piece of furniture that they could get their hands on — including the television set, Wayne's old cot that they still had lying around even though he has his own bedroom now, and the extra chair from the little kitchen table. It's sort of lopsided, and some of the corners look a little precarious, like they could slip at any second, while others look like they could withstand a hurricane and live to tell the tale. None of the blankets match either, both in color and fabric, but there had been enough to put together the whole fort and still have some left over. Apparently mugs and baseball caps aren't the only things the Munson men collect.

"Looks pretty damn good if I do say so myself," Eddie comments, regarding their work with a sparkle of pride in his eyes.

"We make a good team," Steve replies, bumping his shoulder against Eddie's.

"That we do, sweetheart, that we do," Eddie agrees.

He claps his hands together then. "Now it's time to furnish the place."

Steve raises his eyebrow, very eager to see what exactly Eddie has in mind for this next part.

"You wait here," Eddie tells Steve, patting his chest before he disappears down the hall and into his bedroom.

He's gone for a couple of minutes before he makes his return, arms laden with treasures.

The duvet from his bed sits around his shoulders like a cape, both of his pillows are clamped under each of his armpits, he has a thick book balancing in the crook of his arm, a can of pringles and a package of oreos in one hand, a little baggie of party favors dangling between his middle and ring fingers, and his walkman and a couple of cassettes crowding his other hand.

A slow grin spreads across his face as he approaches Steve and he waggles his eyebrows. "Let it never be said that I don't provide for you," he jokes.

Steve snorts but moves to take a few of the things from Eddie before he drops any of them. "You're too good to me," he teases back, though there's very much a thread of truth to it.

He holds back the curtain that is their "front door" of the fort so that Eddie can crawl inside with his haul and start setting up.

"Grab the extra blankets, would you, Stevie?" Eddie calls.

Steve finds them near the kitchen and carries them back to the fort, ducking inside so he can pass them off to Eddie.

"Thanks," Eddie says, taking two of the blankets and lays them out across the floor. He layers his duvet down next, then takes the third and final blanket and settles it overtop. The pillows come after, and Eddie arranges them at the foot of the couch, giving each of them a little punch to fluff them up.

He turns to Steve then and spreads his fingers wide in a flashy pair of jazz hands. "Tada," he sing-songs.

Except before Steve can tell him it's perfect, Eddie's smile twists and he gasps. "Shit," he curses. "Forgot something, hang on a sec." Then he's scrambling past Steve and out of the fort.

Steve hears the squeak of a cabinet door opening, then a shuffling as Eddie digs through its contents, and finally a muffled "Hah! There ya are!" before the cabinet is slammed shut again and Eddie's footsteps make their way back.

The flap goes flying open and Eddie beams, holding up a box of Christmas lights and a handful of safety pins.

And, shit, that is a pretty brilliant addition.

"Help me pin these up," Eddie says, unboxing the lights and spilling half of the safety pins into Steve's open palm.

They work together once again to hang the lights, carefully twisting the string around each safety pin before securing them to the blanket along the perimeter of the fort.

There's an outlet nearby, thankfully, so they don't need to go searching for an extension cord, and Eddie exits the fort again so he can plug it in.

"Let there be light," he announces, then slides the plug home.

A gentle light floods the fort, bathing their snug little sanctuary in a soft warm glow. The nest of blankets and pillows, the little hoard of snacks, the variety of things to keep them entertained. The pretty lights.

It all makes the perfect, cozy little hideaway.

Steve's heart skips a beat as he settles into the pillows and the blankets. Eddie reenters the fort a moment later, and he pats the spot next to him, inviting Eddie to join him.

Eddie doesn't waste a second, crowding into Steve's space. He fits himself to Steve's side and tucks his arm around Steve's shoulders, pulling the duvet and the extra blanket over their legs.

"This was such a good idea," Steve tells him, curling his arm around Eddie's waist and nuzzling into his chest.

"Mm, I knew you'd like it," Eddie murmurs, burying his nose into Steve's hair, just above his ear. He kisses the shell of it and smiles.

"I was thinkin' we could read another chapter or two, if you wanted?" Eddie suggests, separating from Steve's side just long enough to reach over and snag the book he'd brought with him.

The Fellowship of the Ring. They'd made it through The Hobbit about two weeks ago, and had started working their way through the first proper book of Eddie's favorite series almost immediately after.

Steve had tried to read them on his own, but there had been way too many made up words and complicated names, and that didn't help the way his brain already had trouble with regular letters and words.

Eddie had offered to read them to Steve, though, and it was an offer Steve just couldn't refuse. He loved Eddie's voice, and he loved the way he narrated, bringing life to the story and captivating Steve in a way that Tolkien alone couldn't have done.

It turns out, Lord of the Rings is actually pretty cool.

(When Steve admitted that to Eddie, Eddie had grabbed his face, told him "that's the hottest thing you've ever said", then kissed him square on the mouth.)

"That sounds perfect," Steve says.

Eddie pulls his glasses out from their little stockpile and slides them onto the bridge of his nose before he opens the book to find their page. Steve's own glasses case is still in his jacket pocket, but he doesn't need them right now, so he just gets comfortable against Eddie.

Eddie picks up where they left off, diving right in with an enthusiasm that makes Steve smile.

They make it through two chapters before the sound of a key in the lock alerts them to Wayne's arrival home.

Eddie dogears their page and sets the book aside, then nudges Steve so they can sit up and poke their heads out of the flat to greet Wayne as he gets the door open and walks inside.

"Howdy, Wayne," Eddie says cheekily, putting on A Voice.

"Hi Wayne," Steve chimes in, a little more reserved.

Wayne's eyes catch on the blanket fort and he snorts in amusement. "I see you two had some fun," he comments. "Sandbox outside too wet to build your castles in?" He teases.

Eddie bleats out a laugh. "Don't be jealous, old man," he says. "This castle's top notch."

"I'm sure it is," Wayne says, sliding his jacket off. He hangs it off the hook on the wall, then bends to unlace his boots. When he gets those off, he straightens back up. "He's not holdin' you captive in there or anythin' is he, boy?" He asks, addressing Steve.

Steve laughs and shakes his head. "Not a chance," he replies and squeezes his hand where it rests against Eddie's hip.

"Good good," Wayne replies with a solid nod. "Now that that's settled, I'm gonna go clean this weather off'a me and take a nap. You boys holler if you need anythin', alright?"

"Thanks, Wayne," Steve says, giving him a two fingered salute.

"Sleep tight," Eddie tacks on. "Don't let the bedbugs bite."

And then the two of them duck back into their fort, settle back into the blankets, and pick back up where they left off.

As the afternoon stretches on, the rhythmic sound of the rain pounding down against the roof of the trailer and the smooth cadence of Eddie's voice become a dangerous combination, and Steve finds it harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

He tries to fight it, but it's a losing battle, and eventually his eyes flutter shut, and his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep, right there in the warm safety of Eddie's arms, the cozy comfort of their little pocket of the world.

Eddie notices it after a while, huffing out a fond little laugh when a soft, snuffling snore slips from Steve. He smooths back Steve's hair, then kisses his forehead, tucking the blankets more securely around him.

He dogears their page, but keeps reading on himself, silently this time, so as to not wake Steve.

But eventually the same lulling drone of the rain and the warmth of Steve and the blankets start to pull at his edges too.

It's maybe an hour or so after Wayne gets home that he gets out of the shower and follows his stomach into the kitchen, ready to whip a little something up for breakfast, lunch — whatever meal it is he's on, he's never been the best at keeping those straight with the hours he works — before that nap. Wayne's pretty sure they've got some cans of tomato soup in one of these cupboards, and a hot grilled cheese sounds heavenly.

He finishes dressing, then exits his bedroom and pads down the hall towards the kitchen. Except instead of turning into it, he keeps walking past it. If he's cooking for himself, he figures it won't be too much trouble to see if Eddie and Steve are getting the rumbly tummies too.

Wayne can't hear Eddie's voice anymore, but there are plenty of other activities they could be getting up to that don't involve talking — though he does hope they aren't doing that.

"Alright, I'm comin' in," He announces, giving them a couple of seconds to situate themselves if need be before bending at the waist a little so he can pull the curtain aside and poke his head in.

When his eyes land on the two of them, though, he realizes why he didn't get an answer.

Both Eddie and Steve are totally conked out, dead to the world, fast asleep.

Eddie's head is tipped back against the seat of the couch, hand limp around the book that lies flat against his stomach, like he fell asleep while he was reading it. Steve's nestled into his side, using his shoulder as a pillow, with his nose tucked into Eddie's neck and one hand slung around his waist.

Their legs are covered by the cocoon of blankets they've wrapped themselves up in, but their toes poke out the end, and Wayne can tell that they're tangled together beneath all those layers.

They look cozy, comfortable. They look sweet.

It makes his heart warm, and a ghost of a smile wisps onto his face as he slowly backs out of the fort and lets the flap fall back down.

He has no plans to wake them from that.

They deserve to hold onto this little moment of peace for as long as they can.

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #mack writes #it is cold and rainy here today so have a little warmth and coziness friends!!#macks ficlets

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drconstellation · 3 months

Text

Taking Things At Face Value

This post is dedicated to all those Ninas out there, who are "just enjoying the show."

I have been pondering an problem that had come up for a second time in another meta I'm writing (I left it out of an earlier one for clarity) regarding acknowledgement of identity and faces in S2, but when you keep running into the same road-block, you have to tackle it head on. Then I ran into the exact same problem a third time here, and the beginnings of this meta has sat in my drafts file staring at me for several weeks while I've been doing other things. But finally, finally, the answer has come to me, while being kept awake by a passing thunderstorm at 1.30am.

MRS SANDWICH: You're a good lad. CROWLEY: I'm not actually, either. But thank you.

Let's start with this exchange between Crowley and Mrs Sandwich, after Crowley has led all the Whickber St shopkeepers out of the ball to apparent safety. She calls him a "good lad," and he denies it, but thanks her anyway, and gives her a charming smile. We all know Crowley hates being called 'nice' and the last time he did something 'good' he got dragged down to Hell for punishment, so it seems like an odd thing to happen.

But the thing is, while Mrs Sandwich is complimenting his actions, he is responding about his appearance - that is neither 'good' (i.e. he is a demon) or a male human (i.e. he is an supernatural non-gendered entity.)

At this point you might be going "yeah, yeah, we know, we get that! Move along op..." but this matters, as you soon will see. We should also note that neither Crowley or Aziraphale judge Mrs Sandwich for being a brothel madame (how Aziraphale does not know this when her shop is just over the road from his I will never fathom, but there you go) and Crowley is actually quite charming all-round to his parallel character (prostitution and demons going hand-in-hand - er, not literally. But they went out the door as the vanguard arm-in-arm, though.)

The Metatron turning up at the bookshop in person is the next scene on the cards. Firstly, archangel Michael doesn't recognize him, but Saraqael obviously does.

Now, I know I'm guilty of saying that Michael may have had their memory adjusted at some time, but I'm going to suggest something else at this point. Saraqael knows who this is, because they have just had a fresh reminder from watching the recordings of Gabriel with Crowley and Muriel. And Saraqael is a pretty smart angel, so lets give them some leeway on this one. But for Michael, well, they are in the same situation as Aziraphale. They have only seen the Metatron as giant floating head without a body, so don't associate him with this appearance before them, and also because he has a beard.

Just before you jump on me and say "But he had one in the recordings!" yes, yes, I know. Two things, though, I want to bring to your attention: angels are not supposed to have facial hair,* and he doesn't have any in S1 (I checked!) and he also makes the comment "This calls for much less attention, though." Yeah, well a giant head floating through the streets of Soho would be quite a sight, wouldn't it, even though they had already been treated to the view of Gabriel's royal rear-end. Aziraphale had only met him once before, as a giant floating head in S1E4 who had had to introduce himself, so we could surmise this is Michael's problem as well, even though they were at Gabriel's trial. This is backed up by a tumblr ask/answer from NG as well, where he said "I think because they normally see him as a giant floating head, and not as a little man in a raincoat."

MICHAEL: Um, and who are you? METATRON: For Heaven's sake. And I mean that most literally. You don't know me? Well, uh, what about you? Demon? Do you know me?

Demon. That is what the Metatron chooses to call Crowley in that company, and we know in hindsight that he knows Crowley's name - as does Uriel, and Gabriel. Even Muriel learns it. But they don't use it, at least not in S2.

Even more notable is that the archangels don't deign to him give the respect of using his chosen name at all. He's not not even their enemy at this point - he's beneath their notice altogether, even though they are in the same room. Only Aziraphale seems to acknowledge his existence, instinctively trying to reach out to him as he passes by.

To Nina, people are coffee preferences.

To Mrs Sandwich, they are desires that need servicing.

So then question I had, and that stopped me, was why did both Crowley and Gabriel question Beelzebub about their new face?

It stood out to me because you don't normally make an obvious comment about the change of actor for a character, and to do it twice - !! You can't ignore that. No meta writer should ignore that. There is a trope term for this, actually, called "lampshading," which means to intentionally call attention to an incongruent situation within a story before moving on, but in a show where nothing is an accident, this seems a bit trite to me. Eventually I realized that this was the whole crux of the problem to me - that while we all too readily take things at face value, its not the faces that really influence us, its our internal values.

In the case of Beelzebub, Crowley recognizes the demon, their power, and their identity via the flies without any doubt; he merely comments on the change of exterior appearance. In terms of value, he knows straight away he's dealing with someone dangerous, no matter what they look like. Gabriel, on the other hand, is judging the book by its cover, and because he doesn't recognize the new cover, he needs proof of which demon he's dealing with, or maybe if they are even a demon at all.

"Bravo," says Nina, "Just enjoying the show." She's already seen a few that week, not to mention just in the general flow of life as a shop owner involved with customer service. If you've had any sort of life in a customer service role I'm sure you've got a few stories you could tell of things you've seen or experienced as well! I know I can.

The conversation between Nina and Crowley after Aziraphale walks away is amusing for all the assumptions Nina makes about them based on what she's observed that week, but also because Crowley tells the truth every in every reply to Nina, and yet she still has no idea what he's really saying. But her judgements, based on her experience and values, still manage to drop the proverbial ton of bricks on his head so badly he slinks off to sooth himself with some alcohol while he thinks about it instead of catching up with Aziraphale to continue being the angel's nameless shadow.

This problem with judging people on previous experience and not on who they actually are is everywhere in S2.

It's Ennon treating Aziraphale, an angel he's never met before, as a slut.

It's Elspeth judging Aziraphale on his accent.

It's Mrs H. giving a powerful demon a blistering tongue-lashing because she thinks he's a just simple human black marketeer.

It's Crowley refusing to call Gabriel "Jim" because he believes Gabriel is faking it.

...and so on. These are just a few examples. I'm sure you can spot a few more.

Which brings us back around to the meeting of the supernatural Councils in the bookshop in S2E6 and Crowley's "invisibility" to the other angels and demons gathered there. A demon to the archangels, an arch-traitor to the demons, why would they want to acknowledge him? Once he restores Gabriel, he becomes rank-less and faceless to them because they don't need him any more - its basically an act of celestial racism.

Nina and Maggie don't really know any better, they still think Mr Crowley and Mr Fell are just, well, "partners." OK, so maybe they've been doing some weird shit the last few days manipulating things in the neighbourhood but they're still obviously a couple a group of the two of them in their human eyes - and neither do they seem to care that they seem to be mlm, either. No judgement there.

A number of times I've seen ops say they've been watching GO with family members who are seeing it for the first time, and the family member thinks they are just "close friends." Why? Because they haven't seen S2 and the kiss? Because they haven't verbally said "I love you" to each other? Do they really need to say that to prove their feelings for each other? Is that just your values creeping to the fore?

And where did you get your values from?

Sometimes you need to stop and question why you think what you think. I'm not just talking about religious indoctrination. Some expectations put on us by by society at large can be insidious. Expectations around how gender should act, the life purpose of a gender, your worth to society if you don't meet certain unspoken standards, age-related behaviour, social norms around alcohol consumption, the way they dress, what someone eats, the way they eat it, that you must be seen to be productive, or busy...take your pick for whatever is prevalent around you at the moment and for your culture. Just start by noticing, and being aware.

Yes, it is pointless, because demons and angels all come from the same angelic stock. There was a bit of a disagreement at one point and they split into two groups, and judgemental labels got applied to them. They are both still bureaucratic horrors. Which ever side wins the final battle, humans still lose.

Mortal humans all look the same inside, too, if you take their face and skin away and take the societal labels off them. We forget that about ourselves all the time.

There doesn't have to be any wibbly-wobbly timeline stuff going on to explain things. What ever happened to the concept of Occam's Razor? The simplest answer is usually the correct one. And that was what I realized in the middle of the night - the cliche I had used to title this was the answer. It's about being aware of those ingrained, instinctive, judgmental values that you don't realize you've learnt, and looking past the faces that you meet.

*oh lawdy, I'm giving strength to all of you who want to believe he is a demon then, aren't I? But do demons have facial hair either?

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #crowley #mrs sandwich #nina and maggie #job minisode #1941 minisode #the resurrectionists #aziraphale #beelzebub #gabriel #taking things at face value #lampshading #value judgements #wibbly wobbly timey wimey #occams razor

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jgmartin · 10 months

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THE TALL THINGS ARE WATCHING

We can’t leave the house.

They’ve boarded up our doors and windows, started shooting people trying to break free. There are things in the streets. Tall things. I see their shadows sometimes as they run past the wooden boards. I hear the rumble of their feet.

I don’t know what they are. None of us do.

They cut our access to television and the internet when the lockdown began. They even took out the cell tower. Anne said they didn’t want us communicating with the outside world, telling them about what’s going on out here. I think she’s right.

It’s been two weeks since the men in suits came by. They said they worked for government intelligence and that they were looking for a terrorist. They didn’t strike me as government types, personally. They looked distracted. Spaced out. More like Scientologists than CIA agents, but then I’ve never met a Scientologist or a CIA agent, so who was I to tell the difference?

Either way, they said it would be over soon, and they sounded official. More importantly, they had guns. “We’ll need to search every household,” they explained. “We can’t have anybody leaving before we’ve cleared their property, so we’ll have to board you in.”

It made sense, I guess. In a twisted dystopian nightmare sort of way. It made sense all the way up until the end of the fourth night, when the Tall Things started roaming the streets. They were dressed in long raincoats. Hooded. The way they moved gave me the chills, all jerky and snapping, so I stayed away from the windows.

Anne didn’t mind though. She was fascinated by them. Her and our gun-nut neighbor, Old Ty, exchanged theories written on pieces of cardboard, holding them up to the glass of our windows. GOVERNMENT EXPERIMENT, she wrote on hers. ALIEN INVASION, he wrote on his.

At first, it seemed to just be a bit of innocent, morbid fun. Finding some humor in a bizarre situation. Then Anne watched one of the Tall Things kill somebody, and everything changed.

It was an elderly man in our cul-de-sac, Mister Douglas. Anne watched him open his door, hammer down the boards as one of the Tall Things walked by. He shouted at it. Told it to get over here so he could see just what kind of unholy bullshit his tax dollars were being used to fund.

Next thing you know, there’s sirens in the streets. Soldiers rushing his home. There’s a megaphone shouting at him to get back inside. All of it is useless. All of it happens far too late, because the moment Douglas starts yelling at the Tall Thing, it starts to twitch and jerk like it can’t control its own behavior. Like a predator hungry for a meal.

It snaps its head toward Douglas, then tears across his lawn and snaps him up in its long, spider-like hands. It lifts him off the ground. Then, he screams. He screams and he screams until the Tall Thing lowers the hood of its rain jacket, and then Douglas goes pale as a ghost. Silent.

According to Anne, that’s when the skin of his face started to bubble and pop. That’s when he started hissing out steam, smoking as his flesh sizzled beneath his clothes, as if he were boiling alive from the inside out. Next thing you know, he’s dripping onto the pavement. Dripping and dripping until there’s nothing left of him but a puddle of flesh and clothes.

Nobody tries to step in. Not any of the soldiers, not Anne, and not even Old Ty and all his guns. Everybody watches in stunned silence as the Tall Thing finishes its execution and saunters away.

The soldiers roam with them. The soldiers and the people in long white clothes. Anne says they’re lab coats, and the people are researchers studying the Tall Things as experiments, but I think they look more like robes– like clergymen. All of them wear helmets with tinted visors. It’s as though they don’t want to get a good look at the things.

After Mr. Douglas, more people on the block decided to make a break for it. Maybe they realized this was worse than they thought. Maybe they started wondering what the point of keeping us locked away like this was– were we food for these creatures? Were they trying to turn us into them?

None of us knew. All we could say for certain is that the killing didn’t stop with Mr. Douglas. I woke up one morning to see several of my neighbors shot dead in their yards, their lifeless eyes gazing back at me from the grass. Nobody came to pick them up. They were left there to rot, picked apart by birds and stray dogs.

Soon, gunshots were ringing out at all hours of the day. People wanted out, but the soldiers wouldn’t let them leave, and so the bodies began to pile up. Eventually I think Anne and I were the only two left alive in our cul-de-sac. Even Old Ty had seemed to vanish. Probably shot dead in his backyard.

I’d rarely known death in my life, and now the sheer volume of it was numbing me. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t know how. But then, almost out of the blue the government had a change of heart. Or maybe they just shifted tactics. Suddenly they began letting people leave.

I saw it first with a house at the very end of the road. I watched the woman who lived there break out with a baby tucked in her arm and a grade-schooler holding her hand. The three of them darted across their lawn, jumped over their father’s corpse and piled into their minivan on the street.

The entire time, a soldier and white-coat stood only meters away, quietly observing. It didn’t take long for the rumbling to begin– that telltale sound of approaching death, of one of the Tall Things coming to claim its prize. The van started up, backfiring a plume of exhaust into the air. I listened as the woman shrieked for joy, but I knew the joy would be short lived.

See, from my vantage point at the end of the lane, I saw something that she never could. The boot locked around her rear tire. The van rode forward as she pressed the gas, and then clunked to a stop. My heart broke. The look on her face, the desperation wasn’t for her– it was for her children in the back.

The rumble reached a crescendo, and in the blink of an eye a Tall Thing crashed into the van and knocked it over like a diecast toy. I couldn’t make out much beyond that. Nothing but the sound of the monster tearing into the roof of the van and pulling the crying children out one by one while their mother begged for mercy.

If I were a better, stupider man I may have kicked down my door and tried to save them, but I wasn’t. I was a coward. Instead, I fell to my living room carpet and cried. I laid there and listened as their flesh popped and sizzled, as their skin fell to the pavement in long, heavy drips.

It’s a sound I’ll never forget.

The next day, things got worse. The soldiers no longer cared about enforcing the lockdown or even keeping people safely indoors. Now they were breaking them out. Like hungry wolves, they tore down boarded-up doors and kicked in living room windows, dragging families out onto their lawns for slaughter. If the screams were horrible before, now they were unbearable. You couldn’t ignore them. Anne and I cranked our sound system to the max, but it only served as background static. The dying cut through everything.

That night we barely slept. Anne tossed and turned beside me, while I stared blankly at the ceiling fan above. There was an understanding between us. We had been abandoned. There was nobody coming to help us, nobody coming to arrest these monsters and save the day. We were alone.

How long until her and I were dragged out of our home? How long until we became the next experiment chained to our fence, waiting to be attacked by one of those creatures? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Neither of us knew, and somehow that made it all the worse.

I woke up to sunlight peeking through our boarded-up bedroom window. Anne was missing. I looked all over the house for her before I found her note on the kitchen counter, scribbled quickly.

I know you’re afraid, the note read, but I have to leave. You might think we’ll make it through this, that once they’ve had their fill of guinea pigs they’ll let the rest of us go free, but I promise you they’ll come for us soon. This might be my last chance. Since you won’t come with me, I’m going alone. I wish I could have said a proper goodbye, but I know you’d try to stop me.

Love always,

- Anniebear

She left through the basement hatch. I know this because I spotted her corpse some five feet away through our kitchen window. She gazed back at me, a look of shock painted across her pale face, with a small red dot where the bullet pierced her skull. I couldn’t even muster the courage to step out and bury her. Instead the racoons and dogs took care of her, one piece at a time.

She was right, though. Eventually they did come for me.

It was over a week later. By then I didn’t have the will to resist. I waited patiently at the kitchen table, drunk with a glass of whiskey as soldiers and white-coats dragged me from the house. When I’d seen it happen to other people, it seemed to occur so quickly. Now, it happened in slow motion.

I heard every word from the soldier's mouth. Every command. First, he patted me down and ensured I was disarmed, then he told me this was all routine and nothing to worry about. Together they took me out into my yard. The white-coat asked me if I had lived a good life, if I had been a man of faith. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I was simply too drunk, or maybe I truly didn’t care anymore.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the white-coat assured me. “You’ll be at peace once it’s over, brother.”

In the distance came the growing rumble of the monster’s feet. Of the Tall Thing coming to claim its bounty.

“How many more after this?” the soldier asked the white-coat, his hand painfully gripping my shoulder.

“Sixteen.”

“Then us, sister?”

“Then us.”

The rumbling deepened. The Tall Thing was getting closer, and soon my heart was beating in sync with its stampeding footfalls. Memories flashed in my mind. Memories of Anne, of my dead neighbors, of the mother who lived at the end of the road and her children, now puddles of flesh on the pavement. My hands became fists. Indignation and fury grew inside of me, stoked by whisky fumes.

“Why do this?” I growled. “Why not just put a bullet in my head?”

“Because we love you, brother,” said the white-coat. “You waited patiently. You had faith, and for that you will be rewarded with salvation. You will be raptured.”

The Tall Thing rounded the corner, its legs slapping against the ground in great strides. Its frame eclipsed the moon, casting a shadow across me and stealing the breath from my lungs. It slowed down as it reached my lawn, sauntering this way and that.

“What are they?” I whispered.

“The ones that made us,” the white-coat replied. “Those that gave us life.”

I shrank away as the Tall Thing neared, but the soldier shoved me forward. “Be strong, brother. Show it your conviction. We were brought to this planet long ago, but now our time is served and we’re finally going home. Don’t you want to go home?”

The Tall Thing reached up to its hood. As it did, the soldier’s grip loosened and both he and the white-coat stepped to the side, away from the creature’s view. I would not scream, I told myself. No matter what, I wouldn’t give these monsters the satisfaction of my terror.

It pulled back on its hood, and something grotesque looked down on me. It was as if a hundred different faces had been stitched together, fused into an abomination that seemed to smile from fifteen mouths. “We come in peace,” it said.

My teeth bit into my cheeks, clenching them closed. A whimper escaped me, a whimper and a groan as my stomach filled with a soup of boiling horror. I would not scream. No matter the pain-- I would not scream.

Its long, spindly hands gripped my face. It cocked its head to the side, a hundred different eyes blinking back at me. Then it tugged at the bottom of my mouth.

But I wasn’t going to let it have its way. I clenched my jaw, holding it closed. The creature blinked at me. Then it repositioned its grip.

Crack.

It snapped my jaw like cardboard. I roared in agony, my lower mouth hanging limply from my face. Tears fell from my eyes in a torrent.

“Shh,” it whispered, slipping a finger down my throat. I choked and gagged. It fished its finger around as a hundred different eyes rolled back, and fifteen mouths began muttering an alien language.

I struggled against it, pulling at its arm but it was useless. The monster was too strong. Then a gunshot rang out.

And another. The Tall Thing wheeled around, dropping me onto my lawn as the soldier began shouting into his radio. The next second, a bullet found the soldier in the head. The white-coat shrieked, fleeing around my fence as a round caught her in the shoulder. The Tall Thing shot up to its full height, standing level with the street lamps and then sprinted toward the shooter.

Toward Old Ty.

He’d set up a killzone on his roof, surrounded by rifles and ammo. He’d waited for a moonless night to do his business, and now he was raining lead onto the creature like a blizzard of death. “What are you waiting for?” he bellowed. “Get moving, dipshit!”

I did. I stole away, hiding in shrubs and behind sheds, watching as Tall Things came roaring down streets, jumping over houses and knocking over cars as they tried to reach Old Ty. He only lasted a few minutes. That’s when the shooting stopped, but it was enough time for me to get away.

Maybe enough time for others, too.

It took me three hours to hike through Debby Forest and make it to the next town, and once I did I breathed a sigh of relief. There weren’t any soldiers. No white-coats. Most importantly, there weren’t any Tall Things melting people in their clothes. Just quiet stillness, the thing early mornings were meant for.

I made my way to the sheriff’s department to blow the whistle on what was going on. To explain that people were being shot, that Tall Things were melting people on the street and that we needed to get our ass in gear and call in the National Guard– no, scratch that. We needed to call in fucking NATO.

But as I got to the door of the precinct I stopped. Something gleamed in the corner of my eye, catching my attention. It was there, at the edge of the curb. A puddle.

Strange thing was, it hadn’t rained in weeks.

#creepypasta #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writerslife #writers #writing #creative writing #writing community #original writing #horror #writblr #writer things #short fiction #short story #sci fi horror #jgmartin #the tall things

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