#i live and die for em dashes

[shy-writer-999]

500 followers! dropping personal lore to mark the occasion... this is a big day for me :p thank u for humoring me so much lololol

if we are mutuals, just know that i am plotting to become your friend. im twiddling my fingers and rubbing my hands together about it. cant wait to be ur friend. u cant do anything about it either, its just gonna happen (im kidding, please be my friend).

i live in nyc

im a may taurus

i have a note where i screenshot every single nice comment ive ever gotten from someone on this page and i put it in there. if u have ever said anything nice to me even in reblogs its in there 😭

i never wrote smut before i started this blog in august, and i am used to the stuffy confines of academia. i cant describe how freeing it feels to write this stuff

i have a phobia of flies and theres one in my room rn and i cant get it out its literally terrorizing me. also i found a lanternfly in my grocery bag today and screamed, im not being hyperbolic

i have a scar on my chin and i was going to get plastic surgery on it but decided not to because i think it gives my face character and also (please humor me) i told myself yooo anime characters have scars like that and they look cool so why not HAHAHA

my favorite thing to use while i write is the em-dash. it is the panacea/pharmakon of any sentence. i eat that shit up

Zoro usurped Gojo for my #1 anime man of all time. I have a list for that as well. Idk if it will stay this way though because I love gojo so much I would die for him. But theres also Law and Ace and Aki and Itachi and Choso AGHHHHH I START TO GET SO SCRAMBLED ABOUT IT this is why i need my list.

if you read this far omg... (o˘◡˘o) come here NOW and let me give u a big smooch

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 5

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 10.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), depictions of a panic attack, animal death Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You start to unravel some of the secrets hidden in Beacon Hill's other world, and Stiles manages to worm his way into discovering some of your own. 

A/N: this took a minute, so i hope the length makes up for it! comments and reblogs are love, and i am tinkerbell. also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Tag list: @eaterof-concrete

Your anger fizzled with every mile you drove. By the time you finished your third loop around the Preserve, it was just a light simmer of irritation. The void was quickly filled with a different emotion: curiosity. There was a little dread in there too, perhaps also a touch of nausea, but the concoction was still potent enough to distract you from your...whatever that was with Lydia. Now that you were alone, trees blurring together in a ribbon of yellowing-green through your dash, all you could think about was the fire Derek’s family died in. Well, that, and another fire that was always lurking somewhere in your mind, hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the chance to jump out and strangle your heart. 

Beacon Hills was a small town. A town where, until very recently, bad things hardly ever happened. What were the chances of two houses going up in flames four years apart? Of two houses burning down to the foundation in the blink of an eye? Of two homes becoming charred rubble and chilling memorials to the lives lost inside? As far as you knew, they were the only unnatural fires that’d occurred in Beacon Hills in the last century. 

It could all be a coincidence, of course. Nothing. Just a delusional, grief-driven conspiracy. It would be best if you accepted that now before you fell too far down this rabbit hole. It’d taken you two years to finally realize that the police were never going to figure out what really happened to your mom, and those two years had been filled with a series of devastating misdirections, hundreds of dashed hopes and unanswered prayers to a god you no longer believed in. You knew better than this. You did. You knew better than to hope. 

But…maybe. Maybe there was something there. If there was an elaborate plot afoot, you knew just the right conspiracy nut to turn to.

The last time you believed in magic, you were six. You had run the entire mile-and-a-half to Maggie’s dad’s store, hands bloody and cupped into a small nest. You had almost choked on your quiet, congested whimpers, but after a few minutes of blubbering, you’d finally managed to spit out a few words, “You know how to fix him, right? You know everything.” There had to be a spell, you’d thought, with all the wisdom of a first-grade education. There had to be some magic flower or special potion that could make everything better. 

You hadn’t noticed the look on Maggie’s face when you finally opened your fingers, but Maggie had to have been panicking once she saw exactly what needed to be fixed—cradled in your palms, was a tiny, twitching field mouse you’d found on your way home from school. His little chest had heaved so slowly as he laid limply in your hands, as if he’d already accepted his fate. You’d been so young then, too young to realize that Maggie was only nineteen and faked her confidence more often than she felt it. Nineteen seemed so old at six, and now it was only three years away. 

Maggie had known, of course, that the poor little guy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see nightfall, but she’d made the fatal mistake of looking into your big wet eyes: still so full of hope and belief in the impossible. Instead of telling you the truth, she’d just said, “I got this," and took the mouse to the backroom—where all the magic happened. You never ended up seeing the mouse again. You realized now that probably meant he died, but you appreciated Maggie letting you live in the land of make-believe for just a little while longer. 

But that was ten years ago. Today, you knew that Mags was only mortal and Willowbark couldn’t actually heal fatal rodent wounds—but you were still hoping, against all hopes, that Maggie actually had the answers this time. 

“Mags?” your brow crinkled as you searched for Maggie and her wild curls. Mags often got lost in the midst of all the chaos, just a small blip in a collection of odd, Victorian-esque relics. You could usually spot at least a glimpse of whatever loud color Maggie was sporting that day. The yellows and pinks were always stark against the dingy backdrop, but today all you could see from the front door was varying shades of sage, oxblood, and charcoal. “Maggie?”

A muffled cry sounded from the storeroom, “Back here.” The door to the room was slightly ajar, and the purple lighting from the mini-greenhouse inside spilled through the crack. It cast a mesmerizing strip of dayglow lavender over the dangly earrings and mood rings for sale next to the register. “Bring me the shears, will you? The pink ones by Giz.”

You dropped your backpack behind the glass counter and drifted towards the sounds of Gizmo’s trumpeting snores. The stretch for the pruning scissors was a bit precarious; the little prince was batting his paws at something in the depths of dreamland and had no presence of mind for your fragile skin. You snagged the shears with minimal carnage and ran your finger along the cool edge, staring at the gleaming surface, “You’re into all local history, right? Not just the made-up stuff?”

Maggie took the shears from your lax hands and squatted next to the potted yew tree on the floor. It was just starting to blossom, red berries dotted sparsely around the spiky leaves—ripe for whatever ridiculous offering Maggie had planned. Maggie blew a ringlet out of her face and fixed you with a stern frown, “My ancestors were witches, and Dragons absolutely did exist. Just look at ‘dinosaur’ fossils from the—”

“Do you know anything about the fire the Hale family died in?” you looked down at your hands so that you didn’t have to see Maggie’s reaction. 

You traced circles around a rosy stain on Maggie’s workbench, likely from ground flower petals or dripping pomegranate seeds, shoulders hunching towards your ears as you continued, “I mean, you’re around the same age as the older sister, right?” Laura. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name, and the hypocrisy was stifling. You hated when people tiptoed around death, when they used pretty euphemisms like that could make what actually happened any less brutal. Less evil. Less unfair. But there was no softening grief. Death. Murder. There was no candy coat sweet enough to cloak the taste of rotting—and yet, you still couldn’t say her name.

Maggie went still briefly and then continued clipping branches, ignoring or not noticing the couple of leaves stuck to her fuzzy sweater. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth and stared a burl in the wood underneath your fingers, “Why do you think?”

Sighing, Maggie spread her clippings across the maple worktop and picked at a few yellowing leaves, “Where is this coming from, babe? I mean, that was a long time ago. I’m almost thirty, you know—ancient by most standards.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Do you know anything or not?”

“No,” Maggie sounded genuine, but she kept her eyes on the red stains underneath her fingernails, “nothing more than what was on the news.”

The fact that Maggie didn’t make a quip or a stupid pun was even more telling than her refusal to look in your direction. You folded your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the doorframe, “Sure.”

“Are you okay, babe?” Maggie wiped the berry residue off on her skirt, and the long hem swished around her ankles as she crept towards you. Her hand was cautious when she placed it on your rigid shoulder, “You aren’t skipping your meds again, are—”

Your eyes flashed as you shook off Maggie’s light touch with a jerk of your shoulder, “Is it possible for me to have a single feeling without everyone jumping down my throat about my meds.”

“I just worry,” Maggie said softly, and she reached for you again, waiting for you to pull away. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear when you didn’t. Your limbs were still stiff, and your face was still stony, but you let Maggie grab your hand. It was slightly sweaty, probably from all the indoor-gardening, but there was some comfort in the circles she smoothed over your knuckles. “You know I’m a worrier. Comes with the conspiracy theorist in me.”

You looked down at your feet and dug your toes into the concrete floor, “And my mom’s dying wish—I know.”

A bit of hurt quivered in the corners of Maggie’s reassuring smile, even though she tried her best to hide it, “That’s not the reason I do it.”

Your entire frame slumped with guilt, “I know.” And you did; you did know. You made Maggie drive you to the library every weekend before you got your license, and in return Maggie stole about a dozen of your sweaters once she realized you were finally the same size—Mags wasn’t just your mom’s weird friend from the neighborhood; she was family. She taught you how to make pie crust and scones, and she always read ‘happily ever after’ in the lines of your palms when you needed something to smile about. Maggie did a million little things for you without any appreciation, and you tried to remember every single one as you sat on the floor in front of the ‘Local Culture’ shelf.

Your nose scrunched as you looked over the titles on the spines, searching for anything that sounded even remotely real. Maggie knelt next to you, patch-work skirt billowing around her knees, and watched your fingers drum against the floor. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie bumped your shoulder with her own, and you grunted a little response.

“Nothing you can help me with.” Evidently, you thought with only a bit of bitterness. 

Maggie didn’t say anything for a long time. You almost forgot she was there, and then her bracelets clacked together as she shifted. “Here,” Maggie pulled a thick journal out of the depths of her baggy cardigan and held it out with a complicated expression on her face—something halfway between a frown and a smile, “I think you’ll find this one particularly interesting.”

You looked down at the title and rubbed your thumb over the engraved font, “‘A History and Detailed Account of Beacon Hills Bloodlines’?” 

Maggie nodded and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, “Goes back all the way to the beginning—not literally, obviously. I don’t think they wanted to get into the whole ‘God vs. Big Bang’ debate, but it dates back to when the town was founded.”

“That’s…interesting, I guess,” you flipped through the pages and bit down on your tongue to squash the sneer curling across your lips. It was a nice gesture. You knew that—but what else were you supposed to do when the ‘History’ and ‘Detailed Account’ fell open to an artistic diagram of 'local werewolf packs’ genealogy lines. You were a little interested to see if the names were entirely fictional, or if the journal was an accurate record of Beacon Hill’s very own Werewolf Trials. Probably the first, you’d remember learning about extra hairy men and women being burned at the stake in social studies. 

Maggie huffed out a little laugh and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I know you won’t believe everything in there, but who knows,” she shrugged and held out a hand for you to grab onto, “maybe you’ll finally be enlightened.”

You took her hand and hummed, “While you’re feeling so generous and bad for me ‘cause I’m functionally an orphan, could I get some more of that wolfsbane gunk?” You batted your lashes over the edge of the leather cover and grinned your most adorable smile—the one that dusted off a rare view of your dimples, “It can be my birthday present.”

It was an obvious ploy, but Maggie just laughed and poked one of your dimples, “Your birthday is months away.”

You picked up the speed of your blinking, approaching butterfly-wing territory, and rocked onto your tiptoes, “An early birthday present is still a birthday present.” 

Mags watched you through narrowed eyes for a moment, “You don’t even believe in werewolves.”

You shrugged and smirked, “It works on humans too.” 

“Please, please don’t make me an accessory to murder.” Maggie gripped your shoulders and shook you a little, fighting a smile, “I would not fare well in prison. They limit your internet privileges there—no Wi-Fi, babe. No Wi-Fi. I would be completely alone with my thoughts.”

“The horror,” your eyes glittered with your grin, and for a sweet moment you forgot about the journal in your hands and all the questions it wouldn’t answer. “It’s not for me,” you admitted, grimacing as Maggie’s lips puckered. The pursing of her lips, the hollowing of her cheeks—that always came before a very long and arduous inquisition. Maggie could be relentless when she wanted to be. 

“And whom would you be giving such a precious gift to?” The thickness of her brows only magnified the suspicion in Maggie’s tapered expression, “A gift you called—what was it? ‘Useless’ and ‘stupid’ less than 24-hours ago?”  

“Just because I think it’s stupid, doesn’t mean it’s a bad gift for someone else. I thought the Sonic Chia Pet I gave you was stupid, and you loved it.” You knew you won when Maggie started walking away from you towards the storeroom. You still had no idea how Curio Killed the Cat stayed in business when Maggie handed out inventory like candy, but presently its troubling business model was a blessing in disguise.

“Don’t disparage him,” Maggie crooned over her shoulder, “it’s bad luck.”

“If everything is sacred, nothing is,” you sniped, doing your best Vulcan impression.

Maggie smiled brightly as she hopped over the counter, sticking out her tongue, “I don’t think everything is sacred—just all the things I like.”

Speaking of things Maggie liked—you tucked your first gift under your armpit and held out your hands, palms cupped together. Your mouth curved into a cheesy grin as you said, “Trick-or-Treat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but her puckish spark dwindled when she looked at the vile of wolfsbane. It was balanced between her thumb and forefinger, glass reflecting the light, and you felt a bit like you were accepting the One Ring and a quest you weren't prepared for. “Be careful, okay?” Maggie hesitated before dropping the vile into your waiting hands, “I know you love Buffy, but resurrection isn’t so easy off-screen.”

You were a little startled by the concern wrinkling the corners of Maggie’s eyes. She looked almost more worried now than she did when you asked her about the Hale fire. “Like I said,” you carefully eased the wolfsbane into your corduroy skirt, “it’s not for me.”

Maggie's eyes combed over your face, searching for something, and then she sighed, “Just…don’t let anyone drag you into something stupid. I don’t care how cute he is; no boy is worth the risk of ruining your gorgeous face. It’s your money-maker, babe.” 

There was a lot to unpack in those three sentences; you didn’t even know where to begin. There was, of course, the implication that you were going to join some kind of Scooby-Doo gang that dealt wolfsbane on the side. While the thought of going ghost hunting with a pair of boys who couldn’t make it to class without tripping over their feet was, in fact, asinine…that wasn’t the part twisting stubborn knots around your ear canal. 

Your face was dragged down by a broody pout, “For your information, I’m not giving it to Stiles; it’s actually for a guy who isn’t the leading cause of pulmonary embolisms in Beacon County—and I don’t think either of them are cute.” 

That wasn’t strictly true. You did think that Scott was cute, just like you thought Gizmo was cute when he pleaded for treats. You could see the appeal of Scott McCall, why Allison liked him, but you hadn’t thought someone was cute like that in a very long time. A person generally had to actually look at people to think they were cute, and you hadn’t looked beyond forcing one foot in front of the other and your nubby nails in years. 

And as far as Stiles went…honestly, you hadn’t really considered the concept of Stiles as an actual person until Maggie had to go and imply it. You supposed, now that you were thinking about it, he had an objectively nice face: big eyes, button nose, nice jaw—but when you saw him in person, it was almost always covered with an infuriating smirk or making obnoxious sounds. You usually just wanted to shove it away from you. Sometimes, when Stiles was being particularly difficult, you even thought about flicking him right in his long-lashed, honeycomb eyes. You wondered if the Sheriff would arrest you if you— 

That’s right, your eyes rounded with the thought, Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

The recollection rang through every single one of your thoughts and echoed along the caverns of your skull, sparing you from ruminating on something far, far scarier. You were much more comfortable with deduction. 

Your brow furrowed as you pushed yourself over the counter to grab your backpack—sure that Maggie would misinterpret your impromptu exit, but too lost in through to really care—Stiles is the Sheriff's son. You forgot that sometimes. They were so different, after all, and you were certain that Stiles had broken the law at least a few times in his life, but he was. Stiles was the Sheriff's son, and he probably knew things that he shouldn’t. Things that were only kept in confidential files. Fortunately, you didn’t need to think that someone was cute to use them for information. 

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” Maggie chirped. She was fiddling with her branches in the back again, picking the berries and dropping them into a little stone bowl. 

You scowled at the berries like it was their fault you were in this predicament, “Gertrude sucks.

“And yet she was correct,” Maggie tossed a berry at your forehead, and it landed dead-center on the tip of your nose, dripping a small trail of crimson juice onto your cupid’s bow. Maggie laughed until a burst of snorts consumed her giggles, and you scowled deeper as you wiped your nose clean with your sleeve.

“And yet, she’s the prime example of doing something stupid for a boy.” You made a point of flipping Maggie off before trudging towards the door.

You pushed the exit open with your shoulder—rushing to get home to your notebook and pens. Ideas had a way of slipping away from you; you liked to make them real. Tangible. Inked lines and loops that couldn’t be erased. 

Maggie cupped your cheeks before you could slither away to your car, startling you out of your head. “Don’t be Gertrude. Don’t be stupid,” Maggie said, incredibly solemn, but the twinkle of mischief in her eye ruined the 'Yoda effect'. 

You pursed your lips as your eyes flitted towards the side, “I’ll do my best to not marry my dead husband’s brother-killer.” The door swung shut behind you, cutting off the trill of Maggie’s laughter. 

You spent the rest of the night on your bed, sitting cross-legged with your notebook spread open across your lap. You tapped your pen against your knee and watched the blades on your ceiling fan spin into a fuzzy Saturn ring until your eyes watered. You were trying, and failing, to think of a way to ask Stiles for help without him making a big deal about it—contemplating if it was truly worth all the aggravation.

Sighing, you sketched random swirling lines in purple ink. They interconnected in a pretty pattern that eventually took the shape of the maze on your pendant. There was no way out of the labyrinth without breaking down a wall; it was hopeless, a path that never ended. People who entered the maze would be doomed to walk in circles until they littered the ground with their decomposing skeletons—and oh how you envied them. 

Stiles would never let it go; you were pretty damn sure of that. He would poke, and prod, and stick his upturned nose into your business until he'd thoroughly invaded your privacy and got all the answers to his meddlesome questions. He could never ju—

The sound of paper tearing dragged you out of your pitiful brooding, and you sighed. Your pen had ripped through the center of the maze. You held the page up to the light, and it shone through the hole, blinding you momentarily. 

There was no escaping the labyrinth—there was only pushing straight though. 

You spent a lot of your time observing people lately. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, at least you hoped it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. It was just…ever since Stiles dragged you back into the present—kicking, screaming, and bitching the entire way—you had been…overwhelmed by how alive everything was. It felt like so much had happened in the last four years. Everyone had gone on living while you’d hidden away in your mind and rotted in your room. 

You couldn’t put a name to the strange feeling twisting in your chest. You were angry, of course, so angry that people had the audacity to just… live, like there wasn’t a gigantic, bleeding void in the world that had yet to scar over—that might never truly close—but there was something else mixed in with the bitterness, something sweeter.

There was a certain kind of beauty, you mused, in the way they enjoyed such silly things. There was just something about the way they found joy in sparkly nail polish, and their favorite song, and a boy looking in their general direction that had you choking on a foreign warmth. Everyone had something, and it was beautiful to see people grow their worlds around the ugliness while you weren't so consumed with shrinking yours. 

Leaning back against your locker, you watched two freshmen girls walk side-by-side until a flock of tropical-scented, lip-gloss-coated sophomore girls passed them. The taller of the two trailed after them, linking arms with a blonde in the back of the pack. The shorter one watched their hair swish over their shoulders until they walked around the corner, absently tugging at a beaded bracelet on her wrist the entire time. 

In three weeks, she’d start eating lunch alone in the library, hiding in the dark book closet with outdated textbooks as her only companions. In five, they wouldn’t speak unless they had to. You gave the girl a weak smile when she accidentally made eye-contact. Sorry, babe, I read your future. You didn’t even need to see the girl’s palm. 

You pushed yourself off of your locker and shook your head a little, regrouping your thoughts as you slid into your seat next to Stiles. He looked tired. He was slumped over his desk, chin propped on his folded arms, and his eyelids hung heavily over the exhaustion coating his directionless gaze. He barely acknowledged your presence, grunting a little and nudging your foot with his. 

You hid your smile behind your English binder and turned in your seat to face him. “Hey,” you paused, bundling the meager bits and pieces of courage in your chest, and then said, “your perpetual nosiness—that extends to your dad too, right?”

Stiles’s head lulled to the side, cheek pressed against his folded arms, evidently too drained to sit-up. He trailed his squinted gaze over your face, eyes hooded and unblinking, “Why?”

“No reason.” You drummed your pencil against your desk and watched the long red arrow tick forward on the clock above the whiteboard. Stiles watched you fidget with a little sleepy smirk eased into the corners of his mouth, patient and still for the first time since you’d met. It was a shame you couldn’t revel in it. 

You lost the stalemate after your desperation became too thick to swallow, “I need to see a case file. There’s like…nothing on the internet or in Maggie’s local history sagas.” 

That got his attention. Stiles leaned forward, glimmering with intrigue and ill-intent, and said, “Which case?”

“None of your business,” you retorted reflexively. Stiles gave you an amused look and cupped his cheek in his palm, waiting for the inevitable apology. You withered against your chair and muttered, “Does it matter?”

He snorted and lifted a shoulder, “I have a right to know what I’m potentially putting my life on the line for; breaking and entering is a very serious crime, y’know.”

You huffed and glared a little at your clasped hands, “Somehow I know you’ve done worse.”

Stiles didn’t deny it. He just grinned proudly and scooted closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so important you’re willing to steal something from the police?”

“Not steal,” you corrected, a bit too petulantly for your liking, “just…borrow indefinitely.” 

“Uh huh,” Stiles pursed his lips and almost went cross-eyed scrutinizing your face, “so what’s so important you’re willing to ‘borrow’ classified information from the police ‘indefinitely’?”

You paused, not entirely sure how to answer his question without spilling over the edges and ruining everything. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, bowing your head a little. You picked at a hangnail until it was tender and inflamed, “Just a hunch, really. It’s probably nothing.”

Stiles tapped his fingers against his desk, fast and furious, and let out a dramatic puff of air, “I could help you if you’d, y’know, tell me literally one single thing about it.”

“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, feet sliding out in front of you as you sunk into your chair. 

He cocked his head and hummed, looking far too smug for 7:45 in the morning, “Besides the whole ‘stealing my dad’s keycard and making it actually possible for you to read it’ thing, right?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mumbled, stalling the inevitable. It felt a little too much like losing to admit that you needed him—even though…you definitely needed him. It was a rather unfortunate fact you were fruitlessly still trying to deny.

Stiles rolled his eyes, neck too, and grabbed his backpack from the floor, “Forgive me for having a hobby.”

He opened his backpack, and you imagined, just for a moment, the zipper latching onto his mouth like a singularly-tentacled alien. It would solve all your problems; you could zip and unzip him whenever you wanted. If only. Sighing, you dropped your head against your knuckles, “Which is…irritating me?”

“Putting the pieces together,” Stiles dropped his coffee-warped, dogeared copy of Metamorphosis onto his desk and flipped to the assigned chapter. His eyes flicked from right to left, pace ridiculously fast, as he scanned through the pages. If it were anyone else, you would’ve assumed it was all for show. “I was a jigsaw kid,” he murmured, nose still stuck in his book.

Your lip stung as you gnawed on the cracking center, “If I tell you what I’m looking for, you’ll help me?”

“That,” Stiles punctuated his statement with a dramatic page flip, “and I might need a tiny favor from you.” He held his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and flashed a toothy smile over the bent cover of his book, “Just an itty-bitty, very small, totally not a big deal favor.”

Your face turned thoroughly sour, “Oh god.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, like he didn’t just intentionally plant the seeds of dead bodies and false alibis in your mind two seconds ago, and huffed, “I just want to check on Lydia, okay? I think I’ll have a better chance of getting in through the front door with you.”

Your smirk flattened, “Why?”

His mouth hung open for a second, and then he shook his head firmly, peering at you through pinched lids, “You first.”

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, shifting your foot from left to the right, watching the fluorescent lights bounce off of the burgundy leather. The extra shine only made the scuffs on the toes more pronounced. “I want to look into the Hale fire, okay?” Your voice got trapped in your throat, so your tone wasn’t as biting as you wanted it to be, “Happy?”

You would’ve been content to keep staring at your boots until class ended, but your attention snapped back to Stiles when he inhaled sharply. He looked baffled, and maybe even a little green in the face, and you were starting to feel a little queasy yourself—nerves tended to turn your stomach upside-down and inside-out all in the same excruciatingly slow flip. His mouth was already ajar, but it took him several red-hand ticks to finally speak, “Why?” 

“Nuh uh,” you crossed your arms and sat upright, rolling your shoulders back, “you go now.”

Stiles was still looking at you with an odd expression on his face, a little too distracted to be difficult. He answered you without any inflection in his voice, “She didn’t show up for homeroom.”

Your intestines unspun with your faint inhale and then immediately dropped to the floor along with your heart as you let out a weak, trembling exhale, “...and?”

Stiles recovered from his momentary lapse in vexation and leaned onto his forearms, "And it’s your turn again.”

You wished you had a simple answer for him, and, even more so, you wished you were a better liar. “There’s kinda no way to answer that without trauma dumping all over you,” you mumbled, intensively examining the fine ridges in your nails. 

“I can handle a little trauma.” Stiles rapped his knuckles against the top of his head and smiled a little, “I’ve got nothin’ but space up here.” 

People always said that—that they’d be there for you no matter what, that they could handle anything—and then they got a real good look at the ugly of it all, at the dirty hair and rotting kitchen, at the prolonged silences and self-absorbed isolation. People usually took off running pretty quickly after that. At least, Lydia had.

“There haven’t been that many residential fire fatalities here. Just two cases, actually.” You chewed on your thumbnail and shrugged, “I know they said the Hale fire was an accident, but…maybe there’s a connection.” You swallowed, and your boot squeaked against the floor when you kicked at the ground, “Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with too much spare time.”

Stiles stared at you, and you could see the exact moment he connected the pieces. You were expecting the usual nauseating sympathy, the well-intentioned kindness that always flirted with the edge of pity, oftentimes landing smack-dab in the middle of it—but there wasn’t a drip of pity in his eyes. They were filled with grief; for you or for someone else, you didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. More importantly, perhaps, his eyes were shining with…relief, pure and simple relief that nothing else needed to be said. 

“I’ll get you into the file room,” Stiles said, low and soft in his throat, and he didn’t look away from you until Scott slid in-between your desks. They did a complicated series of high-fives and hand-shakes with a few ‘knucks’ thrown in here and there for good measure. 

Before Scott sat down behind Stiles, he smiled in your direction. You looked past him, assuming Allison was behind you, and watched a red-breasted robin flit around a tree through the window. You saw Scott’s hand move in your peripheral vision, and when you tore your eyes away from the streak of scarlet feathers and blue sky, your lips tipped into a timid smile. Scott was waving at you; he was smiling at you. You didn’t know when your world went from no friends to two, but it felt oddly…normal. Smiling back at Scott, dodging Stiles’s kicks at your feet, trying not to laugh at their goofy faces. It felt like it was part of your routine, exactly the same as organizing your pens and pencils on top of your desk at the start of class, and just like that: normal twisted into terrifying. 

You chewed on the end of your pen when you felt Stiles’s gaze on the side of your face, “So…why do you want to see Lydia—besides your typical stalker behavior, obviously.” 

“You’re gonna feel like such an asshole,” Stiles grinned a little and nudged your toes, but there was something strange tucked in the corners of his mouth, something a bit grim, a bit afraid. Whatever it was, his cheeks didn’t dimple with his smile, and you gnawed on your lip once you realized that you not only noticed their absence but you missed them. 

You peeked at him from under your lashes and frowned when you saw that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were gone too. Stiles’s grin eroded away to little more than a flat line once he started speaking again, “Jackson was attacked by…something last night—they’re saying mountain lion, but you and I both know that’s bullshit—anyway, she was pretty freaked out when my dad got there.”

You stiffened, spinal column drawing into a taut line from the crown of your skull to your tailbone, and your blood went cold. You already knew Lydia hadn't shown up for school today. You always knew—you felt Lydia’s absence just as fiercely as her presence. The air was just different somehow. You didn’t even have to look for her anymore; an innate rabbit-sense always reared its head when Lydia was too far away…when she was too close. Your instincts couldn’t agree on anything. They couldn’t decide if Lydia was a rabbit or a fox, and it was exhausting—but at the moment all you wanted, all you needed, was to make sure that Lydia hadn’t been torn apart by a monster with sharp claws and serrated teeth. 

“And she isn’t here,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

“And she isn’t here,” Stiles echoed, just as quiet. 

“Okay,” your head bobbed with a decisive nod, knees moving before your mind had the chance to scold them, “let’s go.”

Stiles’s jaw unhinged alarmingly fast and comically wide, “Wha—now?”

You pushed everything on your desk into your backpack with a broad sweep of your arm and jerked your head towards the door, “Come on, before class starts.”

Stiles blinked at you for a few moments and then floundered for his things when you started walking out of the room without him. He stumbled into a desk in his rapid, ever-so clumsy efforts to catch up with you and twisted around to salute Scott’s empty chair. Apparently, neither of you had noticed his exit. It seemed it was a perfect morning for ditching class, but you didn’t dwell on the consequences for long. Your focus was single-minded and unwavering, and Stiles had to jog to keep up with your stalwart stride. 

“Since when are you so helpful,” he muttered, slightly out of breath. 

“I told you,” you gave him a wry smile and shoved the exit door open with your back, holding it for Stiles until he was halfway through the frame—and then you promptly stepped out of the way and watched the door swing shut on his backpack. Your lips twitched with a grin, “I’m a nice girl.”

Stiles yelped a little and looked over his shoulder, ensuring all his limbs were intact before yanking on his straps. His backpack smacked into his shoulders, and the heavy textbooks inside slammed together with a satisfying thump. You snickered and dodged his attempts to kick the back of your knees.

Glowering, Stiles switched tactics and tried to step on your nimble feet. Tragically for him, all the fire in his indignation was lost to his plush pout, “Since when?”

You rolled your eyes and waited next to his jeep, anxiously tracing little swirls in the dirt caked onto the passenger door, “Since I met you.” 

You missed the look on Stiles’s face, but that was for the best. His honeyed smile would’ve changed your mind, and you had an ex-best friend to attend to.

****************************

The jeep was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive—at least, it was as quiet as a decrepit clunker could be. There were various clangs and squeals in-between the engine’s low rumble, and a soft indie song filled the silences in-between, but the air felt still. Stiles was intently focused on the road ahead, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to a beat of his own making, while you picked at your cuticles, cycling between anxiety and denial. It was a subliminal game of chicken that Stiles eventually lost. 

After a few false starts, Stiles blurted out, “You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

You stared straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield and down the winding street, “Nope.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Stiles flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, straightening them to their impressive full-length, and then wrapped them around the wheel again. His grip was as tight as the grit of his teeth, “I don’t even want to know anyway.” You lulled your head to the side to smirk at him, but you kept your mouth thoroughly closed. Stiles’s gaze flicked in your direction briefly, and then he directed his eye roll towards the road, “I don’t. Keep your boring secret.”

You settled further into the passenger seat and propped your feet on the dash, grin warm with satisfaction, “I will.”

The beat of Stiles’s thumbs sped up, thundering against ‘9’ and ‘3’ while you hummed along to the trickle of piano and acoustic guitar strumming through the cracked speakers. The time on the dash display flickered from 8:15 to 8:16, and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out groan, “Will you just tell me! It’s killing me. Seriously, I’m going to credit you in my epitaph. ‘Here lies Stiles Stilinski: Another Victim of Gaslighting, Gatekeeping, and Girlbossing.’”

“They say you always remember your first,” you sighed dreamily, battering your butterfly lashes. The mole on the hinge of his jaw jumped with a harsh swallow, and you grinned. 

Stiles snorted and then immediately grimaced like he was irritated with his mouth for having the audacity to laugh in the midst of his despair. “Good to know I’m just part of a pattern.”

“I don’t know about that,” you hummed, resting your temple against the window. The morning sun warmed your skin and washed your face with a glimmer of gold that glittered with the devilry in your eyes. You smirked at Stiles and poked the mole just below his earlobe, “I have yet to meet anyone as homicidally inspiring as you.”

He pulled a face to hide his smile as the jeep puttered to a stop against the curb, and you looked over his shoulder, blinking slowly. You hadn’t realized you were so close to Lydia’s house until you were parked in front of it. 

The colonial estate loomed largely through the window. The long white pillars stood oppressively alongside the double entrance, and the meticulously manicured lawn screamed ‘keep off’ louder than any sign or barbed-wire fence. Lydia’s house had always been more like a monument than a home: an art installation, an antique, something to be admired not loved.

Tilting your head, you squinted at the familiar windows and counted along the second floor until you found Lydia’s room. The heavy purple curtains were drawn closed, and you were a little surprised that Lydia hadn’t redecorated in the last couple years. It was probably different on the inside; sixteen was a little old for dollhouses and princess crowns.

Growing up, Lydia’s room had been stocked with every Barbie accessory on the market, and yet you'd always played Barbies at your house. Every single time. When her dad was home, Lydia’s house had teetered between too quiet and too loud. A constant vague unease hung heavily in the air, even with the volume on her CD player turned all the way up. No boy band could drowned out all the screaming and icy silences, but you'd tried. Oh how you'd tried. It happened so often, you’d eventually gotten used to the noise, but you could tell it’d bothered Lydia, no matter how unbothered she’d tried to seem. 

In comparison, your house was a Dreamhouse. It had been so warm before it became empty. Your mom always had something baking in the oven, and Lydia had never looked more at home than when she was tucked on your window seat, plate of brownies by her side, with your mom’s gentle hands braiding her hair out of her face. You hadn’t ever minded sharing; Lydia had needed the attention more than you did. She was so much softer than people gave her credit for, far more fragile than they’d ever know. 

In spite of her current taste in boys, Lydia used to be a steadfast romantic. She'd always wanted to reenact the romance novels stacked on her nightstand, a little heartbreak before the inevitable happily ever after. She read so voraciously there was a new plot to perform every day. You were also a bookworm, but your tastes had inspired morbid hits such as Black Widow Barbie and Dreamhouse Zombie Outbreak. You usually took turns, or Barbie ended up falling in love with zombie Ken until he chomped on her arm. 

“Not her brains,” Lydia had always insisted, “Barbie is the brains of the relationship.” 

Lydia, you would argue, Lydia was the brain. The only one that mattered.

Warm skin on your knuckles gently drew you back into the present. Stiles’s brow was pinched with concern, and his hand lingered on yours until you brushed him off with a shake of your head—but, as you’d come to learn the last couple weeks, Stiles Stilinski was nothing if not relentless. He leaned into your side as you walked along the lengthy driveway, sending you stumbling a few paces to the right. You glared at him, but it was watered down with stubborn affection. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, and you forgot about the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until Stiles rang the doorbell. They came back full force when you heard a pair of high heels clicking towards them. 

Lydia’s mom peered out the door. She looked confused as she took in Stiles’s smile, stretched far too wide to look even remotely casual. Then, her gaze landed on you and her face broke out into a bright grin, “Y/N?”

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was; beauty ran just as deeply as old money in the Martin family. Lydia was born with her mom’s golden-red hair and hazel eyes, and they had the same dimpled smile. It was always difficult to see anything beyond the brilliance of their perfect teeth and incandescent skin. 

“Come here,” Mrs. Martin pulled you into a tight hug and cupped the back of your head with a steady hand. Your arms remained stiff by your sides, voice sticky in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been hugged like this; the realization hurt more than you thought it would.

After a moment, your shoulders slumped, and you turned your face into Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. She still smelled the same, like patchouli and luxury, “Hi.”

She held you out at arm's-length, hands on your shoulders, and shook her head, “There’s no way that this beautiful young woman is the same little girl who tried to keep a frog colony in my guest bathroom. I can’t be that old.”

“You literally look exactly the same,” you smiled a little and rubbed your bicep.

“It has been far, far too long.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in your sleeves and then stepped back into the doorframe, “What can I do for you?”

“I…” your mouth went dry, and you looked everywhere except Mrs. Martin’s face. Your eyes flashed between the silver door knockers, the winding ivy, the sculpted shrubs. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing, not even the house, had noticed your absence. 

“We came to check on Lydia,” Stiles nudged your shoulder, and you blinked a few times. Mrs. Martin was watching you with big emphatic eyes—and you hated it. 

You swallowed and nodded, “Yeah…we brought her homework.”

“Come in.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose with freshly manicured nails, “She took a little something to relax herself, so please excuse…well, just be prepared.” Mrs. Martin sighed, and for the first time it looked like the last four years had actually aged her. She attempted a smile, but it was shriveled at the corners, “You remember the way, don’t you?”

A nod rolled up your neck to your head. You couldn’t find the words to tell Mrs. Martin that you weren’t the same girl anymore. You almost felt like her in this house: small, wild, still full of dreams. You crept up the curved staircase slowly, delaying the inevitable, and ran your fingers along the iron railing. You broke your arm falling off of it nine years ago. It was a nasty fracture that put you in a cast all summer, but it’d seemed worth it at the time. At least, you’d thought so. Your mom and Mrs. Martin hadn’t agreed with your assessment at the hospital.

You felt a twinging urge to run to the top of the stairs and slide down the railing until you became dizzy—and just like that, you were seven years old again, and you weren't scared of death or ending up alone. 

“You coming?” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. 

You nodded stiffly and pushed past him to the last door on the left. You held your hand on the doorknob and pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, scowling at the anxiety crawling under your skin. You were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like you were the one who ended up in an ambulance last night.

You rapped your knuckles against the door a few times, even though it was already cracked open wide enough to catch a glimpse of the raspberry walls and flower chandelier. “Lyds–ia. Lydia,” you cleared your throat and peeked into Lydia’s room, “it’s me. I mean, it’s Y/N.” Stiles nudged you in the ribs, and you sighed, “And Stiles.”

Lydia was face-down on her four-poster bed, slowly combing her fingers through her unbrushed hair. She smacked her lips together a few times, and then her head popped up from her mountain of throw pillows, “You still haven’t explained what the hell a Stiles is.”

You snorted and shot Stiles a pointed look. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room until he spotted a little bottle of pills on top of her vanity. He read the lengthy label and let out a low whistle, “Bet you can’t say, ‘I saw Sally sell seashells by the seashore.’”

Lydia swung her legs over the foot of her bed and leaned forward, eyes sparking with bullheaded determination. “I saw….I saw…” The light in her eyes faded as she drifted off to a place no one else could see.

You sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. You didn’t have to tell your body to move; it knew before you did. Finding Lydia when she was lost, it was like…swimming to the surface, shivering in a storm, bracing for a fall. It was an instinct so deeply rooted in your soul you couldn’t rip it out without rupturing an artery. You watched Lydia’s eyes focus on your face, felt her fingers lace with yours, and all you knew was the slow thump of Lydia’s pulse against your thumb.

Lydia squeezed your hand and swiveled to face you. Her eyes were still cloudy, but something warm dawned behind the fog. You felt the pit in your stomach roll. Lydia sighed happily, “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Well,” you almost choked on the lump in your throat and struggled to support Lydia’s weight as she went boneless against your side, “here I am.” You searched for some assistance with Lydia’s rapidly sinking frame, but Stiles was busy poking around every nook and cranny in the room. “Stiles,” you snapped. 

He wrenched his hand away from Lydia’s bottle of Dior perfume, purple just like the rest of the room, and clasped it behind his back. “What?” 

You gestured violently towards Lydia's wilting spine and rolled your eyes when he tripped over a discarded boot in his, frankly pathetic, haste to get to Lydia’s other side. You gently maneuvered her until she was propped up against her pillows. 

“Don’t go away again, okay?” Lydia licked her lips and looked like she was about to cry—so much like a scared little girl, your heart clenched. “I keep losing you.”

“I,” you stared at her with wide eyes, and the bottle of pills enveloped your peripheral vision, “I just wanted to see if you were alright…after last night.”

“Last night,” Lydia slurred, nuzzling back against her pillows.

“Yeah, last night,” Stiles folded his arms over his chest and arched his brow, “remember anything about it?”

“I remember…” Lydia looked like she was going to cry again, eyes glassy and round, but the chemical high quickly swept over the tide, “I remember a mountain lion.”

Stiles’s head tipped back between his shoulder blades, and his cheeks slowly puffed into pink little domes as he held his breath. Apparently, there was one thing more powerful than Stiles Stilinski’s obsession with Lydia Martin: his impatience. Stiles’s lips puckered as a loud sigh whooshed through his teeth. He crouched down to Lydia’s eye-level, “You remember seeing a mountain lion, or you remember them telling you it was a mountain lion?”

Lydia hummed and nodded until her hair fell in front of her face, “Mountain lion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles reached for a stuffed giraffe next to her shoulder and shook it in her face, “what’s this?”

“Mountain lion,” Lydia’s head bobbed sharply. 

You snatched the stuffed animal out of Stiles’s hand, scowling as you bludgeoned his arm with the giraffe’s head. “Leave her alone. She’s doped out of her mind.” 

“Clearly,” Stiles snorted, watching Lydia curl a strand of her hair around her finger, completely entranced by the frizzy strands. 

“What did you want her to say?” You smoothed a few stray hairs sticking up from the crown of Lydia’s head back into place and met Stiles’s gaze, face impassive, “Werewolf?”

He opened his mouth and gaped like a particularly brainless fish. Before he could come up with a coherent answer—or any kind of answer, actually—Lydia’s text-tone chimed. Stiles dove across the bed for her phone, but you smacked his hand with the giraffe before he could touch it. “You are so not reading her texts, lonely boy.”

“I was just trying to help.” Stiles flopped onto her vanity chair and crossed his arms, squirming sullenly, “She can barely string two words together, let alone an actual thought.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait until she’s good and hungover tomorrow.” You glanced down at Lydia’s phone and paused. It was a video file. From an unknown number. 

“Hey,” Lydia poked her head up and pointed at Stiles until the weight of her arm became too much to bear. It fell on top of her stomach like a limp noodle, “You.”

“Me,” Stiles squeaked. 

You muted the video and made sure Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the curl of Lydia’s finger before you pressed play. Nothing happened at first. The video was shot in a strange, almost voyeuristic style, and the lighting was terrible, so dim you could barely tell that the camera was facing a large window. You squinted and made out the video store’s sign flickering above the door. So, this was from last night. Weird—but at least it wasn’t revenge porn; that had been your first guess. 

You’d almost given up on finishing the video, and then the camera angle moved. Two red eyes flashed in the darkness, a large…something smashed through the glass, and you bit down on your thumbnail so hard blood welled through the sidewalls. 

It was a goof, obviously. Some kind of poorly edited creepypasta. A cruel prank someone sent Lydia after they heard what happened last night. Had to be. Your hands shook as you sent yourself the video, and then you deleted it from Lydia’s phone. Your number, you realized once you stopped seeing red, was still saved as ☀️✨Babe!!!!✨☀️ in Lydia’s contacts. It took you longer than it should have to delete the sent message.

“If you’re done fighting your erection, we should get going.” Your voice sounded remarkably even, considering how scattered your mind was. It was certainly more composed than the babble spewing from Stiles’s mouth.

“I do not have—it’s not like—I wasn’t—she thought I was someone else.”

“Ah,” your phone felt heavy in your pocket, “real boner killer.”

Stiles sighed through his nose, “New rule, you can't make fun of anything I do or say when Lydia's in my fuckin' lap. Starting now."

He must’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t argue. That, and the way you practically sprinted out of the house to avoid seeing anyone else. Your hands were still shaking when you crawled into the jeep, and Stiles shot about a dozen little furious, concerned glances in your direction, but you couldn’t seem to move your tongue. 

Your bottom lip quivered. Your chest tightened until your ribs corseted your lungs. The screech of your ground teeth sent an unpleasant chill down your spine, but you’d rather choke on a chipped tooth than let the beast howling in your throat escape—the last thing you needed was to cry in the passenger seat next to Stiles Stilinski.

You were clearly losing your mind; everyone said it was only a matter of time—watching a loved one burn to death tended to have that effect on a person. Not that you remembered much, but you were clearly off your rocker if you were having vivid, day-time hallucinations of red-eyed monsters roaming the streets of Beacon Hills. 

You wiped your sweat-damp palms on your dress and bounced your leg up and down, driving your heel into the floor over and over again—and then you felt a solid warmth over your knee. Your eyes were a little wild when you followed the trail of Stiles’s arm to his face, and the divot between his brows deepened when he met your gaze, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Your head jerked with a quick nod, and you sucked in a few shallow breaths, “I know.” The air got stuck in your chest, and your heart flapped erratically as the back of your eyelids played reruns of a familiar film starring your narrowing trachea. You dug your toes into the dusty floor mat, scrambling for any kind of grasp on reality, and choked on your words, “Her mom always…had…the good shit.”

Stiles kept his hand on your knee and then shook his head, pulling over against the curb and putting the jeep in park. “You don’t have to talk, but you gotta breathe.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was squeezing your kneecap in even intervals. You inhaled and exhaled with the flex of his joints until the panic receded enough for embarrassment to heat your cheeks. You slammed your head back against the seat and stared at the steel roof. You hoped that if you ignored the tears bubbling along your lash line, they’d instantaneously evaporate before they could spill onto your cheeks, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t usually…this hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Stiles chewed on his cheek and pulled his hand back into his lap. He drummed his fingers against his kneecap and then spoke softly, “I used to get ‘em too. Sucked.” Stiles stared out the dashboard, watching but not really seeing dead leaves swirl in little circles over the asphalt, “Happened a lot after my mom died.”

You froze for a moment, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring. You realized, belatedly, that you hadn’t ever heard the Sheriff talk about his wife, not even once in the last four years, even though he wore a gold band on his left ring finger. It hadn’t even occurred to you to ask. 

You never had the right words to explain it. For a long time, you spoke in ripples at therapy, incomprehensible circles that skirted the point in an endless loop—but you realized, as you got stuck on the honey in Stiles’s eyes, you didn’t need the right words here. With him. In fact, you didn’t really need any words at all. “Me too.”

Stiles watched your eyes steadily, and his fingers stilled against his legs, “Yeah?”

You nodded and swallowed a little, “Yeah.”

A smile tugged on his mouth, tangled with too many paradoxes to parse in the soft, short moment humming between you. You smiled back at him, far more timidly, but that wasn’t a surprise. He was brave, you decided, much braver than you. It was contagious. 

Your tongue darted out, licking your chapped lips, and you clung to the fragile current of courage lapping against the back of your teeth. “We just stopped talking.” 

Stiles glanced at you, clearly confused. 

“Lydia and I.” You knotted your fingers in the hem of your dress and tugged on it every time you felt the stopper in your throat start to swell, “We just stopped being friends after my mom died. That’s why I didn’t…I mean, there’s not really a story to tell. We were close, and then I woke up one day, and we weren’t anymore.”

Stiles turned until he was facing you, leaning against the door and struggling to find a comfortable angle for his long legs. “Most people…they’re okay with the funeral part ‘cause it’s pretty simple—y’know: hold hands, bring food, pretend no one’s crying. And then after comes, and they can’t figure out what to do because it’s over but it’s not.”

“Limbo,” you mirrored his position and pulled your knees to your chest, rocking the soles of your boots from heel to toe like small patent leather boats adrift on a sea of faded nylon, “it’s limbo, and everyone else is so incredibly, hideously alive.” 

The relief was back in Stiles’s eyes, and you were swimming in it. He nodded and bent his knees, scooching his feet until the toes of his sneakers were pressed against yours. “Yeah," he exhaled, and the moment felt important, like something you were supposed to remember on your deathbed. You tried to memorize the look on Stiles's face, but you didn't know where to start. How could you etch infinity?  

“It wasn’t just her,” you admitted out loud for the first time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged a little and gave you a grin that brought the dimples back to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but smile at their reappearance, “but we can pretend it was, just for today.” 

You let out a breath that felt like a laugh and lifted your toes, dropping them on top of his and pressing until they were pinned beneath the tread of your boots. He narrowed his eyes and wriggled his feet free, fighting your scurrying ankles with his tongue trapped between his teeth. His triumphant cry when he finally caught the tip of your laces was just enthusiastic enough to coerce another laugh through your clamped lips. 

The soft smile Stiles gave you while you laughed made his body go lax and the back of your neck warm. You quickly bent over to retie your laces, and he turned to restart the engine. 

“I should probably get us back to school,” Stiles ran his hand over his head. “My dad'll kill me if I get marked truant again.”

“It’s parent teacher conferences tonight,” you recalled as the words left your mouth. You slunk down in your seat, chin catching on the seatbelt, “I’ve never skipped school before. I have no idea what my dad’s gonna say.”

Stiles’s attention shifted from the road to your profile, “Really?”

“What?” you crossed your arms over your chest and blew your hair out of your eyes.

“Nothing,” Stiles tried to hide his smirk, but it was too sharp to cover with a cough, “it’s just…hasn’t everyone skipped at least once?”

“What would I even do?” The corner of your mouth tugged into a dry smile, “Visit my catatonic ex-best friend?”

Stiles nodded agreeably, and then his head danced from side to side, rolling over other options, “Or bowling. Bowling is fun.”

You grumbled a little in your throat and sunk further into the cradle of your hips, “I hate bowling.”

Stiles grinned, “Yeah, me too.”

Pausing, your bottom lip wormed its way between your teeth, “I’d play D&D with you, though.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you watched the sun disappear behind the tree line over the hill and ignored the feeling of being examined like a bacterial petri dish.

“See, we are friends. The best of friends, actually. Two peas in the proverbial pod.”

And, well, you couldn’t really disagree.

[obsidiancreates]

Just Another Day In The Dimwood

"How the hell did we end up back here?!" Booker whispers furiously to Grumley.

"I dunno," Grumley whispers back, almost whimpering. "We just ran and here we are!"

"Whatever Bitsy's going for in that hutch better be worth this." Booker takes a deep breath. "Okay, just this one last time. One last distraction in this godforsaken clearing and then we're never coming back here again!"

"Never?"

"Never, Grumley. Not even for all the gold in the Dimwood."

"Wow. Alright, one more distraction." Grumley looks down at the powder Peggy had given him before she, Hazel, and Bitsy had sprinted off into the woods. "I won't die, right?"

"I sure hope not, but it's Peggy, so I can't really confirm or deny that as a possibility."

"Well... here goes." Grumley shoves the powder in his mouth and takes a swig of the bottle Peggy had also given him. He coughs a little as thick foam begins to spill out from his jowl-covered mouth.

"Holy shit, it worked- I mean HELP! HEEEELP, OH GODS, THERE'S A-A RABID DOG! AHHHHHHHH!" Booker dashes into the main clearing, gathering as much attention as possible away from the party that had moments ago been readied to investigate why Smoke could be seen coming from that horrid hutch the heretic once lived in.

Grumley chases after Booker, growling and snarling as scarily as he can! He chases him all around the clearly, but the two keep a tight pattern around the path out of town towards Bitsy's old house. Mice and rabbits and cats and dogs alike all scream, chaos spreading as cries of "RABIES!" fill the air!

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

"Oh, Bitsy! You didn't tell us you had cookies left in your house!" Hazel yanks the jar out of the old slightly-singed cupboard and begins wolfing them down without a second thought.

"To be fair we thought it'd burned down because she left the woodstove lit when we ran away before," Peggy says, looking through Bitsy's bookshelf which contains no books, but lots of jars of herbs.

"We did?" Bitsy herself is digging through the ashes inside said stove.

"You said you left it on, yeah."

"Wow. Well how didn't it burn down? Did you save my Hutch, Creator?"

"I must have." Peggy kicks over a bucket clearly left by the firefighting brigade that obviously came and stopped the fire so it wouldn't burn the entire clearing down. "What're we lookin' for again?"

"Is it that mysterious chest you told us about that first night?" Hazel asks as she finishes the jar of cookies. "Ooooh, scones!"

"No, not that." Bitsy moves on to look under the bed. "I'm lookin' for my best chewin' stick!"

"We're here for a stick?" Peggy pauses, then shrugs. "Just don't tell Booker, he might have an aneurysm."

"What's an Anne-your-eseem?"

"It's like your brain poppin' in your skull."

"Wow... I get that all the time!"

"I think that's just bubbles in your ears, Bitsy. I get it too when I-I climb really high and come back down."

"But I don't climb!"

"You do run real fast though, sort of the same thing. ... Somehow."

"I learn so much with you all."

"Well we're a very knowledgeable and well-learned bunch. What's this jar full of?"

"Poppy seeds. If you work with 'em the right way they make you all sleepy and relaxed and not in pain anymore."

"Oh, is that what this liquid next to them is?"

"Yeah!"

"Hazel just drank half the jar."

"Oh. ... It'll be fine, I think. As long as we don't gotta run real soon."

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

Booker and Grumely sprint away from the angry crowd. As soon as just one resident recognized them, the rest followed. Groups of angry, grieving families now chase them with pitchforks, scythes, and anything else sharp available in the clearing.

"GUYYYYS!!! WE GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!!!" Booker screams as they run towards the hutch.

"IT'S VERY URGENT!!!"

"WE HAVE TO GET MOVING AT A VERY QUICK AND CONSISTENT PACE!!!"

"FOR A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME!!!"

Peggy looks out the window. "Yeah Booker that's not- HOLY SHIT- Bitsy you gotta wake Hazel up!"

"WHAT?!" Booker ducks as a rock flies by his head. "SHE'S ASLEEP?!"

"Well I'll just give her this white powder that makes me feel real fast!"

"Great idea."

Booker groans and looks to Grumley. "We're so fucked."

[artisticmenace]

NEW NORMAL ALBUM REVIEW

Suburbia remix-

I can tell what he changed but its still such a classic. plus the things he added. MWAAAH. CHEFS FUCKING KISS.

2econd 2ight 2eer remix-

shes still awesome. i can kinda tell the difference but still awesome. its like he sanded it down.

Laplaces angel remix-

holy shit the name LMAO. still shredding the fuck out of the trumpet. sanded down like a nice antique table god damn. i like whats been done with the backup vocals. the effects are giving it more of a mystique and i really like it.

I/Me/Myself remix-

holy shiit. the demo was awesome soooo. this sounds better than the og. william woodiam you know your stuff and im so so thankful. these have sounded polished so far. like when they wax the floors at school. still the same just with a new gleam to them. he even kept the whispers at the end HELL YEAH

...well better than the alternative remix-

this is so so good. i like the vocals already. ooh the claps heck yeaah. the flow is better. ive been noticing the drums in some of these and holy toledo yes yes yes. also the ending. STUCK.

outliars and hypocrites remix-

AGAIN WITH RHE TITLE. "i lied about the apple thing" LMAOOO. GOT FUNKY EITH THE GUITARS FUUUCK!!!! THESE BACKGROUND SOUNDS ARE SCRATCHING MY BRAIN AND THE BACKUP VOCALS HELLLLLL YEEEAAAHHHH!!!!! she still has the bounce and punctuation. and THE DRUUUMS AGAIN YEESSSS. im a sucker for harmonies if you couldnt tell.

blackboxwarrior remix-

i almost didnt recognize her its been so long since ive listened to it. OH SHES GOLDEN. hes just tossed in cinnamon sugar where it needed it ok. the music is just MWAAAH. and the vocals are beautiful as always. this makes me want to write something strange and enchanting, good god. MY THERAPIST!!!!! dancing rn. wheres bonejangles from the corpse bride i need him here. shredding on that fucking trumpet.

marsha thankk you for the dialectics remix-

title, sir. loving the keyboard smash ok. shes flowing like wine from the taps in italy. DRUUUMMMSSS. VOCALSSSSSS. EVERYTHING. shes still her but shes got a dash if something she was MIIIIISSING before. WOAH GUITAR. WOAH BACKUPS HELL YEAH. PIANO MAN, LOVING YOU! these vocals....

Love Me, Normally-

i think he said he didnt bother changing this one bc shes already perfect. not his words but this one stayed the same. i have to agree. the vocals are still chilling. the piano still beautiful. and i can still sing/say every word.

Memento Mori remix-

HOLY SHIT. again the drums, the instrumentals. god damn. shes swinging just a bit more than she used to and god she needed it. BACKUPS AGAIN GOD LOVE EM. SING US A SONG WILL BECAUSE GOD DAMMIT YOURE THE PIANO MAN! background sounds scratching my vrain again i live for it. HELL YEAH! ONE DAY IM GONNA DIE!!! he kept the insane cheering 💙

overall-

he fucking DID IT!!!! he gave this album a polish. some cinnamon sugar. some tumeric. garlic. and shes still herself. its the normal album with what she was missing the first time. I LOOVE.

[punsmaster69]

4/NOV/20XX

[It's Sans' handwriting. It's a bit messy at points, appearing as if the book was on an unsteady surface.]

heya.

been a minute, huh?

a lotta minutes, actually.

about two day's worth of 'em.

papyrus finally ungrounded me from writing.

got my phone back, too.

on the condition that i, uh.

stop setting alarms.

won't go into detail about it.

besides, i gotta talk about 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, right?

——

really do start a lot of these entries with 'woke up in x place, with x thing'.

....

it's another one like that.

this time, next to tori.

incredibly, i woke up before her.

the blanket over us looks like one of papyrus' spares.

haven't checked the time, but it must be early b——

[The line runs off the side of the page.]

....

hold on, i'm only able to use one hand, and this thing keeps slipping off my lap.

as much as i don't want to, gonna see if i can move my hand without waking her up.

——

[The writing returns to normal.]

ok. good now.

now that my nausea's subsided some, i realize i'm pretty hungry. but..

don't wanna move from this any more.

...

since she's still asleep.

——

"SANS, I-"

"(shh.)"

"(OH, SORRY.)"

"(I'M LEAVING TO TRAIN WITH UNDYNE. ACTUALLY, UNDYNE SAID SHE JUST WANTS TO TALK TODAY.)"

"(WHICH ISN'T TRAINING.)"

"(BESIDES THE POINT. I'M LEAVING, AND MS. TORIEL PROMISED TO TAKE CARE OF YOU TODAY!")

"(i need a babysitter?)"

"(IT'S FOR YOUR SAFETY!!)"

"(YOU WERE... STILL SORT OF WOBBLY, YESTERDAY.)"

"(DO YOU NEED ANYTHING BEFORE I LEAVE?)"

"(nope, i'm good-)"

"(actually. could you hand me what i didn't finish eating last night?)"

"(you don't need to heat it up.)"

"(BUT-)"

"(paps, you should probably go before undyne gets mad at you, too.)"

"(besides, i like cold stew.)"

"(...ALRIGHT. IF YOU SAY SO.)"

after handing me a spoon and my half-bowl of beef stew, papyrus nodded goodbye and dashed out the door.

——

.....

it's real quiet.

not used to being up as early as papyrus usually leaves for.

just me and... sleeping tori.

she must be comfortable.

our couch 𝙞𝙨 pretty nice.

——

couldn't help but wonder who's watching tori's kids, so i messaged frisk.

in response, i got a picture of grillby in tori's kitchen. he's handing flowey something.

at the bottom of the picture was frisk, blurry and way too close to the camera.

"why're you so close"

they then sent a picture of them even closer, equally blurry.

i sent a blurry close-up back.

"Why are YOU so close?"

"yeah"

"Yeah."

"cool"

"Cool."

that kid's going places.

——

"Your influence is rubbing off on me, it seems. I am usually one to be up sooner!"

tori jolted up.

"Ah! I did not mean to keep you in one place this whole time."

"not like i was going anywhere."

i wanted to lean back against her, for some reason.

...

nope.

"What is it that you do all day, when you are stuck inside like this?"

"sleep."

"...I think we have done plenty of that."

"Surely that is not all?"

"me and paps usually play games or something."

"been getting real into this puzzle one."

"do you wanna play something?"

"I am not very good at games..."

"i'll pick somethin' easy."

——

"This is turning out to be quite the house!"

"if you ignore the dirt floor."

"..And the lack of proper opening doors."

"at least we have windows."

"..holes for windows."

"Which one is your room?"

"this one."

"..You have made your walls dirt, as well."

"only the finest of materials in this house."

"Of course."

"here, i made a bed for you."

"Oh! Do we need to sleep in this one? I think we may have missed a few nights."

"nah, it's for setting your respawn point."

"...?"

"when we die, we'll be here instead of really far away."

"I see."

she stared at the bed.

"....."

"It is just the one?"

"mine's in my inventory."

"Please, place it down! Set your, 'respawn point,' in the house with me."

i placed it in the corner of my dirt room.

"....."

she moved hers into there as well.

"........"

"What? Surely you did not expect me to sleep in the living room."

"...side by side?

"The dual bed looks much more comfortable, does it not?"

"i can make you another one, if you want."

"........"

"No."

"This arrangement is good, I think."

"Space efficient!"

"....ok."

——

"Sans."

"yep?"

"Why are there holes everywhere?"

"avoiding death."

"You did not fix them."

"i'll get around to it."

"....."

"Nevermind."

"nevermind?"

"I am tempted to change our living arrangement."

"this poor dog would grow up in a broken home."

"You are its father now too?"

"you're its father?"

"Ha! Sure. Yes, I am the father."

"......"

"WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU EVEN DOING?"

"O-Oh! Papyrus!"

"didn't hear you come in."

"YES, WELL, YOU SEEMED QUITE OCCUPIED WITH.. WHATEVER THIS IS."

"I DIDN'T WANT TO INTERRUPT."

"I'M GOING TO GET CHANGED, AND THEN I'LL BE RIGHT BACK DOWN."

i waited until paps was fully in his room.

then i ran inside, took my bed, and placed it a space away.

tori ran her character up to me (with the default skin) and punched me in my (also-default) face.

"ow."

"It is in the game!"

"would you punch me if you could?"

"No!"

"I would do this."

and she moved her character closer, nearly face-to-face with mine.

struggling to use the hotbar, she eventually threw a flower at me.

silly, sure.

but it..

made me really happy.

....

wish it didn't.

——

"Papyrus is here to watch you now, so.."

"...going home?"

"Unfortunately."

"THANK YOU FOR KEEPING AN EYE ON HIM, MS. TORIEL."

"Of course. It was a pleasure."

"Sans, thank you for playing with me. I had a lot of fun!"

"Even if we did not actually accomplish very much."

"come by anytime you wanna play again."

——

she messaged me to ask if i ended up moving the bed back or not.

....

more space efficient like that, anyway.

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt. 19 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: your sins will find you, eventually.

words: 10.3 k

chapter warning: heavy chapter warnings for dire!whumpy situations, death, g0re, g!uns, vi0lence!

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, wh-mp. hurt/comfort. s-xu-l situations. spousal ab-se. family trauma. dr-g use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't remember anyone having to figure out who else was on the landline so you could use the phone, then have you really lived? maybe wait on this one.

Back to Part 18.

Part 19

“Peter, wake up.”

The voice he could hear wasn’t his own. It was soft. Feminine. Gentle, like being awoken from a dream. He was comfortable wherever he was. He didn’t want to wake up.

��Peter, wake up,” the voice implored.

The sound of it made his heart ache. How could such a comforting sound cause him so much pain? ‘Bittersweet’ wasn’t the right expression. ‘Blissful agony’ was more accurate.

“Peter,” he heard again, the tones of the gentle voice pulling him from a dreamless slumber. Then, just like a dream, the voice faded into the abyss with a whisper. 

“Hold on...”

Heaven, he thought. He was in Heaven.

The sound of her voice made him want to fall down and worship. Made him want to die. 

“Gwen...” he mumbled—perhaps only in his own mind. He couldn’t move his lips. Couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

What a blessed relief.

His heart throbbed as he felt himself flying. He wasn’t sure if he was sinking or soaring, but it was all so fast. All out of his control.

“You can let go now.”

“Grab ‘em!”

Gwen?

“Get ‘em up on the gurney!”

“It’s time, Peter. Time to go home.”

What do you mean by ‘home’? You’re my home. You’re my path.

“C’mon, Pete, don’t you fuckin’ do this—”

“Is he breathing?”

“I can’t find a pulse. I need the paddles.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete...”

“It’s okay, Peter. You can rest now.”

“Goddamnit—wake up, man.”

“CHARGING. STAND CLEAR.”

“Clear!”

A stab to his chest. A bite to the back of his neck.

“Hit ‘em again—clear!”

His whole body jolts. He’s sticking to the ceiling of a subway car.

“You have a choice, Peter. You don’t have to go back there.”

I want to stay with you, Gwen. I don’t wanna leave.

“Clear!” 

His skin is on fire. Electricity ravages every muscle in his body. It sears his flesh and scrambles his brain. And all he can see is a pair of sparkling eyes.

Her eyes.

“Stay with me, Peter.”

“Pete, stay with us!”

“We can be together, finally. Like we were meant to be. They can go on without you.”

Her eyes. Beautiful, glittering eyes, full of warmth and sunlight. Sweet. Eyes like Honey.

“Goddamn it!” —“Again!” —“C’mon, Spidey!”—“Clear!”

The web catches Gwen by the chest, but it’s too late. It was always too late.

“Peter, please. Please. You can’t do this. You can’t do this right now.”

There is rapid whispering—murmuring, like a desperate prayer. But it’s not Gwen’s voice that he hears. It’s a voice that makes his chest ache just as much.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”

“You need to wake up, Peter.”

“Please, baby, please wake up. I’m so sorry. Just please stay with me.”

I can’t. I can’t go with you, Gwen.

“Peter, don’t do this.”

“Please just come back—”

“Why would you want to go back?”

“I need you... I need you to wake up.”

She needs me. Miles needs me. My family — my family needs me. I need to be with them. 

A pair of green eyes are staring at him, but not in anger. Instead, there’s understanding. There’s compassion. There’s a hint of pride within the emerald hues.

“Peter, please, I’m sorry. Please come back to me.”

I need them. I need to make this right.

From her cloud in Heaven, she smiles at him. It breaks his heart and makes him whole.

“Clear!”

The next jolt racks his brain and yanks his consciousness from the abyss. He’s reborn again, blood-covered, gasping, and sputtering on a gurney surrounded by worried faces. Every muscle in his body spasms. His heart groans as it flutters back to life. Air slices through his lungs like razor blades. He coughs and shudders, shrinking away from the harsh light of the living.

“Thank fuck!” he hears a hiss from next to him. It’s Eddie. How did Eddie get here?

He pried his eyes open, pupils adjusting to the light. 

Eddie was looking down at him, hazel-gray eyes full of joyful tears. “Don’t you ever do that again, you crazy bastard,” he chuckled. Two giant hands wrapped around Peter’s face as he embraced him lovingly.

Peter’s focus shifted as more faces came into view. 

Helen Cho stood above him as she worked the pump of a blood pressure device cuffed around his bicep. She paused only briefly to wipe sweat from her brow. Miguel leaned back against a wall with eyes closed and face pale as if he was moments from throwing up. Felicia leaned over him, glaring at him with relief and fury. He couldn’t tell if the smirk that appeared was from the joy of his survival or glee from plotting his future demise. Each of them looked like they had run a marathon. 

Peter’s left hand suddenly felt warm. His eyes shifted in its direction, and he followed the small hand barely covering his own. 

There she is, he thought. The eyes that brought him back from the dead.

His Honey.

The kind eyes of the woman he fell in love with—against all odds, toppling all of his defenses—were fixed on him. They shimmered with tears as she struggled to keep a steady lip, gazing down at him like he was a miracle. She held his hand tightly as if afraid to let go. He was certain she was holding onto him with the intent of grounding him, but it looked the opposite. Instead, she looked overwhelmed with relief and on the verge of collapsing into a heap of sobbing gratitude.

Oddly enough, on the edge of life and death, he was the one who felt lucky. He felt contentment with the heat of her palm over his hand. He found peace in the loving look in her eyes. 

He found a hope worth holding on to.

They were almost too late, Honey thought. 

They found Peter exactly where Felicia thought he would be, more or less. Near Long Island City, not far from the Ravenswood Power Station. At a clock tower with a broken face.

Peter was at the bottom on a pile of rubble. It was a horrifying sight. His broken form was covered in dirt and dust, blood trailing from his ears and nose. 

He was dead. He looked dead. She knew he had to be dead.

Suddenly, she couldn’t stand straight anymore. The air escaped her lungs, like a vacuum into space, as she stared at his motionless body. The sound evaporated and fragments of worried statements drifted by—goddamn you crazy sonofabitch—sweartogod you better be dead or i’ll kill ya—as Felicia and Eddie descended upon his body.

Blinking back tears, the vision of Peter’s corpse swam in her eyes. 

Her mind was elsewhere.

It was night. She was at the mountain retreat, sitting up in Peter’s bed. She leaned over him, carding her fingers through his hair. Her heart ached with sympathy, forehead furrowed with concern. He sobbed into her lap like a child, curled into the fetal position. 

That night, they would fall asleep hand-in-hand.

Her fingers twitched at the memory.

Hours had passed. She was sitting, perched anxiously on the back of a plastic bench, with arms wrapped tightly around herself and her eyes hawkishly observing the rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

They were in what Peter had referred to as “The Bunker.” 

It was the abandoned, unfinished ‘Roosevelt Ave.’ subway station beneath Queens. Inside the decrepit station of chipping, art deco arches, and web-covered, stained glass skylights, was a row of abandoned subway cars left to rust on a track. Unlike the rest of the station, they were buzzing with energy.

They had been modified and outfitted to serve different purposes. One car held a weapons storage cache, a server room in the next, a sleeping and dining car lined with several cots and booths, a laboratory with a mishmash of equipment from the 1990s, and finally, a medical bay, which they were in.

Peter was unconscious. His body was bloodied and bruised, stretched out in a gurney, hooked up to IVs, wires, and electrodes. Monitors beeped around him, as fluid bags slowly drained into his system.

He looked like he’d been run over by a tank. 

Whatever Peter attempted to do at the clock tower, it appeared as if he’d broken himself trying to do it. 

A watercolor portrait of purples, reds, and blues covered the pale canvas of his torso. It looked as if the entity—Venom, as Eddie called it—had been ripped from his body, pulled out through his pores. In its wake, it laid waste to his flesh, leaving bruises that bubbled under his skin and stained his complexion in blackberry tones.

Peter had fallen unconscious just a few seconds after being revived. Dr. Cho informed the group that he still had a pulse, but she was uncertain how long it would take him to wake up again. 

Or if he would. She didn’t have to say the part they were all already thinking about.

At the moment, he was sleeping, and Honey felt obligated to watch over him. His eyes twitched behind his lids, and she wondered what he was dreaming about or if he was dreaming at all. And if he was dreaming, she hoped it was a good dream. 

Selfishly, she hoped she was in it. However, a familiar, bitter voice assured her that her presence would technically make it a nightmare.

Whatever anger she held, the boiling contempt fueled by her paranoia and fear, evaporated once she saw Peter’s broken body. It was a confusing whiplash of emotions—to want to shoot someone one moment and to weep over their corpse the next. She resented the conflict in her mind but understood the clarity of her heart. 

She loved Peter. Without a doubt. 

Whether that was a good or bad thing, she wasn’t sure. She’d been wrong about such things before. 

But now, she wasn’t focused on the dark thoughts rousing suspicion in her mind. Instead, she was focused solely on his eyes, the way they shifted beneath the eyelids as he slept. She pictured their golden hue, indistinguishable from sunlight. She envisioned charting the constellation of beauty marks on his body. Kissing the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that formed whenever he smiled. Worshipping the artistry with which the gods carved out his jaw and molded his features.

She only looked up from her dutiful watch when she recognized Miles’ voice. Her eyes darted over as the teen emerged through the sliding doors. He was winded like he’d been running. Ripping off his beanie, his mocha eyes were wide with terror as he gazed at Peter’s state.

“Miles,” Felicia breathed a sigh of relief, alerting the others to his presence. He locked his worried gaze on his mentor. Other anxious faces occupied the back of the car as Johnny followed behind Miles and joined Miguel and Eddie. 

“You shoulda called me,” he protested with indignation. The complaint was directed at everyone. “Why didn’t you let me know what was goin’ on? I coulda been there to help!”

“Honestly,” Felicia answered with an exasperated sigh, “I didn’t know what we’d find. Wasn’t ready to deal with that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Miles snidely argued. “One of y’all coulda died out there!” The tiniest crack formed in the tone of his voice. He clamped down on his jaw. “Pete coulda died out there! And, what, I was just supposed to sit around—?”

“And stay alive,” Eddie muttered under his breath. He sat with arms and ankles crossed across a subway bench. They turned to him, Miles fixing him with a scolding look, but Eddie didn’t shrink away. “That’s the whole point of this, kid.”

Miles’s eyes flashed lividly. “Call me ‘kid’ one more time—”

“That’s what you are!” Eddie snapped back, overcome with frustration. “Jesus Christ, you’re sixteen! Can you blame him for tryin’ to let you just be a kid for a little while longer?”

“Mira pendejo, I don’t need you to tell me—”

“No, Pete should tell you!” Eddie growled, cutting Miles off. The beefy man stood abruptly, striding towards the teen. “But since he might not ever wake up again, I’ll speak on his behalf! So shut up and listen!”

Miles snapped his mouth shut, though his eyes screamed lividly. The scowl on his youthful face made it look like he’d bitten off his own tongue. Eddie leered closer, making the teen puff up his chest, looking up only an inch to meet Eddie’s eyes.

“The world is shit,” the older man said, undeterred by Miles’ bravado. “I know it. You know it. Pete knows it better than anyone. Your uncle dragged you into this mess, but Peter tried to give you a way out. Away from all this crap. Away from Fisk. That’s why he took on the Symbiote! Not because he was chasing a high, not because he was on some power trip—he did it because he loves you, kid.”

“By almost gettin’ himself killed?” Miles snapped back. “That’s his love language? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie grumbled with a frown. Even he understood that Miles was right about that. “Some people only know how to love by how much they suffer.” He paused momentarily, keeping a stern expression while trying to conceal how much the statement resonated with him. “You either die a hero or live to see yourself become the villain. Pete doesn’t want this life for you. Trust me. You don’t want it either.”

“How do you know that, huh?” Miles said through gritted teeth. His eyes shimmered in the greenish lights of the subway car. “How do you know what I want—how does he? He doesn’t get to make my choices for me. Maybe I wanna decide for myself! Just like he did!”

His hazel-gray eyes drooped as he quietly contemplated the boy’s statement. “You do have a choice, kid,” he said, sorrow etching his features. “Just like he did.” The flared tempers simmering beneath the surface had burned off, leaving only a painful discourse behind. “And he wanted you to do better.” 

Miles fell silent. His chest pumped slowly as he glared up at Eddie, jaw tensed. Cords tightened along the side of his neck, pulled taut by stubborn rage. Heat built up behind his eyelids, pushed along by tears threatening to break free. He sniffed, angrily wiping at his face, trying and failing to remain stern. 

For his part, Eddie took no satisfaction in Miles’ inability to argue further. The train station was silent. From her vantage point, Honey could see the boy’s lower lip begin to quiver before he angrily bit down on it. Felicia stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Miles, albeit awkwardly. 

As soon as her arms circled him, the teen’s resolve collapsed like a house of cards. His face crumpled, lines skewing his expression, and he buried his face into Felicia’s neck. Miles’ shoulders shook as sobs racked through his body. 

As she watched, Honey realized she was crying along with him. 

Hours passed.

More of the Spiders arrived. 

Noir made an appearance but kept himself scarce. One look at Peter’s proximity to death and he spared himself from the stages of grief that would inevitably follow. 

The woman Honey heard be referred to as “Redback” and “Jess Drew” arrived shortly after. She held an air of graceful authority and cautious collectedness. Although her composure was betrayed by the sight of her chewing her lower lip as Jess observed Peter. After that, she stayed away from the medical car, preoccupied with Miguel and Felicia as they discussed strategy.

The biggest surprise was the fleeting glimpse of a woman Honey had never seen. First, she saw quick movement behind the dirty subway windows. Then, a blurry silhouette zoomed across the rear exit between the cars. Finally, the doors slid open, and a pair of dark eyes blinked in her direction. A Victory roll of thick black hair pinned on the crown of her head poked out from behind the seat. As she leaned in, curtains of straight black hair cascaded off her shoulders in a pointedly-vintage 1950s style. The stranger spied on them, glancing worriedly at Peter and warily at Honey.

She was a twitchy, young-looking woman with an oval face and glittering eyes. For a gangster, her mostly-black outfit was more reminiscent of West Side Story than The Godfather. In true Rockabilly fashion, she wore a motorcycle jacket over a feminine red-and-white polka dot tank top, black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a bright cherry lip stain. 

“Um... hello?” Honey asked with a shaky voice, unsure how to respond to whatever she was doing.

“I know who you are,” the woman called back from the shadows, still not fully entering the car. 

Honey blinked. “Oh... kay...?”

“You never met me,” the woman affirmed, “if anyone ever asks you.”

“Um... I’m pretty sure I haven’t anyway.”

“Peni,” the voice called from the shadows. Only then did a face appear for longer than a few seconds. “I’ve watched you on camera. Hi.”

She almost did a double-take at the blunt information. Miles had mentioned the name ‘Peni’ before when referring to the team’s ‘tech nerd.’ But, whatever Honey was expecting, this wasn’t it.

As quickly as the introduction was made, it was over. Peni disappeared from view, the doors closing.

Once again alone with Peter, she stared at the empty doorway. “Hi.”

Honey was never good with silence. When it was too quiet, she was left with nothing but the parroting mockery of her inner dialogue. She recounted every word she said to Peter before the monster took over. She told him everything, and the fact that there was nothing to hide behind anymore terrified her. 

What would he think of her now?

What did she think of herself? What did she think of Peter? And what would be the first thing she would say to him if she ever got the chance? 

Just as her eyes began to blur for the dozenth time that hour, she spotted that the chance had arrived. 

She held her breath. “Peter?” 

The injured man stirred gently, lungs shakily taking in the stale air. The orbs of his eyes swam behind tightly-closed lids that were stained purple. A breathless groan crawled out of his throat. 

Awe-struck, a short chuckle escaped her suddenly, with tiny tears budding in the corners of her eyes. “Hey...” she sharply exhaled, tightening her lips to keep them from trembling. One hand tightened around his fingers while the other covered her heart. “Peter... I’m—” She swallowed hard, her tongue twisted around nothing, tears dripping past her widening grin. “Hi.”

The slightest movement of his head triggered a grimace. Gently, he pried his eyelids open, like awakening from a 1,000-year sleep. She fought the urge to erupt into gleeful laughter as he laid eyes on her. Joy washed over her, sweeping her along a river of relief.

She blinked away her tears as she lost herself in the soft hue of his eyes, mesmerized by the facets of cognac and smoky quartz that rested tiredly on hers. They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.

A crease formed between his thick brows. “Are you here?” he murmured in a wary voice.

The smile slipped off her face at his question, eyes blinking rapidly. “I’m-I’m here.” His face didn’t soften. She suddenly thought of awful soap operas where a lead character wakes up from a coma and is stricken with amnesia. The thought stirred fear in her, followed by confusion. “I’m... right here.” Would things be better if he didn’t know who she was? 

Silence. He studied her. She observed the color of his eyes dim somberly. Sadness pulled at the corners of his mouth. It twisted her heart. 

He remembered her, alright.

“Why?” he croaked.

She took in a sharp breath as if a needle had stabbed her. She was shocked by the question, and in her confusion, it afforded her time to think about it.

Why was she here?

Only a dozen hours ago, she wanted to shoot him dead. Just an hour before that, she wanted to lay in the warmth of his arms forever. A handful of months before that, she was his prisoner.

Their relationship had changed so many times her mind couldn’t keep up with what her heart was feeling. Pure instinct drove her actions, for better or for worse.

But since all of her darkest secrets spilled forth from her mouth, and Venom spilled forth from Peter’s darkness, everyone had been focused solely on bringing Peter home safely. Herself included. Once Peter had been found, no one explicitly told her to follow them to the Bunker.

Instead of doing the thing she was most comfortable doing— running— she had remained at Peter’s side. 

What’s that about?

A million answers swirled — I was forced to be here, I was afraid to be left behind, I had nowhere else to go — but none of them seemed right. Finally, Honey found a response that made sense. Her instincts dictated her words.

“There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.” 

The truth sounded strange coming from her lips, shamefully. As she met Peter’s eyes, he watched her sullenly as if he were thinking the same thing.

Silence returned. The ever-present foe was broken only by a shaky cough rattling Peter’s bones. The look on his face suggested that every breath was agony. 

Silence—always jabbering, when will you ever shut up?—it was deafening. Driving her insane.

“Dr. Cho wasn’t sure if—” She stopped short, anxiously rephrasing her sentence, “Um, wasn’t, uh—wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.” Her free hand rubbed her knee. The statement left her queasy. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you did.”

His lashes fluttered open, eyes full of melancholy as they rested on her. “Sweet girl.”

She gripped his hand and sat inches away, but it felt more like lightyears. It was as if Peter had died in the fall, and all that was left was a shell. The coldness of each moment pierced her heart further. Yet, despite this, she lifted her chin with resolve.

“I, um... I know it technically makes me a hypocrite,” she began softly, “but I’m trying not to be mad that you tried to get rid of the Symbiote alone.” She met his eyes with a sad gaze. “You coulda died.”

He watched her with an unreadable expression.

“I know it’s not fair for me to be angry,” Honey reasoned, swallowing down her emotion. “But when I thought you were gonna die, I was mad. And then I was sad. And scared. Maybe more scared than anything.”

His eyes drifted downcast towards his feet. “M’sorry.”

“Me too. What I did—it was... it was bad—”

“I didn’t know.”

She knitted her brows together. “Didn’t know I was sorry? Or didn’t know it was bad—?”

“Didn’t know...” he replied with a weak tone, “...what he did to you.” 

Her jaw clenched tightly as heat rushed to her cheeks. She had wanted to talk but was now regretting it. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that discussion. 

Peter’s eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, forehead creased with sorrow. “Didn’t know what you were runnin’ from. Thought it was me. But it was him.” 

Tears brimmed as she gazed down at him. A frigid smile stretched his lips—the kind that doesn’t warm the eyes. Bitterness and sorrow weighed down his expression.

“Makes sense—why you never trusted me.” The corners of his mouth twisted downward as his eyes went glossy. Heartbreak flayed his voice. “He’s what you see when you look at me.” 

He mumbled it aloud, but he wasn’t speaking to her. Instead, he was lost in a prison with bars of guilt and locks of self-loathing. 

His misery cut through her like a knife to her heart. Irony mocked her. Earlier that day, she foolishly almost killed herself over the idea that Peter and John were the same. But, facing Peter in the present, she couldn’t think of anything further from the truth.

“No!” she stuttered in distress. “No-n—Peter, that’s not—I don’t, I swear I don’t.” 

Remorsefully, she shook her head, welling with tears. He met her eyes again, and all she could see was despair. It was like watching a ship sink into the ocean. Like watching someone she loved drown before her eyes.

Loved.

“Peter,” she whimpered, jaw wobbling, “I... you don’t...I don’t....” Her inability to communicate infuriated her. Impatiently, she thrust the words out, “I-I love y—”

“Don’t say it,” he whispered, voice strained. He snapped his eyes shut, tearing her from his sight. “Please don’t.” It was the most desperate of pleas. 

“Don’t say anything.” His voice broke on the last word. A flood spilled past the gates of his lids, rolling over whatever strength he had left. “Whether it's true or not, I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”

Her soul shattered at his admission, and she could only nod. The trust between them— what little bit there had ever been— was broken beyond repair. No fixing it this time.

“Holy shit—he’s awake!” 

She heard Johnny’s voice over her shoulder, reminding her of where they were. She looked over at Johnny, standing in the doorway of the sliding emergency exit, as he called out to the adjacent car. “Doc! He’s awake!” 

Within several seconds, the car was flooded with excitement. Honey sheepishly wiped her tears away, back straightening, as bodies crowded around her. Felicia and Miles were closest to Peter, followed by Eddie and Miguel. Johnny leaped over a bench seat to join the pandemonium from the other side. Helen pushed toward the front after Felicia ordered the group to make way. 

Reluctantly, Honey released his hand, standing up to give Helen her place at his side.

The doctor immediately went to work with a flashlight beaming in Peter’s eyes and her fingers on his pulse, asking him how he was feeling. 

“Living the dream,” he weakly replied, with no lack of sarcasm.

“You’re lucky to be living at all,” Helen remarked coldly. “Anyone else taking a fall like that would’ve been a splatter on the pavement.”

Honey faintly responded out of earshot, her voice mouselike and thick with grief. “He’s nothing like everyone else.”

In the early stages of dawn, Honey was in the dining car surrounded by the others. Peter had passed out soon after he awakened. He slept soundly in the medical car under Helen’s observation. The doctor explained that the best thing for him would be to let him rest. Moving him would be dangerous.

Miguel pointed out that they were compromised, so there was nowhere safe to move him.

With that grim frustration, he questioned Honey before the rest of the gang. It was difficult to talk about her trauma. It was even harder to admit her betrayal to those she knew best. It was torture to talk about both things in front of everyone—strangers, like Jess and Noir, or Johnny, now catching up on what he’d missed earlier. Or Miles—especially Miles.

Part of her wanted to be offended by the interrogation's coldness and Miguel’s gruff tone. Who was he to treat her like she was a criminal? 

But as soon as that defensiveness reared inside her, she cut it down. She was a rat, but did she have to be a hypocrite, too?

“Tell me again,” Miguel demanded firmly. “What else did you tell Walker?”

Honey slumped down in the bench seat with her arms folded. “Names,” she grumbled bitterly. “Times.” 

With each answer, she felt her skin burning from the rising heat of contempt. There was no more hiding from it. The most she could do was be as honest as possible. 

She resigned herself to scrutiny as an act of penance. “Who came and went. When they went. Where they were going. Locations.” 

Miguel’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Did you tell him about this place?”

“No,” she bit back. “I didn’t even know this place existed.”

Unsatisfied, he glowered, “When did you last talk to him?”

“I didn’t talk to him—”

“Then how did you communicate?”

“Give it a rest, Miguel,” Felicia scowled, unimpressed by his ‘bad cop’ persona. 

Honey didn’t feel like she was on Felicia’s good side either, but she did feel somewhat shielded by her presence. 

Mercilessly, he drove right through whatever shield may have existed. “You stabbed us in the back!” he accused, pointing his finger at her. “You were offered multiple chances to come clean, but you refused, and people died. You could’ve done the right thing, but you didn’t. So I’m sorry if I’m not as sensitive to your predicament.”

Shame filled her face as she cast her eyes downward. Nothing could shield her from the guilt. 

“That’s enough,” Felicia said, shooting impatient eyes at Miguel.

“Not until we know our people are safe!”

“I said ‘enough’!”

Miguel took a step back. Felicia didn’t raise her voice often, but it felt like the ground itself shook. Her eyes flashed red as she skewered him with her gaze. Quietly fuming, he glared at his superior and then stormed off.

Tiredly, Felicia sighed. “Where are we with backup?” she asked, pressing her lips into a firm line. “Who’s checked in?”

“Peni’s running comms,” Jessica replied. “Pinging everyone’s GPS now.”

Eddie mumbled through a tired yawn, “You got GPS trackers on everybody?”

“On the phones,” Miles explained. “She hacks the OS before we hand them out. Allows her to access them remotely.”

Idly, he scratched at the scruff on his face, replying, “What’s the point in that?” Then, a loud squelch from the overhead PA system erupted. Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin as if God herself were speaking.

“Means I can mine all your data and spy on you when you look up porn,” Peni’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers in the car, further startling Eddie.

“Jesus!” Eddie cursed. He hissed, eyes cast upwards at the speakers. “I don’t look up porn on the Spider phone!” 

Alarmed, Johnny whispered, “Can she really do that?”

“Can we please stay on task?!” Felicia glowered.

“Miguel’s right.”

The group refocused their attention on Honey. Her head was lowered, eyes glistening. “This is my fault,” she whispered sorrowfully, replaying the series of bad decisions that brought her to this point.

When she glanced back up, she was met with more silence. Painful, but not unkind.

“I, um... I don’t—I’m not good... with... trusting people,” she said sheepishly. “Not good with... letting anyone in.” She hesitated, her voice shaky as she breathed through the heartache. Patiently, the others were waiting for her to continue. 

“I... I know it’s not worth much, but I’m sorry.” She swallowed hard, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I’m sorry about Hobie,” she said with an expression like she had eaten glass. “I should’ve stopped this a long time ago.”

Felicia fixed sorrowful eyes on her. “Hobie’s death wasn’t on you,” she softly explained. “Between Fisk and the Feds, there are some hefty prices on our heads. Money like that makes loyalty difficult. That night, it didn’t matter what info you had. It was one of our guys that helped pull the trigger. Most of the time, we’re pretty good at picking out the bad apples. Not always.”

Honey stared up at her with furrowed brows, nodding graciously as she accepted the tiny reprieve from guilt.

“Plus, it helps to see everything everyone does with their phone when they’re in the bathroom.” The Voice of God chimed in again, but Peni was standing in the car's doorway this time. Eddie nearly clung to the ceiling with fright. 

“How are you doing that?!” he exclaimed.

Peni rolled her eyes incredulously. “By logging keystrokes, duh—”

“No, not that!” Eddie hissed.

“Not to mention, that’s a huge invasion of privacy,” said Johnny.

Eddie looked over at the tiny woman. “Do you have this place wired or something? Or bugged?”

“Wired?” their tech nerd scoffed. “Bugged? What do you think this is, Goodfellas?”

“Good movie,” Noir stated firmly. 

“That’s the one with Leo, right?” Miles asked.

Johnny blanched at the teen’s response. “Wait, what did you just say—???”

“For your information, Eddie, I don’t have to plant microphones to hear your conversation,” Peni arrogantly teased, nose in the air. “What do you even think phones are for, dummy?”

“Dude!” Johnny was still staring at Miles like he’d grown extra arms, the two of them squabbling. “Don’t tell me you’re confusing The Departed with Goodfellas—!” 

“Nah, man, that’s the one with the mumblin’ dude who's like ‘you come to me on the day of my daughter’s wedding—’”

Johnny’s voice soared to new heights. “That’s The Godfather!”

“He gave me a phone!” Blurting out with alarm, Honey shot up to her feet. 

Jess stared, brows furrowed with confusion. “I think we’re past that—”

“John gave me a phone!” she clarified, eyes darting to Felicia and Peni. “He told me to always have it on me... Jesus Christ! He was listening! The whole time— he could hear everything!” 

The rest stared in confusion while Honey grappled with the next horrifying thought. 

John heard everything. 

Every conversation. 

Every detail. 

Every secret.

He had everything.

“Oh God,” she breathed, face full of terror.

She paled at the memory of being in her bed, curled up in Peter’s arms as he divulged his deepest secrets. The phone that would damn them all was inches away, tucked securely in the box frame. 

He knows everything.

Her eyes went wide, filling with panic. “They’re coming—”

“Get down!” Peter's strained voice cracked through the silence.

A moment later, a cacophony of gunfire, pelted metal, and shattering glass surrounded them. Bodies hit the subway car floor like dominos, wedging between walls and beneath seats. Honey landed hard on her side, knocking the wind out of her. 

Screams rang out all around as glass rained down on them. Pops of automatic gunfire rolled on uninterrupted, like spokes on a wheel. Honey could feel tiny pinprick stings from shavings of metal and splintered plastic, like a wasp's nest had consumed the car. The exposed parts of her skin were battered with debris. As she cowered, a heavy weight dropped on her back.

The second she recognized the cinnamon and cedar scent, she opened her eyes in astonishment. Peter was there—fully awake, with wires and IVs still attached. He protected her, blanketing her with his body while she clutched him tight. She buried her face in his warmth while hell rained down around them. 

“Agghhhh!” — “Stay down!” — “Cat! Get back here!” — “Kill the lights!” — “There’s too many of ‘em...”

Voices called out frantically, rolled over by the crashing waves of gunfire. 

At a certain point, she wondered how long the guns were firing. Was it five minutes? Five years? The constant barrage of blamblamblam pierced her eardrums and rattled her bones, driving her insane with terror. Her heart must have outpaced the bullets. She felt Peter’s arms tighten around her, securing her to his chest. 

She focused on his body heat, his breath on her neck, and the vise of his arms. It was deja vu, eerily identical to the night he carried her away from Fisk’s garage. 

Her mind transported her away from the train back to that day. She trembled in the steaming water of the bathtub, trying to read his warm eyes— the color of caramel and chocolate and bourbon—while he diligently dabbed at the adhesive covering her mouth. The only roughness in his touch came from the calluses on his fingertips. 

She has no reason to trust him. But she does anyway.

His long, gentle fingers. They laid out a spread of plated charcuterie and sandwiches cut into triangles onto a picnic blanket overlooking a gorgeous vista of the Catskills. That’s where she is now. Nervously, he frets about the forgotten wine, pushing his fingers through his thick hair. He looks boyish and shy. 

She has every right to be terrified. But she isn’t.

She held Peter so tight she was concerned about breaking his bones and damaging him further. But she was incapable of prying her hands from him. No one could. 

There was no escaping this. They were trapped. Any moment now, everything would go black. Seconds away from the darkness. Centimeters from death. 

And there wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be.

The gunfire let up for a few moments. A pocket of air in which to breathe.

“Goddamn it, it’s S.H.I.E.L.D.!” Miguel’s voice hollered from outside the car, although hearing him over the ringing in their ears was difficult.

Honey wasn’t listening anyway. She was listening to Peter’s voice as he crooned a heartachingly pure rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,’ a song she felt might as well have been written about them. 

“Honey, look at me.” His alarm brought her back to the present. He stared down at her, his eyes anxiously searching her face, while he hoisted himself above her on his forearms. 

The moment she locked eyes with his, tears filled her gaze. Fear, joy, desperation—it overwhelmed her, hitting her like a tidal wave. He was still injured, she noted. The skin on his face and exposed upper body were still marked up with bruises and minor cuts. But his eyes—the tang of oranges, the golden tint of an Old Fashioned—reflected how alive he was, despite his earlier outward appearance. 

Adrenaline surged through his body as he caged her with his forearms. By contrast, his voice was as soft as a feather. “Honey—talk to me.” He whispered, breathless with fear he was struggling to contain. His eyes regarded her like she was something intricate, delicate, and precious. “You okay?” 

Her lungs were empty. Her vision was blurred with tears. But she nodded quickly, her chin wobbling.

A glimmer of relief crossed his features as he caressed her cheek. “Okay, s’okay... you’re okay, I gotcha—” It was unclear who he was reassuring. “You’re gonna be okay, ’m gonna get you out.” 

She had no reason to trust him. But she did. Her head continued to nod, and a little hum escaped from her throat in agreement.

“Stay down, okay?” he said placatingly while his thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath her eye. “Stay right here. I’m comin’ back.” 

“No, please! Please don’t leave.”

“I’ll be right back—”

“I-I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can—”

“I can’t lose you!”

His breath hitched. She felt his heart skip beneath his chest. Adoration pooled in his eyes. “I’m coming back. I promise.” He kissed her forehead softly, allowing his gaze to linger just long enough for a reassuring half-smile.

She had no reason to believe him. But she had to.

Before she could protest, he pushed himself up to a low crouch. Then, in the blink of an eye, she watched him leap from the ground and cling to the ceiling of the subway car. Stunned, she watched him crawl barefoot to the emergency exit at the top of the train car. Then, silently and swiftly, he disappeared through the port hole.

“Nancy! Stay down!”

Eddie’s voice... and his silly, endearing nickname. She was still on her back on the floor. She glanced up to see an upside-down viewpoint of Eddie as he reached for her. Next to him, Johnny and Jessica took cover beneath the table. “Stay right there! I’m comin’ to you—”

Another barrage of gunfire erupted, and he flattened to the ground. A scream ripped out at the rear of the subway car. Honey glanced down to see Miles crumpling into a ball as bullet holes sliced through the metal dangerously close to his cowering form. Beside him, Helen dragged herself along the ground sluggishly. She was covered in blood.

“Miles!” Honey shrieked. Her body moved of its own accord. Jarring drum hits rang out from both sides as she army-crawled toward the teen. The gunfire began to become more sporadic, with more frequent pauses. 

“Reloading, let’s go!”

“The lights! The lights!”

Every inch felt like a mile, but she pushed on with her belly to the ground. She reached Miles first, pulling him to the ground and hugging his body closer to hers just as another wave hit. Honey guided Miles along the floor toward Helen as soon as it passed over. 

The woman gasped and sputtered as she writhed in pain. Blood soaked through her right side, from her torso to her thigh. Eyes horrified at the damage, Honey searched Helen’s face desperately.

“To-to-tuorn-tourniquet...” the doctor said through chattering teeth.

“Gimme your belt!” Honey said to Miles. “Stay flat!”

The teen diligently reached for his nylon belt, shifting around to loosen and remove it while keeping his back to the floor. Honey took the belt from him and helped Helen wrap it around her thigh.

Just as she pulled it tight, the lights switched off. Frantically, Honey searched the cabin with terror, struggling to adjust to the darkness. More shouting, unfamiliar, followed by howls of fear and pain, surrounded her. From her vantage point, she could see shapes outside better now that the cabin lights were out.

Black-clad figures outfitted with S.W.A.T. gear and carrying more artillery than a small militia tip-toed around the car. She watched as one of the infiltrators passed by a window opposite from her. A pair of dark boots dropped onto the gunman, taking him to the ground. She gasped, ducking closer to the floor as the gunman was beaten and had his rifle taken. Then, she recognized Noir by his black trench coat, finally releasing her breath. 

The relief was short-lived. Noir turned and fired the weapon, which looked like a shotgun, at an incoming attacker. The bang was accentuated by a splatter on the windows, like a can of stewed tomatoes had exploded. Honey yelped at the sight before covering her eyes. She felt her stomach rolling in her belly.

A crash forced her eyes back open. She looked through the darkness to glimpse Felicia’s silver hair and the glint of a silver knife. She fought hand-to-hand with another armed combatant twice her size outside the train. The stout man was no match for the smaller-framed woman’s speed. She attacked him from all sides, burying her blade between his ribs like fangs on a viper.

Another goon rushed at her, knocking her flat on her back. Honey’s heart nearly stopped with panic as she watched the gunman aim his weapon at Felicia, prepared to fire. Suddenly, Miguel leaped out of nowhere with the talons of his gauntlet raised.

The razor-sharp blades attached to his forearm rang out as they cut through the air. Honey had no idea what type of metal they were made from, but it was sharper than anything she’d ever seen. With a woosh, the blades sliced through the rifle barrel like a blade of grass. In shock, the gunman dropped the rifle and drew a pistol instead. Miguel sliced through the man’s wrists with the same ease, separating his hands from his body. 

She looked away as another spray of crimson covered the walls and seat. She heard the gunman cry out before being silenced with a sickening squelch. 

Miguel was suddenly yanked backward by a brutish figure, pulling him off the train. 

“Miguel!” Felicia called out with alarm. Within seconds she uprighted herself and barrelled outside to back him up. Honey attempted to follow her with her gaze, but another burst of gunfire erupted, so close that she could smell the burning of her own hair.

“I’m comin’!” Miles hollered. Honey stayed down, too afraid to look up. 

“They’re coming through the rear!” she heard Jess’ voice from nearby. 

“Keep ‘em away from the train!” Johnny’s voice.

Where was Peter? 

She felt sick. She hadn’t seen or heard him since he vanished. The idea of him meeting a brutal end made her dizzy. It made her flesh clammy. Bile crawled up her throat, with a rising panic close to a scream. She clamped her mouth closed to keep it all inside. She couldn’t think about Peter being hurt right now. She could barely think at all.

A gunshot, followed by a male groan. 

“Storm!”

She squealed as Johnny collapsed through the train entrance and landed hard on the ground. From her hiding spot, she saw blood soaking his right shoulder.

Her eyes went wide. “Johnny—!”

Another footsoldier boarded the train behind him, wielding a bloody combat dagger. Dazed from blood loss himself, the soldier collapsed on top of Johnny, the knife raised up high. She watched the two men struggle, trembling beneath a seat. It reminded her of lions thrashing, burying blade-like claws into one another.

More gunfire erupted nearby, jolting her out of her reverie. Johnny’s attacker straddled him and bared his weight down on the hilt of the dagger. Arms shaking and hands slick with blood, Johnny clutched the blade, trying to keep it from piercing his chest. 

Her eyes narrowed on the attacker. The man wore face paint to obscure his features, like some deranged Navy Seal. His tactical clothes were solid black, save for a white, geometric eagle patch on his shoulder. This was ‘SHIELD,’ or whatever Miguel called it. 

Honey saw the strain on her friend’s face, noting the weakening of his muscles. If she did nothing, Johnny would be stabbed to death right in front of her.

She needed to intervene.

Do something.

She glanced around desperately for a weapon.

The men were snarling with lips curled back. The attacker raised his fist above the hilt, ready to bash the knife into Johnny’s chest. Suddenly, he was smacked in the face by a midweight object. Dazed, he blinked through the darkness to spot a blood-splattered ballet flat on the ground. He looked up, glimpsing its owner.

Wide-eyed, Honey stared back at the SHIELD agent as he set crosshairs on her. The man bounded forward, lunging at her. She screamed, crawling backward like a crab, as the man grabbed her by the ankle above her bare foot. He held the knife high, preparing to plunge it into her chest. A blam rang out, stopping him in his tracks, as a bullet tore through the man’s heart. 

As her attacker toppled backwards, Honey turned around to see Jessica holding a smoking pistol. Without a second thought, the woman rushed up to Johnny and lowered herself to his side. “Are you hurt?” she asked Honey, offhandedly as she examined his stab wound. 

Honey shook her head ‘no.’ 

He grunted in pain as Jessica put pressure on the wound beneath Johnny’s collarbone. “Get his gun,” she ordered as she worked. Honey blinked at the gunman’s corpse, hand still clinging to a bloody knife.

“Get the gun!” Jess repeated, eyes intense. “Works a lot better than a shoe.”

She blinked. “I... I can’t.” 

The Woman glanced up at her with a hard line between her brows. “It’s either them or you. Who’s it gonna be?”

Honey stared back, face blank. Jessica pressed her lips together. “I have to check on Cho. Put pressure right here.” Honey crawled towards them, replacing Jessica’s hands with hers. She gulped dazedly, watching the sticky, red warmth pool around her fingers. He hissed in pain, but diligently, she held the compress firm.

The Woman stood quickly and shuffled over to the dead man, retrieving his sidearm and knife. She returned with the pistol in hand, ejecting, examining, and replacing the magazine like flexing one of her muscles. She wrenched back the top of the gun, letting it slide back in place with a lock. 

Honey watched the whole thing, jaw agape like it was a magic trick.

Deftly, she flipped the weapon around, presenting the grip end to Honey and placing it in the woman’s hand.

“Now it’s them or him,” Jess declared firmly, jerking her forehead towards Johnny. “You choose.”

Bewildered, she warily took the weight of the gun as Jess disappeared toward the back of the train. “Don’t shoot anyone we know!” the Woman called out. 

Honey stared at the gun, then found Johnny’s sweating face. “It’s okay,” she whispered, putting weight back on his wound. “I’m gonna take care of you.” She swallowed the tremor in her voice, putting on a face of confidence, despite her terror. 

She could pretend to be brave? Right?

Another spray of shots pierced the cabin overhead, and she crouched down to cover Johnny. 

The barrage of shots eased again, pausing for a blessed few seconds. “Incoming!” she heard Miguel shout outside. “Ultraman’s here!”

Ultraman? What...?

The emergency lights in the tunnel dimmed as a whirring sound began to ring out. With eyes like saucers, she witnessed growing pandemonium outside. More shouting and panicked footsteps echoed in the darkened tunnel, followed by a slowly-building roar, like a jet engine coming to life.

“Get down!” she heard Miles’ voice behind her. He leaped over the bench seat and pressed his body over hers and Johnny’s. Suddenly, the train jerked sideways, knocked off the track like a toy. The bodies inside were tossed to the opposite wall as the car toppled over.

Head throbbing and eyes blurry, Honey gazed around attempting to get her bearings. A bright, red light erupted, a beam cutting through the floor of the car, just a few feet away from where they had been thrown. She watched in horror as the vehicle was sliced in half like a loaf of bread.

Shrieks from terrified men echoed outside. The car rocked, metal twisting as the train's rear tore away. With her jaw agape, she peered down the train car, now opened up like a tunnel. Finally, her eyes found the source of the commotion.

A ten-foot humanoid robot smashed through the bodies of the SHIELD team, knocking them down like bowling pins. She watched in stunned disbelief as the robot’s giant legs trampled fallen soldiers beneath its mechanical feet. The arms of the robot were as thick as steel beams but faster than a human’s. They thrust out in all directions, tossing adult bodies like rag dolls. The machine was a red-and-yellow blur, with shells bouncing harmlessly off its bulletproof skin.

“C’mon,” Miles grasped Honey’s shoulder, pulling her to attention. “We gotta go!”

“What is that thing?” she gasped.

“It’s Peni!” he shouted back. “Now, c’mon, let’s move!”

Shaking the astonishment away, she followed Miles’ lead. She grabbed Johnny’s legs as the teen hooked his forearms underneath the injured man’s shoulders. They grunted from the effort of hoisting him up.

“m’sorrym’sorrym’sorrysorry...” Miles rattled off as Johnny wailed in pain. “Don’t be mad at me!” 

The two carried him towards the tunnel opening, wobbling as they walked. Honey spotted movement from beside them— a gunman peering into an emergency port hole.

“Miles! Look out!” a voice boomed. She glanced over to see Eddie flying across the car, tackling Miles as the automatic weapon started firing. She screamed, dropping herself and Johnny to the ground, as bullet holes pierced the side of the car. 

When she looked up, she stared at the white-eagle emblem on the shoulder of the agent as he turned his gun from Miles to Honey. The man crawled through the port hole, just feet away from her. 

Horrified, she looked around until she saw the pistol Jess left her with lying in the rubble between her and the attacker. Eyes wide, she scurried on her hands and feet, crawling towards it. The gunman rushed her as soon as he saw what she was doing. 

For the second time in her life, Honey fired a gun. She jolted from the shocking recoil after the trigger had been pulled. The man howled and dropped to one knee. Stunned, she watched the man writhe, having taken the bullet in his shin. 

He looked up and glared at her with a murderous stare, fumes coming from his nose. Her jaw went slack as he lunged at her. She fired the weapon again, this time hitting him in the torso. It barely slowed him down, planting into the Kevlar of his vest. Before she could adjust, the attacker’s hand was wrapped around her throat, and he wrenched the pistol from her fingers.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he spat at her, wheezing from the impact to his bulletproof vest. “Can’t wait ‘til he tears you a new—” 

The man’s grip dropped immediately as his head wrenched backward. 

Honey looked up in awe to see Peter, splattered blood beading down his chest, towering over them. Teeth gritted, he held the man by his hair, his massive hand expanding over the crown of his head. Then, with an enraged growl, Peter jerked his arm back. 

She watched the gunman jolt as his scalp was ripped off so forcefully that the top of his skull came with it. The man flailed, legs twitching sporadically like he’d swallowed a power line. Finally, Peter released his body. With blank eyes, he slumped to the side, brain matter spilling out.

She trembled at the horrific scene, watching the attacker go limp. Her wide eyes traveled up to her rescuer. 

Peter Parker. Half monster. Half man. Chest heaving, animalistic eyes roving, his savagery on full display. Her jaw hung open as she regarded him with horrified awe, with several thoughts swimming through her head.

One. 

He looked feral. Blood trailed down his face and torso in tiny crimson rivers. The ghastly sight made him look both dead and alive. More beast than man. Even without the Symbiote attached, his eyes were blown black from adrenaline. She thought about how Eddie mentioned Venom ‘reacted differently’ to Peter. And now she could see why.

Violence was in his very nature. He wore it around his shoulders like a cape. Carnage was his crown. The blood staining his flesh only made him stand taller, like a conquering barbarian on top of a mountain of skulls. He never needed Venom to become something monstrous. The violence was visceral, and he could never be separated from it. Not completely.  

It was terrifying to witness. She should be terrified.

Two: she wasn’t. 

She realized this as he locked eyes with her, suddenly going still. She watched him. He watched her. Both of them thinking the same thought.

This is who he was. Peter Parker.

Not Venom.

Not Ben Reilly.

Not any other false name he used to conceal himself in the darkness. As much as it terrified him, he was the darkness.

His eyes softened as he looked down at her, like a switch had been thrown. He turned docile only under her gaze. 

This was also who he was. And she realized that she didn’t want him any other way.

“Are you hurt?” Peter quietly asked, crouching before her as he scanned over her figure. Eyes glistening, she nodded, her mind stricken with deja vu. He reached out delicately with bloody hands and tipped her chin upwards until their gazes met. 

She swayed as exhaustion collided with her, weakening her muscles. “I-I...” she mumbled, jaw agape and shoulders limp, staring up at him with a hypnotized expression. “I... lost my shoe.”

He blinked in confusion before glancing down to see one of her ballet flats was missing.

“I think I saw it over here,” Johnny muttered through gritted teeth, snapping them out of their bubble. They turned to see him sprawled out on the ground, holding his shoulder with a thin sheen of sweat on his face. “I’m okay too, by the way.” 

“Johnny!” Peter said, alarmed. They dropped back to the ground and flanked the bleeding man. “Can you move?” he asked, brows furrowed. 

The blonde grunted as he held onto his pectoral muscle, blood soaking half his shirt. “Sure. Flesh wound.” 

A cocky smile filled with pearly white teeth assured them he was still relatively ‘normal.’ They breathed a sigh of relief as Peter delicately helped him up into a sitting position.

The attack had ended.  Honey wasn’t entirely sure when. The whirring steps of the robot approaching caught her attention. She looked down to see the red-and-yellow mecha-spider  step up to the opening of the train car. “That’s the last of them,” Peni’s mechanized voice declared. The robot’s torso opened to reveal Peni sitting inside. The wizard behind the curtain with painted blood-red lips.

“They’ll be back,” Peter said grimly before turning to Honey.

Tears filled her eyes as she stared back at him. Guilt gutted her, breaking her heart and every bit of strength left in her body. “This is all my fault.”

Just as Peter was about to reply, the broken sound of Miles’ voice clipped him short. The teenager whimpered, dread filling his lungs, “Guys...”

Peter and Honey turned towards Miles, seeing the teen crouched over on his knees. A body lay before him. They scurried to their feet, rushing to his side. Honey froze mid-step, eyes wide with horror.

“Eddie...” she gasped.

The burly man was on his back with a gaping hole in his chest. Slowly, it pooled with blood as he wheezed in short spurts. Miles leaned over him desperately, trying to stop the bleeding with his soaked-through beanie. 

Eddie looked ashen, the life drained from his face. His eyes were wide as they stared up at the ceiling, filled with horror and awe. He sputtered and coughed, his lungs struggling to keep the liquid out. Blood tinged his lips. 

“Eddie!” Honey yelped, dropping to her knees to bring her hands over Miles’s. 

It was like trying to hold back a river. All eyes were now on Eddie’s dire situation—Noir, Felicia, and Peni approaching quickly. Jess and Miguel looked on from the back of the car, both of them pausing momentarily from trying to assist Helen.

Miles gazed down at his savior, lip wobbling and hands shaking. “He... he pushed me outta the way. He-he saved me—” 

“Christ!” They heard Felicia curse as the silver-haired woman rushed over and touched Eddie’s pulse. Honey glanced at her, watching fear capture the fearless.

“We need help over here!” Peter called out, voice strained with panic that Honey had never heard from him before. He was winded with terror as his palms enveloped Miles’s, frantically working to stop the bleeding.

“Cho’s hurt bad,” Jessica called back. Beside her, Miguel was hooking his arms beneath the doctor’s legs, hoisting her up off the ground.

“It’s okay, we-we got this,” Honey called back. Hysteria slowly choked her. “I-I can fix this! I can patch him up!”

“But Helen—”

“I can do this!” Honey hissed, desperate tears spilling down her face. “I just need a-a med kit or... Sutures! I can sew it up, all she’s gotta do is walk me through it.” 

“Sweetie,” Felicia uttered under her breath. Honey froze in her gaze, her blue eyes glazed with tears. “She’s not even conscious...” 

She wore a mournful expression, condolences pouring silently from her mouth.

Honey would have none of it. Defiantly, she shook her head, lips pursed into a straight line. “I’ll figure it out myself!” she choked back a sob. “Just—somebody, get me the med kit! Get me—” Honey blocked out the worried stares that surrounded her. 

Instead, she focused on Eddie. She thought about cupcake frosting smeared across the scruff of his chin. His benevolent nature as he pulled in drags of smoke, offering peace to the world in return with each outward breath. She pictured his hazel-gray eyes weighed down by heavy bags and a lifetime of failures. Despite that, his eyes persevered to retain their brightness. 

He was tranquil amidst the turmoil of his life. Grateful despite his misfortune. In the middle of their war, he was a pacifist. A peacemaker. 

He saw everything. He saw Peter as a brother. He saw Honey as a friend. He saw both of them as worth saving.

And now she saw the light fading from his eyes. “I can do this,” she whimpered weakly, tears spilling down her face. “It’s okay. I can fix this.”

“Honey—”

She paused, feeling the featherlike brush of Peter’s breath across her face. Hesitantly, she met his sorrowful gaze, her heart aching at the sight of tears trailing down his cheeks. He was silent, fixing her earnestly with a knowing look. He didn’t have to say anything. She could read the hopelessness written on his face.

There was no fixing this. 

Somberly, they gazed at one another, both of them mirroring each other’s grief.

“S..ssay,” Honey heard a tiny voice whisper beneath her. She looked down to see Eddie looking up at her, teeth chattering. His lips were curved into a faint smile. “Wh—why the-the-the l-long face, N-nancy?”

It was like her heart literally ripped in half. She struggled to keep her sobs muted, clamping her mouth closed.

“Y-you... sh-should e-eat a Peanut Butter co-cookie, or so-somethin.’” He grinned wide, his teeth stained red. Tears dripped from her chin as she hiccuped out a small smile through her anguish. 

His eyes traveled from her face to Peter’s. Though he appeared more composed than Honey, Eddie knew what Peter looked like when he was in agony. 

“T-tha-thank y-you-u,” Eddie shivered, staring up at Peter with love in his eyes, “for s-saving my life.” 

Red-eyed, Peter winced like he’d swallowed glass. He breathed through his nose, afraid that if he opened his mouth his soul would spill out.

Eddie gazed at him with a lopsided, lazy grin. “Don’t b-be too ha-hard on yourself.” Another cough shook him, staining his lips even further. Peter released his hold on the wound to wrap Eddie’s hand in his fist. He held on tightly as if to steady him against a heavy current.

“M’mm-’m afraid to-to die, Pete,” Eddie said with a shaky voice. He faltered for a single moment. Fear prodded at him as each expansion of his chest became heavier. Each breath came up shorter than the last. 

Then, as stubborn as ever, he smirked with a flicker of light filling his glossy gaze. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he considered the irony. “Th-that’s-s gotta co-count for s-somethin’, right?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, nodding tearfully in a silent reply. When he opened them again, the current was stronger. The light was fading as it began to pull him under. Peter and Honey gripped tighter, as if their resolve could hold him.

“S-s-so...” Eddie said, locking eyes with Peter. “Thank... you.”

Into the darkness, he drifted away.

Continue to Part 20

{back to the masterlist}

A/N Sorry for the tearjerker cliffhanger! This story is coming to a close in just a few chapters (maybe 3 or 4). Thank you for sticking with me this long. I hope that the next chapter will have everything you've ever dreamed of.

[vegasandhishedgehog]

Fuck this, I wasn't tagged by anybody but since y'all are making me insane sharing your lovely faves on my dash I gotta join the fun!

10 BL People That I Want Carnally

Just so we're clear, I'm immediately not limiting myself to 10. I'm bi. You think we have limits? (Tumblr says yes, but that's why I'm on desktop for this instead of mobile)

Night from Dirty Laundry

Are we surprised? This awakened a whole thing in me. I was constantly yelling from the rooftops about my love for this man in the cheapest drag you ever saw. This is my JAM. I'm already trying to calm myself down making the first entry on this post. GOD. And his whole committed-to-the-bit romancing a mafia leader and then robbing her because he needs money, but really he's a wee romantic who just wants to write exciting stories like all of us bitches on AO3? Honey I am FREE at 5pm on Saturday. Also, shush, I know it's not a BL, I'm counting it as part of the Midnight Series as a whole :P

Yok from Not Me

PAINT ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR POLICE OFFICERS. We already have matching tattoos babe. He isn't perfect but he's a well-intentioned mama's boy and has swagger.

Maya from Laws of Attraction

Listen, I don't think much explaining is necessary here. I'm a woman but she can call me "pretty boy" any day. Is she just Silvy Pavida with a MILF wife? Yeah. That's the point. I'll join. They would let me.

Speaking of Laws of Attraction, Nawin

I deserve an insane golden retriever boyfriend. I deserve a man who can't spell his ex's name but can get a pilot's license. He deserves someone who will enable his silliness, even when there's trouble with the accountant. *kisses all over his wing tattoo*

Togawa from Old Fashion Cupcake

Mr. Hamster Cheeks my love <3 The dates would be so good. And so would the food. And the food naps afterward. I'm a good snuggler, he's tall and there's a lot to snuggle. Win-win.

Ink from Bad Buddy

I know many of us are weak for Milk Pansa, but like, there's a reason for that. She gave us the ICON for lesbian side couples. Please, girl, scare men away from me when they mistake a boner for full-fledged love. Make me feel welcome and important and pretty and like I'm the specialest girl alive. Be taller than me ;)

Wen Qing from The Untamed

She didn't die, actually, we just eloped together, haha. I just think as someone who studied medicine, she'd have a lot of good tricks up her sleeve and I don't mean acupuncture needles.

Saifah from Enchanté

Yeah. I needed to use this gif. Get that record deal my man. Live your dreams king. I also love that he's both the old man and woman here. Impeccable. We deserved more of him.

Uea from Bed Friend

Gimme this catboy realness right now. Also, I just love him so much. He owns his narrative despite all the shit he has suffered and gets everything he deserves for it. We could be besties even. We could be...no I shan't say it.

SamMon from GAP

I just want whatever is going on right here. Let me join. Simple as that.

Tops and Marwin from Ingredients

I'm this guy. Except I think they'd be sad to see the other with someone else so I gotta have them one at a time. Tops, who's a shy cutie who can make yummy foods. And Marwin, who is basically Jeff Satur just pumped with extra himboisms.

Todd from Not Me

All principles out the window. He's evil, he's sexy. I know exactly how much that specific hotel room costs to stay in for a night. It would be luxurious.

Rain from Love In The Air

I know most people would say Phayu, and for Boss, yeah I understand, I am all there. But something about the way that little guy can fuck kinda makes me dizzy, I'm owning that. He doesn't have to be smart, he's just gotta be given compliments. Plus, my bed sheets match!

VegasPete from KinnPorsche

They altered me chemically once and I'd let 'em do it a second time and many more after that.

Tagging @kissporsche @thisautistic @omegaphobe @shubaka @risu442 @khathastrophe @loveable-sea-lemon @fawndlyvenus @viva-yas-vegas @first-kanaphan @wherelanguage-ends @xxatlasxx @adanima @snake-and-mouse @scarefox @scattered-stardust @callipigio @sparklyeyedhimbo @jdotsodomite @futureexmrsmalcolm @suzteel @jeffsatyr @coconuts-mafia

[see-arcane]

So I've heard quite a bit about Richard "Em Dash" Marsh and his book The Beetle, but I've been quite curious: What elements about it are compelling? I refuse to read the book itself (made that mistake with... other gothic-based media (Damn you, Moore), so I was curious about your thoughts on it?

I think it's just the sheer amount of wasted opportunity for metaphor left laying around. Like, I know everyone likes to call it "Dracula but so much shittier," but I've always seen more resemblance to Kafka's "The Metamorphosis," and not just for the insect element.

The two characters we're introduced to as (mistaken) protagonist and antagonist are Robert Holt and the Beetle. Holt is a clerk who lost his job, applied everywhere after, followed all the rules he was taught to trust in, certain that society would naturally play as fairly with him...only to find himself homeless and starved and refused entrance even to a shelter because it was too full. He watches on in mingled surprise and envy as a fellow vagrant blithely breaks a window and waits to be arrested, thrown in jail for the sake of shelter from the rain.

Robert Holt does not throw a brick with him. Robert Holt is too shackled by his ingrained sense of If I Follow the Rules, If I am a Good Citizen, I Will be Helped.

He isn't. He walks away into the rain, still starving, still scraped off the edge of society, shooed like vermin. He reaches the Beetle's home with its window ajar. He slinks in.

And then is immediately preyed on by the Beetle, his free will suddenly ripped away, ordered to strip and walk and talk and die and live and rob and generally be violated on every mental and external level. He is literally so low as to be overpowered and stepped on by an insect.

But Holt isn't immune to his own (read: Marsh's) callousness. He refers to the Beetle, who is an Egyptian visitor here for revenge reasons, in some fairly ugly terms. How much we can shrug off as being a fear/disgust response versus being Conditioned to Other Anyone Not Anglo-Saxon Enough is up in the air in-universe.

The frustration here is that between this opening and the future cast members' rancid treatment of Holt, who tries to help and warn them, and of the Beetle, met with disdain simply for being a foreigner in England before one chitinous move can be made, there could have been SO MUCH to play with in terms of...

Human beings reduced to pests not worth dignity or care because they are Poor, they are Homeless, they are the Lowest Rung of Society, they are Foreign, they are Dirty and Different from What's White Right

The examination of in-fighting of 'verminous' people. Figurative insects living underfoot in supposedly civilized countries, now preying on and demeaning each other rather than extending the empathy they were never shown by polite*** society

Spotlighting the brutality and villainous aspects of our group of well-to-do "heroes", the main cast being mixed up in building genocidal weapons and plotting asylum stays for romantic rivals and hypocrisy and so many layers of bigotry it makes your eyes ache

A better version of the story in which the aforementioned genocidal weapon, a killer gas to be used on South America for some fucking reason, becomes the focus of the story--bonus points for the accidental 'bug spray' comparison to be made--with the potential of the Beetle and Holt switching tracks from singular vengeance and/or the desperate thwarting of this fruition; knowing that the existence of such a thing would be a prelude to 'dealing with the vermin problem' on a terrifying scale. Perhaps by making use of a new kind of 'shelter.' The insects become the heroes, the polished creme of England now turned to fertilizer.

...a better version that might have Holt ending the story with his own metamorphosis, but as a Gregor Samsa with actual strength and will of his own, and acceptance waiting for him on the other side of the change.

But no.

Richard Dickard Marsh couldn't be bothered to reach beyond squeezing out a Sydney Atherton-shaped turd onto the typewriter and calling it done.

It's so, so, SO goddamn infuriating as a storyteller to find the seeds for something that would have been amazing and groundbreaking, especially for its time period, only to see the whole thing salted and burned until all that's left is racist caricatures, a trashfire of a plot, and the most eye-watering syntax ever put to paper.

[ashleybenlove]

@lifblogs asked me a few days ago if I was gonna share the list of books I read this year. So, I'm gonna do that.

Due to character limits, I had to separate the numbered lists, so first list goes up to 100 and then the second list is the rest.

Couple of notes, my list includes the date I finished reading and a couple of marks.

Their meanings:

Started in 2022: * This book is a reread: ** Did not write down the date but probably the date: *? (Basically I decided after I had started to include the date finished.) Special notation for Dracula and Dracula Daily: **!

Bold denotes favorites.

Eight Kinky Nights: An f/f Chanukah romance by Xan West* – Jan 1*?

Through the Moon: A Graphic Novel (The Dragon Prince Graphic Novel #1) by Peter Wartman – Jan 4

Maphead: Charting the Wide, Weird World of Geography Wonks by Ken Jennings – Jan 7

The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs: A New History of a Lost World by Steve Brusatte – Jan 12

A Brother’s Price by Wen Spencer** - Jan 13

Gossie and Gertie by Olivier Dunrea – Jan 17

A Brief History of Earth: Four Billion Years in Eight Chapters by Andrew H. Knoll – Jan 18

Kindred by Octavia E. Butler – Jan 22

Flying Dinosaurs: How Fearsome Reptiles Became Birds by John Pickrell – Jan 25

Promised Land: a Revolutionary Romance by Rose Lerner – Jan 26

Bad Girls Never Say Die by Jennifer Mathieu – Jan 27

How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States by Daniel Immerwahr – Feb 2

Artemis by Andy Weir – Feb 4

Hunting Game by Helene Tursten – Feb 7

How the Earth Turned Green: A Brief 3.8-Billion-Year History of Plants by Joseph E. Armstrong – Feb 14

Fortuna by Kristyn Merbeth – Feb 16

After Hours on Milagro Street by Angelina M. Lopez – Feb 22

Dash & Lily's Book of Dares by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan – Feb 22

Super Volcanoes: What They Reveal about Earth and the Worlds Beyond by Robin George Andrews – Feb 28

Memoria by Kristyn Merbeth – Feb 28

American Revolution: A History From Beginning to End by Hourly History – Mar 5

Discordia by Kristyn Merbeth – Mar 6

A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley – Mar 17

Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded by Simon Winchester – Mar 18

The Ends of the World: Volcanic Apocalypses, Lethal Oceans, and Our Quest to Understand Earth's Past Mass Extinctions by Peter Brannen – Mar 18

Big Chicas Don't Cry by Annette Chavez Macias – Mar 19

Innumerable Insects: The Story of the Most Diverse and Myriad Animals on Earth by Michael S. Engel – Mar 21

The Cause: The American Revolution and its Discontents, 1773-1783 by Joseph J. Ellis – Mar 24

Eragon by Christopher Paolini – Mar 25

Immune: A Journey into the Mysterious System That Keeps You Alive by Philipp Dettmer – Mar 25

Locked in Time by Lois Duncan** – Mar 26

Written in the Stars by Alexandria Bellefleur – Mar 28

The Mystery of Mrs. Christie by Marie Benedict – April 4

Midnight in Chernobyl: The Untold Story of the World's Greatest Nuclear Disaster by Adam Higginbotham – April 7

Bisexually Stuffed By Our Living Christmas Stocking by Chuck Tingle – April 8

Bloodmoon Huntress: A Graphic Novel (The Dragon Prince Graphic Novel #2) by Nicole Andelfinger – April 9

The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell – April 11

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton – April 13

The Return of Martin Guerre by Natalie Zemon Davis – April 17

What Happened to Ruthy Ramirez by Claire Jimenez – April 19

Cinder by Marissa Meyer – April 20

The Body: A Guide for Occupants by Bill Bryson – April 20

Eldest by Christopher Paolini – April 22

The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan – April 23

The Sentient Lesbian Em Dash — My Favorite Punctuation Mark — Gets Me Off by Chuck Tingle – April 24

The Pleistocene Era: The History of the Ice Age and the Dawn of Modern Humans by Charles River Editors – April 26

The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie – April 27

Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void by Mary Roach – April 29

Absolution by Murder by Peter Tremayne – May 3

Matrix by Lauren Groff – May 6

The Color Purple by Alice Walker – May 7

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie – May 9

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume – May 11

The Dragon Prince Book One: Moon by Aaron Ehasz and Melanie McGanney Ehasz – May 13

Mind the Gap, Dash & Lily by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan – May 15

Out of Darkness by Ashley Hope Pérez – May 15

Atlas of Unusual Borders: Discover Intriguing Boundaries, Territories and Geographical Curiosities by Zoran Nikolic – May 20

How the Mountains Grew: A New Geological History of North America by John Dvorak – May 20

The Guncle by Steven Rowley – May 21

Brisingr by Christopher Paolini – May 24

Reflection: A Twisted Tale by Elizabeth Lim – May 26

Sailor's Delight by Rose Lerner – May 26

The Last Days of the Dinosaurs: An Asteroid, Extinction, and the Beginning of Our World by Riley Black – May 28

Humans are Weird: I Have the Data by Betty Adams – June 3

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro – June 4

Scarlet by Marissa Meyer – June 8

Slaughterhouse-Five, or, The Children's Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death by Kurt Vonnegut – June 9

A Tip for the Hangman by Allison Epstein – June 11

Cress by Marissa Meyer – June 20

Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao – June 22

The Rise and Reign of the Mammals: A New History, from the Shadow of the Dinosaurs to Us by Steve Brusatte – June 24

After the Hurricane by Leah Franqui – June 24

Inheritance by Christopher Paolini – June 25

Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel García Márquez – June 26

Dark Room Etiquette by Robin Roe – June 30

The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by Katie Mack – July 4

Pests: How Humans Create Animal Villains by Bethany Brookshire – July 5

Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin – July 7

Cosmos by Carl Sagan – July 10

1984 by George Orwell** -- July 11

What Once Was Mine: A Twisted Tale by Liz Braswell – July 17

Evolution Gone Wrong: The Curious Reasons Why Our Bodies Work (Or Don't) by Alex Bezzerides – July 20

The Planet Factory: Exoplanets and the Search for a Second Earth Hardcover by Elizabeth Tasker – July 21

Witches by Brenda Lozano – July 24

Son of a Sailor: A Cozy Pirate Tale by Marshall J. Moore – July 29

Winter by Marissa Meyer – July 29

As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale by Liz Braswell – July 30

Baking Yesteryear: The Best Recipes from the 1900s to the 1980s by B. Dylan Hollis – August 4

Half Bad by Sally Green – August 7

The Great Mortality: An Intimate History of the Black Death, the Most Devastating Plague of All Time by John Kelly – August 14

Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley – August 18

Gory Details: Adventures From the Dark Side of Science by Erika Engelhaupt – August 22

The Last Karankawas by Kimberly Garza – August 25

The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women by Kate Moore – Sept 5

Oceans of Kansas, Second Edition: A Natural History of the Western Interior Sea by Michael J. Everhart – Sept 7

Corpus Christi: The History of a Texas Seaport by Bill Walraven – Sept 9

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury** – Sept 12

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia – Sept 18

The Last Cuentista by Donna Barba Higuera – Sept 20

The Grace Year by Kim Liggett – Sept 22

The Mammals of Texas by William B. Davis and David J. Schmidly – Sept 29

The Romance Recipe by Ruby Barrett – Oct 4

The 2024 Old Farmer’s Almanac edited by Janice Stillman – Oct 7

Half Wild by Sally Green – Oct 7

Death Comes to Pemberley by P.D. James – Oct 7

Verity by Colleen Hoover – Oct 10

Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence – Oct 15

Archaeology: Unearthing the Mysteries of the Past by Kate Santon – Oct 16

100 Places to See After You Die: A Travel Guide to the Afterlife by Ken Jennings – Oct 22

The Body in the Library by Agatha Christie – Oct 22

Summer of the Mariposas by Guadalupe García McCall – Oct 22

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie – Oct 27

How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures by Sabrina Imbler – Oct 28

The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found by Mary Beard – Oct 29

Conflict Is Not Abuse: Overstating Harm, Community Responsibility, and the Duty of Repair by Sarah Schulman – Oct 31

The Great Texas Dragon Race by Kacy Ritter – Nov 6

Dracula by Bram Stoker**! – Nov 7/8

The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser – Nov 9

Cascadia's Fault: The Coming Earthquake and Tsunami that Could Devastate North America by Jerry Thompson – Nov 10

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison – Nov 11

Daisy Darker by Alice Feeney – Nov 13

Untamed by Glennon Doyle – Nov 14

Nimona by ND Stevenson – Nov 18

Dracula Daily by Matt Kirkland**! – Nov 20

A Mother Would Know by Amber Garza – Nov 24

Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie – Nov 25

How To Train Your Dragon by Cressida Cowell** – Nov 27

Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie – Dec 1

Murtagh by Christopher Paolini – Dec 8

The Labours of Hercules by Agatha Christie – Dec 8

Icehenge by Kim Stanley Robinson – Dec 9

These Holiday Movies With Bizarrely Similar Smiling Heterosexual Couples Dressed In Green And Red On Their Cover Get Me Off Bisexually by Chuck Tingle – Dec 9

The Domesday Book: England's Heritage, Then & Now edited by Thomas Hindle – Dec 10

You Sound Like a White Girl: The Case for Rejecting Assimilation by Julissa Arce – Dec 13

Himawari House by Harmony Becker – Dec 13

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck** – Dec 18

Born Into It: A Fan’s Life by Jay Baruchel – Dec 18

The Dragon Prince Book Two: Sky by Aaron Ehasz and Melanie McGanney Ehasz – Dec 23

Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree – Dec 24

Half Lost by Sally Green – Dec 24

Understudies by Priya Sridhar – Dec 28

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir – Dec 28

A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking – Dec 31

[bl00dcakedbunn1e]

I barely write, but i wrote a convo out between my OC Lisa and Slenderman, for context: I’m using the new Digital Horror series “Morley Grove” as a world building tool. So if you see references to that in my writing, that’s where it’s from. Please check out the original Morley Grove series by Remi on Youtube!! Love his take on Slenderman.

The sun had set, and the wind had picked up in Morley grove. A storm would be rolling in pretty soon, But that didn’t stop the two eldrich beings that lived in the Morley woods to go and wander, atleast for a little while. They had their fill of human carcasses and organs, the tall faceless entity that was Slenderman was currently holding his companion’s hand, Lisa.

The two walked slowly, the Morley Man and the Morley maiden took in the cold crisp fall breeze. Lisa closed her eyes for just a second and took it all in.

“I love this kind of weather.” Hissed the half deer-creature that was Lisa.

The tall man looked down at his bride. “I do too. But i believe there must be a storm rolling in.” Despite having no mouth, he could speak through telepathy. His voice was cold, yet gentle, especially torwards his beloved.

Lisa looked up at Slenderman and smiled softly, now leaning her head on his gangily arm, being careful of her antlers. “I agree with you.” She softly said.

“Makes me feel how i felt when i was slaughtering those priests.” The Morley Maiden mentioned, her smile now fading a little.

“Priests?” Curiously asked the Tall man.

“3 of ‘em. The lot of em.” She held up 3 muddy claws to show him. At this point, they had stopped in their tracks.

“The priests slaughtered me, made me what i am, they made me become ugly.” The creature frowned. “So, i killed them off, all in one night. It was my first taste of blood, and it was…. exciting.” Sighed Lisa.

*Ugly?* thought the slenderman. Lisa wasn’t *Ugly…*

“Ugly? You deem yourself ugly?” The Morley man bluntly asked.

“Yes, i would have rested easy by now, i wouldn’t be here, but no. They wanted to let me die early, die and turn into, what i am. But, i’m slowly learned to love myself.” Mumbled Lisa.

If Slenderman had a face, he would frown. To him, Lisa was beautiful. A creature of the woods or not.

“You’re not ugly.” Hissed the Slenderman. He out stretched his long gangily arms to put his clawed hands on the side of her face, feeling the rotted sides of her face where those fangs of hers showed. He didn’t really have alot of empathy, but for his creature of the woods? Absolutely.

“What they did to you was…. awful, to say the least, and if i was around then, i would have them hanging in trees by now. But, i believe they made you even more *beautiful.*” Hushed the tall man.

“No they di-“

“YES. They DID.” the morley man interupted, seemingly upset with her that she would call herself ugly. It hurt him, surprisingly.

Lisa just looked up at him with her wide yellow eyes, a little shocked at his sudden tone.

“Without what they did to you, you wouldn’t be here mocking nature as a whole, you wouldn’t be wiping the world of your former species, with me. You wouldn’t have met me. You wouldn’t have these lovely fangs, your dashing lower body that represents a deer, and your antlers.” Normally, he never got this sentimental. After all, he literally tortured kids and adults, made people into his proxies against their wills, and made them go do his bidding. He didn’t care for anyone but himself, but now that he had Lisa, and had known her since the early 1890’s, he had seen since then how she and him could rid the world of filthy humans.

“I-… You’re right.” She seemed to smile now. “You’re right. I still have work to do even after all these years to love myself, but you gave me a head start.” Chuckled the Morley Maiden.

The tall man dropped his arms back to his side, yet Lisa took one of them. “I think we should go to my cabin and rest, i felt some rain drip on me.” Hushed Lisa.

“I agree, Lovely Abomination”

[blood-mocha-latte]

Fandom positivity ask! 1, 3, 12, and 28!

linh truly you are. the number one. forever and always and also for all time <3

~ hbowar positivity asks ~

1 - what is your fav part about being in the fandom?

people are NICE and people are TALENTED. holy shit. it's like being friends with someone that has the skills of picasso and the kindness of our lord and savior jesus christ. which is blasphemous but TRUE

3 - what are some fics that you go back and read again and again?

oh man i am a rereading BITCH i could be here all day. but for top three i would have to gooo

Knit Us Together by @almost-a-class-act - truly the mvp boss of luztoye fics. Thee Perfect Fic it's truly art simple as that. i licherally reread it like. yesterday and am now making my wife read it. sam watch out for that because she's handwriting all her thoughts for me to show you because. oh my GOD everyone go read it

The Last Voyage by @ep6bastogne - VASTLY underrated baberoe fic. the perfect blend of human sunshine babe and tired but Good gene. sad and funny and good and i will admit that i cried. @mutantmanifesto made some GORGEOUS art for this very fic on this very day, because it's That Good

Before the Fall of Rome by @educationalporpoises - quite literally could NOT have asked for a better fucking secret santa. zee slayed. zee knocked it so out of the park that no one is yet to find the ball. it's luztoye and ancient history and reunions and truly what else do you need? 10/10

12 - songs that you associate with certain mutuals?

ohoho, this is where it gets LONG. sorry about that friends. under the cut because i have a lot to say and the time to say it, which is a bad combination

@lamialamia - linh my beloved. my darling. don't kill me but you are never gonna give you up by rick astling. not only are you catchy wonderful and always brightening up my notes, but i both never want to give you up nor let you down

@almost-a-class-act - guiding light by mumford and sons because truly what would the luztoye people do without you. die i think. you are the guiding light. the OG. thee #1

@dcyllom - dance the night by dua lipa because MOLLY whatever can i say other than you are the number one cheerleader of the modern webgott divorced two times au. you light up this world truly. this song fills me with joy and so do you

@whollyjoly - read my mind by the killers. because em you. you read my Mind on many occasion it must be said. same brain at times. how's mash going

@ewipandora - cheap thrills by sia because everytime you reblog literally anything i quite literally go ooOOOOH. you have an awesome beat good words Fascinating person. ewi i am holding your hand

@educationalporpoises - the baby shark song. zee i just see your pfp and i just immediately think of this song. i've never even heard it in it's entirety the lovely lyrics just run through my head whenever i'm lucky enough to see you on the dash <3

i have so many more mutuals that i love and adore but i do not have a mind for songs!! hugs and kisses to all

28 - what's something that lives in your brain rent free and you want everyone to know about the show/the fandom/your works?

portuguese luz. portuguese luz. do i have to say anything else. that is what everyone should know. that is number one. some good fucking food <3

[carmenized-onions]

HEY LOVELY!!!

Been a while since ive done one of these. Im re-reading AGAIN and forever will be. im obsessed, truly.

Through re-reading this hit SO hard.

“The other shoe still hangs in the air; but not in your bed.”

LIKE WHAT? HELLO? KILL ME? Your writing is phenomenal. i cannot fathom how you do this EVERY CHAPTER.

Anyway, im so exited to read every chapter to come. Am i in love with Tony? maybe a little (a lot). I was also wondering if you have anything planned for after you finish Chicago's finest? Another The Bear book? or maybe something else entirely? Not to rush you or anything, obviously. Im just so incredibly nosy. My deep apologies.

Just to tell you for the millionth time, im in love with you, youre writing, Tony, how you write the characters, EVERYTHING. gives me life.

me when i hear anyone coming even CLOSE to me while im reading Chicago's finest.

me planning a characters slow and painful demise when they upset Tony. (love you Carmy. not really. no, joking i do. maybe not. NO I DO I SWEAR.)

me trying to act casual when i see you've posted.

ALSO

me trying to act casual when Tony and Syd are interacting. (Dont worry, babe! by Chappell Roan? Who said that...?)

ANYWAY (for the second time) very sorry that this is just me rambling about stuff you dont want to hear.

Hope you're having an amazing day/night, lovely!!

I've stuck you in perpetual re-reading hell have I? My deepest apologies. Esp since I've been chronically re-reading in my brief basically hiatus as i write, I USE SO MANY COMMAS GUYS??? WHY WERE YOU LETTING ME GET AWAY WITH THAT??

the revisions once the series is finished is gonna go CRAZY.

Anyways, SUCH A DELIGHT to hear what silly prose of mine sticks out to you!! thank god you think i do it every chapter!! i am constantly doubting each chapter (man why do you think 15 has been so delayed? LMAO)

I adored using the other shoe as a through line throughout the Troubled Angst arc, one because it's very canon, but also because its very much a thing for me, like, when a good thing happens, cannot HELP but wonder how it's going to get fucked in the end.

which, after telling my doctor that, got reccomended the same books i reccomended carmen LMAO. love you son <3

THANK YOU FOR LOVING TONY!!! I love her dearly, I put so much of myself in her and also so much of what I see and love about my darling friends; my sweet darling dashing hero complex burden carrying the guy overconfident yet under confident tony. My sweet babe. the people love you!!

As for when I finish Chicago's Kindest (PUNCH BUGGY ACAB!! FUCK THE FINEST!!), I'll probably certainly absolutely take a break from writing for The Bear for a bit (though I'll definitely be around to answer asks!! duh!!). But once I return, I am hoping to...

If you send in little blurb requests for Chicago's Kindest, I'll do em!! I know esp with like Mikey/Chip there's a lot of bits that have been spoken about but never actually written out and lived. So like. If you got requests, send em in, I might write em.

I promised a SquidInk spinoff and bitch you're getting one!! There's two different ideas I've got twirling around for them at the moment, they might combine into one one off, or two separate things, who's to say!

More and More I cannot see RiChip as anything more than a platonic duo, but like, maybe I'll try to write something about them? I do adore those two. I just cant see em doin a kiss. that's just bad for my brain.

And I have no hard plans atm, but like, I'd like to write something for RIchie in general at some point. What about and what of? Idk. Certainly not a series this long. that's for fucking sure.

I don't think I can ever write for Carmen though again LMAOOO, it's only Tony for me atp. Like I can't pair him with a new reader, I'll fucking freak out. It's Chip or Die, y'know?

And while I have an epilogue planned, once Season 4 comes out, if there's something interesting that I feel like I wanna throw my hat in on, I'll come back for a Chicago's Kindest Season 2, so to speak. But no promises. They will probably give me nothing to work with, with how our stories diverge. who's to say.

anyways! not nosy!! sorry for talking about it for so fucking long!!!

i'm so glad I write the characters well, please note that it's cause I'm always freaking out about it. I am re-writing bits of lines all the time to make sure it suits their voices and decisions ,and even still i have changes i wanna make looking back LMAO

DONT CRASH OUT WHEN READING CHICAGO'S KINDEST LMAOSOD where is everyone typically when reading CK?? I'm usually on the subway editing my google doc lmao

and listen, every time i re-read Just Dropped i'm like damn. why did i not go with the punching route. should've cold clocked his ass. (love you carmy but JESUS CHRIST I WROTE ALL THAT??? WHAT WAS I GOING THROUGH MY WORD???)

THE LAST PHOTO ALSO?? i know that's a classic promo image but what the FUCK IS RICHIE DOING IN THE BACK? WHY ARE YOU SITTING LIKE THAT??? SIT UP BIG MAN WHAT THE HELL WE RUN A BUSINESS GIRL

Always rant and ramble to me!! Love to wake up to spam in my inbox. even if it takes me ten years to answer (sorry to everyone still trapped in my inbox, i love you babies)

all of you are really gonna hoot and holler when you see the squidink playlist, truly, it's so gay and sad. i love those idiots. when do i get to make them kiss. is it now? i hope it's now.

anyways i am SO LATE TO GO TO BED I'VE GOTTA GO BABIES BUT THANK YOU FOR CHATTIN WITH ME SORRY FOR TALKING FOR TOO LONG <3 HOPE I GET YOU YOUR NEXT CHAPTER SOON BABY I'M SORRY FOR THE FORCED HIATUS

[moonsfavoritedaughter]

Gonna take you up on the offer to ask you anything:

Why are you alive?

The blog I usually scroll through for reasons to live hasn't posted anything and you're like the only transfem on my dash 😐

cuz i still got umfinished business here in the realm of the living

i still have to do things like... transitioning.... and... move out to a better country like... maybe texas in the usa, i know people talk trash of the usa and i agree with that, but idk any other countries with ikeas on em, which takes me to the next point which is: buying a blahaj, i will not tolerate dying without one, i also wont tolerate dying a virgin so ill either get laid or be the layer, and i also would like meeting my tumblr and discord friends irl cuz even tho its an almosg impossible dream, it is possible...

and im certainly sure thats pretty much it, once i do all those things ill be ready to die, with or without killing myself

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: brief mentions/indirect thoughts of suicide, mention of death, aggressive wrist grabbing

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: This part is a little bit shorter but the next is about to get juicy. Also, I’m sorry for the incessant use of italics and em dashes — wait, actually — not really. I hope you enjoy!

Part 2

Your room, as it turns out, is larger and more elaborate than any room you’ve seen before. Considering that you’ve lived in an attic since your father passed away, it comes as a surprise when the Stormtroopers throw open the door and you through it. You stumble, and whirl around to say something — thank you, maybe, though you don’t know what tempts you to say it — but they’ve already slammed the door in your face.

“Oh.” You straighten.

There’s no door handle on your side. Your fingers ghost over where one normally would be, and it dawns on you that despite its opulence, the room is still a cage. A place for containment.

You turn slowly, all the while allowing your gaze to float over the room. The furnishings are simple yet obviously luxurious, understated in the way that only the wealthy can afford: a vanity, dresser, and set of nightstands all in rich wood accompany the four-poster bed. Dark curtains gather at each corner of the canopy frame.

Carpet muffles your footsteps as you cross the room and settle at the edge of the bed. Absently, you run your fingers over the soft bedspread. Nothing this nice has ever been yours, however fleeting or loathsome of your current situation. At least if you were going to die, you were going to be surrounded by beautiful things.

In the back of your mind, it strikes you that your stepsisters would’ve loved to be in your place, circumstance aside. What would they think of the palace? Certainly they would fawn over the splendor of it. You imagine they would be thrilled by the aspect of a royal ball, even if by the end of the night they would be dead. Do you dare count yourself lucky? If it wasn’t for the slipper, you would’ve spent the rest of your life being ferried back and forth from the attic until you were no longer old enough.

And then what? Probably die at the hands of your stepmother once your worth expired, like how you suspected she killed your father once they were married and his fortune was secured as her own.

Either way, your fate ended gruesomely. Perhaps there was just no avoiding it.

This revelation does not comfort you the way you hoped. Instead, it brings to life something you thought was dormant inside you. Anger. Like an ember in a dying fire, it smolders quietly, then as you stroke it and feed it with the unfairness you’ve suffered, your entire body begins to burn.

Renewed with restless energy, you leap to your feet. You’ve never taken charge of your life, but it wasn’t too late. You did not have to sit idly by while the prince of your kingdom plotted to kill you. No, you’ve spent entirely too much time sitting and waiting for someone else to pluck you up and move you like a chess piece on a board.

You would decide your own fate for once.

Heart furiously beating, you look around the room again with new eyes. But what? It wasn’t like anything would be left for you to defend yourself with. You couldn’t prevent something from happening when literally an entire army backed the one behind it. Your gaze flickers until it lands, finally, on the window.

A pause. The slightest of hesitations, and then your feet are carrying you to the window.

It takes only a moment for you to figure out how to unlatch it. You heave it open with the considerable amount of strength necessary, then close your eyes as the breeze drifts across your face. What would it be like to be free?

Below you is a courtyard, a smaller version of the enclosed space where you landed. And for once it did not look like a cage but an opportunity, one so close that you feel as if you just reached out far enough it would be in your grasp.

You start to lean, and then —

“Don’t.”

The voice cuts through your psyche like a blade. It severs the only moment of weightlessness you’ve felt in awhile, and in response, you’re seized with disappointment.

The sight steals the breath from your lungs as you lash around.

A tall figure swathed in black stands in the middle of the room. Briefly you wonder how someone so large, so physically demanding, could walk in undetected. The figure’s face is protected by a black helmet, and the chrome overlays around the visor glint as they take another step forward.

The prince. Kylo Ren.

“You wouldn’t be the first to try,” he tells you.

“Try what —” you start, then realize what he means. You step away from the window. Is that what you had been doing? That’s not what you had been doing. You swallow. “I…wasn’t.”

“The right choice.”

Without permission, your jaw tightens and you snap, “Why? So you can do it yourself?”

“It would be inconvenient, at most.”

“Well, stars forbid that anyone is inconvenienced by my death.” Folding your arms, you level a hopefully withering scowl in his direction. “What do you want?”

“The shoe,” Kylo says.

“Happy to,” you bite back. Doesn’t he say more than a few words at a time? Mustering your balance, you wrench the slipper from your foot. It removes almost effortlessly.

Loathing fills your entire body as you move to give him the slipper. You don’t bother masking it, not when your anger still blazes within.

Kylo grabs your wrist with a gloved hand as soon as you proffer the slipper. You twist, trying to break free. He drags you even closer, and you’re certain now more than ever that he is not human — there is no sense of warmth, and with the helmet, no expression to be found. It’s like staring into the night sky, only there are no stars.

“You will watch the way you speak to me,” he says. Despite the modulation of his voice, his tone is cool and measured, although there’s tension at the surface. Barely suppressed anger.

Well, that gives you one thing in common.

You try again to jerk away from him. “You’re a monster.”

He releases your wrist. You step back a few feet, eager to put distance between you. Somehow he draws himself up even more, eclipsing all of your thoughts except for fear, the chill of an ice-cold blade being pressed into your spine.

“Perhaps,” he replies after a moment, almost contemplative. “Are you afraid?”

Yes.

You raise your chin slightly. “No.”

Kylo Ren studies you for a moment. At least, that’s what you suppose he’s doing. You can feel the weight of his gaze. The hem of his cowl fans out as he suddenly stalks away without warning, stoping again in the doorway. The gloved hand that just moments ago encased your wrist now finding the doorframe.

“You should be.”

Part Three here

[justsomerandomfanfic]

What 10 Books Can You Not Live Without?

A Deal with the Elf King by Elise Kova; Published in 2020, this is a fantasy romance story about a human girl who is married to the Elf King. I love this story and literally can not put it down! I've read it about four times now since I got it in December last year. It's also amazing since it is loosely based on the mythology of Persephone and Hades! (Even with the whole enemies-to-lovers trope!)

Beauty by Robin McKinley; Published in 1978, this is a retelling of the original story of Beauty And The Beast, with a twist! (Obviously the genre is fantasy romance as well). Basically, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, Honour, also known as Beauty, is the youngest of three daughters. It goes along with the original story of Beauty And The Beast, but with a few changes, and honestly it's the best retelling I've ever read.

The New Year's Party by R.L. Stine; Published in 1995, this book is part of the Fear Street Series of R.L. Stine's and I first read this back in 2014. Like all of Stine's books, this is a horror/thriller, with dashes of romance and murder, how lovely! Here's a bit from the back of the book: "P.J. wasn't supposed to die. It was just a practical joke, no big deal. But P.J. had a bad heart." I truly recommend this but beware, you're in for a scare.

Gregor the Overlander by Suzanne Collins; This series was Published in 2003 - 2007, and is about a boy named Gregor who has to save his baby sister, Boots, after she falls down an old air duct grate in the basement of his apartment building. Similar to Alice In Wonderland, they both fall into a subterranean world called the Underland. I love this series and highly recommend it if you love fantasy, mystery, and adventure with a splash of romance.

Long Live the Pumpkin Queen by Shea Ernshaw; Published in 2022, this is the story about what happened after the events of Nightmare Before Christmas. Basically, Sally's a bit overwhelmed about her new title as Pumpkin Queen.

The School for Good and Evil by Soman Chainani; Published from 2013 to 2020, this story is a fantasy, fairytale, romance, with adventure and mystery. I haven't read the full series yet, but I've read the first two out of nine. Basically, every four years, two children are kidnapped and taken to the School for Good and Evil. Where they would be trained to be good and bad. I loved the first book because of the slight twist.

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux; Published in English in 1911, this is the story about an Opera House that is presumed to be haunted by an Opera Ghost, also know as the Phantom of the Opera. Since the making of this book/story, there have been 33 films from 1916 - 2014. It's a wonderful story, and film, though through the years they have changed it a bit.

Cruella (Disney Live Action Novelization + Photo Insert) by Elizabeth Rudnick; This is just the novelization of the 2021 Disney live action movie, Cruella.

Deadpool: Paws: A Novel of the Marvel Universe by Stefan Petrucha; Published in 2018, in the words of Deadpool, "... This book is about puppies. Puppies that turn into big nasty monsters. And then I gotta kill 'em. Thing is, I like killing people -- the ones that deserve it, anyway -- but even I won't kill puppies. No way. So that's what we call a character dilemma..."

Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood by Oliver Bowden; This was Published in 2010, based off of the Multiplatinum Video Games from Ubisoft; Assassin's Creed. This is book 2 of 9, about the beginning of Ezio and his journey of becoming an Assassin. I've read this book twice, and finished it in the same day. That's how good it is.

Reblog with the 10 books you can't live without!

[puppysdog]

im gonna be honest ive been listening to this all day

lyrics under the cut

Intro: Khantrast & DizzyEight, Both]

Yeah, yeah, damn

We did it again

We did it again

We did it again (We did it-, nah)

We did it again

We did it again

Me and my twin, we did it again

[Verse 1: Geto (Khantrast)]

Look, a bro want beef with a pro by all means, we can spark heat with a dome

Been told y'all stench like apes, turn this zoo to a homicide scene with the folks

No peace, we do the most, y'all fiends get beat by the priest get disposed

Watch your mouth, curse at me, Imma leave you knocked out while you sleep with the ghosts

Geto, devil

They dead, when it's curse, I let room

Blood red, got an army on get go

Neck fold back, now they looking like a pretzel

One hit make 'em think God switch up the show

Like I'm writing down names in the Death Note

Top two, but I feel number one

If they ask by the rest, I point down death row, uh

Who could compete with me? All opposition, I finish 'em easily, gang full of deities

Soon as they summoned, y'all best get to running, or you might end up on an EMT

You could catch me with the demons, be watch how this sorcerer outplay the game like it's DND

Y'all think I'm playing? I'm box with the best, only one living soul on this planet that equal me, woo

Who wanna clash? Ready to box, now get sneak attacked, stupid

You could get smacked, pop out the shadows, I'm smoking your pack, stupid

He want the hands, now he getting jumped, my gang on his ass, stupid

You pull up on me, I bust out the Dragon and leave him outclassed, stupid

He want the back and forth

My armada leave his ass in fourths

Kamikaze what you have in store

If you want it with me, we could scrap some more

Pack up and dash fast forward

Know he gon' get harassed and deformed

If we combat it, we bring havoc storms

Had rapping with the bro pass the torch

[Verse 2: Gojo (DizzyEight)]

Hold up, he really thought I was dead? (Stupid)

You should've went for the head

Finger snap, and it rip him to shreds

Night night, then we put him to bed, baow

Wait, I'm not the one, dummy

He really thought that he won

The battle was over before it begun

Put him down, then I father his son

Yeah, tryna beat Gojo, you gon' need more than a gun

You'll get clapped like Todo, fold bro, when I pull up, you should know that he done

Leaving 'em stunned, this what you want, shoulda told him that I do this for fun

Your block gets spun, why would I run? You see Toji, I see a hole in one

We both killers, only difference between us is that I can finish the job

And when a lame tried to have me slain by letting it bang, I walked out alive

Thought I was limited, limitless, they could be ten of him, that's just more bodies to drop

Thought he was menacing? Ignorant - I am the synonym, play with the gang, and you gaining a plot

Took an L once, now it's never again

Now I'm up, and I'll never descend

Slide up on him when he least expect it

Then it's hollow purple and his spirit ascend

I'm him, you can't win

Took a chance, now he out on a limb

What I mean is he out of a limb

Blinded by hate, now his light getting dimmed

This was a pointless fight

Orphaned your kid just to die over spite

I'm guessing he hated his life

So I packed him and sent straight to his wife

I was wronged, so I'm making it right

Came for my head, and they came with the price

You put my twin in your sights

Now when I see you, it's fatal on sight