#addict and jeff hours

[martitheevans]

Shows from the 60s/70s will always consist of the main characters going through the most insane, life-changing, traumatising experience and then having a shot of them all laughing together at the end and proceeding to never speak of it ever again

[lexirosewrites]

Day 16: Pack Isolation Sickness

for @stmarchmm

Steve has never felt more at home than at a concert.

Ever since he was old enough to hitch a ride to Indy and sneak into places with a passable fake ID, he’s been drawn to live music however he can find it.

He’s not even very picky about the genre.

Of course, he has his favorite bands and singers, as most people do. A small collection of songs and artists who make him feel a little less alone in the world.

As a male omega (something that’s drawn mostly negative attention since he was old enough to present), Steve’s alone a lot.

His parents weren’t around much prior to his “unfortunate presentation,” but now they only pop in to take holiday family photos and pretend they’re good parents.

Then it’s back to some tropical island or big city where they can live the life they actually want.

Without a disappointing son.

So yeah, it’s been rough the last few years for Steve.

No real family or pack. Most of his friends stopped answering his calls when he lost his popularity or refused to sleep with them.

He’s a loner, but not by choice.

This is how he finally discovers the wonders of metal music.

Steve had overheard some geeky freshmen discussing a metal concert happening at the shitty bar in town that night.

The Hideout is notorious for not carding very well. His fake will be fine, even if half the town knows the Harrington’s omega son is only eighteen.

His interest is piqued.

A band called ‘Corroded Coffin’ is supposed to be playing. A group of local musicians who have the regular Tuesday night spot.

Steve’s there an hour early, charming his way past the scrutinizing gaze of the bouncer with a sweet smile and batted eyelashes. It usually works for him.

He then finds a barstool to wait on.

It’s a little warm in the bar, so much so that even the dim lights start feeling too bright.

Steve has felt on the edge of a cold for a while now. Never quite sick enough to call himself truly ill, but never quite feeling like himself either.

An occasional cough or runny nose. Minor things. Tolerable.

None of that is enough to keep him from the music. If he’s ill, then music is the cure to all his ailments.

There’s nothing in the world that can’t be remedied with a good rhythm and a catchy melody.

By the time Corroded Coffin is ready to start playing, Steve’s grown slightly impatient.

He’s almost bouncing in his shoes, antsy to move and dance and enjoy the music that’s beginning to come from the band on the tiny stage.

Steve notices right away that the members aren’t old enough to be here at The Hideout either. Primarily because they’re also students at Hawkins High.

Gareth, Jeff, Doug, and Eddie Munson.

He’s not had much interaction with any of them beyond watching Tommy pick on them, back when they used to be friends.

But he knows Eddie is the leader of his little group of freaks.

Steve’s fairly sure they all play some demon game too.

He may not be a part of any social groups any more, but Steve still hears gossip from others.

There’s also the matter of Eddie getting up on lunch tables and giving long, flashy, noisy speeches to the whole school about forced conformity and the repression of omegas in society.

For a while, he’s fairly sure everyone believed Eddie himself to be an omega (albeit, a nontraditional one) because of how he openly opposes strict secondary gender roles.

But that rumor was quickly cleared up by a fight between Jason and Eddie wherein alpha fangs came out.

He seems like an okay guy, if a bit strange.

Still, Steve knows enough about his own prior reputation to know he probably shouldn’t stick around for the show.

And yet.

The music keeps his feet planted firmly towards the front edge of the stage, filling his ears with booming riffs and drums.

It’s an addiction, the music.

Something powerful he takes many hits of, but it never seems to fully take the edge off, no matter how much he gets.

Steve stays for the whole set, eyes closed and head banging along with the drunks who’ve stumbled in off the street for liquor and a show.

When it finally stops, it’s hard to believe he’s been listening for almost an hour straight.

‘Getting lost in the music’ is an understatement for the way he feels.

As soon as the show is done, Steve’s energy is zapped. His legs feel suddenly weak and his heart is pounding away too fast.

The cold is catching up to him, leaving him with profound exhaustion and emptiness in its place.

Like maybe he’ll never feel normal or happy again.

A feeling of doom and despair washes over Steve. It’s not new, but it is miserable.

“Harrington?”

He blinks open his eyes.

When had he even closed them?

Steve attempts to straighten up and stop leaning against the nearest brick wall for support.

Eddie Munson is staring him down with a look of open confusion and hidden skepticism, as if maybe he’s mistaken about Steve’s identity in the dark bar.

“Munson,” he states with a shaky nod.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asks plainly.

It’s not a surprising question. This isn’t one of Steve’s usual joints, but apparently it is Eddie and his alpha friends’.

“I came for the music,” Steve answers truthfully.

“Our music?” Gareth joins in.

He nods, turning his body in the direction of the exit. ‘King Steve’ is long gone, but not everybody has allowed his past to stay there.

A group of four potentially hostile alphas staring Steve down isn’t the best idea, even if they haven’t given him a reason to bolt out of the place yet.

“Yeah, I heard you guys were good.”

He isn’t sure what else to reveal, but he still doesn’t feel well and this conversation is weird.

“We are,” Doug states, squinted gaze locked onto Steve like he’s the one who could be a threat.

As if he isn’t an omega facing four alphas.

“Right. I’ll— uh, just be going now,” Steve explains, trying to push by Eddie with no luck.

As soon as the older alpha puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him, Steve’s legs give out and he’s on the dirty bar floor.

“Whoa, what the hell? Are you okay?” Eddie asks, bending down to help him.

If only he could melt into the floor now. But Eddie’s arms are so nice wrapped around his waist and assisting him to stand. The alpha then leads him backstage, to what appears to be a green room of sorts.

It’s filled with musical equipment, but at least there’s a couch where he can sit.

Eddie sits right next to him, tucking Steve under his arm and holding him close.

“It appears the rumors are true then. King Steve really has no pack.”

The words aren���t said in a cruel manner, but it still breaks his heart a little to be reminded.

“What do you know about it?”

Eddie hums thoughtfully.

“Enough to realize you’re having a wicked case of isolation sickness and you’re gonna drop any minute now if we don’t take care of you properly,” Eddie replies, gesturing towards the rest of his band of friends until they’re all surrounding Steve.

“Why are you doing this?”

He’s openly crying now.

Jeff gives him a sad smile, rubbing his wrist against Steve’s neck gently.

“Because we know what it’s like to have our own pack look out for us. Whatever the hell happened with your old friends, we can’t leave an omega vulnerable like this. We’ll take care of you, Steve.”

Gareth takes hold of his hand.

Doug ruffles his hair, leaving a scent on the top of his head.

All of the Corroded Coffin boys are making sure Steve has physical contact and plenty of scents on him, assuring that his inner omega knows he has a pack around him.

It works fast, the combination of touches and instincts.

He hardly notices Eddie kissing his temple and murmuring sweet words to him about what a good omega he is until his body starts to feel like his own again.

"You're alright, Steve. Your alphas are gonna protect you, sweetheart."

"I really did like your music," he admits quietly.

The boys all chuckle at him, but not in an unkind way.

"Well, you're welcome to tag along to our shows anytime. You can be our first real groupie," Doug jokes.

Steve smiles at that.

It would be nice to have friends again. And it's not like he's got other places to be anyway.

"I'd like that."

Eddie gives his shoulder a squeeze and Steve leans right into the touch, laying his head on the alpha's shoulder in return.

All of the Corroded Coffin members are being so nice to him, even though he doesn't deserve it.

But the pull to be near Eddie is even stronger.

"What do you think about coming back to my place tonight, Stevie? The boys and I were planning on knocking back a few of my Uncle Wayne's beers and watching a sci-fi movie."

He nuzzles his face closer into Eddie's neck, using the action to nod his agreement to the proposed idea.

It takes a combination of efforts to get Steve safely onto Eddie's back so he can carry him out to his van (they also have to reassure the bartender that he's not being kidnapped).

But by the time they make it to Eddie's trailer, the alpha has mentally readied a ten step courting plan to implement on Steve.

[returnofeternity]

the new pic of nat’s mugshot … i saw it like an hour ago and im still thinking about being her gf in prison … or even just her gf waiting for her to get out ugh natalie 💔

giggling... thinking of waiting for her at home, wondering where the hell she is and what's taking her so long. you end up falling asleep because it's nearly 3am now, and you wake up to the prison calling you?? you find out she was arrested for possession of marijuana or some shit, and needs someone to bail her out, but you're broke </3

thinking about living with her in some trashy motel at this point, you have a shitty job that barely pays for groceries, let alone living here, but you like it here with her. it's nice coming home from a shitty shift and smoking with her, walking to some little shop and eating dinner together <3 walks back to the motel, asking if she's still considering going to jeff and shauna's wedding... telling her you'd reallyyy like to see her all dressed up and that it's been a while since you've all seen shauna anyway..

but anyway back to being her prison gf.. since you can't bail her out right this second, you visit her. you're already up and putting your shoes on the second the prison calls you and tells you that they have nat, and she's like a beaten puppy when you show up 😭 her ass was allll smug with the officers and shit while getting cuffed and her mugshot done, but the second you walk in there, she's silent. nat asking, "are you mad at me 🥺" when you cross your arms and call her an idiot (lovingly). mainly scolding her for not hiding her weed well and mumbling that you wanted to smoke some with her when she got home -___- but ofc you're also concerned !! telling her how worried you were back at home and how you thought she was dead somewhere :( this especially bc we know of her addictions post rescue ☹️ ur always worried about her. kissing her through the bars, telling her you'll be here first thing in the morning tomorrow to see her.

maybe hitting up taissa for money help because she was basically the only one helping nat post rescue... thinking of nat somehow smuggling the weed back and all of you smoke it in tai's car after she bails natalie out 😭

but if nat was just in custody or wtv, and you have to wait for her release, it's torture. it feels like hours in that waiting room, your ass getting sore on that uncomfortable chair as you look up expectantly every time the door opens, but it's never nat 😞 having her leather jacket in your hand because it's nighttime and it's cold, rubbing it with your thumb for comfort. your heart stopping when she enters the room, getting uncuffed and released.. you almost thought you'd never see her again. you're being dramatic, you know, but god, it was scary getting that phone call.

immediately bringing her in for a hug that lasts minutes before she mumbles if you can just go home, mainly bc she just wants to get out of here and because the officers are staring.. putting her jacket on her and holding her hand back to the car, asking if she wants to stop by the liquor store for some snacks. you guys just end up going home and you ask her to explain how she even got arrested in the first place, and she just shrugs and says it was stoopid, and that she's just glad she's back with you.

[thediaryofaurora]

General HCs

Ticci Toby/Tobias Rogers

Sorry this took so long!! I’ve been contemplating writing one shots, but I feel like I should get the head canons out first. If any of you have any ideas for one shots (x readers, char x char, nsfw), my request box is open! I’ll get around to them as soon as possible. :)

- 5’11! Sleeper build and scrawny, but extremely strong upper arms. He’s not as fast as Kate and Brian, but he makes up for it with how long he can run. He never gets tired and can chase victims for hours. Lots of freckles, too!

- White with mostly German heritage. He doesn’t know very much German, just baseline stuff he learned from his mom. (Connie grew up in Germany until she was 15.)

- Medium brown hair and dark brown eyes. He’s pretty pale, but being outside most of the time he does have a slight tan, lots of freckles too.

- His dad was extremely abusive and would beat him, his mom, and his sister, it was rare for him to not be drunk. Toby killed him only a few hours after his father beat his mom to the point she was unconscious. He’d rather his mom lose both of her children and her abusive husband than endure so much pain, he cared about her more than anything. He didn’t want to sit idly by as he loses his sister and mother.

- His fingers are TORN up. Bites and picks at his nails, cuticles, dry knuckles, all of it. His fingertips and palms are also super calloused.

- Hangs out with Jeff and Ben most of the time. He’s closer to Ben and thinks Jeff’s a douche, but he puts up with him since sometimes the three of them have fun.

- He can be a jerk, but if you’re able to break past his shell he’s super sweet. He’s still sarcastic and snarky, but not necessarily mean. VERY smug.

- Had Jeff do a tattoo of Lyra’s birthday on his shoulder. It turned out surprisingly good. He was originally going to do her death date, but he felt like it was better to honor the time she was alive.

- Halloween junkie. He has a massive sweet tooth and loves autumn, so it’s the perfect day ever in his eyes.

- This guy DESTROYS in poker and blackjack. The few times his dad would spend time with him they’d play together. Even though he hated him, it meant a lot to him when he was little. Has the teeny tiniest gambling addiction, makes a bunch of bets with other residents of the mansion and usually wins.

- MIDWESTERN EMO BOY!!!! I will die on this hill. Music taste, clothing, all of it.

- His tics are pretty rare now that he’s older, but when he’s anxious they get bad.

- Exclusively wears comfortable clothes. Not because he gets uncomfortable, he could (and does) sleep in jeans and not be bothered. When he was younger he would always be forced to wear slacks, dress shoes, button ups, and ties for church or family gatherings. He HATED it.

- Him, Tim, and Brian are usually put on missions together. They’re all pretty compatible, and it’s nice to talk to just some regular ass dudes. Sometimes all three of them will go to run down diner’s if they finished their mission early, it’s the most normality any of them have in their lives.

- He and Tim bicker a LOT, but he secretly find comfort in it. He sees Tim as a protective older brother, rather than someone who just hates him. With how his dad treated him growing up, he thought all arguing was yelling and being aggressive, but Tim’s is more disagreement or annoyance.

- Almost knows how to play the acoustic guitar. He’s a quick learner, but he doesn’t have a crazy strong desire to get better at it.

- Pretty much always wears a big bandaid over his cheek gash. He’s not necessarily insecure about it unless he has a crush on someone, but it’s hard to eat or drink when it’s just open.

- He’s actually not to bad at soccer! Sometimes when it’s nice out him and Cody find a ball and play.

- Anywho, I’m in love with him.

Feedback and requests are welcome! Thank you for reading. :)

✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩

[vivicas-dollhouse]

CREEPYPASTA SLEEPOVER HEADCANNONS!!

Moms not home tonight, we can roll around have a pillow fight

Genre: headcannons

Pastas featured: ticci toby, jeff the killer, eyeless jack, masky, hoodie, ben drowned, sally williams, kate the chaser, clockwork, jane the killer, nina the killer, lulu, bloody painter, homicidal liu

Desc: just how i think some of the pastas would act at a sleepover :)

Cw: talk of drugs and alcohol

2.5k words, enjoy!!

Toby

-HORRIBLE at sleepovers. HORRIBLY ANNOYING.

-he will bring his console and try to get everyone to agree to a mariokart tournament

-he brings snacks, and hes got everything. cookies? yep. chips? you bet! soda? yes but only pepsi cherry.

-the only thing he forgot was a blanket and pajamas and literally everything else except games and food

-bro went and forgot a damn blanket

-he will talk all night if you let him. mainly about weird shit he learned recently that creeps you out

-he will be fine to keep partying at 5 am. my brother in christ is FIGHTING to keep everyone awake

-he will insist that he sleeps in just his boxers, he says its too hot

-”you ex-expect me t-to boil alive?”

-sleeps at 10am and wont wake up until you either shake him awake or 5pm rolls around

-sleeps like a tank, when hes out hes OUT

-mouthbreather, bro is practically eating the bugs

-he want nachos or he will throw a hissy fit about how they are “more for less”

Jeff

-he brings weed. No questions asked. Whats a party without some drugs?

-he also brings cigarettes cause bro is collecting addictions like pokemon

-orders pizza for him and himself only, the group can order whatever they want

-brings a body pillow and wraps his legs around it to sleep. The group bullies him for this.

-”god forbid a man get comfortable..”

-sleeps in gym shorts and a wife beater tank top

-he will smoke so much weed that he is staring at the wall for hours

-he falls asleep around 5am, wakes up at 11 the next morning feeling like he got hit by a bus

-he talks in his sleep, just loud enough to freak the others out cause its all genuinely creepy (like the pasta……)

-”youre not…… getting…. home….” WHAT THE FUCK

-before he sleeps he has to have a full glass of water cause his mouth gets “painfully dry” and its his only form of hydration

-brings a knife because why not? He never feels safe without it

Jack

-hes always fun to have around, hes quiet but funny and always has fun facts

-he brings kidneys to eat because he really doesn't like human food. Only problem is that it REEKS

-he has fuzzy pajama pants, a tshirt and slippers. He is ALWAYS cold so he has to bundle up with a blanket

-insists that they play minecraft or super smash bros, and hes ass at both

-”cmon, you cant button mash, actually play,”

-he sleeps pretty early, around midnight. He is the victim of many pranks because of this

-sleeps super heavy, wont wake up until you shake him for at least a minute

-purrs in his sleep

-brings extra toiletries, you never know if someone might've forgotten toothpaste

-might read before bed, he needs to have a wind down activity

-he likes watching true crime movies/documentaries and will pick out the most gore filled one cause they make him hungry

-puts on nu metal and ignores the protests of the others to turn it off

-brings headphones in case he gets overwhelmed, he doesn't usually get like that but hed rather be safe than sorry

Ben

-you already KNOW hes here to PARTY

-doesnt need drugs to act crazy, he just needs sugar and guess what! He brought candy! Lots of it too

-he brings any console or handheld game consoles he can reasonably set up, with multiple controllers for each. His bag is HUGE

-he sleeps in a tshirt and booty shorts, but he owns it

-”cmon, you cant see this total dumpy ive got? I got the shorts for a reason,”

-keeps the party going until the late morning, he will not sleep until 2pm

-wants the greasiest food possible, im talking jack in the box all day breakfasts level of greasy

-plays nightcore music, which he gets bullied for but its lowkey fire

-he forgot a blanket and will be fine with just sleeping on the floor, he doesn't plan on sleeping much anyways

-he wants to watch shitty comedies, if given the opportunity to put on monty python and the holy grail he will

-or he will put on john mulaney specials, everyone loves john mulaney

-when he DOES sleep, he snores SO FUCKING LOUD that it keeps everyone awake

-will ask to play spin the bottle bc he is an actual fiend for awkwardness he can bully people about (and kissing dudes)

Sally

-ah yes, our bestest girl

-she brings stuffed animals, a blanket and a princess sleeping bag

-she is still young, so she isnt really allowed to hang around the other pastas sleepovers

-plus she hates sleeping around men so it can only be a sleepover with all girls and no drugs/crackhead behavior

-she plays minecraft all night

-she will ask to put on a disney princess movie and will fall asleep to that

-”can mr teddy come watch frozen with us?”

-her bedtime is at 10pm, but she will fight to stay awake until 11pm

Masky

-oh boy.

-he doesn't like sleepovers, he doesn't want to go to sleepovers, and will only be there as a trip sitter or a chaperone of sorts

-he will smoke a little weed but is mostly content with a pack of cigarettes and a beer

-just turns on a random sport of a random team to nod off to, hes not the type to stay up unless theres a job he needs to complete

-”can yall be quiet, im tryin to watch the… the uhhh…. the mets and the… the other team,”

-sleeps shirtless with gym shorts, maybe sometimes he will wear a tank top but only if hes asked to

-wants to eat a burger, just any burger with bacon. He doesn't even need a fry, just a coke and a burger with bacon.

-falls asleep on the couch, he doesn't care what anyone else is doing, as long as no ones dying and they leave him alone

-he makes everyone feel like they are being parented, and even he hates it. He is above watching these dumbasses

-he might play a game, but thats a low chance

-plays 90s grunge music, he cant help it, its so good

-he snores quietly, unlike SOME GHOST HE KNOWS.

Hoodie

-brings so much weed. So much.

-he brings a duplicate hoodie of the one he shows up in, the famous yellow one

-he mainly smokes and plays on his phone, he might even put on a baby sensory video once everyone is high

-he puts on youtube deep dives on whatever he finds interesting, usually some internet drama

-”...and he made him cut up the medallion and i shit you not they nearly got him to put it up his ass,”

-brings everything you could ever want when you have the munchies, chips, dip, soda, candy, and some hot pockets

-brings headphones to listen to rain sounds while he sleeps

-he mutters absolute nonsense while asleep

-he sleeps around 3am and is a fairly light sleeper.. thats why he brought headphones

-wants to sleep in the bed, he doesn't care if someone is already in it, they can share!

-sleeps in a tank top and pajama pants, the pants usually get kicked off in the middle of the night though

-he moves a lot in his sleep, he sometimes sleepwalks but not often

Kate

-shes rarely invited, but shes glad to go

-she is very nocturnal, she will be up all night eating snacks she's squirreled away in her bag

-she wants sushi, but understands if its out of budget. She has enough pickles to make it through the night.

-she sleeps in a hoodie and sweatpants, hood up and curled in a ball

-she brings an actual sleeping bag, she doesn't want to sleep on JUST the floor.

-she brings so many snacks, but forgets any toiletries and a pillow

-”you want a pickle? I have so many, sweet, dill, spicy.. or do you want something else? I have a lot of stuff,”

-she wants to play twister so bad, but shes scared to ask

-shes shy, but as the night goes on she opens up

-she is fun to be around once the drinks start flowing, shes very bubbly and silly while drunk

-she doesn't know how to play video games, but shes happy to watch

-wants to watch notoriously shitty movies to make fun of

-she sleeps with headphones on playing emo music

-she finally sleeps around 5am, and shes OUT until at least noon

Nina

-oh jesus where to start..

-she will be black out drunk by the end of the night. She even brought the drinks to make sure

-she might be underage but there are bigger issues with her being drunk

-shes a crier, she gets messy drunk and gets into fights

-”you called me a slut, ill *hic* ill make you a dead b- *sniffle* bitch, you dont call.. you dont call ME a slut, it *sniff* it was only 3 times,”

-sleeps in a tight cropped tank top and hello kitty pajama pants

-she will watch shitty romcoms and cry the whole time

-she will try to kiss anyone and everyone, shes sad AND flirty at the same time

-she will reveal her darkest secrets if you prod her

-she doesn't want food, eating makes you fat and she will let everyone know that while they eat

-she pregamed the fucking sleepover, tell me you have a problem without telling me you have a problem

-she sleeps as soon as she finishes all her frozen margaritas, but theres enough of them that youd think shes got alcohol poisoning

Jane

-shes not the type to go to sleepovers, but if she WAS she would be a babysitter to the others

-she will not go to a sleepover with any men. She doesn't trust them at all

-she doesn't drink or smoke so shes stuck watching people to make sure no one kills each other

-she will turn on the office and just watch it like nothing else is happening

-asks to get kfc, shes a sucker for some fried chicken

-she sleeps in a oversized shirt and shorts, she gets hot easy

-”are you all going to eat the drumsticks or can i have them.. nina why are you crying now?”

-she sleeps only after her 8 step skin care and having a glass of water, she cannot sleep thirsty

-shes fine with sleeping on the couch or armchair, anything but the floor

-wears noise canceling headphones to bed, she sleeps so lightly that its nearly impossible to sleep without them

-she sleeps pretty early, around midnight or so

Clockwork

-theres no fucking way she's getting out of this without a wicked headache in the morning

-she gets nervous sleeping around other people so she smokes weed to feel better

-like a lot of weed

-she gets all giggly when high, she genuinely has a great time

-she craves cheese ramen so bad that she will go out of her way to make some in the kitchen at fucking 4am

-she is also practically nocturnal, she will wake up at 5pm and sleep at 6am

-she snores so loudly and mouth breaths, she sounds like a fucking tank

-”please bro drive me to the store i need more cheese, we only have kraft singles that shit is nasty”

-she watches funny tiktok complations and laughs her ass off all night

-do not mention how silly she was when she wakes up. Shes not silly or goofy, she is a tough, stoic woman (eyeroll)

-she sleeps in a tank top and short shorts, and brings a pillow and light blanket only

Lulu

-is honored to be included in a sleepover, she never usually gets included

-she brings snacks, various medications, toothpaste and tooth brushes, lotion, shampoo and conditioner, a comb, floss, two pillows, drinks….

-basically she overpacks

-she sleeps in a nightgown, and she has sock slippers that she wears while sleeping

-she doesn't drink or smoke, and shes fairly overwhelmed by everything thats happening

-”oh, um, i was wondering when its bed time?”

-she finds a quiet corner, brings her stuff and reads until she falls asleep around 11pm

-she wants to make people happy so she says she's enjoying herself but she is miserable

-she was under the impression that she would be able to shower, and is confused on why no one is

-she eats a sandwich she packed because she has a mild nut allergy and didnt want to risk any food they get causing an allergic reaction

-she really wanted to have fun, but parties are not her thing

Helen

-just a constant downer, he brings the mood down SO fast

-”did you know that you swallow 8 spiders in your sleep a year and that there is actually horse meat in that mcdonalds your eating” BRO WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT

-just sits in a corner and draws, he didnt want to come in the first place

-doesn't want anything youd normally have at a sleepover, he wants a salad or at MINIMUM a sandwich or soup

-he brings an actual air mattress, he is above sleeping on the ground (and it hurts his back)

-he doesn't want to play any games, talk smack about anything, or do anything you'd normally do

-yet he stays up all night, creepily watching people sleep and drawing them

-only goes to bed when the sun's starting to rise, but he will be up again at 10am

-wears his normal clothes to sleep, he doesn't NEED pajamas and his day clothes work the same as pjs

-leaves as soon as possible

Liu

-he is… he is not happy.

-he didnt want to come, he knew he wouldn't have fun, yet he was talked into coming.

-he isnt a fan of everyone shouting and playing loud music and using drugs, he just wanted to have a relaxing evening with friends

-he sleeps in a sweater and shorts, and he brings a change of clothes for the morning

-he just watches lets plays on his phone while hiding somewhere thats quiet and no one can find him

-he ends up not falling asleep at all, despite trying REALLY HARD to

-”god damn i actually WANT to ‘go to sleep’ now,”

-he comes out of his hiding spot briefly to eat whatever they ordered and instantly goes back to hide

-hes got a blanket and pillows, and he is cozy in his corner, and thats the best he can do

-he is pissy when he does interact with the others, he just doesn't get why people like to party at all

-he puts on some goth music in between lets plays and texts helen about how miserable he is and eventually goes to sit by him for a bit, and they sit quietly

[batshitferalejsimp]

can i ask for jtk short scenario prompts or general headcanons

(OF COURSE YOU CAN!!!1!! I love requests! \o/)

Jeff the Killer General Headcanons!!

(Well well well, it's time to talk about everyone's favorite crashout)

Minors DNI !!

Now to start I 100% subscribe to angry problematic emo boy Jeff the killer. he's tall, hes thin and he's a little bit of a bitch

Honestly I think he'd be around 6ft1 and rail thin while somehow eating way more than he should, like ribs still showing after eating 15 cheeseburgers a day for a month(with sides).

He's surprisingly strong for his size, not like impossibly so, but enough to take someone off guard, which adds to how hard it is to predict what the fuck he will do in any given fight

His voice isn't especially deep and it's VERY raspy hoarse, like he just spent an hour screaming before he talked to you, it's just like that all the time.

Jeff is the number 1 asshole in any situation, like going out of his way to make sure everyone is having a worse time than him, He'll go easy on you if he likes you(romantically or not), but your not escaping his pranks, he just won't try to hurt you.

He is always fighting someone, or recovering from getting his ass beat. Honestly though, he doesn't hold grudges from fights unless he already hates you, its like fighting people is the only thing that keeps this skeletal asshat alive alive. He's the kind of guy to go to a bar just to get into a bar fight. He is gonna be laughing even if he's got broken bones and he lost.

He somehow has short man syndrome even though he's tall??? blame EJ or something

He gets a sick satisfaction whenever someone is shorter than him, makes him less likely to pick a fight with you though, unless your beefier than him, then it doesn't matter

He gets all his pocket money by stealing from the houses of his victims, going as far as to break open piggy banks. He knows this one pawn shop owner that won't ask questions or narc on him

Jeff like's to gift people the stuff he stole, especially if he REALLY likes you ;)

He uses Reddit and 4chan.

On Reddit he's your garden variety troll, saying whatever will piss people off (he doesn't believe half the bullshit he spews, but it's VILE)

on 4chan, he BRAGS and shows pictures of him with dead bodies, animals. He also posts to a board about Knives, and there he's creepy, but no one connects the dots and just thinks he's a poser

He listens to almost exclusively problematic/fucked up artists (luckily he's emo so he don't gotta look too hard)

being called "Jeff the Killer" makes him geniunely giddy, and if you wanna be friends(or more) the fastest way to do that is to use the title every time you talk to him

he knows how to pickpocket, lockpick and hotwire and will use that information for evil(stealing and crashing cars)(also like... the murder)

He believes he can't get addicted to anything so he's done most of the well known drugs and gone into withdrawal several times(it pisses EJ off)

He likes to game, but has horrible gamer rage

He believes in equal rights equal fights(and no you can't convince him how it's wrong)

He is surprisingly thoughtful when he likes you(except for when he isnt), like he will not go too far(atleast for you), and if he does he almost always apologizes. And as for gifts, he does what he can and ALWAYS remembers birthdays(A reason to go have fun)

As he's grown, he's somehow become less of a loner and more social(not to say he has any social grace, but he has fun around people)

He will kill for the people he likes, and it would be flattering, if he didn't get off on it

EXTRA!!!

It was a foggy night as Jeff dragged you through the streets, laughing his ass off you stumbled trying to keep up with him. He seemed especially excited tonight, having climbed through your window to wake you up, barely letting you get dressed before shoving you out the door and dragging you out onto the streets. "Come ooooOOOOoon, hurry up." Jeff whined as if he was trying to be annoying, which he probably was knowing him.

"where the hell are we even going?" You asked for the umpteenth time, not expecting an answer. "Not telling, but trust me, you'll love it." Jeff replied excitedly. "This is the last turn anyway" It was only a few minutes of that same song and dance before you found yourself in front of a VERY big house, in a VERY affluent neighborhood. It was a comically expensive home, which made you nervous to see the opened door and cameras as he shoved you through the door. "Jeff! What the hell!? You're gonna get me arrested!" You protested, trying to fight against him as he covered your mouth.

"RelaaAAAaax, I cut the cords to the cameras days ago." Jeff teased, shoving you into the house before shutting the door behind him. "Now come on! This place is fucking awesome, there's a pool and you can steal whatever you want."

As you stared up at him from the floor, mouth agape, he grinned.

"Aren't I the greatest?" Jeff paused for a moment, "Avoid the 2nd floor bathrooms though, I forgot which one I put the bodies in."

[valeisaslut]

I’ve already mentioned how your music taste is absolutely absurdly immaculate and the song choices couldn’t be more perfect in collide. Do you have any personal fave albums or album recs? Any artist, any genre.

(I listen to an album of music a day and am quickly running out lol)

OH BABY you just asked my most dangerous question. you want music recs? you want albums? baby you’re about to get baptized in holy discography. let me pull out my rosary.

— Lana Del Rey’s ENTIRE discography. Every era. Every breakdown. From Born to Die to Ocean Blvd to the unreleased where she’s probably crying in a parking lot — it’s all canon. She writes for the girls who text “be honest” then dissociate in the bath for three hours.

— Jeff Buckley – Grace. Do I even need to explain???????? We all lost our virginity spiritually and emotionally the first time “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” hit. This is the Collide BIBLE. The blueprint. A religious text for the yearningly unwell.

— Britney Spears – Blackout. Required listening before you go feral in a nightclub or ruin your life for a girl with an eyebrow slit. Pure pop chaos. She wasn’t okay and that’s why it’s perfect.

— Hozier – Unreal Unearth. Oh this one’s for the post-catholic, poetry-reciting, emotionally sunburnt lesbians who believe in forgiveness but only after some light emotional crucifixion. Every song feels like running barefoot through a burning field to apologize to the ghost of your ex.

— The Weeknd – Trilogy. The unhinged sad girl hours. Sex, addiction, regret, ego death. All playing over a synth beat while you cry into your overpriced hotel pillow. A soundtrack for bad decisions made in good lighting. i LOVE the Weeknd.

— Måneskin – Teatro d’ira – Vol. I. Oh you wanna scream? You wanna strut? You wanna fuck and fight and then cry about it on stage while chain-smoking in a velvet suit? Yeah. That one. It’s bisexual rage therapy in rock form.

— Charly García – his entire fucking discography. From Piano Bar to Clics Modernos, every album feels like a crumbling political cartoon and a romantic spiral rolled into a line of poetic cocaine. Genius. Madman. Prophet. Argentina SUPREMACY.

— Soda Stereo – MTV Unplugged: Música Para Volar. Literally transcendental. Like floating above Buenos Aires with a cigarette in one hand and a broken heart in the other. Gustavo Cerati’s voice could heal me or kill me and I’d thank him either way. MY KING FOREVA.

— BTS – WINGS. This album got me through a depressive episode at 13 and into a fever dream. It’s about youth, temptation, trauma, and rebirth, and every track sounds like a confession whispered in a church pew at 3am. Also Blood Sweat & Tears exists and that’s reason enough.

— Fito Páez – Euforia (live album). Ojalá que te vaya mal, que te vengas a vivir conmigo y te salga todo mal. That is the kind of curse you write in lipstick on a mirror. His piano? Possessed. That live energy? Untouchable. Argentina once again clears.

If you want more… I’m always locked and loaded with heartbreak anthems and feral girl hymns. I got albums for every phase of a breakdown. Just say the word <3

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. (TW: domestic violence)

Building Walls

Both had been scared as boys. John of the dark, Sherlock of the light. 

John’s vivid imagination made up monsters under the bed and kidnappers in the woods around the tent when the Watsons went camping. 

“Fear is a weakness,” John’s father growled when his son was shaking and sobbing, terrified of the horrors of the darkness around him.

The solution was to beat the fear out of John while using spite words like coward, squeamish, queer, faggot, weak.

It took some time before it worked. For every stroke from his father’s hand or belt, John’s protecting wall was reinforced with a new brick, until his father was satisfied, and John’s fear had dissipated. So it seemed anyway.

***

Sherlock was a night owl from an early age but was forced to live in the light where others could see his aberrant behaviour. His cousins, aunts and uncles all called him freak, queer, weak, abnormal.

He just wanted to be left alone with his experiments, which he preferred to conduct in the dark hours.

“Fearing the light is a sickness,” his mother told him, and caught him in an iron grip before he could abscond and ordered him to sit in the conservatory with her and his cousins for hours.

When he finally was released, his head throbbed, his eyes stung, and he felt bone tired. He cried when he woke in the morning, realising that he’d been too exhausted to escape sleep.

“You must not let them see your weakness, brother mine,” Mycroft advised him, so Sherlock built a wall around himself and called it his Mind Palace.

***

In the dark Afghan desert, John met many soldiers who were afraid of what they could not see, and with good reason. He knew he should be terrified, and deep down he was, but he had a responsibility as a captain. His wall was strong and didn’t crack until a bullet came out of the velvet night and found his shoulder.

Back in the radiant city that was London, John’s wall crumbled. His mind was a dark hole even if he was surrounded by light.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” became a mantra he lived by, until he met Mike Stamford, and later Sherlock Holmes.

The brief and totally ridiculous encounter in the lab at Barts, lifted a vail, and a glimpse of sunshine entered John’s mind.

***

For years Sherlock lived in the blissful darkness, but people still interfered and made his life miserable. His mother and brother in particular. So, he sought out company that at first was a relief, but later put him on the path towards addiction and destruction.

Stumbling over Greg Lestrade’s crime scene, high as a kite, but still capable of observing and deducing what had happened, saved Sherlock’s life. For the first time in years, someone was interested in the knowledge he possessed; signs that a victim had been poisoned, different traces of mud or ash. 

“Get clean, and I’ll call you when we’re out of our depths,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft probably ensured Lestrade’s promotion after that, when Sherlock explained, and begged Mycroft to take him to rehab.

The incongruous scale Sherlock used to categorise the crimes Lestrade called him about, wasn’t all about how interesting a case was, but had more to do with the time of day. Only a serial killer could make Sherlock attend a crime scene in broad daylight. The darkness was his friend, and his dramatic persona thrived and added mystery to it all when he whirled around in his beloved Belstaff and polished Italian shoes.

John was like the sun and should frighten Sherlock with his warmth and incandescence. Instead, Sherlock felt an instant calmness fall over him when his fingers brushed John’s as he took the phone John offered him the day they met. 

***

John’s fear of the dark night vanished when he saw Sherlock together with Jeff Hope, and his hand was steady when he shot the awful cabbie.

Sherlock’s case scale suddenly changed, and he and John turned up at crime scenes at all hours, even when the sun shone bright and clear.

The only fear they had left, was losing each other.

----------------------------------------------------------------

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[trashmouth-richie]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: eddie takes a drive down memory lane, a situationship is revealed, clove finds herself in some harrowing situations in a feeble attempt to cope with eddie’s return.

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dark! fic, dark themes, ddlg type of relationship but not what you would think, controlling behavior in a relationship, controlling finances type of abuse, narcissist behavior, emotional abuse, hint at sex trafficking/ trading sex for business 18+. drug use/addiction etc.

𝐦𝐚��𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

That night Eddie didn’t sleep. 

He watched your figure bounce to what he assumed was the dressing room as he sat in solemn silence for what felt like a decade, your eyes engraved into his. 

Jeff understood, or rather wasn’t too upset when Eddie called it a night, dropping off the beers you had poured. He was preoccupied with one of the girls, twirling her pigtails as she sat in his lap, crimson lip stains on his deep cheeks. 

The sweet dew of spring night air met him as he pushed the door to the club open, letting the night’s darkness swallow him as he crunched through the gravel to his motorcycle. 

Turning the opposite direction from where he should have been heading, Eddie cranks the handlebars to head downtown. The lonely hotel mattress could wait another hour before he slipped his body into the pilling worn sheets. 

The steady rap of his bike hammered into his chest as he drove down the broken unwelcoming streets of Hawkins. Down town was desolate, the Radio shack was boarded up and closed, graffiti tagged and windows shattered. Melvald’s windows showed handwritten posters for heavily discounted items. Newspapers tumbled along and caught on light poles, Hawkins resembled a town post apocalypse. 

He couldn’t remember what it used to look like. 

Back then his biggest worry was leaving and taking you with him. For all he knew, Hawkins could have always looked like this. Getting you away from here, that was the only thing on his mind. 

Pushing the thoughts away he cranked the throttle and sped through the streets, unconsciously driving further, his memory taking over. 

He drove past Hawkins High, vague memories formed like wisps of smoke around the parking lot. A younger version of him and you sitting in his van listening to his new Motörhead cassette before Higgins would eventually stroll the parking lot and hand out each of you detentions. 

Hawkins Middle School where he doodled in the margins of his composition book and passed you notes about Mr. Walter’s toupee. Your giggle hidden behind chipped fingernails and a fresh tattoo, eyes squeezed tight to stop from laughing. The memory burned a hole in his heart.

The familiarity drove him on, leading the path down to where you and him used to call home. 

The dust kicked up when his tires wove around the gaping holes of the driveway to Forest Hills Trailer Park. His chest was tight, all air punched from his lungs at what lay before him. 

The trailer he once called home was standing like a decrepit omen. The tires it rested on were flat, wires bulging from the rotting rubber. The entire trailer had sunk into the soft earth beneath it, creating a funhouse effect to the back side, putting it on a tilt. 

The windows that weren’t busted out by rocks were covered with foil, a cheap attempt to keep the sun out. 

What was left of the aluminum siding glistened in the moonlight, taunting him. 

From the way the door stood wide open, and the accumulation of last falls foliage littering the entryway, he guessed that no one lived here anymore—save for the fat mice that kept the trailer cats fed. 

Years of decay and neglect replaced any sort of nostalgia he would have felt being back here. The bad memories came easy, it was the happy ones that he had to dig for. 

Glancing behind him he didn’t notice it at first. The frail frame of a burnt trailer. The roof was swallowed in on itself, charred and soot surrounding the dead grass. Whatever caused this fire had taken the trailer fast, engulfing its matchbox body like kindling. 

His one tiny flicker of hope that maybe you still lived here, maybe he could catch you when you weren’t working, was put out like this fire surely wasn’t. 

Ghost flames danced in his eyes as he blinked back tears. The agony of years away filled him with grief. He didn’t grieve for his loss. He had no reason to. Al Munson was the last person he needed closure from. He hoped for his death. Wished for it. Hoping that some inner dimensional being would crush him like a coke can. But he’d never get that lucky. 

People like his dad, and yours, seemed to live forever. Cockroach luck with bodies that were pickled by alcoholism— they’d roam until they saw ninety, tainting everyone they got close to, poisoning their veins and stealing their dreams.

As he rode away, tears spilled down his face, not for him and his misfortunes. But for you. A little girl lost. A girl he had failed. 

—

1974

ping, clink

You could hear the radio through his bedroom window, the new * tape he had bought  crooning out in muffled tones. 

clink, ping, clink

“c’mon!” you muttered under your breath. The rough cinder block you were balancing on was starting to dig into your bare feet, jagged rocks and concrete stuck out every which way. 

She hadn’t come back. 

Hours had passed and she said she was going to the store with the baby, getting some milk and cigarettes. You watched as the short hand on the clock moved from 3 then 4, 5 to 6, and now it was at 11, moving closer to 12 with each tick that went by. 

Dad wasn’t home, spending the night with friends in Indianapolis looking for “fresh meat” whatever that meant. 

You were left home alone. Not a first time occurrence, but definitely not on a night when the wind was howling like a wolf. 

The trailer groaned, shadows appeared in all shapes over your shared empty room. Scary faces with pointy teeth. Long witch-like arms that scratched against the aluminum siding, the air vent whistling against the tin roof had you yelping, hiding beneath your covers. 

When the power went out, it took the tiny brightness from the shell nightlight with it, leaving you in an eerie darkness, and you had enough for one night.  

Eddie’s trailer was one down from yours, a quick 15 second run through the tall weeds would get you there in no time. Tucking the oversized shirt you wore as pajamas into the waistband of a pair of cotton shorts, you opened the trailer door, your blankie tucked safe into the crook of your arm. 

The screen door was ripped from your hand by a large gust of wind, but you couldn’t be bothered with that upon realizing that the entire trailer park was cast into darkness, not a single stitch of light to be seen. 

Your feet found the familiar path from Eddie’s trailer to yours with ease as you raced past the Peterson’s chained up rottweiler. His bark loud enough to scare a grown man into hiding. 

Racing up the front steps you knocked quietly, not wanting to wake up Eddie’s dad and deal with his wrath, his fuse shorter than your own fathers. Wiggling the handle you realized it was locked, which was strange considering that the Munson’s didn’t even own a house key. 

And that was what led you here, knocking on Eddie’s window at 11 o’clock at night, standing on tiptoes on the cinder block used as a step ladder. 

“Eddie!” you whisper yelled into the night, your voice traveling away with the wind, “Eddie! P-please, it’s me!” 

Giving up on silent little knocks of your knuckles against the glass, you hit the window hard with a fist and an open palm, tears flowing down your cheeks in desperation. 

The sheet covering his window that served as a curtain, moved back quickly the same time a round orb of light shined in your eyes. 

His hair was a god awful mess, smushed to his head from sleep, curls limp and frizzy. He mouths your name in a question, tucking the flashlight under his chin, his fingers work to lift the window up the broken track. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, like I was…hey are you okay?”

The tears slip down your face faster than you could stop them, and you wipe them away hastily with the corner of your blankie. 

Eddie moves stuff from his dresser, sliding books into a milk crate and plastic army guys to the floor. 

“Put your foot there,” he instructed, pointing to the siding of the trailer, “like if you were climbing a tree or something.” 

You do as your told, and Eddie leans through the window, grabbing your hands and hoisting you into his room. 

When your feet are on the warm carpet you take a shuddering breath, “thanks, the wind is—”

“Scary, I know, that’s why I have the stereo on… makes it hard to hear it.” 

You stand there for a few seconds, fingers fiddling around the hem of your blankie, embarrassed, not sure what your plans were after making it inside. “Your door’s locked.” 

“Oh, my uncle Wayne is here, he must’ve done it, I dunno.” 

Your face stays puzzled, “your uncle?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie chirps almost gleefully, “Took me to supper and then we went bowling! I’ve met him once or twice, seems cool.” 

“Cool.”

Eddie whispers loud, “Hey! I know some good ghost stories if you wanna have a sleepover?” 

“Um sure, okay.” 

You help Eddie arrange his room, placing the flash light on his bed and angling it towards the closet so he can find an afghan he swore was in there. 

When all was said and done his bed held a thin sheet and a frumpy couch pillow. A smile on his face as you sat side by side, backs pressed into the thin walls.  

Your voice was small when Eddie placed the flashlight under his chin, illuminating his face and casting shadows against the walls, your blankie tucked beneath your nose.  

 “Eddie, I—I changed my mind, don’t wanna hear any scary stories tonight.” 

“Yeah, ’course,” the flashlight falls between you to shine lazily on his dresser, and he hesitates a question that had been burning since you crawled through his window. 

“Clove, where's your mom? Didn’t see her car when we left, or when we got back.” 

Tears squish against your eyelashes as you try to stop them from falling, and your chin quivers. “Th—the store.” 

His voice is soft, “Is your dad home?”

You shake your head, pressing your face into the worn comfort of the thread bared blankie. A hand lays consciously on your back rubbing in a little circle between your shoulder blades. 

Eddie hadn’t had to comfort someone before he wasn’t even sure he was doing it right but he just kept trying. Hoping whatever he was doing would make it better. 

After a few minutes you perked your head up, wiping the wet from your eyes and looking at your friend with swollen eyelids.

“Do you know any happy stories?” 

Eddie’s lips stretched into a small smile as he leaned partly off his bed to find a cream paperback from his nightstand, “The Fellowship Of The Ring” written on the cover. 

He holds it towards you, “Wayne gave me this… I haven’t read it yet but he said it was good.” 

You nod your head, “okay.”

He wiggles his hips down into the blanket, and hands you the flashlight, clearing his throat he begins. 

“When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton…..”

—

1989

“…wake up..”  

Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the Shire for sixty years, ever since his remarkable disappearance and unexpected return. 

“fuck, did you hear me?”

…The riches he had brought back from his travels had now become a local legend, and it was popularly believed, whatever the old folk might say…

The young boy’s reassuring voice morphs into a woman's panicked squeak. The warm arm that was buddied next to yours, the soft lumpy texture of your blankie, the Pert shampoo smell of the percale pillowcase drifted away like smoke from a fire. Traveling higher and higher into the sky until it blended with the atmosphere, weaving and connecting until it was nothing more than a euphoric elevated induced memory. 

You close your eyes to try to find your way back to Eddie. To hear him, see him, feel his voice booming in theatrics as he changed characters. The solace he brought you just by being him. 

A splash of something cold and wet hits your face causing you to gasp, sputtering from the passed out dream land you were in. 

“Oh my God! Shit, Clove! I almost called 9-1-1!” 

Veronica was standing before you with a glass in her hand, water dripping from the mouth of it, falling in unison with the ones from your chin, your hair. 

Her eyes were larger than the moon, staring down at you like she was looking at a ghost, a hand pressed to her chest in relief. 

“Cold,” you muttered, wrapping your fingers around your arms, teeth chattering. Looking out from the confined corner of the cooler, sheltered by cases of beer and an empty keg.  

“What are you even doing in here, thought you left already.” Veronica asked, lending a hand down to help you up. 

“Inventory,” you say motioning around you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and she was being ridiculous for even asking. 

“Oh..” Veronica’s voice goes small, “you looked… dead.”

You chuckle to hide the shake in your voice, straightening your wet shirt. 

“Never heard of throwing water on the dead, but you’re into that weird voodoo shit so it makes sense.” 

Your joke falls flat. 

Her green emerald eyes let on that she's not stupid enough to think that you had just fallen asleep. Her eyes stare back at you and you roll yours, “swear I just got a little tired and sat down for only a minute, haven’t been sleeping much lately.” 

Veronica knew better than to challenge you. She was your friend, and like Jolene had done with you, you’d  taken Veronica in like a school pet, teaching her the do’s and dont’s of the industry. 

“Okay.” she says in defeat, and you lower your shoulders a bit to look relaxed.  “I thought you’d left already, Rick’s looking for you, he’s called twice.”

Shit.

—

Hawkins was quiet this late. And the drive to Rick’s house gave you just enough time to get your shit together. 

Eddie always came to you in your dreams but never that vividly before. It was almost as if it were real. Just two kids, finding solace in one another. 

God you’d give anything to go back to those simple days.

When the solution to being scared was just a few steps from your trailer found between the pages of a paperback book and the heart of a best friend who knew you better than you knew yourself. 

Books were a luxury, an easy way to escape reality when things were worse than they’d ever been. Outside of a car magazine in the bathroom and the black book that held numbers, dates and dollar amounts, your parents didn’t keep anything like that around, not even a cookbook. 

But the fantasies kept you company, kept you safe, and Eddie’s voice was like a lullaby, always keeping you grounded. 

It was simple when your demons weren’t fought alone. The armor Eddie wore then was scuffed and scarred by countless swords, its job of keeping you safe accomplished. 

But the armor was tossed aside and you had to put it on yourself—finding it heavy, digging at your shoulders, metal pinching your skin, bruising your body in places. The armor wasn’t made for you, it was made for him, the gaps between you bared yourself to the danger, and before long— the strength of the armor was challenged, broken down. 

Did he know? That you were defenseless? That the armor didn’t fit you? 

Rick’s house was dark when your headlights shone against the cedar plank siding. Steering wheel cranking to straighten your tires, rocks crushing against the concrete. 

Grabbing the nightly ledger and the tin lock box from the passenger seat, your door swings open with a grinding thud, and clanks back into place when you slam it shut. 

A single table lamp was glowing when you knocked with a tight grip on the front door. A cleared throat and the burning end of a cigar meet you on the porch, lounging in a wicker chaise. 

“I don’t like tardiness young lady.” leaning forward into the moonlight, Rick finally showed his face. 

The breath you were holding goes out in a shudder, but you plant one of your famous smiles on your lips and twist your body towards him, landing softly between his legs on the corner of the lounge chair. 

“I’m hardly younger than you are,” you tease, offering up the deposits like you’re bestowing him a gift. “b’sides, I’m not that late anyway.” 

“Tardiness and back talk?” He questions bitterly, “surely this won’t be a habit for you?” 

Grabbing the tin from you, his cologne burns your nose, a minty scent you’ve always hated. “You have enough little habits the way it is, niñita.” 

His thick fingers rattle a pill bottle out from his pocket, but keep it just out of your reach, as he counts the intake from the night. You waited silently as he thumbed through the large stack of money, looking over the ledger and ensuring that everything was all there and accounted for. 

The girls were allowed to keep their tips from the stage, but anything more than that.. other services that kept the laundromat in business with bedsheets, went to Rick. 

He leans back against the lounger when he’s satisfied,  setting the tin box down and carding fingers through his short brown hair. “Tommy stopped by tonight, had a lot to say about your little attitude problem.” 

fuck, Tommy has had it out for you since high school… but that’s a story for another day. 

“I guess I’m confused on who you think you are, Clove.” 

Cocking an eyebrow you shift your shoulders, “I know who I am.”

“You’re late, mouthing off, do you not remember the things I’ve done for you?” 

Of course you remembered, it wasn’t that long ago when you were made into his. Traded like a baseball card. One good for another. 

“Such a shy little thing when you came to me, but I taught you well bunny..” 

In all the time you had known him, Rick never raised his voice, and he didn’t now. His tone was almost formal, and he spoke with sophistication licked with malice that made your blood run cold. 

“…I-I know.”

His head cocks, and he leans forward, peering down at you. “You forget so easily how your life was before me…” he coos, running a finger along your jaw. “Would you like to go back to that?”

Not answering, Rick continues, “sharing a room with whatever loose pussy your daddy was fuckin’?” 

You shake your head, remembering countless times how your stuff would be ransacked with each new “talent” that had the misfortune of crossing paths with your old man. 

“Fending for yourself and your sister for weeks on end?” 

His fingers dig into the skin on your neck, pressing harder with each reminder, and you suck a breath through your teeth.

“Crying yourself to sleep hoping your whore mama would come back home…” his voice drops an octave and he whispers into your ear, the heat of his words itching your skin, “..or maybe you’re still waiting for that Munson loser to show up?” 

“Quit it,” the tears were welling in your eyes now.

“Aww, did I strike a nerve?” he holds your cheek, “that deal was the best thing to ever happen to you, but I'm afraid you’re starting to forget who you belong to.” 

“I’m not,” you blink, “I promise.” 

Rick’s eyes watch as the tear travels down your cheek.

“Maybe you have too much freedom, living in the apartment complex with the other girls?… Do you need to come back here? Have me treat you like you’re insubordinate and reckless?”

“N-no, plea—”

“Then why do I have to listen to that inbred spit complaints about you? Do you think I want people coming to my home?”

You shake your head, fingers working the hem of your skirt. He hooks a finger under your chin, making you look up at him.

“I thought my expectations were clear… or am I deceived?” 

Rick liked power, he got off on the idea of submissive relationships. Dominating weak and frail women was his main job, drug smuggling was a hobby. You’d been playing his game for years now, and you knew what he wanted to hear. 

Your hand skirts up his thigh and rests daintily, “I’m sorry, I understand my place…always have.”

Like any other dick driven man, Rick was easy to please. 

“Good,” his lips close around yours and your stomach rolls, the sickly sweet cigar he was smoking lingered and surrounded you in a clutch you couldn’t get away from. 

“Stay tonight,” a command not a question, “my flight leaves in the morning.” 

Looking in the window you notice his house is still dark, “what about Karen?” 

Rick places his hand on your lower back, guiding you towards the front door, “she's with her husband tonight, graduation party.” 

The pills rattle in his robe pocket, and the sound of them sets your teeth on edge, aching for the high. Rick’s hand engulfs the knob and he swings the door handle open, holding up a baggie filled with white powder, “what do you think little rabbit?” 

—

The highway was anything but quiet behind the rickety bricks of the motel walls. Semi engines braked loudly adjusting to the sudden speed limit change, teenagers squealing their tires out of town to impress their girlfriends. 

It was a mistake going to Forest Hills, what did he expect would come from it? You haunted him wherever he went, but being back home was a deeper kind of pain he hadn’t felt in years. 

A cricket played a lonely song in the corner of the outdated room, teasing him by being just out of reach, hidden away.

Watermarked ceiling tiles and a countless number of sheep later, the clock still hadn’t seemed to move. His eyelids showed him your face, the horror of realization when you recognized who he was. 

Pillow pressed into his eyes he couldn’t see anything else, and maybe he didn’t want to. 

He laid there motionless, bare chested in the chilled room, air conditioner broken on the coolest setting. Regret looming around him. 

Back then it was life or death. He didn’t have a choice, he wondered if you ever figured that out. He couldn’t tell you that then… probably not even now. 

He was a coward then. 

Sitting up he tossed the pillow across the room, folding his knees up to rest his forearms against them. Sleep wouldn’t come, not when your eyes were playing in his head whether he was awake or asleep. 

Your face. 

Something else was written between your brow when you saw him tonight, just a small flicker, a ripple to your eyes, but it was there— plain as day. 

Fear. 

—-

Rick had passed out next to you, his naked body slung over yours in some lame attempt of cuddling. You didn’t know how many lines you had done, or the number of shots you took, before stumbling in here. 

Didn’t remember the lick of his tongue in your mouth, the feel of his hands on your curves, your was body numb from the drugs and to him. All you remember is right now, waking in a puddle of tears, the taste of blood on your lips, your nose full of it. 

Peeling Rick’s limp form from you, you make for the bathroom connected to his master bedroom. Your reflection was horrific. blood dripped from your nostrils and coated your teeth, eyeliner dragged down your face like a halloween mask gone wrong. Your body, stark naked except for a purpling hickey on your collar bone, and white residue between your cleavage. 

You look away in disgust, hatred for the eyes that stared back from the mirror.  

It wasn’t uncommon for you to wake up like this. Having spent the better half of every night for the last seven years the same way. Reaching for his hand, watching him slip through your fingers. Voice hoarse from crying, yelling, screaming his name. 

Reaching for the plush hand towel Karen kept, you plop it into the sink and turn the faucet to hot, wetting it completely. 

“So I'm a stranger now huh?” 

Eddie’s words from early stuck with you long after you had left. Eddie fucking Munson. Seven years…No high or amount of time could ever make you forget his face. 

The pain was always there. You were only able to paint over it with each new high you could conjure. But no matter the number of brush strokes, no matter the opaqueness of the paint color, Eddie always showed through. Like a ghost in the background of a photo. 

The sink was nearly overflowing before you pulled the towel covering the drain, wringing the scalding water from it as you sat on the toilet lid and draped it over your face. The heated temperature having your skin raw and burning, a welcomed kind of pain.

Seven years and here he was, waltzing back into town like he hadn’t left you in shambles. Although him being back brought forth memories you wished would stop, seeing him alive and in the flesh settled a sore in your soul. 

It also dug up anger. And under the wet towel you saw red. 

Answers. That’s what you needed from him. You were just a kid then, you couldn’t understand, and maybe you still didn’t want to know why. But you craved to know, your mind gnawing at your skull to make sense of why he would decide to leave. 

You had adapted to your surroundings, learned how to survive. He couldn’t. He was weak and spineless, that’s what everyone had said, and after a while you believed it too.

Stronger than Eddie Munson had ever been, you kept going. Living this god forsaken life because you didn’t have a choice. 

You had your own place, a cute little two bedroom apartment. One you decorated to your liking. You had a job that paid your bills. You had someone that loved…someone that took care of you in ways you didn’t know were possible. 

You were different, and so was he. What did he have? Nothing. No one.

The towel dripped water onto your bare thighs, and you concentrated on that little tick rhythm until it picked up, sending water down in almost a wave. 

Maybe that’s how he wanted his life to be, maybe that was why he left in the first place. Maybe you were standing in his way the whole time like a roadblock.

You didn’t realize the heave of your chest, how your breathing was uneven and shallow, choking off. 

Then you heard it. The gut wrenching sobs coming from yourself. 

It didn’t work anymore. Quite frankly you wondered if it ever had. 

Pretending Eddie was an asshole and that you were better without him was the only way for you to deal with him leaving in ‘82. 

The lies you continued to tell yourself about Eddie were falling flat. Your brain could be fooled, but the space he lived in your chest couldn’t be coerced that easily. He was inescapable, nightmares or not, you yearned for the hours when he would visit you. 

In your dreams he was real. Still in Hawkins. 

Your sobs turned hysteric. Lungs burning with no reprieve as you felt the same loss and emptiness that burrowed in your chest seven years ago. 

Why? How could he leave without you? 

The towel fell with a slap to the floor. Your body slinked alongside it like a doll falling from a child’s fist. Hugging your naked body, you wept on the cold tile for an unknown amount of time. It wasn’t until dawn broke through the window and Rick’s alarm clock went off that your cheeks were finally dry. 

taglist: @mmunson86 @sidthedollface2 @winchester-angel @mrsjellymunson @joannamuns9n @tlclick73 @mewchiili @spacedoutdaydreamer @emxxblog @maybeisthemoon @str4ngergirlw0rld @chrrymunson @insertcoolnameherethanks @kellsck @prestinalove @mandyjo8719 @onegirlmanytales @mopeymopeymouse @veravee-blog @taintedcigs @eddies-acousticguitar @oeuryale @kthomps914 @bangaveragewhitewine @lil-quinnie @corrodedcoffincumslut @definitionwanderlust @madaboutjoe @littledemondani @eiightysixbaby @usedtobecooler

[mirroredmemoriez]

I'm not exactly sure how to say this 'cause English isn’t my first language, but I’ve seen people on TikTok saying stuff like, “Lynn wouldn’t mind falling in love with Amanda if she wasn’t a woman.” And hot take? I think it’s the other way around.

Lynn is way more confident in herself. She knows who she is, what she wants. Like, in MY eyes, falling for a woman wouldn’t really be a big deal for her.

Amanda, though? She’s been through hell. She’s dealt with abuse since she was a kid. She’s pretty much the opposite of Lynn. And the closest thing she had to a romantic relationship in the franchise was Cecil, a drug addict, and that was more like... trading sex for drugs than anything real. Her whole idea of love and relationships is fucked up. I feel like she’d have a hard time even processing that she likes a woman.

No I agree with this and actually have a whole post basically stating the exact same thought- Which I've linked below.... Honestly? At first when I skim read this, I thought it was literally in reference to me discussing this previously.

But I'll repeat my points here! Lynn Denlon was a married woman, so she was as I stated before "secure" in that aspect of romance... Seeing as to our knowledge, she did actually marry Jeff for LOVE. Then when it comes to her affair, she knew what she wanted to seek out sexually for whatever reason that was.

Then we have Lynn as a person... From what we see in Saw 3 she's quite blunt to put it plainly? She is in such a high tense scenario but still has time to make quips like, "He can't hear you." This woman was rolling her eyes HARD with a shotgun collar around her neck... For said reason I just can't see her panicking over finding out she has an attraction to women... It would more so be like a surprise just OH! Didn't expect that. Moving on because I have to go be a brain surgeon. I think what Lynn would be the most hung up on in regards to finding a woman attractive, is the fact that in this case it's AMANDA YOUNG. THIS IS THE ISSUE. THE FACT YOU HAD A SEXUAL AWAKENING OVER A JIGSAW APPRENTICE WHO HAPPENS TO BE A WOMAN- BUT THAT LAST PART HITS THE BACK BURNER IN MY OPINION.

But enough about our lovely doctor. Let's draw attention to the other woman of the hour... The only canonical relationship that Amanda Young has had was with Cecil Adams, which to me isn't rooted in romance but instead transaction. Then if you were to look at her timeline, there isn't much room for love anywhere? Prison isn't where you want to form healthy relationships, especially if whilst you're in there you become a drug addict.

Taking a few steps back. I also just don't think that Amanda has any basis for what love can be? Her father was abusive and we have no knowledge of her mother, so she didn't come into contact with it during her upbringing unless we turn to unknown childhood relationships/friendships. Then as before mentioned, she goes to prison. I think after that... The only person I can point to who genuinely has Amanda's best interest at heart would be Jill- Yet I still wouldn't say Jill LOVED Amanda, she just had a level of care for her as she did most of her patients.

Amanda cannot in my eyes navigate love, in any format. The only time we really witness her show it is in relation to John and that is due to her seeing him like a father and a mentor in her own words….  Now I’d elaborate further on this! But I can’t be bothered seeing as I kinda just mean what I said in this OTHER POST that I’ve now also linked.

Anyway, I don’t see her sexuality as that different, because if I point back to what I said about Cecil and the fact I view her relationship with him as a transactional one that isn't really rooted in attraction or romance… I could also point to this being probably a repeated pattern when it comes to any previous partners Amanda has had…. She’s with them because they scratch her back and she scratches theirs, not because she finds them likeable or attractive- Which I can’t lie, if you look at this from a certain angle? It’s less so partnership more so possibly leaning into sex work at times. This woman doesn’t have the time or energy to explore herself in a meaningful way, she’s either getting abused, going to prison, going to rehab, being tortured and then torturing others too! Not to say that she couldn’t just outright know that she’s homosexual, you can go through all that I’ve mentioned and be aware that you’re gay… But I truly don’t think Amanda labels it, because it’s never been that pressing of a matter to do so when she has everything else going on in her life. If I had to reword those posts? Amanda is scared to love and Lynn is scared to love Amanda. The fact that they’re both women is the least of their issues.

[agent-cupcake]

Flashbang

Chapter 1 - Puppet Loosely Strung

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: Running away to join the circus doesn’t go exactly as you hoped it would.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, murder, generally dark content

Word Count: 13.9k

Disclaimer: I don’t read the manga or watch the anime. This is based solely on OPLA Buggy because Jeff Ward.

Some quick notes before we start: This is what I've been working on this since October. Originally it was going to be one really big one-shot posted at the same time, but it's big enough that I can justify posting it as a series. I'll add warnings as I go, but this is not a happy story and there will be explicit content later on. The reader character might not be somebody you see yourself in, I had a very specific image of what character I had in mind while writing. To me, reader fic is more of a sort of play acting rather than "oh that's literally me" but I know that's not everybody's cup of tea. A lot of this is cope fic and it shows. When times get rough the porn gets rougher, right?

I had help writing this from an individual who is very dear to me. Flashbang wouldn't exist without her, especially since she was the one who gave me the clown brain rot. And then there has been the hours of brainstorming and spitballing and watching Jeff Ward shows/movies as she continued to feed my addiction. Thank you, my love, and also damn you because this wasn't what I needed.

New chapter every Sunday. Enjoy~

.

“Let me put myself in your shoes

As a puppet loosely strung

Around you, they were so confused

That a faulty man could have so much fun”

.

All it took was a little doubt. Through logic or confusion or wishful thinking, you could be convinced that the insignificant person who had parasitically driven you around for the past however many years was a stranger, and now they were gone. Everything that had ever happened fell into incomprehensible dust, and every thought you ever had belonged to somebody else. A cycle of a million memories you didn’t recognize spun through this foggy place, none of them real, none of them familiar. 

Logic, confusion, wishful thinking, or unconsciousness. An endless dream of nothing at all. But as soon as you became aware, it was awareness that those thoughts happened in the past tense, crushed inward by the unrelenting force of existence, and you were shoved back into a body. You—not the real you, the stranger you, the one made of heat and fury and pain, the one you couldn’t recognize—were gasping and thrashing in ignorant confusion, coughing out the sickening taste of blood in your throat. 

Everything, all of it, hurt. And that was all that existed. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Your panicked thrashing made you realize that you were upright, your body straining painfully against the various chains keeping you pinned against the wall in an X. The position put nearly all of your weight on your shoulders and left your head to sag heavily to the side, making the terrible, dizzying headache that much worse. Having suffered more than your fair share of them, you knew that this headache was from more than an uncomfortable position or your old injury. A hot throbbing pain radiated out from the back of your head, shooting little sparks down your spine. It hurt bad enough that nausea formed a tight, heavy ball in your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you forced your eye open, fighting the urge to cringe away from the light as it rolled this way and that. Colors and lights were nothing more than a nauseating smear, but at least you could see. 

Little by little, you became aware of yourself. From far away, you had a vague recollection of leaving, of nerves, excitement, and then of danger. But… no, why weren’t you at home? Doom settled in its rightful place as you realized exactly how little you remembered or knew, slotting into the spot of coherence and reason. Despite the pain, you fought against the shackles holding you in the uncomfortable position, irrationally desperate to be free of them. 

“There she is! Finally,” somebody said from your left. His voice hit like a hammer to the back of your aching head. You strained to look at the speaker, he sounded close, but you couldn’t turn your head far enough to make up for your limited vision. 

Luckily, he didn’t stay out of sight for long. The man’s boots were loud and deliberate as he slowly moved out of your literal blind spot. To your ill-adjusting eye, he was not much more than a blur of white and red and blue, his big smile smudged as you rapidly blinked to focus. A little shock of meaningless recognition in your brain saw the makeup and red nose and said ‘clown’, but the sheer ridiculousness of that made you even more sure that this wasn’t real. 

“Not a fun way to wake up, is it?” he asked. “Keep breathing, let it drain back and cough it out. Trust me, it’s over quicker that way.”

The question you tried to form was, “Who are you?” but all you could manage was a heavy groan followed by a fit of painful coughs, wheezing raggedly in between. Each desperate convulsion rattled the chains and caused the wood to creak, but did nothing to free your bound limbs. The man seemed bored by it, annoyed he had to wait for you to get ahold of yourself. 

Since he hadn’t immediately helped you down, you could only assume that he was the one who shackled you in the first place. Strung you up against a wooden board of some kind in a room you didn’t know. Cramped and windowless, it reeked of paint and sweat and sawdust and sweet salty rot—a unique smell that didn’t help your nausea. Clutter stacked up against the walls. Dense, humid air pressed against you like a heavy coat, paradoxically chilling. Probably because of the fever burning beneath your skin, slicking you up with sweat, soaking into your clothes and the bandana you kept wrapped around your head over the left eye.

Breathe. You focused on your breathing. Panic wouldn’t help you. 

“You done?” he asked. Without any other choices, you turned your head to shamefully wipe your face off on your sleeve before nodding. “Great. Well, now that you’re awake… Welcome!” He threw out his arms with the flamboyant manner of a showman with the greeting, but they wilted right after, his big smile dropping a bit. “Or, at least, that’s what I would say if you hadn’t let yourself in and stolen the opportunity from me.” 

That was bad. Very, very bad. You jerked in an awkward, uncoordinated burst, physically reacting to the danger he presented. 

“No, no, don’t leave on my account,” he said, waving his hands and getting closer as if to stop you. “Oh wait, you can’t! Hah! Yeah, ‘cause of the chains.” He smiled affably, like it was a harmless joke, standing close enough for his gloved fingers to skim along the chain wrapped around your neck. “I guess you’re not going anywhere, huh?” 

You didn’t respond, barely daring to breathe when he was so close. Smiles and melodrama aside, his blue eyes were oddly dead, fixed on you without the slightest bit of humor. And then it finally came back to you, the vital thing that you should have known, that you would have known if you weren’t strung up and suffering such a crippling headache. The makeup, the nose, the hat—

“You’re,” you began to say, but your voice was hoarse and weak, you could barely get it out when he was looking at you so closely, so intently. You cleared your throat, wincing at the metallic taste. “You’re the-that pirate captain Buggy, like on the-the poster?” Right! The clown guy, the red-nosed pirate. You were looking for him. So this was… good, wasn’t it? 

He gave you a flat look, clearly not sharing your weak enthusiasm. “Yes. I am that pirate captain. Buggy, the Genius Jester? The most feared pirate captain in all the East Blue?” He turned with a dramatic flick of his coat, messing with something that had to flash silver before you realized it was a knife. “The man destined to find the One Piece and become King of the Pirates. Yes. I am that pirate captain. And,” he paused, checking to make sure you were paying attention, “a very busy, very important man. I’ve got, oh, ten minutes or so for you to decide how this is gonna go. So let’s get straight to it.” He turned back, pointing the knife at you. “Who are you, and what are you after?”

The accusatory tone of his voice took you aback. “Nothing… I’m not anybody,” you stammered out. “And this… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”

Buggy, to your surprise, relented after a second of considering your appeal, nodding understandingly. 

There was no transition from his look of sympathy to raising the knife and aiming it at you. By the time you realized he meant to throw it, you barely had a chance to yelp. The blade took a loud, thumping bite into the wood beside you. On your left side, of course. Where you couldn’t see it. You could feel it, though. The air displacement ruffled the fine hairs around your ear. If you had flinched in that direction, it probably would be in your skull. With your dizzy head aching and confused, you had no regulation to your fear or discomfort, your breathing dangerously unsteady and tears pricking the corner of your eyes. 

“Let me try a different question,” Buggy said before you could collect yourself, pulling out another knife. “Who else knows about this place?”  

“Nobody! I swear, nobody else. I was just…” You didn’t know what to say. It was all you could do to breathe the thick, heavy air and fight down the tide of nausea.  

“Just what?” Buggy asked, leaning in with raised eyebrows to show that he was listening intently. You opened and closed your mouth, unable to come up with the right words. Thoughts churned through the thick sludge in your head, getting stuck or lost or confused. 

“I’m so sorry,” you said, the stumbling apology coming out more naturally than anything else, an attempt to buy time while you organized your thoughts. “Please doh-don’t…. I’m so ss-sorry.” 

Buggy sighed, standing up straight and raising his hand to aim. 

“Nonono, please d-” You yelped louder this time, flinching away as the knife streaked through the air and stuck not even an inch away from your right cheek. You exhaled a pathetic little sob, whatever you were bound to shaking with your body. 

“Listen, honey buns,” Buggy said. “Drop the act. Stop the whining. I caught you, red handed, sneaking into my lair.” He pulled something out of his pocket. Not another knife, but a piece of paper which he unfolded, holding it up for you to see. His wanted poster, creased into sixths from the way you folded it to keep it close, to keep it hidden. “I found this in your bag. You know who I am, and you know where you are. You have to, so let’s do away with all the theatrics, okay?” 

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly in the hope that it would appease him. 

“Right now, this is a conversation,” Buggy said, gesturing between the two of you. “A light interrogation, really. But if you keep being uncooperative and wasting my time, it’s gonna go from being interrogate-y to being torture-y real quick. You don’t want that, right?” Although he was unmistakably threatening you, Buggy’s tone was more natural than before. There was a bluntness to it, an honesty. Men like him didn’t idly use words like torture. 

You sniffed, trying very hard to calm yourself down. This was a misunderstanding, so you just had to convince him. Simple as that. He would understand. You would make him understand.

“Right,” you agreed. 

“Fantastic. So,” he loudly clapped his hands together, “who else knows about this place?”

“Nobody, I promise… I’m really sorry I broke in,” you told him, speaking slowly so your words didn’t catch. “I just wanted to meet with you.” 

Buggy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, the hair hanging out from the sides of his hat swaying as his head tilted curiously. “You’re a fan?” he clarified. “That explains why you’re so pathetic. Well I hate to break it to you, but there’s a reason I only hold meet and greets after shows.” 

“No, that’s not why! I-I want to join your crew,” you said. “I came to ask you to let me join your crew.” 

He blinked twice, staring at you with obvious disbelief. “Excuse me, what?” 

“I want to be a pirate,” you told him, louder. “Please. Please let me join your crew.”

Buggy’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the rippling shift of incredulity, befuddlement, skepticism, and then amusement in his eyes. That emotion burst outward into a loud laugh, making you flinch. “That’s the best you can do?” he asked. “Ask to join my crew?” He looked at you again, laughing even harder. “I don’t know what’s funnier—that anybody would send you to spy on me, or that you’d think I would consider hiring you.” 

“I mean it!” you argued, humiliation and desperation seeping into the thousand other discomforts of your position. This wasn’t at all how you wanted this to go.

“Sweetheart,” Buggy said condescendingly, “even assuming I believe you, this is a pirate crew, not an afterschool club.”

“I know. I know what pirates do, I know what you do,” you told him. “I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Please, please, just give me a chance.”

He nodded, turning to pace as he thought about it. 

“Okay, let’s say that I buy this… this act of yours,” Buggy said. “Do you have any experience? Maintaining ships, reading maps, loading cannons. You know, basic stuff.”

There was a line you had prepared to answer this question, one that would paint you in the most charitable light. You remembered that, but you couldn’t remember the line. All you could give was the truth. “A little.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Thought so. What about specialties? Unique skills? Any sort of talent that I can use in my show—anything at all. I mean other than,” he gestured vaguely in your direction, “that. We don’t need another one eyed midget. They’re surprisingly common.” 

“I’m not a midget,” you told him, nerves fading to incredulity. 

Buggy stepped back to size you up before seemingly conceding the point with a shrug. “And the eye?” He covered his left eye to illustrate. “Is that for a bit or something?” 

Your stomach twisted with a familiar lurch. Disgust. Shame. Phantom light in the dark. “It’s not.” 

“How’d you lose it?” 

“I didn’t… lose it.” 

“It’s still in there?” he asked excitedly, stepping forward and reaching to remove the bandana. “I have got to see this.” 

“No, please—please don’t,” you begged, trying to wriggle away from his hand. Pinned to the board with your hands bound above your head, there was nowhere to go. “Please don’t, please-” 

“Come on,” Buggy said, indifferent to your pleas as he pulled the sweat soaked fabric off of your left eye. “How bad could it be—AH!” He yelled in horror, jumping away as if you’d bitten him. 

The bandana hit the floor, leaving your ruined eye and its jagged scar exposed. You couldn’t hide. All you could do was flinch back, turning your head away. “I’m sorry,” you said, ready to continue apologizing before you realized that his shock had immediately dissolved into raucous laughter. “Why are you… why are you laughing?” you asked, pulling desperately against the chains. 

“I got you good,” Buggy said, his laughter subsiding. “The way you reacted, I thought that you’d be completely deformed. A real sideshow. But this…” He grabbed your chin, forcing it to the side so he could get a better look. “I couldn’t charge for this.”

“Please stop,” you begged, shaking off his grip and staring hard at his shoulder. 

“Ohhh. You’re really embarrassed about it.”

You didn’t say anything, focusing mostly on fighting the tears. 

“Okay, alright, yeah,” Buggy said, stepping back. “I think I’m starting to get why you would risk life and limb to beg me for a job. You grew up as a cute girl in a shithole town like this. A big fish in a little pond, as they say. Then, suddenly, BAM, you’re deformed, and, sure, they all say that it was tragic, but the truth is that they can’t stand to look at you. Even the people who loved you, the people you trusted, think you’re a freak. They abandoned you. So, without any other options, you come to me, pleading for me to give you a place amidst your fellow freaks. That about it?”

You didn’t say anything—what could you say to that?— which Buggy seemed to take as confirmation, nodding thoughtfully. 

“Well, go big or go home, right? As far as a starlet’s breakout role, you couldn’t go any bigger. Thing is, I’m not really looking for new acts. Not to mention your abysmal audition.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking you up and down again. 

You could feel your chance slipping away. Just like that. Go big or go home, that’s what he said. 

“Please, Captain Buggy,” you begged, staring him in the eye despite how disquieting it was, despite how your skin crawled from exposing your left eye to somebody. Addressing him properly, at the very least, got his attention. “I promise that you won’t regret it. I’ll learn, I want to learn how to be a pirate, how to perform, all of it, everything. And if I can’t, I’ll do laundry and clean and cook, I have lots of experience with that. I don’t care what you ask me to do, if you let me join your crew, I’ll happily serve you for the rest of my life.”

Buggy didn’t respond right away. You thought—hoped—that it meant he understood how serious you were, but his expression gave you nothing. There wasn’t much light in the room in the first place, but somehow he found enough to shine unnervingly in his pale blue eyes. Somebody with a bright red clown nose shouldn’t have been able to look so intimidating, but the way he studied you burned with an uncomfortable intensity. It had been a while since anybody looked at you so frankly, so openly, without disgust or pity. 

“Why?” he finally asked. 

“Why…?” you repeated, confused.

“I get that you want to leave this place, and I even buy into your whole wanting to be a pirate thing, but, you know, aside from the obvious,” he gestured to himself, “why should I believe that you really want to serve me? You’re young and cute…ish, don’t you want freedom and empowerment and all those other things girls go on and on about?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why would I?” 

A moment of quiet that wasn’t quite silence but twice as heavy passed before a slow smile began to spread over Buggy’s face, and then—of all the bizarre, uncomfortable responses he could have—he laughed. “Oh, you’re broken, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly overjoyed by the revelation. “Well, I’m sold. I’ll have to start you on probation just in case you’re secretly up to no good. But, after that, you can audition for real. I’m sure I can find something you’ll be useful for.” 

His reaction gave you whiplash. The word ‘broken’ was obviously bad, but everything else was good. You had succeeded. Only, you didn’t know why. You were still trying to decide if being called cute-ish was a compliment or not. 

“Hey, just one more thing, okay?” Buggy asked, tapping your cheek. Standing mere inches away, he smiled a rictus grin. It wrinkled his eyes, but they were without life or pity or mercy. “If you’re lying to me about anything, I’ll carve some symmetry into your cute little face. You’ll thank me for it too. You won’t want to see what the guys will do to you after I toss you out there.”

“I’m not lying,” you said softly, shrinking back. “I promise.” 

“Great!” Buggy said, his demeanor immediately cheering up. “Let’s get you down.” He walked behind the board you were strung up on, and you let out a shaky exhale. “Brace yourself,” he called. You had no idea what that meant, or how you were supposed to brace yourself when there was nothing for you to brace yourself on. “Three… two…” 

He undid the lock, and the chains keeping you bound to the board went slack. You dropped hard, your limbs as heavy as lead. Luckily, your head was too light to feel anything when you hit the ground with a dull thump and the loud cacophony of rattling chains, spinning and blank and utterly empty. There was a suspended moment of floating, lighter than air itself. And then you were blinking rapidly and nauseous, pain shooting up your arms and knees. 

Buggy dropped a key in front of you, metal bouncing on the old concrete. 

“Unfortunately we didn’t bring any real props with us, so I had to improvise,” he said. With numb fingers, you grabbed the key and worked it into the locked cuff around your wrist. “You lucked out, if this were the real Wheel of Death, you’d be blowing chunks!” He paused, looking down at you. “Can you hurry this up?”

“Sorry,” you said. Your shaking hands kept missing the keyholes, but you finally got the last lock on your ankle open. The cuffs hadn’t broken skin, but your wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, ugly bruises already developing. You’d had worse.

“Alright, upsy daisy,” Buggy said, crouching down to take the key away and grab the only chain you hadn’t gotten out of—the one around your neck. 

It acted as a noose, giving you no other choice but to lurch upward with an unappealing choking sound, your head spinning all over again, the weightless itch tingling all the way down to the base of your spine. You stumbled forward, unintentionally falling against him. 

“Holy shit,” Buggy exclaimed, helping you stand up straight with a hand on your shoulder. “I didn’t know girls came in fun size. Legally, at least. Are you sure you’re not just like… the maxiest midget?” 

“‘m dizzy,” you muttered, swaying despite his support. 

“That’s not really… Ah, whatever. Hey, at least if you fall, you don’t have that far to go.”

“I’m… I’m okay,” you finally said, which was mostly true. Breathing slow, steady breaths helped, and then you shook your head a little. The bump on the back of it throbbed painfully, and you’d have bruises on your knees the size of apples, but you would survive. You were still trying to get control over your body. It was heavy and unwieldy, although part of that must have been the exhaustion. 

“If you need to vomit, make sure to aim away from me,” he said. That was about all the warning you got before he decided it was time to go, dragging you along behind him like a dog on a leash. 

You realized you were leaving your bandana behind, your left eye uncovered, and reared back, trying to stop him. “Wait, I have to grab my-” 

“No time,” he said, talking over you and tugging again at the chain. 

There was nothing you could do but stumble over your own feet to keep up with him as he led you through the cluttered and dark storage area. You felt a tiny bit of relief that you were still in the familiar decaying buildings northside. The old warehouses were dark, dank, and dingy. Easily defended and difficult to navigate, perfect for criminals to hide out in. You knew them very well, and that helped orient you.  

"As I’m sure you noticed, I’m running a bit of a skeleton crew here. The rest aren’t coming ‘til the grand finale,” Buggy said, leading you into the main warehouse space by the chain around your neck like it was completely normal. The awful smell of rot and decay was only compounded by a sickly sweet, chalky scent you didn’t recognize. Gray sunshine flooded in through the broken windows around the high ceilings, piercingly bright. “And after that, we’re gonna blow this town.”

You didn’t respond, growing even more skittish. The two of you drew the attention of the people scattered around. Some were lounging, others were training. All of them turned to look at you, watching with the dark, focused stare of hungry dogs. Colorfully dressed, very dangerous dogs. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an introduction to make!” Buggy called in a loud enough voice to fill the large space. “Crew, new girl. New girl, crew. Make sure to give her a nice, warm welcome." None of them spoke or reacted, watching you with varying degrees of hostility. Buggy pulled you forward a few steps so he could whisper to you. “See that guy?” he asked, pointing to a bald man with square features and an especially dark glare. “That’s Ivo. He was the one who caught you. To be completely honest, I think he’s still a little angry that he didn't get to keep you. If I were you, I’d try to stay on his good side.”

“How?” you asked, your uneasy stomach sinking further, but Buggy was already preoccupied with something else. 

“Oh, hey-” he called, flagging down a woman who was leaning against one of the steel supports. You stumbled behind him, holding the chain around your neck to ease the pressure. “Crina, I have got a very important job for you.” 

The woman slowly looked from Buggy to you, giving you a weighty once-over with dark, kohl-lined eyes. Her clothes were different from the rest, draped with beads and loose and layered in shades of purple. Beneath the mystique, however, you felt the same hardness you recognized in all the pirate’s faces. “You want me to look after the little rat,” she said with an accent you didn’t recognize.

"God, it’s like you can read minds or something,” Buggy said, laughing. “Anyway, yes. Make sure she doesn’t get up to anything naughty while I’m gone. In fact, don’t let her out of your sight.” 

“With all due respect,” Crina said, “why not just kill her?” 

“Because I don’t want her dead,” Buggy snapped, suddenly irritated. If Crina was surprised or off put by the abrupt change of his mood, she didn’t show it. 

“Of course, captain.”  

“I thought I saw some cages over there,” Buggy said, gesturing vaguely and forcing the chain into Crina’s hand. “Stick her in one of those. In the back, away from any prying eyes.”  

“A cage?” you asked.

“As fun as it is to see you all chained up,” Buggy said. “I worry that it might send the wrong message. Out of sight, out of mind—I don’t need you distracting my crew. They’re planning a very big surprise party. If you behave, I might be able to find some time for you later. Sound good?” 

You nodded, almost surprised by how good that sounded. He ruffled your hair before turning away, barking orders to some of the men. 

“Let’s go,” Crina said, pulling your attention back to her. “We have our orders.”

The cage Crina put you in, one out of several bolted to the floor in the corner out of the way from the main space, had just enough room for you to sit slouched, or lay curled on your side, meant for big dogs or small humans. There was a market for both, and you knew that this warehouse had likely housed both. 

The old, dilapidated buildings had been out of use for a long time, as long as you could remember. Barley Village had been originally built to be close to the mineral deposits, but as those dried up and industry trended towards the water, southward expansion left all of the old buildings empty and rotting. There was always talk about tearing them down, but it was only ever talk. One time you were told that some people wanted to keep the buildings available to people who wished for some privacy. But when you asked your dad if that was true, he got angry, telling you that was a lie, that he would never let that happen. He said it would just be too expensive to take them down, and that there was really no point in it.

But he also told you to never, ever spend time northside. Of all of the rules he gave you, that was the only one you ever truly disobeyed. You had no idea how many times you had gotten in trouble for playing here, climbing up rusted stairs and crossing the support beams up by the ceiling, using rocks to knock out the jagged edges of broken glass from the windows so you could go onto the rooftops. Your health problems made it difficult, and sometimes impossible, but you were patient. Plus, that had been before the accident, when your coordination was still good.

Back then, you didn’t worry about the many dangers that lurked here, and you certainly didn’t believe you could be hurt. You were too entranced by the world you created for yourself. The only thing you worried about was the beatings you earned when you got caught. Dad used to tell you that if you kept disobeying him by going northside, you’d wind up locked in one of these cages—or worse. It took you a while to think of the word, because it wasn’t funny, but it also was. Ironic. It was ironic.

You couldn’t even imagine what kind of reaction he would have to what you had done now, what punishment you would earn. It would be bad. You knew it would be very bad. 

Better not to think about it. Falling unconscious after being hit on the head was the most you had slept for the previous two days. It was the level of exhaustion that you could be staring down the business end of a sword with indifferent, sleepy eyes. Being locked up was bad, very bad, but you were content to lay listlessly on your side.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep because you weren’t entirely conscious when somebody kicked the front of your cage. “Hey, wake up.” Your physical response was to startle, jolting you awake enough to flinch away from the violence. But it was only Crina who crouched in front of the cage. “I have food for you. And medicine for the headache. I’m going let you out, and I suggest you don’t try to run. If the guys get a hold of you, I won’t stop them.”

“I won’t run,” you told her, your voice hoarse, your eyes fixed on what she had brought. A bowl of something that looked like stew and a bottle. More than food, you wanted water. Crina undid the lock and you shuffled out of the cage. Your head spun just as badly as it had when you dropped onto the floor earlier, your vision crawling with darkness and stomach heaving unhappily. She was right about the headache. It wasn’t a pain you ever got used to, no matter how many days you spent laid out from one. After an uneasy moment, you sat on the floor, grabbing the water and eagerly uncapping it. 

“Hand,” Crina said, holding out a glass bottle. You allowed her to shake two capsules into your palm, tossing them into your mouth before taking in a blessedly wet mouthful of water. It soothed your tongue and throat like a salve, although you knew your stomach wouldn’t be quite so happy to receive anything. The stew’s scent alone made your stomach clench and churn with equal parts hunger and nausea. Slow. You had to take it slow. 

“Thank you,” you told her, picking up the bowl. She’d brought a wrapped sailor’s biscuit to eat it with. Not very appetizing, but you hadn’t eaten much more than you slept. It could have been saw dust and you would have been grateful. 

“I have your bag,” she said to fill the silence as you ate, pushing the limp canvas towards you. “They took anything that looked valuable, but your clothes are all there. They need to be washed. I’ll lend you something to wear in the meantime.”

Since your mouth was full, you nodded your thanks.

“While you eat, I’m going to talk. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Crina said. “You don’t strike me as the talkative type.”

She didn’t say that in an accusatory tone, but it still caused your heart to skip with anxiety. The fear had to be irrational, it wasn’t as if you had lied to Captain Buggy, so what did you have to worry about? Besides, only the guilty feared scrutiny, that was a favored line of your dad’s. 

“There’s a man in town asking if anyone has seen a girl. Petite. Missing an eye. Mentally unwell. He’s concerned that she might have gotten lost somewhere,” Crina told you. “From what I gather, her father is a pillar of the community. They’re all very worried.” 

You averted your gaze, anxiously pulling your hair to cover your left eye. Of course Randall would be looking for you, although you had hoped you would have more time before he noticed your absence. It didn’t matter that you left in such a way to raise as little suspicion as possible, or that you were an adult, or that you didn’t want to be found. Your dad asked him to be your keeper while he was gone, and Randall did as your father said. Everybody did. 

“Finish your food,” Crina prompted. “It’s worse when it’s cold.” 

Right. You started eating again, your movements mechanical. She said nothing, and you had nothing to say. 

“Everybody has their reasons for turning to piracy, and they’re not always pleasant,” Crina suddenly said. “Unless it interferes with my own business, I don’t care about who you were and why you ran away. It was a stupid choice, I think you know that. I won’t try and convince you to leave. Buggy seems to like you, so you wouldn’t be able to go anyway. But you need to understand that there will be consequences. The life you had before, no matter how terrible, did not prepare you for the life you’ve thrown yourself into.”

You stared hard at the bowl, thinking about that. It was true, you had to accept that you had blindly stumbled into a world you knew nothing about. But what choice did you have? The things that led you to this point were arranged like the rusty, creaky rungs of a ladder scaling the side of a building. Climbing up had always been the easy part, it was the inevitable descent that gave you trouble. You had to go slow, one rung at a time, blindly feeling with your toes, holding on with sweaty fingers, not looking up and not looking down because once you were on the ladder, you could only keep going. The first rung was spotting the Buggy Pirates, which you only did because you were sulking around the docks after seeing your father off on his trip. You only recognized the crew because your dad kept track of pirate captains with significant bounties. You only had the courage to sneak away from your house because dad was too far away to stop you. You only had the ability to scope out Buggy’s temporary hideout because of how much time you spent northside when you were younger. Those things all connected and followed so naturally and you didn’t know if fate existed, but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t have wound up here on your own volition. It wasn’t a choice you made, it was the only way to get down from the roof that you had been stranded on for so long.

“I’ll give you some advice,” Crina continued, her tone lighter, “and I suggest you listen. You’re young and pretty, and you wouldn’t be the first to try and use that to get an advantage. It might work for a while, but men will get bored and your looks will fade. Before long you’ll be spat out into a cheap whorehouse with a couple of children you can’t afford and a hell of a rash.” 

The whiplash from your thoughts to the conclusion she had drawn made your stomach twist with disgust. “No,” you said. Was that what she thought of you? Even if the idea was utterly ridiculous, shame rolled uncomfortable through you. “I would never—I could never ever do that.” 

“Don’t be naive,” Crina said, rolling her eyes. “The boys you’re used to are disgusted by that scar, but the kind of men you’ll meet from now on won’t be. If your low self-esteem dictates who you let between your legs, you’ll find yourself in the gutter. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t sleep with men to get an advantage if that’s an option, only that you must be smart about it.” 

You pulled your hair forward again, shaking your head clear of what she was saying. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the assumption that men would be repulsed by your scar—which they would be, you knew that—but that you didn’t have it in you to invite or manipulate male attention. In so many ways you were already ruined, but to stoop down to letting other men touch you would be too far, it would destroy you.

“Assuming you live past tomorrow night,” Crina continued, “get a knife and figure out how to use it. The men aren’t going to accept you as a member of the crew until you prove yourself. So if anybody gets too close, you prove yourself with blood.” 

“Do you think they’ll try to hurt me?” 

“I think you look like an easy target,” she said. “And I know you have no concept of self preservation or defense.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, frowning. You had made it this far, after all. That was more than anybody would have thought of you. 

“You don’t,” she said plainly. “The tablets I gave you are for treating pain, but imagine if they weren’t. You didn’t so much as ask me to clarify what they were.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, and closed it, shame squeezing your throat. You hadn’t even thought about that.

“It might not matter anyway,” she said, “depending on Buggy’s reasons for keeping you.”

“What do you mean?” 

Crina gave you a long, pitying look and you could tell there was something she wanted to say, something she was holding back. Eventually she shrugged. “That is between the two of you.”

You wanted to push for more, confused by the cryptic answer, but you didn’t. You could tell by the hard look on her face that she wouldn’t tell you anyway. 

“One more thing. The most important thing,” Crina told you, leaning close so she could whisper. “Never, ever mention the captain’s nose. In fact, never mention noses at all.” 

“His nose?” you repeated softly. “Is it… is it real?” 

“What did I just say?” she asked sharply. “He killed a few of the last new recruits for saying something that sounded like nose while he was in a bad mood.”

“He… killed them?” you asked. 

“Buggy is a very temperamental man,” she said, leaning back. “Try not to get on his bad side.”

“It sounds like you don’t like him.” 

“I do, actually. God knows why. Are you finished?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Come on then,” Crina told you, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “There’s running water on the other side. I’ll keep watch so you can clean up.”   

Although birds called and the breeze carried all sorts of noises from Barley Village, none of it really reached the northside. A solemn graveyard hush settled heavy between the wreckage of ruined buildings, drafty even in broad daylight. No ghosts hid in the shadows, no historical tragedy marred its name, but there remained the haunted imprint of people who were no longer around. 

Before setting you on your task of the day, Crina had given you a dress of hers to wear while your own clothes dried in the sun. You swam in it, but a sash at the waist made the fit look somewhat intentional and the long sleeves hid the ugly bruises cuffing your wrists. That, combined with having slept the previous night and most of the day, left you feeling oddly refreshed. Sure, all of the sleep had been in a cage and the only ‘bath’ you had was a couple of minutes alone with a spout that spat freezing water and a washcloth, but it was better than yesterday. Better than the day before that too, save for the bruises and big goose egg bump on the back of your head.  

Despite the headache, you were glad to be given something to do. The task wasn’t difficult. Busywork that kept you out of the way. Checking to ensure that everything which would be loaded on the ship was documented, organized, and ready for transport. It wasn’t entirely unlike what you had done in the past and, you imagined, would be doing in the future. It was, however, the opposite way around. The goods were obviously looted, you were creating a list to know exactly what and how much of it had been stolen. 

Vinegar, oil, wax.

You used the end of the pen to scratch beneath your bandana, which Crina had kindly retrieved for you. Sometimes the scar got itchy, like it had when it was healing. 

Twine, needles, thread. 

There was a particular smell to supply crates like these. Something to do with the place they were stored, or where they were made. Even now, years since you had been on a ship, it was overwhelmingly familiar. It made your stomach ache and chest clench, although you weren’t sure which quality of the scent was so unsettling. 

You scratched the scar again.

Vinegar, oil- 

Wait, you had already done that. Annoyed, you crossed out those words and crouched down to get into the next crate. Rope. It was coiled in tight loops like a huge snake, coarse beneath your fingers. Anything that was strong enough to endure the fury of the sea had to be coarse. Good rope was vital on a ship, you knew that even with your limited experience. Touching it reminded you of the time your dad tried to show you how to tie knots, and then subsequently had to treat your rope burn.

What would he think when he returned? Retired Marine or not, he was deeply involved with northside business and law. Missing supplies, missing daughter. Sometimes you felt an acidic sort of pleasure when imagining his reaction to your absence, but usually it was just dread.

Or worse. Prickling paranoia. You could run, for a time. But that was all it was. Running. He used to be a Marine, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find you. When you were younger, the thought gave you comfort. 

But you didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. Not ever again. You stared very hard at the rope, desperate to put those thoughts out of your mind. 

You stared and stared and stared and-

Somebody grabbed you around the bicep, dragging you to your feet and forcing you back to reality. Yelping in fear, you were nearly knocked back down from the bloodrush dizziness of standing up too fast, saved only by the crates. 

“Good god, girl,” the unfamiliar man said, taking a step back, clearly put off by your reaction. “Are you deaf or something? I hollered at you three or four times. Were you sleeping?” 

Putting a hand to your racing heart, you looked from him to the still open crate and the notepad you had abandoned mid-task. You had no idea how long you had been sitting there. Long enough for your foot to go numb, prickling with pins and needles now that you were standing up. 

“I’m sorry,” you told him.

“The captain wants to see you. It’s urgent,” he said. When you didn’t immediately respond, still orienting yourself, he sighed impatiently and grabbed your elbow, physically dragging you away. You stumbled to keep up, trying very hard to avoid falling. “If Buggy asks why you took so long, you better tell him it was your fault.”

“I will,” you said to appease him, attempting to shake off his hand before realizing that it was pointless. “Please slow down.” 

“Not my fault you’ve got stumpy legs,” he said. “Keep up.” 

The unfairness of that stung, but you didn’t have much choice. You had a feeling that he’d keep on pulling you along even if it meant dragging you across the ground. 

“Where are we going?” you asked, embarrassingly out of breath. 

“There,” he said, nodding to one of the waterfront buildings. At least it was close. You never strayed so close to the water, the buildings were too squat to make for fun exploration and too exposed to give cover. 

The pirate released you when you got to the door, leaving you winded and scared. You adjusted your bandana and tried to catch your breath. “Don’t forget to tell him it was your fault it took so long, not mine,” he said, opening the door.

“I won’t,” you promised, the words papery thin on your dry tongue.  

You were in trouble. You had no idea what you might have done, but there had to be something. Why would you be summoned like this otherwise? A very bad feeling pressed against your sternum, but you forced yourself to walk forward. The door shut behind you. Inside, the air was dark and cool and wet, sending a little shiver down your spine. 

Buggy stood in the middle of the room, the only place where the sun found its way between the mangled teeth of glass and steel that used to be windows, his own little spotlight amidst the ruins. There were three other men on the edges of the light, their backs to you. One of them was bound. You did not like this. 

“There she is!” Buggy exclaimed, inviting you forward with his arms spread wide. “Come on, don’t be shy. Especially not after keeping us waiting so long. Your friend over here could hardly handle the suspense. 

Rocks and broken glass crunched beneath your feet as you approached them. Once you got close enough, finally, you could see the faces of the other men. One was the square-featured, angry man Buggy called Ivo. Another, a man you didn’t know. And the third, the one bound with a busted lip and developing black eye—

Randall called your name, trying to escape and rush to your side. Ivo grabbed him, pressing the blade of his knife against his throat.

“See, I told you, they’re working together,” Ivo said, glaring at you. “She tipped him off. No doubt this place will be swarming with the law before long.”

You stood completely still, staring at Randall with the steadily rising tide of panic sloshing in your stomach. After everything you had done to misdirect him, the note you left to beg he didn’t follow, the trouble you had put yourself through to keep from being seen, he was still here. 

“Are you okay?” Randall asked, looking you up and down frantically, concerned in a way he never had looked before. “Did they hurt you?” 

“I told you, she’s fine,” Buggy said with a grin. “I mean, yeah, Ivo over there did give her a little knock on the ole noggin—a love tap, really—but the eye was already like that when we found her.” 

“I wasn’t asking you,” Randall said, glaring at Buggy. 

“Shut up,” Ivo said, pressing the knife close enough to Randall’s throat that it broke skin. 

“No, no, let him go,” Buggy ordered casually, waving his hand. “He’s not gonna do anything stupid.” He threw an arm around your shoulder. “Not when I’ve got her.” 

Ivo reluctantly complied, releasing Randall. He watched you intently, and you knew what he was thinking. How could he save you?  

“Ivo over there thinks that the two of you are working together,” Buggy told you, smiling. His arm was heavy around your shoulders, oppressively so. “He thinks that we should kill you both.” 

“I’m not—I wouldn’t,” you told him. 

“And see, I wanna believe you. I really do. But he’s not talking, and,” Buggy ran his finger over your right cheek, reminding you of his threat from yesterday, “I’m starting to worry you’ve been lying to me.”

“I’m not,” you said, ice cold dread dripping into your veins a drop at a time. You fought your discomfort and forced yourself to meet his eyes, hoping he could see your sincerity. “I promise I’m not.” 

“Then how did he find this place?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“She used to hide here when we were kids,” Randall answered. “I thought she ran away, not that you freaks had kidnapped her. If I had known I’d find pirates here, I would have come armed.”

“Is that true?” Buggy asked you, pulling you even closer. Close enough to be embarrassing, to give the wrong impression, especially when he was stroking your cheek with a sort of affection that didn’t mesh with the danger in his blue eyes.

“I told you it is. Let her go, clown!” Randall shouted. His voice was loud enough to echo, and harsh enough to make you wince. That sort of rage wasn’t one you expected from him, but it was familiar all the same. 

“Oh, wow,” Buggy said with a laugh, looking up at him. “Is that jealousy I hear? She didn’t tell me she was leaving behind a boyfriend.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said softly, your insides twisting at the thought. 

“Really?” Buggy asked. He shrugged, and looked at Randall. “If you’re not doing this because you want to have sex with her, why are you here?” 

“I am a dear friend—both to her and her dad,” Randall answered. “He asked me to look after her because she… She’s not in a sound state of mind. And she’s the only family he has left. Without her, he’ll have nothing.” He grit his teeth. “Take me, kill me if you’re that thirsty for blood, but let her go. Please.”

“You’re a real knight in shining armor. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but she came here all on her own,” Buggy said, releasing you to approach him instead. “She begged to join my crew, got down on her knees and told me that she would be happy to serve me for the rest of her life. It was the most adorable thing.”

“No,” Randall said, his face twisting with disgust. “You’re lying. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Ask her yourself,” Buggy invited, stepping aside and sweeping out his arm. All eyes landed on you like a spotlight. Blood rushed in your ears, and you felt dizzy with it, ready to pass out on the spot. When you looked at Buggy, he smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

“It’s true,” you said.

“No. That is impossible,” Randall said. “This is insane. You are mad, you cannot make decisions like this for yourself.” You stared at his feet, your hands balled into fists. You were not crazy. You were not. That had to be true. “Whatever hysterics brought you here, give it up. These are pirates.”

“I’m a pirate too,” you declared, your hands forming fists at your sides. You weren’t crazy, or mad. You were thinking very clearly, more than you had in a while. 

“No, you are your father’s daughter,” Randall insisted, loud enough to make you flinch. “Can you imagine the agony he would feel hearing you say that?”

Your breathing was too fast, rapid enough to make your head spin. You kept shaking your head, tears flying off of your cheek, but you couldn’t recall when you had begun to cry. “I don’t care.” 

“Don’t care…? This bastard has already gotten into your head,” Randall said. “He has poisoned your broken mind with his lies and manipulations, please don’t let this go any further.”

You shook your head again, but there was nothing you could think of to say. You didn’t want to talk anymore, you just wanted this to be over. 

“Believe me, as much as I would love to claim otherwise, I had nothing to do with this,” Buggy said, raising his hands innocently. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Think about what would drive a girl like this into the arms of a pirate. A broken heart, maybe? Was that your doing, lover boy? Did you break her heart? Make her feel like she wasn’t good enough?” 

“Keep your big goddamned nose out of our business, clown,” Randall said. 

The other pirates audibly gasped, and you could feel the sudden zap of tension in the air. Buggy’s taunting smile froze in place, his posture icing over like a statue. And then, a second later, he was rushing at Randall, burying his fist in the other man’s stomach. Randall crumpled onto his knees with a heavy grunt and you waited for something else, something worse. Crina said that Buggy had killed over jokes about his nose, and, right then, you believed it.

Nothing happened. You watched, frozen, as Buggy breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with it, and then he raised a hand.  

“New girl,” he called, snapping to beckon you closer. You obliged, rushing to his side. He didn’t look angry, not like you feared he would. Instead, he smiled. It was a mean smile, a frightening one. But a smile all the same. “Are you ready for your big moment?”   

“What?” 

“Your audition! I thought of the perfect act for you. Kill him.” 

You looked down at Randall, he was clearly still in pain, his eyes watering as he looked up at you. “I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head again.  

“You can and will. Assuming you want to remain on my crew. Otherwise I’ll kill him and you’ll have to explain to daddy why prince charming was here in the first place.” He held out his hand towards Ivo. “Knife.” When he got it, Buggy flipped the knife handle first, holding it to you with a flourish. “You’re up, babydoll.”

“She won’t do it, clown,” Randall said through grit teeth. 

“Of course she will,” Buggy said. “For me.” 

As if moving through the dusky haze of a dream, you took the knife, wrapping your sweaty hand around the grip. The way Buggy smiled in response made your heart flutter, something to cling to amidst the horror and disgust. It didn’t feel real anymore. How could it be real? 

“I don’t know what to do.” Were those your words? Your voice?

Buggy laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said, circling behind Randall. “C’mere, I’ll help you.” 

Randall was shouting and pleading, but Buggy had grabbed a fistfull of his hair to keep him from escaping. 

“You’ve gotta hold him still,” Buggy told you. “Like this, see?”  

“-don’t do this, please. You can’t… I love you!” 

You got a fistful of Randall’s hair, making him cry out in pain. There was no pleasure in the sound, only a roiling sense of disgust. It would be better when he was dead, and then he wouldn’t be in pain. 

“God you’re short,” Buggy said as he adjusted you into place, right between him and Randall. “You’ll be better off going for their ankles.” He wrapped his hand around yours, getting a good grip on the knife and holding it still. 

“-when he gets bored of fucking you. That’s all pirates do, rape and murder. You’ll never be one of them, you’ll just-”

“Start on one side and move to the other, easy as that,” Buggy said comfortingly, resting his chin against the side of your head. 

“-he doesn’t kill you, your dad will. Do you really think you’ll ever be able to hide from him?” 

Moving slowly, through a dream, you put the knife on the left side of Randall’s neck. It was no different from what a butcher did, really. 

Breath in. Pull. You instinctively locked up at the sound of Randall’s screams and the resistance of his flesh, but Buggy forced your hand, pulling the blade deep into his neck and then fast to the side. The knife got caught part way through, stuck in something hard. You tried to saw through it and Randall made an inhuman noise of agony. Buggy had to help you unstick it, to follow through until the knife slashed that horrifying scream short and then there was just a sort of gurgling sound and you didn’t know if it was because he was still alive or if it was an automatic process. 

There was so much blood, and it was hot, burning you. For some reason, you hadn’t anticipated the messy scarlet spray. From the deep slice came more blood. More, and more still. Randall’s heavy, limp body dropped onto the floor into a puddle of it, although you weren’t sure when you let go of his hair. Buggy released your hand, but you didn’t drop the knife, holding it in a death grip as blood streamed like red veins down your hand and wrist, down the blade and all the way to its tip before dripping to the dirty floor. The tang of iron filled your lungs. You shook all over, all the way down inside, your bones and organs shivering. It was your heart. It pounded frantically, like butterfly wings. And your breathing. Wheezing, gasping, gurgling like Randall’s had before he fell.

Your mouth opened to exhale, but there was nothing there. No air, no words. Nothing. Your cold gaze turned to look at Buggy, confused as to what you were supposed to do next. He had led you this far, but now you were lost. He smiled, and laughed, and took the knife away from you, tossing it to the side where it clanged and slid away. 

And then he folded you into his arms, your head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was firm and steady, and he was so warm. He smelled of gunpowder and salty sea air and greasepaint and the natural warm scent of his skin. You clung to that, breathing in deep to excise the scent of blood. 

“Congratulations, babydoll,” Buggy told you. “Looks like you just got the part.” 

The first firecracker went off not long after the sun had gone down, kicking off the surprise party with an especially loud zip and then a bang and a bursting sizzle. “It’s a surprise party,” Buggy told you, his face illuminated by the flash of red. “As in, the people who live here are going to be so surprised by the party I’m throwing for my crew. Get it?” 

A chain of firecrackers followed the first, a show that the pirates set off amidst a barrage of explosions, lighting up the sky with brilliant colors and smoke, making the earth tremble beneath your feet. They acted as distraction and lure, drawing people further into the town and inviting the ship that had been lurking nearby to enter the harbor. 

And after that came the chaos. 

Many things happened that you were aware of, if only passively. Leaving the northside and then Barley Village, waiting at the dock, and then boarding the ship as men and women in colorful attire flooded the yard, overtaking the few armed guards. You were told to sit on the deck and wait, so you did. Aware of it all—noxious sulfur and smoke filling the air, thunderous claps of explosives, popping gunshots, screaming voices, roaring fires—but uninvolved. There was a sense of great quiet. Not outside where things were loud and violent and scary, but inside. You were very quiet on the inside. Far away from everything and everyone else. 

Blood flaked off of your skin, caking beneath the nails when you scratched your arm. It would have been nice to wash it off, but you didn’t know where you would go for that, and you didn’t want to get up.

“Yoo-hoo, is anybody in there?” 

A gloved hand waved in front of your face. 

You let out a hoarse scream, nearly tipping backwards from how violently you startled. It didn’t take long for you to realize how overblown the reaction was, Buggy’s laughter made the point quite clearly. 

“What was that?” he asked, almost laughing too hard to get the words out. He stood above you without his coat and hat, although he kept the striped headscarf, and a bottle tucked under his arm. 

“You scared me,” you told him, a hand on your racing heart.

“That noise you just made though,” he said, still laughing. “It sounded like one of those scream-y fireworks.”

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Your fault, not mine. I was trying to talk to you, but you just sat there. I thought it was your eye that didn’t work, not your ears.”

“I guess I… zoned out a little.” 

“No shit. Ah, that was good,” Buggy said as his laughter subsided. “I had no idea human beings could even make sounds like that.” Letting out a big breath to settle himself, he sat down next to you. Very close, far closer than you would have, almost touching. “Kinda makes me wonder what other kinds of sounds you can make.” 

“I know, it’s annoying,” you said, staring hard at the deck. “I’m sorry.” 

Buggy laughed at that too, shaking his head. “You really have no clue, do you?” he asked. “Is it weird that I’m into it?” 

“Into what?” you asked. “I’m sorry, I… don’t understand.” 

“I know you don’t, and that’s okay,” he said with a mocking sort of indulgence, patting your head. “Anyway, I had a little business in town and snagged this from some rich guy’s house.” He held up a bottle by the neck and swished its contents a little for effect. “We’re going to celebrate.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather be out there?” you asked, the first coherent question that came to your mind as it scrambled to make sense of what he had just said. 

“Between you and me, this,” Buggy said with a confidential hush, gesturing to your burning town, “isn’t my thing. It’s a reward for my freaks, gives ‘em an outlet to express themselves artistically. I prefer a more… performative platform. True art deserves a spotlight and an audience.” He waved that away, smiling. “But this isn’t about me, it’s about you.” 

“Me?”

“You really impressed me earlier. I mean, yeah, your technique needs polish, and you’ve got no stage presence to speak of, but you displayed raw talent. I really think you have a shot at success, sweetheart. Stick with me, and I’ll make something out of you yet.” 

“Thank you,” you said softly, shying away from thinking about earlier. The praise though, that was heady. That made you feel warm. 

Buggy popped the cork off the bottle, taking a drink straight from it and smacking his lips appreciatively. “You like sweet things, right?” 

“I-” 

“You’ll love this then. Here, try it.” 

You eyed the bottle he was proffering to you warily. Alcohol was something you were familiar with, but you could count on your fingers the number of times you had actually tasted it. “I don’t know…” you said, trying to think of ways to reject drinking without seeming ungrateful.   

“You’re a pirate now, so you’ve gotta learn to drink like one,” Buggy told you, pushing it into your hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

You sniffed the open lip, surprised by the sweetness. It didn’t smell as strongly of alcohol as you feared. Not like what your father drank. Maybe it would be okay. Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself, you tipped the bottle back just like he had. That was a mistake. It didn’t smell like alcohol, but you could taste it—feel it, even. Panicked by your body’s natural response to expel it, you swallowed as much as you could, coughing out the rest. Red liquid drooled down your chin, staining the dress that was already ruined with dried blood. Buggy laughed. A little at first, and then a lot. 

Flushing, you wiped your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be like that. That was hilarious,” Buggy told you. You looked away, even more embarrassed. “Your face was priceless. You threw that back with the confidence of a real fire-hazard, saggy skinned, dead eyed alcoholic. You were so serious about it too, and then… Good lord.”

“I didn’t know!” you said, trying and failing not to sound shrill. 

“It’s okay, you’ve got me to help you now. Try it again, but don’t be so greedy. Baby sips.” 

“No, thank you,” you said, holding the bottle back to him. 

“Drink. That’s an order,” he said, pushing it back to you. 

That gave you pause. “Do you mean that?” you asked. 

He nodded, urging you on. 

Your shoulders drooped in defeat. Trepidatiously, you took a small sip. At least you didn’t hack it back up this time. While the taste was sweet, the burn was not. It rose up like smoke into your head, you could feel it.  

“What if I get drunk?” you asked. 

“Oh, you’re going to get drunk, captain’s orders,” Buggy said with a grin. “I can’t stand watching you sit around moping about killing that guy. Besides, you’re a pirate now.”

The little ball of anxiety deep in your gut doubled. This was wrong, you knew it was. Or maybe you were wrong, and Buggy was right. You didn’t know. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” you muttered.

“As long as you don’t jump into the water or shit yourself, you’ll be fine…” You looked at him, horrified. “Joking! C’mon, I’ve taken good care of you so far, haven’t I? You’ll be fine.”

The way he laughed made you want to believe him. He was your captain now. You nodded seriously and, steeling yourself, took another drink. And another. 

“See? It’s good, right?” Buggy asked, holding out his hand for the bottle. 

You licked your lips, cleaning up the lingering sweetness. “It is. Thank you,” you said, unable to keep yourself from admiring the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the view unfortunately obscured by his cravat. 

The perverse thought took you by surprise. Was it the alcohol? Already, your head was spinning, your thoughts a little more disorganized. It wasn’t like the quiet, empty feeling of before. It was warm and distant, it made your shoulders relax, the anxiety and uncertainty of before fading. This was a good idea, you already felt so much better. When he passed the bottle back, you didn’t have to be prompted to imbibe, chasing that feeling.   

“I don’t mean to pry, but when that guy back there mentioned your dad, it really seemed to get to you,” Buggy said. “What, did daddy not love you? Or maybe he loved you a little too much.”

You didn’t want to talk about that. You didn’t want to think about it. You took another big drink. 

On the horizon, the town was utterly ablaze. As the night grew darker, the flames rose higher. Which building was burning so brightly? It belched thick, black smoke into the night sky. Who was in it? Anybody you knew?

“Don’t wanna talk about it, hm? That’s fine,” Buggy said, stealing the bottle back. “With any luck, my freaks’ll kill him tonight, eh? Then you’ll really be free.” 

“He’s gone right now,” you said, your words soft and slurring together. “Out of town.” What would he think of the smoldering ashes? Would he believe you had perished in the flame? Somehow, you doubted that. He would know what you had done. There was no chance of freedom, not for you. 

“That’s even better,” Buggy said.  

Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned to him, both in confusion and disbelief. “How?” 

“Because, babydoll,” Buggy told you, shaking your shoulder to make sure you were paying attention. “It’s good to have somebody to hate—somebody to prove wrong. He tried to convince you that you’re crazy, he tried to keep you from ever being yourself. That pain and anger made you weak. But you’re not weak anymore. Tonight, I showed you how to be strong. It’s not enough to tell those assholes that they’re wrong, you have to prove it to them. That’s what tonight was about, right? You proved to your dad, to everybody, that you’re stronger than they thought. And, hey, you proved it to me, too. I wasn’t sure about you at first, but I changed my mind.” He threw an arm around you, pulling you close. “I like you, kiddo. A lot.” 

“I like you too,” you said, relaxing into the little side hug, very aware of every place his bare arm met your bare shoulders and neck. The alcohol had stoked a nice blaze in your stomach and chest, making your head spin in a way you didn’t mind that much. Smoothing the colors, softening the air, making you want to lean into his touch, made you crave more of it. 

Buggy pulled away, leaving the bottle in your hands. You felt a little cold without him.  

“You know,” he said, smiling at you. The far off flames glinted mischievously in his eyes. The flaring reds and oranges highlighted his cheekbones too, defined the sharpness of his jaw. You were caught off guard by how viscerally you reacted to the thought that he was handsome, your filterless mind caught in an endless loop of focusing on the fact. “Burning down this shithole is nothing compared to what I will do. The towns I’ll raze to the ground, the treasure I’ll steal, the shows I’ll put on. Now that I’ve got a crew, I’m gonna put on a show like nobody’s ever seen. The biggest, flashiest, greatest show ever. Everybody will be screaming my name, recognize my face. I’ll shine so bright that they’ll have no choice but to love me. ” 

Buggy’s intensity made you smile, you couldn’t help it. Alcohol had created a cloudy burst of affection within you, or maybe it was just the floodgates of tension finally collapsing, letting out something that would have otherwise been smothered. Either way, it was as intoxicating as the drink itself. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Buggy asked, his tone filled with steel. You looked to see his dark expression, his narrowed eyes. 

“I’m not,” you said, confused by his rapid shift in demeanor. “I’m… I’m happy. I’ll do anything to help you.” 

He relaxed. “Well, you’d better start working on your act.” 

That made you laugh, a dizzy, bubbly sound. “I can’t do an act. I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

“There has to be something. Let me think… Can you sing?”

“I used to, a little. But not for a really long time.” 

“Come on, let me hear it.”

You were drunk, you knew that for a fact because in no state of sobriety would you offer to sing in front of another person. But, right then, bubbling with alcohol and protected by the darkness of the smoky night sky, you felt invincible. 

“Oh, what do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning? Slash his…um… something, something, captain’s daughter. Toss him in… to… the dirty water…” Whatever coherence you held onto unraveled into a fit of drunken laughter at the awful rhyme. “I’m sorry, I think… I think I forgot some of the words.”  

“Seems like you forgot the tune too,” Buggy said, wincing dramatically. All that did was make you laugh harder. “Hold on a second, let me wipe the blood out of my ears.” 

You swatted his shoulder, although your attempted indignance probably wasn’t very convincing when you were still smiling. “Don’t be mean!”

“That’s a bold way to treat your captain,” he told you, but he was smiling too. 

“Please don’t be mean to me, Captain Buggy,” you said, speaking slowly to emphasize how serious you were. 

“Beg me again.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he said, waving it off in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “Anyway, I’m being nice right now, especially after that performance. The critics would eat you alive for that one. So, singing is out. Clearly. What else have you got?”

“Oh! I know a, um, a rhyme. A joke.” 

He looked at you skeptically. “Really?” 

“What is that s’posed to mean?” you asked.

“You don’t strike me as somebody with… How should I put this… A sense of humor?” 

You frowned. 

“Alright, alright, quit pouting and tell me,” Buggy said impatiently, waving you to continue. 

You cleared your throat very theatrically, sitting up as straight as you could manage. 

“There was a young lass who thought

Very little but thought it a lot.

Then at long last she knew

What she wanted to do,

But before she could start, she forgot.”

Deflating, you laughed, surprised at how clearly you had delivered the words. Especially considering how long it had been since you heard them. 

Buggy didn’t look nearly as impressed. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a clean limerick before,” he said. “And now I know why. I mean, what’s the point of limerick without the ick.”

You blew a raspberry at him. “Fine, you do one.”

“Okay, but you have to prepare yourself,” Buggy said. You nodded encouragingly.

“There was a young plumber named Lee

Who was plumbing his girl by the sea.

She said, ‘Stop your plumbing,

There's somebody coming’

Said the plumber, still plumbing, ‘It's me.’"

Belatedly, you gasped, your hands covering your mouth. That shock dissolved into giggles. “That’s, oh, that’s… that’s dirty.”

“Aw, was it too much for your delicate sensibilities? Now that you’re a pirate, you’re gonna hear a lot worse than that. A looooooooot worse. I hope your unspoiled ears can handle it.”  

“I can!” you insisted, taking a big drink to steel yourself before setting the bottle aside. If you were going to be a pirate, you had to stop getting so flustered. “More. Please.” 

“Okay, okay…” Buggy cleared his throat. “A hooker roaming the East Blue, 

Once filled her vagina with glue, 

She said, with a grin, ‘Well, they paid to get in, 

And they’ll damn sure pay to get out, too.’”

You laughed loudly, as much at the joke as the taboo nature of it. You laughed, and then giggled in a bubbly, drunken way that you knew was too loud and embarrassing. “That is icky,” you told him. “Jeez, that’s…” Your faux seriousness dissolved into a fit of giggles again and you leaned against him for stability. “What would you even do?” 

“Yeah, I don’t know. It sounds like a sticky situation,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. That, of course, sent you into another fit of giggles. 

“I’m sorry, I’m…” you said. “I think I’m drunk.” You looked behind yourself at the town, the glittery haze of joy buzzing in your head fading at the sight. It was horrific, wasn’t it? And here you were, laughing like a fool. You couldn’t really comprehend the magnitude of it all, even if you could acknowledge that it was terrible. “Is it okay?” you asked, looking back at him imploringly. “Everything that happened tonight… I thought I would feel very different after, but I don’t. It almost feels like it’s not even real. You ever get that? When things happen but they feel so impossible that you get confused?”

“If you can think that clearly,” Buggy said, “then you’re not drunk enough. Bottoms up, babydoll.” You smiled at his use of the pet name and the fluttery feeling it gave you. What else could you do but oblige, tipping the bottle back like before. Only, unlike before, you kept it all down. There wasn’t any real burn, just more sweetness, more warmth. 

And then there was nothing left. 

“Woah,” you said, lowering the empty bottle and wiping your mouth. “‘s all gone.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a dizzy sort of laugh. “I dunno…” you said, closing your eye, trying to collect your thoughts. “I’m…” Already things were getting even more fuzzy and foggy. Fabric stuck to your flushed skin, the salty air drying across your chest and cheeks. “I feel… very…”

Making an upset noise in the back of your throat, you pushed your hair back, catching the bandana and pulling it off so you could feel the breeze on your whole face. That helped. Drawing in a deep breath, you looked at him, trying to focus. Only, the second you saw him, all you could do was smile. His eyes were greedy about the light, sparkling with it. Even with the nose, Buggy was handsome. That was not something you could tell him though, not at all ever. Unfortunately you had forgotten what you were saying in the first place. 

“Very… what?” Buggy asked. “‘Cause if you keep trying to be a buzzkill, I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

Were you a buzzkill? You couldn’t remember what you had said or done to earn that title. It was hard enough to comprehend what was happening in the moment. “Like what?” you asked.

“Like… this!” Buggy said, using the sash around your waist to pull you closer so he could tickle your sides. You jumped and squealed, the bottle rolling out of your hands as you tried to fight him off. 

“No no no, don’t,” you cried, trying to escape. You were being too loud, moving too much, acting like an idiot, but you didn’t have enough control to stop. 

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re laughing, aren’t you?” 

It was true, you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, letting it out in panicked little bursts. Time had a bizarre elasticity to it, everything hitting you at once and fading just as fast. Laughing, sobbing, begging him to stop. It was easy to catch and hold onto one of his hands, but that left the other one free. And if you tried to catch that one instead, you had to release the first. There must have been a better way to do it, but you felt as if, bit by bit, particle by particle, the world was separating, the hot and humid air splitting, your limbs becoming loose, your capacity for rational thought dissipating like mist. 

Lacking any sort of control and with a completely undeserved sense of invulnerability, you tackled him. Buggy let it happen, still laughing. At least he had stopped. 

“God, it’s like being attacked by a drunk, one-eyed toddler,” he said. “What are you gonna do, whine me into submission?” 

“Don’t be mean,” you said seriously, your words ruined by something wavering between a laugh and a sob, or maybe it was just the drunken slur. 

“You attacked me. If anything, I'm the victim here.” 

“No! You started it!” 

“Hold on, are you… crying?” Buggy asked incredulously. “Aw, you poor thing. I mean, you were laughing so much, how could I have known you didn’t like it?” 

“I don’t!” you insisted. 

“To be clear,” he said. “You don’t like this?” He attacked your sides, not tickling so much as just teasing, but to the same effect. You yelped and sat up squirm away, swatting at his hands. 

Rather than laugh like before, Buggy groaned, his hips bucking up against you. A loud, harsh gasp left your mouth, your entire body going rigid from the liquid heat of friction, your thighs squeezing around him. At some point, your skirt had ridden up, your panties being the only barrier left. You didn’t think you had ever been as acutely aware of how achingly empty, electrically tingly, as you were right then. 

Bad. Very bad.

“Oh, there’s another fun noise,” Buggy said, laughing as he propped himself upright with his arms. “I can’t believe that got you.” 

“No,” you said quickly, dizzy from the intensity of your reaction and how close the two of you were. You could smell him, the sweat, the musk, the salt, the greasepaint, the gunpowder. You could see the glitter in his makeup, the fire catching in his eyes. “It jus’... surprised me.” 

“Is that why you’re shaking?” Buggy asked, rubbing your exposed thigh, the fabric of his glove catching the sensitive skin. 

“I’m… um…” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to organize the drunken slush of your brain. Being so close to him, feeling his body against yours, sent deviously tantalizing tingling sparks through you. And guilt. It was wrong, he wasn’t doing anything to invite those feelings, you were just being weird and drunk and embarrassing and you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. You’d have to tilt your head a lot, although the stubble would be more hazardous than his nose. The last time you kissed someone, you were both young enough that you didn’t have to navigate facial hair. And then there was the matter of the makeup. You tried to imagine what you might look like after, the slash of red and imprint of white. Maybe they’d mix into pink. You tried to force yourself to focus on something else, but you couldn’t meet his eyes either. Nervous and confused and filled with a million different feelings you had no name for, you squirmed again, thoughtlessly adding to the anxious feedback loop of heat and need and intoxicated emptiness. 

“You know, sweetheart, this reminds me,” Buggy said, “there’s still the matter of your physical. It’s standard procedure for new crew. We could get that over and done with while you’re… lubricated.”

“What’re you… talking about?”  

“I’ve gotta make sure you’re fit, healthy… Clean of anything you could pass on to the forty or so people you’re gonna be stuck with in an enclosed space for weeks at a time.”

“How d’you do that?” 

“You’ve been to a doctor, right? It’s kinda like that. I know it can feel a little invasive, so it might be better to do it while you’re drunk.”

“What…” you started to ask, but then Buggy shifted, his hips pushing up against you. The fresh wash of warmth it sent into your core scattered your mind, and you lost the already tenuous thread of thought. Your eyelashes fluttered, although you weren’t sure when you had closed your eye. “Umm…”

“Well, first,” he said, answering the question you hadn’t asked, “you’d have to take off your clothes. Then relax while I have a little look-see. It’s important that you stay as still as possible. I’ll have a hard time finishing if you can’t stop squirming around the whole time.” 

“Do you really have to?” you asked, your brow furrowing. It sounded embarrassing. But maybe if it was him, you didn’t mind? Your dad did all of your past medical check-ups so it wasn’t inherently wrong. But the thought of Buggy seeing you without clothes wasn’t exactly nice, you could only imagine his disgust. That was bad. 

“Depends on if you’re serious about being a pirate or not,” Buggy said.   

“I am serious!” you exclaimed. Your hands went to the sash around your waist to pull the bow free. If you did it quickly, you wouldn’t be as embarrassed. 

“Woah, wait. Holy shit,” Buggy said, “are you seriously—” He cracked up laughing, making you freeze. “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for that.”

“You’re… laughing,” you said, your fingers falling with the slow sink of humiliation. 

“You really were going to strip for me, out in the open and everything.” Buggy laughed harder, rocking forward. “I didn’t expect you to be so eager. Hey, if you really wanna get naked, I’m not going to stop you.” 

“I don’t, I just… I thought…” you said, pulling away from him and trying to get onto your feet to get away, embarrassment lighting the worst sort of fire within you.  

“Woah, calm down, it was just a joke,” Buggy said, his laughter fading. “You’re absolutely plastered, if you stand up, you’re gonna fall right back down.” You didn’t stop, resolute to get onto your feet and put some distance between you and him. “I won’t catch you.” 

“’m fine,” you told him. 

You finally got your footing and braced against your knee to lurch upright. For a second, you were standing up and weightless. And then you were nothing.

[sinimake]

Now, it's Johnny specific headcanons! Read Kenshi's here

Took a gap year to earn his college funds, but when he got accepted into a film school, his family wanted him to sign up for the army. So one morning, he just went out, took an interstate bus, and started living on his own.

He worked many menial works here and there, barely surviving, so he started to enter underground cage fights in the night for quick bucks. The first time he got in the ring and the announcer asked for his name, he chose Johnny Cage on a whim.

His college years were wild. Almost always drunk every night bc he's landed a job as a bartender in a local bar. Alcohol is conveniently within arms reach and is an effective painkiller to the punches he took in the ring fights. That's when his addiction started.

He got his Johnny tattoo when he was shit faced and sad. He desperately wanted to shed Johnathan Carlton name off himself, so he marched into a tattoo parlor to have a permanent reminder on his chest. People think he's narcissistic to have his name tattooed so big on his body, Johnny never corrects the meaning of it bc it is better to be seen as an asshole than weak.

One really good perk of his bartender job was talking to the patrons and hearing their life stories. It really helped Johnny's acting career in the long run, where he understands his roles deeply and delivers the portrayals from heart.

He got a golden raspberry award for his The Flesh Pits movie. Threw the tropy out of the window once in anger but now he displays it along with his other achievement awards as a reminder.

He's an ambassador of many luxury brands.

He's very timely organized person where he plans his days down to every hour. Hates when there's a sudden change in his timetable.

When Johnny and Kenshi have a movie night, not only does he narrate what's happening in the scene, but he nerds out on what exact techniques of shots and lighting are used.

A big car enthusiast. Gives his cars the names that are in Mambo No. 5 by Lou Bega. (A little bit of Monica in my life—)

Snores in his sleep, specially when he's really exhausted.

His music taste is mainly girly pop, but sometimes he belts out on old school rock songs.

Loves improv acting. Sometimes, he drops in at random improv club nights to participate in one or two sets. It is always fun to see the crowd going "is that Johnny Cage? THE Johnny Cage?" whenever he goes on the stage.

A serial double texter. Will send you random ass pictures with no context or whatever. It is especially funny bc Kenshi can't see the pics, and the voice-over feature of his phone gives him the most obscure descriptions that have the man facepalming every time.

Is a big coffee guy but always gotta have them with milk and sugar bc he can't handle bitter taste of americano.

Has love and hate relationship with paparazzi cameramen. When he's out with the earthrealm defenders, his friends sometimes get the feeling of being followed. They say the concern to Johnny, thinking some outworld danger is hunting them or something just for the actor go "no worries that's just my regular paparazzi, Jeff. HI JEFF!! HOW YOU BEEN DOING TODAY?" "I'm fine! How about you, Johnny?", "WOULD YOU LIKE SOME COFFEE? IS HOT OUTSIDE!" "yeah."

^then sometimes it's like this: "CAN YOU GIVE ME A BREATHER FOR A SEC?! YOUR CAMERA CLICKING IS SO LOUD!" "MY RENT IS DUE!" "NOT MY PROBLEM!"

He's an ambivert. Quiet night ins are as much appreciated as parties. He needs winding down moments but will go batshit insane if he doesn't get at least one human interaction a day.

[nodefinition-found]

ׂ╰ ❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝? — 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐲 ? ❞ `

:; — Empty words spewed from hurt cannot be unsaid. They already know "hate" no longer has the same meaning. Can the dead man even pretend to be surprised? Eyes blurring the horrific image of what used to be brother beneath as he tries to blink away tears. He doesn't deserve to cry, not after he could have left but chose to stay. Why does he stare at his hands in horror, as if he wasn't the one controlling them, as if this wasn't a decision and just another mistake? Fingers gripping so tightly there's bruises in their place, teeth stained with blood that is no longer his own. His innocence is long gone, who he was erased.

So far gone, eyes blown from the adrenaline. Patchy fingers traced every scar as if he hadn't already memorized them—he put them there, etched into flesh like a branding. Is the monster even a wolf anymore when he doesn't eat the prey? Instead, just clawing open every healing wound and licking the tendons until the flesh is numb. What wolf provokes the prey to violence just so it can be beaten bloody? Covered in bites and bruises that he will repay with his own. The other used to be so tactile with the pain he inflicted—bullet holes and quick strikes, slow to anger and righteous—but now it is frantic and desperate with shaking hands and bared teeth to mirror that of the mutt's.

Neither of them has ever stopped the other, afraid of losing the only thing that kills the mind and brings the body back to life. Pushing each other further and further, nothing sets them off like the other. Nothing satisfies the violence inside them like one another. Tethered by a hatred so passionate it might as well be love, if violence is all they know then violence it will be. Anything but letting go.

Dizzy with adrenaline, sometimes he lets Liu win. An open invitation for that broken little dove to beat him into the dirt until he can't stand and those leather gloves are stained with scarlet. It feels like being executed by an Angel—clean and perfect, and just. What should elicit fear only evokes a high more addicting than the bloodlust, so like an addict he watches as that spectacle of divine judgement stands above him and spreads its mangled wings to deliver the final blow. He would slit his throat on that halo.

'He looks good covered in bruises,' but Jeff thinks he looks better covered in the blood of sinners.

This took me like 90+ hours and I still have rendering to do on the second page that wasn't included.

[sketching-pasketti]

Oh hey look it's the longest fucking post I'll ever make

Proxy Headcannons

——————————————————————————

General Headcannons:

All of them hate Slender but literally can't do anything about it cause he controls them

Everyone hates Tim but love Brian

Toby is a gremlin

Individual Headcannons (Masky/Tim):

"Oh I'm a whore for red velvet cake" "Yeah, Tim you say that everytime we go get cake"

Smells like cologne and cigarettes

Tired 24/7

Probably hates Slender the most out of all of them

Loves Five Guys a lot for some reason

"Uh, half of y'all have criminal records and the other half are supernatural creatures, no shit Slender won't let y'all work"

Says "y'all" a lot even though he's not southern (me too tho)

Cannot stand county music

A metalhead

Coffee addict

Calls people nicknames sometimes (example: Kate;Katie, Lulu;Lu, Lazari:Lazii, Kate:Katester)

"Ow? My ass?? What the hell, Katie????"

Speaks 4 languages

Can't stand Jeff

"You smell like cigarettes and it's really repulsive" "Okay?? You smell like weed, shut up"

Kicks ass at Mario Kart Wii

Also kicks ass at Wii Sports

Individual Headcannons (Hoodie/Brian):

"I pay for all of you guys' food so I don't think you get to say anything"

Is always either in his room or out at the store

Disappears for literally months and then comes back like nothing happened

Low-key has a (b)romance with Tim

Babysits Sally

A swiftie

Really likes Hits Different

Assigns people random emojis to their names

Examples are Tim(🚬), Toby(👹), Kate(🥺), Jeff(🔪)

Plays visual novels in secret

Not really though, cause Slender knows

Really good friends with Jane and her wife

Doesn't like how itchy his mask is

Wants to run Offender over with a car

Individual Headcannons (Toby):

Screams Taylor Swift lyrics at people who piss him off (*cough cough* Tim *cough cough* ex; "LET'S FAST FORWARD TO 300 TAKEOUT COFFEES LATER" "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU RODGERS??")

Also blasts music at ungodly hours

Heavily annoyed that Tim is the only one that Slender trusts to help with his tic attacks

Heard Jeff snort crack once and now that noise is a tic of his

Names his hatchets

"oh no"s randomly

Threw an egg at Slender once

Screams the lyrics to the songs he listens to

Has a collection of shiny things he's stolen from his victims

Honks (goose or car, you decide)

5'8"

Ate glue on multiple occasions

Didn't even notice it was glue actually until Brian told him

Tastes Jane's candles (she gets very upset at this)

Bites people

Forgets he chewed the side of his mouth off and gets shocked when he looks in the mirror

Rare whisper boy

His grandparents taught him German and now he has an accent and everything

Drew on all of his Converse

Perches on the stair railing

Sleeps in the starfish position

Individual Headcannons (Kate):

Also draws on her Converse

Draws everyone and everything

Painted most of the pictures Slender has in his office

Helps Toby collect shiny things

Hunches over like the hunchback of Notre Dame whenever she's doing something

Her back hurts constantly

Mapped the house so she wouldn't get lost

Whisper girl

Pierced her nose by herself (and made a huge fucking mess)

Let's Sally do her makeup

Slaps Tim's ass everytime he walks past her

Eats crayons on purpose

Vomits each time though

Has a large vinyl collection

And a Funko pop collection

Uses "🥺" unironically

Can ice skate

[fandomshifter]

Can I get general headcanons for the proxies? (Or basically Tim,Brian,And toby?)

Okay, I'm back with creepypasta things!! So send me more asks 🙏 🙏🙏

These headcannons are based on my au "Don't go into the woods." There are general all-around headcannons & personal headcannons for each Tim, Brian & Toby. Hope you enjoy!! Again, these are my personal headcannons. Yes, the mansion exists. Yes, it's found family. Yes, it's also horror. I have also watched Marble Hornets and hate twinkified versions of the proxies. Also, would anyone be interested in OC stuff ?

⦻ THE PROXIES ⦻

⦻ The proxies are the top dogs and have a lot of respect from members of the mansion. They are directly under Slenderman in terms of rank. When Slenderman is away on business with his brothers or 'recruiting', the proxies are in charge of the missions and the mansion.

⦻ All proxies have a scar of the symbol [⦻] located somewhere on their body, that's personal to them. Slenderman can use it as a homing beacon to find their location or sense if they have died, which he can choose to bring them back or keep them dead. Tim is on the base of his neck, Brian's is on the middle of his back, and Tobys is on the right side of his neck.

⦻ Proxies get given heightened senses. They can run faster and are stronger. However, they have to train to be able to deal with the new changes to their body. Ontop of these injuries can heal quicker, but they will still need to see nurse Ann or Eyeless Jack to get it bandaged and checked on. Small injuries take a short time to heal & and bigger injuries take longer to heal. Missing limbs take a shorter amount of time only because they are kinda important to be able to do their jobs.

⦻ Very frequent visits to many different states. For recruitment, proxies have a list of people they have to visit and get close to, basically infiltrating their life to see if they would be fit to work. Then Slenderman would give them "Slender Sickness," which would then result in said person either dying before going to the mansion or living to become a proxie, which is highly rare.

💊 TIM WRIGHT [MASKY] 💊

💊 Drives a red truck everywhere. He stole it from a victims house and changed the licence plate. He doesn't let anyone else drive it unless he really really needs too and it's usually Brian or Liu.

💊 He chainsmokes when he is stressed. People can usually find him smoking outside on the porch, or he is in his room smoking while watching a movie or a TV show. If he isn't smoking, he's eating sweets or chewing gum. He always has both on him.

💊 Considering the proxies' clothes get ripped all the time, for the first few months of living in the mansion, he learned to sew clothes back up. When people started to find out, they would always ask him, especially Jeff & Nina. So he would make people pay him depending on how long it would take him.

💊 Due to being from the South, his accent tends to slip out during heated arguments. People found it funny at first. Now they take as a warning not to make him ANY angrier. The last time that happened, Jeff ended up getting tied to a tree for 5 hours.

💊 He is the leader of the proxies, having know of Slendermans' existence longer than anyone in the mansion, so they have a close "bond" of sorts. However, he feels alone because, in a way, he has no one to relate to since Brian & Toby only knew of his existence for a few years before joining, but him...He's know Slenderman his whole life and feels like there is no life worth living without Slenderman because everytime he runs, it always comes back.

💊 He has: Depression, insomnia, suffers nicotine addiction & Slender-sickness.

🔫 BRIAN THOMAS [HOODIE] 🔫

🔫 Brian has a motorbike that he uses on solo missions or just to have a drive during the night. Most nights, he can't sleep, so him and Tim would race each other. Tim in his truck, Brian on his bike. They would race down empty & quiet roads.

🔫 He has a pair of reading glasses that he only wears in the comfort of his own room or Tim's room. He wears them to read [ obviously ], but also when he uses a computer and knows he is going to be on his phone for a long period of time.

🔫 He can understand & write in Binary [ code like 1s & 0s ]. He uses it to fuck with his victims because it freaks them out. He also uses it as a party trick during get-togethers or as a game.

🔫 Brian isn't mute like many others headcannon him as. It's more like he doesn't like talking to people he doesn't have, too. He has too much going on physically and mentally to the point where he doesn't care what people think of him just as long as he gets his job done.

🔫 Brian is in charge of locating targets. He sometimes works with BEN, but more often than not, he does it by himself, having been a computer nerd back in his younger days.

🔫 He has: Depression, PTSD, OCD & Slender-sickness

🪓 TOBY ERIN RODGERS [TICCI TOBY] 🪓

🪓 Toby grew up in a religious household, his father being a Christian man, so he grew up very sheltered on things such as 'self expression'. So now, being at the mansion, he expresses himself more. This being with clothing styles, makeup, gender, Sexuality. Ontop of this, he doesn't mask his personality or hide his mental issues behind a wall.

🪓 You can find him drawing in his notebook during his free time. If the weather's nice, he sits outside in the forest, and if it's raining, he sits in his room smoking a joint while he doodles away. Nobody knows what he draws or what they look like. It's like a diary to him.

🪓 Out of the 3, he is more hands-on. He doesn't think before he kills, he let's Tim & Brian do that. He also doesn't like using guns and things such as, like I said hands on, so blunt force trauma and mutilation are his go-to. Especially if the target is an abuser and so on and so forth, then their body parts will be found all over the state.

🪓 He hates being inside for too long, so he has a set time every day where he goes on an hour long walk in the forest. He doesn't do anything he just walks and takes in the scenery because each walk he takes is never the same.

🪓 He is not allowed to drive. Tim & Brian taught him how to, but he has a habit of speeding or panicking before he can turn the engine on. He stole Tim's truck once and drove around with Jeff & BEN. ALMOST crashed the car, Tim was fucking pissed, which is why he created the truck ban.

🪓 He has: CIPA, Tourette syndrome, ADHD, amnesia caused by slenderman & Slender-sickness.

[fangirlwriting-stories]

Early Bird

Summary: Relativity/Reunion Falls AU, Mabel wakes up the first morning Ford is staying with them to find him already awake.

Masterlist

...

Mabel is admittedly a little surprised when she finds Stanford up and sweeping around in the store first thing in the morning.

“Stanford?” she says around a yawn.  Stanford jumps and turns to face her.  “Kiddo, how long have you been up?”

“A couple hours,” Stanford says, sounding like he’s attempting to sound awake and excited.  “I told you I’d make myself useful!  I reorganized your stock in alphabetical order while taking into account what kind of supplies it is, wrote down the new setup here so it’s easy to understand and learn on top of being better organized—” here he shoves a piece of laminated paper at her— “laminated the page, obviously, and dusted and swept everything!  Well, I’m almost done with the sweeping, anyway.  Next I’m gonna—”

“Woah, woah, kid,” Mabe says, holding her hands out.  “You gotta slow down.  I haven’t even had my Mabel Juice yet.”

Stanford blinks at her.  “But—”

“Look, that’s all very impressive, and thank you, but for now, why don’t you just come have some breakfast.  It’s your first morning here, I’m gonna make pancakes.”

Stanford’s eyes widen at the mention of pancakes, and he sets the broom down and follows Mabel into the kitchen.

He sits at the table, and folds his gloved hands together in front of him, and Mabel’s heart melts a little at the sight.  She hides a smile as she turns to open the cabinet above the stove, but as soon as she does she groans.

“Jeff!” she snaps, and reaches inside to snatch the gnome up.  “Just because I gave you edible glitter one time does not mean you can eat all the food in my cabinets!  We’ve talked about this!”

“Mabel, you don’t understand what you’ve done to us,” Jeff says, reaching desperately towards her face.  “The black market, it’s gotten out of hand.  Every gnome around wants edible glitter.  It has to be added to your pies or you lose the bake-off automatically!  I can’t lose to Jason again, Mabel, I can’t!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got my own glitter addiction to support, bub,” Mabel says.  She carries Jeff, who’s still squirming, over towards the window and drops him out of it.  “Try the fairies’ neck of the woods.”

“Wait, Mabel, please!”

Mabel slams the window in Jeff’s face and rolls her eyes, turning back to the cabinet.

“Sorry about him,” she says to Stanford, pulling the pancake mix out.  “It didn’t feel like a good time to tell you yesterday, but you’re gonna learn pretty quick that Gravity Falls is—”

When she turns around again, Stanford is staring at the window with wide eyes, but rather than being shocked or confused, he looks ecstatic.

“Uh, Stanford?” Mabel asks.

“That— what was that?” Stanford asks, a light sparking in his eyes.  “It’s so weird.”

He says ‘weird’ like it’s the answer to everything he’s been looking for.  Mabel raises an eyebrow.  “Usually people have a different reaction,” she says.  “I have to calm visitors down most of the time.”

“But he talks!” Stanford says, turning his wide eyes back to Mabel.  “Can I talk to him?  I have so many questions!”

“I’d be careful with that if I were you,” Mabel says.  “If you invite a gnome inside once they never leave.  As was just shown.”

“But— but—” Stanford looks so crestfallen in the next second that Mabel can’t help but wince.

“Look, bud, don’t worry about it,” she says, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table next to him.  “If you stay here even a week there’s gonna be way weirder things than that to find.”

Stanford looks up at her like she just said they’re gonna have ice cream for dinner every night.  “Really?”

Mabel chuckles.  “Tell you what,” she says.  “After I close the store this evening, we can go exploring.  I know a place nearby where we can find eye bats.  They’re one of Stanley’s favorite creatures.  He sneaks off to try to ride them when he thinks I’m not looking.”

Stanford continues to stare at her like that’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.  “Can I bring a notebook?” he asks.  “To write down everything we see?”

Mabel can’t help but laugh and ruffle his hair.  “Sure, kiddo.  You can pick one from the store.”

Stanford grins, and Mabel smiles back.  The kid’s gonna fit right in in Gravity Falls.  It’s similar enough to someone else she knows that it makes Mabel’s heart twinge a bit, but for now she just ignores it and turns to make pancakes.  She’s got to make extra this morning, after all.