#joyce smolder

[lem0nylem0nz]

they mEAN THE WORLD TO ME OKAY

[castlebyersafterdark]

do you think twitter/reddit mfs will still hate noah after S5 drops? I want him to have a career comeback and prove all the antis wrong, but I’m worried that, like, 7 years from now he will still be treated like he was in October by a lot of people due to the Internet’s unforgiveness

I think people with not much going on who live and die by twitter are always going to hate on him and that's just the way it might be for a small faction as time goes on. There's snide comments and shitty posts made about celebs to this day that were divulged from a false narrative or from something the celebrity has long atoned from or learned from with age and time. Like, decade(s) old drama. But people perpetually online will always drag up old dirt. Prepare yourselves for that. Pick your battles. Learn to turn a blind eye. You can't convince and fight everyone.

In all honesty, I think the general public at large will watch season five and have no idea any of what happened online and will never know and will only see his amazing performance. It's one of the biggest shows ever. Most people aren't on fandom/media based twitter that deeply. I think he'll get a lot of support. I think a lot of people will just eventually move on and shut up, too. New season hype will make some people act like they never were nasty (I have seen this time and time and time again). He'll get industry praise. But you gotta face the reality that today's social media landscape is really toxic and you need to remove yourself from the spaces where it's hyper prevalent if it's upsetting to you.

[mally0]

Out of the Frying Pan

Introduction | Chapter 1

TW: Blood, guts, and cannibalism. Bugs in the mouth stuff. Vomit. Allusions to SA. Murder.

This is the beginning of a novel I’ve been cooking up. There is, of course, a main plot that hasn’t been revealed yet. I promise.

Set Burner to High Heat

Perhaps my time is short, perhaps I have all the time in the world. I am Gormica, a golem of flesh, iron, and fire. I return to this world for my one constant purpose.

Someone has to die.

There’s a meddler out there, threatening to bend reality with their twisted magics. It will not stand. 

As for a status report, I don’t know who I’m hunting. I remember bits of my previous lives, but this land is strange and changed. I can smell the spirit of the Chimera alive in Castille, the Iron City. I’m sure the target is here. 

When I first woke, I was in the roots of a burning tree, half buried in the muck of a still pond. I tore myself from the ground, the old tree tumbled over with a splash. A dark stain crept into the pool’s green waters around the tree’s smoldering carcass. I rushed to the water’s edge and hacked up what must have been a barrel full of black mud and crawling, nasty vermin. I hate centipedes. There were some in my mouth. 

My reflection in the pool settled to what it had always been. My black iron helm still had the vague approximation of a face burnt through by my violet, flaming eyes. I moved my neck, creaking and shrieking against untold years of rust. The plates desperately needed a drink. I looked around for my weapon. By magical contract, no part of me can be separated from the whole.

Across the pool, I spotted the shape of a skeleton engulfed in purple fire. I was still groggy, but it didn’t take me long to crunch the numbers. The flames whirling around its shape surged upward, igniting more of the weeping trees leaning over the pond. Mounds of flaming bagworms fell. Fish thrashed and floundered in the pond below. The greenery screamed and split against the inferno. It was a picture of the end times, all encased in this little clearing in the swamp. 

I struggled to my feet, and the skeleton ran off. The flames lowered to a flicker. I hauled my clattering legs around the pond and something in my mail must have caught.

I fell face first into the ashy mud. By the time I got my bearings back, a storm conveniently came along to put out the flames.

To my understanding, I have been held together absolutely by magical contract. That’s how it’s always been. I live to hunt, and when I find my quarry, I die. I have always had my trusty weapon at my side.

I lost track of the skeleton. I haven’t been able to find my ax. It disturbs me. 

I’d like to be up front with you, reader. I was initially formed in the leagues of a necromancer’s army. I’m not that monster anymore. I was raised as a weapon of war, but I’m determined to do good with the fleeting glances of life I’m gifted with.

I’m afraid that skeleton is a part of me.

I doubt that it’s my target. That would be silly. I doubt that it’s a problem that’s going to fix itself, however. I also have a feeling that my target and that dreg that crawled out of me are connected. 

I set off in search of civilization. I’m sure that’s not the last I’ve seen of the flaming skeleton, anyway. I have dubbed this demon ‘Frailty.’ This name is my hex upon it. When my blade meets its skull, it will find it a most fitting title.

______________________________________________________________

This is a recipe for a mess.

A Dozen Eggs, Scrambled

Diced Onions and Hash Browns in Olive Oil

Slap Ya’ Mama

Salt and Pepper

Mix it All Together

Seared Until the Ends are Black

Top with Cheese

Let it Melt

Serve and Enjoy

Out of the Frying Pan

______________________________________________________________

Well, can I tell you a secret? I know you're not gonna believe this But something happened to me last night And I may never be the same again                                                  

–“NBTSA,” Joyce Manor  

A Dozen Eggs, Scrambled

I woke up one day to find that the old song was true. There were worms in me. I could feel them burrowing and squirming in and around my nose, in my head. I doubt they were playing pinochle. 

I can only hope you’ve never felt something so terrible. If you’ve ever felt something unwanted digging around in your head, then you know what kind of thrashing I did that morning. 

The wood was soft. The dirt that poured in was hard, and cold. Icy rocks were like razors against my fingertips. My nails split, I lost some in the climb. The heavy coat I was laid down in was no help. It caught against the earth, but I was in no place to take it off. 

Crawling out of the grave took everything from me and bringing Kit’s old coat asked even more. Somehow, I found a way. 

There was a standing pool in the graveyard, and I sprinted to it. I threw myself into the water and I could feel its chill burning against my skin. The water went into my nose, into my head. It itched, and I couldn’t help but scratch and scrub at it feverishly. The worms struggled and died against it. Only I walked out of that horrible bath.

. . .

I was finally able to get my bearings. The sky was a pale gray, the sun was a bleary light behind a veil of winter. The trees were gnarled, and bare. The grass was dead, but there were many graves decorated with still living flowers. 

There’s an old Castellan folk belief that those who die without a proper funeral are given one by the earth. Flowers are said to grow from the corpse, reflective of what kind of person they were in life. It made me wonder if there were any flowers on my grave. 

I had left it a mess, but I didn’t see any flowers or wax paper scraps in the mounds of dirt. My headstone looked affordable, which brought me some comfort. We were never rich, and the last thing I would have wanted was for Kit to go bankrupt over my carelessness. I looked at the sensible concrete slab.

Culita Speardragon

‘Cuffs’

Here lies the greatest detective to ever live.

Born November 6, 20XX. Died October 31, 202X.

A withering vine of bleeding hearts crawled across the marker. The Speardragon Foundation’s emblem was stamped into the concrete’s face, just above my name. There was no shine to the headstone, even in the pale light. It made me wonder if there ever was one. 

My hands weren’t rotting. I pinched my cheek, and it snapped back to my face. It was warm, even. I touched my nose, and there was only a dull pain in the place where it used to be. There was a tickle, like the writhing of worms. I scratched at it, and it stopped.

 I went back to the pool. Everything else was the same, greasy black hair, a constant scowl on my lips, red eyes with heavy bags under them. The big sleep was no help for those.

There was a hole in the middle of my face. I tried not to look at it. 

I wiped the blood from my nose. Only, it wasn’t there.

It curdled like old paint.

It was very dark.

. . .

I could hear the pop behind me, just before I died. I don’t remember hitting the ground. 

I was running towards the Speardragon Foundation. That’s the detective agency I worked at. Kit took me in when I was little and taught me the tricks of the trade. I guess I was like his sidekick. 

It was Halloween. I was on Rummy Street. There were freezing cold puddles and slush all over the cobble sidewalk. The crowd of costumed freaks was dense. I slipped and took a kid Dracula down with me. I remember hoping the guy chasing me would just fall and crack his head. I’m pretty sure it was a guy, based on the huffing I heard. I never got a look at his face. 

I had an envelope. I vaguely remember investigating the mayor’s office, something about a big land grab. Terrible, but hardly anything unheard of. People have certainly died over less. 

I tried to drink from the pool, to have anything to fill my empty stomach. I retched it back up. It burned like a cold fire. I could feel my lips begin to crack. My stomach growled.

I had the strangest craving for hardboiled eggs.

I hopped over the graveyard’s fence. There was an archway leading out to a dirt road, into the woods. The archway read “LONESOME HILL.” Reading that brought a morbid smile to my lips. Kit used to tell me ghost stories of this place all the time. 

It was a long walk back to town, but I’d come out to this place enough times growing up. I tried to summon up the old ghosts from Kit’s stories. A train had torn through an orphanage that once stood here. He showed me the kids’ graves, but they were so old the names had all eroded away. I still believed him. 

Me and this guy named Dante brought a Ouija Board out here one night. That’s when I learned that there really was no such thing as ghosts. We sat on a headstone that had a cold concrete bench, with the crickets and lightning bugs. We were out there until 3am like idiots. 

That’s when I got my first kiss. It was alright, I was completely surprised when he asked me if I wanted to make out. As a detective I like to think I’ve always had a good ear for things that go unsaid, but I didn’t pick up on anything like that with Dante. I don’t know, maybe I was just young. I didn’t see other people like that. 

I knew that I had wasted that night though, at least I got a little something out of it. 

The dirt road eventually emptied out into a highway. I passed by a substation I didn’t remember. Soon enough I was walking through a completely new suburb. The city seemed to have expanded out quite a ways, while I slept. 

It really did look more like a city now, too. I could see a pretty remarkable skyline on the horizon. I recognized the Ferris wheel on the docks, the observatory’s dome, but there were some new towers in between them.

I’ve always called Premier a city, but everyone else calls it a small town. All my life, the population was never under 30,000. I don’t know how they kept that mentality up for so long. It choked out the town’s potential. Nothing to do but work in the mines and get drunk or get into trouble. 

The streetlights were different from before. They used to cast a hazy, buzzing orange light over the street. It made it very foreboding. Nowadays, a pure white light spread quite evenly across his face as he crossed the street towards me. 

“Hey, hon! Do you got a light?”

He was dirty enough to have come fresh from the mine, but there was no telling where he’d been. I kept walking, I tried to pt a little more direction in my meandering steps. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” He grabbed me from behind and spun me around. Once he saw my face, his tone changed considerably. 

“Oh, erm,” he blustered, and sheepishly backed away. “Sorry, I thought you was someone else.” He jogged back across the street. As I watched him gain speed, something in me clicked. Or, snapped, rather. 

By the time he glanced over his shoulder, I was already upon him. This time I grabbed him from behind, right around the trunk in a bearhug. He yelped out in shock, and I threw him to the ground with a firm twist of the hips. I heard his skull bounce against the black pavement. 

I dropped my full weight upon him, and he screamed. He struggled, but I placed a knee between his shoulder blades and grabbed his hair with two clenched fists. I yanked his neck back, and I sent it with all my light. 

The second time I heard his skull hit the pavement, he gasped and gargled. There was blood on his face. 

The third time I bounced it against the ground, I felt the bone give. Like, when you break open a hardboiled egg. I gripped the edge of the fractured shell and peeled back. It took more effort than an egg might have. 

I couldn’t stop myself. His screams had long since stopped. My arms and face were covered in deep red syrup, and I pulled fistful after greedy, starving fistful of grey matter from the shattered egg on the street. It even tasted like scrambled eggs. Not exactly fluffy, more like clumped up mounds of lukewarm noodles with an eggy sauce all over and in them. The occasional springy bit of cartilage and small bones vaguely reminded me of orange juice with pulp, all of these varied flavors and textures at once.

When there was no more, I broke off a piece of skull and set to licking at the interior. 

Suddenly, I came to my senses. At least, I started to feel bad.

With my stomach full after decades, I was full of so much energy. I felt like I could sprint through a building, so, I ran back the way I came.

I crawled back into my grave dirt. I laid there feeling sorry for myself, hoping no one would ever find me, and that this was but another hellish hallucination. 

In time, the winter’s pale sun rose and shined down on me. I heard what must have been the footsteps of the groundskeeper. I heard the click of a double barrel closing. I heard a voice. 

“Holy shit, Cuffs?”

I buried my face and arms in the dirt. “Keep away. Don’t look at me,” I sobbed through mouthfuls of earth. 

The voice began to pray, and I heard the hammers. I decided to sneak a glance, before I got what I deserved. He was a tall, lanky guy. Heavy, long black hair fell in a mop around his broad shoulders. It had practically become a mane. 

“Dante?” I said.

He looked up. I was sure it was him. 

“Please don’t kill me,” I said. It was crazy. My guilt ridden conscience wanted to die, but there was something in me that burned, something that wanted to smash the skull of whoever did this to me. 

He didn’t say anything for a long while. It's still tough to pull words out of him.

I’m not dead, I’m chained up in his basement.

It’s ok, I asked for this.

______________________________________________________________

Please, bring me to silence Before I'm brought to ash End all my violence Bring me to silence That will last

-“Bring me to Silence,” Fievel Is Glauque

What’s next for OUT OF THE FRYING PAN???

Cuffs starts seeing the shadow of a man in a coat and a hat in the corner of her eye after her first night in the basement.

And then, Zorc and Tilde go a-grave robbin, and they end up whacking Dante over the head! They decide to raid his stuff, and OMG! There’s a girl locked up down here! They take her in, Cuffs reluctantly joins them in a heist. A freaky zombie girl would never do as a cop, right?

Meanwhile, Gormica’s wrecking shop with some spooky monsters all across the ruintown. He fondly remembers a fella named Kit Speardragon. Cuffs’ adoptive dad-tective. Thing is, when Cuffs died, Kit was old. Real old. Now, it’s twenty years after the fact.

Legally speaking, none of the artists whose lyrics are featured are affiliated with OUT OF THE FRYING PAN. Anyone who assumes otherwise is a FOOL.

[sinterhinde]

Glory on the artist: Bernadette Mayer

Some writings on/of Mayer: PF details her work and influences; AF gives a little insight into her personal life; Diana Hamilton writes on Memory; in the P45 article Tausif Noor discusses Utopia; and her Poetry Project diary (both attached).

An avant-garde writer associated with the New York School of poets, Bernadette Mayer was born in Brooklyn, New York, and has spent most of her life in New York City. Her collections of poetry include Midwinter Day (1982, 1999), A Bernadette Mayer Reader (1992), The Desire of Mothers to Please Others in Letters (1994), Another Smashed Pinecone (1998), Poetry State Forest (2008), and Works and Days (2016), which was a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist.

Known for her innovative use of language, Mayer first won critical acclaim for the exhibit Memory, which combined photography and narration. Mayer took one roll of film shot each day during July 1971, arranging the photographs and text in what Village Voice critic A.D. Coleman described as “a unique and deeply exciting document.”

Mayer’s poetry often challenges poetic conventions by experimenting with form and stream-of-consciousness; readers have compared her to Gertrude Stein, Dadaist writers, and James Joyce. Poet Fanny Howe commented in the American Poetry Review on Midwinter Day, a book-length poem written during a single day in Lenox, Massachusetts: “In a language made up of idiom and lyricism, Mayer cancels the boundaries between prose and poetry, ... Her search for patterns woven out of small actions confirms the notion that seeing what is is a radical human gesture.”

The Desire of Mothers to Please Others in Letters consists of prose poems Mayer wrote during her third pregnancy. She also combined poetry and prose in Proper Name and Other Stories (1996). Reviewing that collection in the Lambda Book Report, Susan Landers noted Mayer’s “Steinesque syntactical play, her meta-narrative maneuvers à la Barth or Borges, and a language poet’s interest in language.”

Ange Mlinko’s review of Two Haloed Mourners (1998) in the Poetry Project Newsletter describes its structure: “The book starts out dense, vagrant, proceeding on a combination of automatic writing and methodical structural repetitions. It picks up speed, changes gears from poetry to prose and back again, tries out a sestina where both beginning and ending words recur. ... Then something explodes midway through the book, as though all this formal experimentation was the rumbling and smoldering of Mt. Saint Helens erupting over the circumstances of Bernadette Mayer’s move back to the Lower East Side from New Hampshire, where what was menace in the air of rural America is met head-on in the New York of Reagan and Wall Street.”

Bernadette Mayer has worked as an editor and teacher. She edited the journal 0 TO 9 with artist Vito Acconci and established United Artists press with the poet Lewis Warsh. United Artists Press, under Mayer and Warsh, published a number of influential writers, including Robert Creeley, Anne Waldman, James Schuyler, and Alice Notley. Mayer has taught at the New School for Social Research and The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church in New York City. In 2015 she was the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship.

(poetryfoundation.org)

Poet, artist, publisher, and scholar Bernadette Mayer died November 22 at the age of seventy-seven at her home in East Nassau, New York. A giant of American poetry who blurred the distinction between ordinary and extraordinary in expansive streams of consciousness, she was most frequently associated with the New York School and with the Language poets. Mayer was widely recognized for her pathbreaking poetry featuring blunt and open musings on the experience of motherhood. She was a central figure of the community surrounding the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church in New York in the 1970s, eventually going on to serve as that organization’s director.

Bernadette Mayer was born in Brooklyn in 1945 to a secretary mother and an electrician father whom she described as a World War II draft dodger. “Everybody in my family died by the time I was sixteen,” she told Artforum in 2020. “My relatives were afraid that if they adopted me, they would die too. My father died of a hereditary condition at age forty-nine, so I thought I had to hurry up and do everything I wanted to do before age forty-nine. My older sister, Rosemary, got married after my mother died. I felt abandoned.” Forced by the uncle who had been appointed her guardian to attend the College of New Rochelle, a Catholic university, she dropped out after his death and enrolled in New York’s New School of Research (now the New School), where she studied under Bill Berkson. While attending the college, she began dating Peter Schjeldahl, whom she later noted “encouraged me to take amphetamines, and I started writing these really complex poems that you would get lost inside.”

Mayer quickly abandoned amphetamines but dove deeper into poetry, writing, and editing. In 1967, the year she graduated from the New School—where she would later go on to teach—she cofounded the magazine 0 to 9 with Vito Acconci, who for a time in the ’60s was married to Mayer’s sister, sculptor and A.I.R. Gallery cofounder Rosemary Mayer. The pair published six issues before the magazine folded in 1969, featuring contributions from artists including Dan Graham, Michael Heizer, Adrian Piper, Yvonne Rainer, and Robert Smithson. Mayer shortly thereafter became involved with the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church, where she taught workshops throughout the 1970s. She was named director of the organization in 1980 and occupied the role through 1984. During her tenure, she secured a $10,000 donation—a tremendous sum at the time—from the Grateful Dead and helped to establish a lecture series and a Monday night reading series, both of which the Poetry Project continues to host today. Mayer in 1978 with her then-partner Lewis Warsh launched United Artists Press, which published both her own work and that of her peers. She ceased her involvement with United Artists in 1984, but the publisher survived her split with Warsh around the same time.

As a poet and an artist, Mayer first gained real prominence with her diaristic 1971 work Memory. To make the work, she shot a roll of film every day for a month. In 1972, at New York’s 98 Greene Street, she presented the resulting 1,200 photographs in chronological order accompanied by a thirty-one-part voice-over narration lasting seven hours, in which she offered her thoughts or memories about the various images. The work has since been presented in various forms, including a text edition released in 1975 by New Atlantic books and an edition including the photographs published by Siglio Press in 2020.

In the course of her career, Mayer penned some thirty books of poetry and prose, including Eating the Colors of a Lineup of Words: The Early Books of Bernadette Mayer (Station Hill Press, 2015); Poetry State Forest (New Directions, 2008);  The Desires of Mothers to Please Others in Letters (Hard Press Editions, 1994); The Bernadette Mayer Reader (New Directions, 1992); Sonnets (Tender Buttons Press, 1989); Midwinter Day (New Directions, 1982); and The Golden Book of Words (Angel Hair Books, 1978). She was the recipient of a 1995 Foundation for Contemporary Arts Grants to Artists award, a 2009 Creative Capital award, and a 2015 Guggenheim Fellowship. Her 2016 book Works and Day earned her a National Book Critics Circle nomination.

Mayer’s last volume, Milkweed Smithereens, was released this month by New Directions. In a poem from it, “Unconditional Death Is a Good Title,” published online by the Paris Review in October, she wrote:

> maybe it’s just fear of the winter, this is a day supposed to be sunny but what is this white sky? seen some yellow & orange trees, the sky is white: western wildfires, we’re having a drought.

> so many leaves are falling, it’s exhausting

(artforum.com)

Here's the Post 45 article, from Tausif Noor:

Diana Hamilton on Memory:

And Utopia:

[filosofablogger]

He Threw The First Match

In a country filled with people who are only waiting for an excuse to ‘go after’ their perceived opponents with threats and acts of violence, in a country that is truly a tinderbox just waiting for a match, a ‘man’ who was once the most powerful in the nation throws a burning match into the already-smoldering large pile of very dry straw.  Joyce Vance tells the tale … “If you go after me …” By…

[stoprobbersfic]

in the morning i’ll be better (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)

rating: teen  word count: 12,152 In which our monster hunters (and monster soulmates) get a night to rest, to reflect, and to have three extremely important conversations.takes place immediately after the end of "the piggyback."

It stops “snowing” after an hour. As they work quickly to board up the roof and windows before the sun sets for the night, they keep an eye on the rot. It doesn’t seem to spread any further.

“What does that mean?” Nancy can’t keep the nervousness out of her voice as they stand in a circle in the cabin’s main room, clean enough and patched enough to be somewhat livable for now.

Everyone is quiet until Mike nudges Will with his elbow. Nancy instinctively reaches for Jonathan’s hand, giving it a squeeze. She can feel the tension radiating off him.

“Tell them.”

“Tell us what?” The same tension rings out in Joyce Byers’ voice. Not for the first time, Nancy marvels that the woman – that the whole family – hasn’t completely crumbled under the strain. It was bad enough when Will was missing. Somehow it’s been even worse ever since.

“You didn’t kill him,” Will’s eyes are dark, sorrowful when he looks at her and Nancy swallows, hard. She suspected, but she’d been trying to believe otherwise. She had shot him so many times but… well, she’s seen enough movies. No body, no proof of death. And there was nothing but smoldering grass on that looking glass lawn. “But you did hurt him. A lot. I don’t know what he wanted to do, but I don’t think he’s strong enough to do it. Not yet. So I think we have some time.”

“How much time?” Hopper asks. Will shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I can just… feel him.”

“Like last year?” Jonathan chimes in. Nancy watches Joyce’s eyes cut over to him.

“What do you mean last year? You never told me about anything last year.”

Will doesn’t give Jonathan a chance to reply. “Not exactly. Last year I could feel him when he was close, when he was working on his plans in the outside world. This time… it’s more like the time he got inside me. It feels like he’s watching me. Well, me and…”

He trails off but they all know where to look. El steps a little closer to Hopper’s side.

“I did,” she admits softly, “tell him I was going to kill him again.”

“Again?!” It comes from them all, a great chorus of surprise. El’s mouth opens and closes, like she’s trying to figure out how to explain, until Hopper cuts her off.

“OK, that’s enough. Everybody, stop.” Nancy is surprised to find she has missed, viscerally, the quiet authority in Hopper’s voice. It always feels like he knows what to do. Nancy appreciates the weight being taken off her shoulders after the week she’s had. “There is nothing we can do right now. This… thing, whatever you called him, it’s hurt, right? It’s weak? Well, so are we. We need to rest, and we need to heal, and I don’t know about you all, but I could use several hot meals and probably a beer. No one here is in any shape to be fighting anyone, whether you look injured or not.”

“How much time do we have?” Nancy directs her question to Will, but he just shrugs.

“I don’t know. Probably a day or two. Maybe longer? But that’s just a guess. I don’t know much more than any of the rest of you.”

“If we’ve got a day, that’s something,” Hopper nods. “We’ll stay here. Jonathan, your friend can drive you into town to pick us up something to eat, right? Make a grocery run? There are some sheets and linens in the crawl space, a couple of cots too I think, for when we had extra guests. We can get those ready while you’re gone.”

“Sure, but—”

“We can’t all stay here,” Nancy interrupts. “We won’t fit.”

“This town thinks I’m dead, Nancy,” Hopper reminds her sharply. “And there’s a monster hunting my daughter.”

“I know,” Nancy bites out, “I’m the one who shot it. Several times.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jonathan smile, then raise his other hand to wipe it away. Perhaps not quite the time for that, but it makes her feel warm inside nonetheless.

“She’s right though,” Mike chimes in, “We definitely won’t all fit, and my mom will lose her shit if I don’t come home tonight. Nancy too. We’ve gotta go back home. And she saw Will and Jonathan and El and Argyle; we went to my house first. She’s going to ask where they are. You guys,” he gestures to El, Will, Jonathan and Joyce, “don’t live here anymore.”

“I’m not letting El out of my sight until we figure out what we’re up against,” Hopper practically growls.

“We can stay with the Wheelers,” Will jumps in, “Jonathan and me and Argyle. Mrs. Wheeler won’t say no to that, she’ll let us share rooms, and Argyle can sleep in the basement.”

“But what about El?” Nancy points out. “She saw her too.”

“We’ll say she’s staying with Max,” Mike offers. “Mom knows she and Max are close, we’ll say she’s at the hospital with Lucas now and that she’s going to stay with Max’s mom to help her. But really, she’ll be here with you two.”

“And that way you know where to find us,” Jonathan directs that at his mom. “I think the phone here still works. Probably.”

Joyce looks thoughtful, and only a little apprehensive. Nancy hopes that’s a good sign.

“OK,” she finally allows. “At least for tonight, I think that’s the best we can do. Nancy, would you mind helping Argyle pick up some food for us, with Mike and Will? I’m sure you’ll need the extra hands, and I’ve got some cash around here somewhere. I just… need to talk to Jonathan before we split up.”

Read more

[basiccortez]

OKAY NAMES!!!

just fyi i tend to lean towards nature/grandma and grandpa names, with a few exceptions:) I used to work at a daycare so I have a bunch of names that could possibly intrigue you👀

also some are repeated under the twins names!

GIRLS: Alice, Ruth/Ruby, Florence, Noa, Andie, Vera Blithe, Parker, Opal, Faye, Marley, Ember Sage/Ember Fox(Ember means smoldering remains of a fire, how badass is that? It sounds so sweet too), Wrenly/Wren, Zena, Ivy, Harper (I would say Joyce bc it’s one of my favorite names bc it could shorten to Jo or Joy but…..joy might be awkward lol!)

BOYS: Jude!!(I’ve seen this one mentioned, so cute🥺), Finnegan/Finneas/Finn, Howl/Howie, Henry, John, Pierce(means rock🤘lolz) Glen, Jasper, Clay, Lark/Larkson(means song bird), Denver, Rowan

TWIN Names (if you want them to match):

(it’s for Sam so some are gonna be out there lol but I love them still)

Denver and Dillon (either for the boy or girl), Etta and Eli/Elias, hear me out: Finneas/Finn and Frannie(after Sams middle name Francis), Jolene and Jude, Vincent/Vince and Vera, Darcy and Daisy(Mr. Darcy and Daisy Buchanan<3)

Okay that’s it!! Can you tell I’m way too invested in this?? I just love names! Take with this what you will! Hopefully this was helpful or at least left you inspired haha🧡

okay, I love Parker for a girls name (that’s actually on my personal baby name list:) Wren has slowly been growing on me more and more, I def see it for one of Sam’s babies (man got lucky with having two…)

But Finn and Frannie are to DIE FOR!😩🥺 SO CUTE.

ngl i’ve bounced back and forth on naming Jake’s baby ‘Denver’ or ‘Dylan’. I feel like Jake would name his daughter after a guitar legend ya know

SEND ME NAMES :)

[when-to-sit-in-silence]

Hopper thinking of Joyce while struggling in Kamchatka

There was that one night in the dead of summer, remnants of the sun’s light contending with the deepening darkness, like blood mixed with ink. Mosquitos and gnats flitted above their faces and drew their eyes from the appearance of the stars, slowly unveiled behind the blue of day. In the grass, they laid across a blanket and blew smoke into a dying breeze. Their arms touched. Sunburnt skin was rosy and warm to contact. His fingertips flickered against her knuckles, and she turned her hand to hold his. Their palms were sweaty and caked with dust but they didn’t mind. They didn’t talk. If they did, he remembers none of it. But he remembers the heat and the sweat and the marks of summer, and he remembers her turning her head so that her dark eyes smoldered in the low light. He remembers staring until the night settled over them, thick and velvety like the rasp of a voice close by his ear. 

He can’t stop thinking about summer. Each day, the bitter cold bites into him like a million needles. Calloused hands go numb in a matter of minutes while threads of blood seep through the cracks in his skin. And what doesn’t sting from the cold aches from the toll of labor. His muscles feel as though they are unraveling. At night, in his cell, he lies still on the bed, fearful that with any movement, he will come apart like yarn. He gazes up at the ceiling, twitches his bloodless fingers and toes, wishes he was back in Hawkins, Indiana in the dog days of the season, mercifully motionless. Most of the time, this is a longing so out of reach, he cannot imagine anything beyond the thick stone walls of his cell. But there are moments where he’s back on the grass, tasting the humid air, holding the hand of the person who is almost always there with him, someone he cannot remove from his memories of a perfect summer. 

Hopper sees her floating on her back on the surface of Lover’s Lake, eyes shut against the high and hot sun. She’s humming a song they listened to on the drive over from her house, and her pale and slender throat shivers with the tune. Hopper feels her finger against the corner of his lip, dabbing away a trace of vanilla ice cream while they sit at the counter of a diner. She makes him lose his train of thought. Hopper hears her in the middle of the night on the roof of his house, whispering through the synchronized chirps of crickets all around them. Her laughter is as warm as the air, but quite unlike the air, it makes him feel, for just a second, that he’s forgotten how to breathe. Summer was the first time Hopper ever realized he was in love. Summer was the last time he would ever fall in love. 

Joyce was summer, a strawberry smile, a laugh like a bell, the taste of sweat and something sweet. Joyce was this bright and warm light he could only see when he closed his eyes, lighting up just when he needed her to flush out the chill from his bones. When Hopper’s dreams don’t swing him around dizzyingly like the rise and fall of a spike maul into the snow, they bring him back to her side where she greets him with a grin and a light to the cigarette between his lips. They make him promise to her, though she can’t hear, that if he ever gets out of this hellhole, he’ll scoop her into his arms and spin her around the way she used to spin through a heavy summer rain, lost and free and home all at once. “You’re crazy,” he used to say. 

But this time he’ll tell her “I miss you.” Missed her more than sun and warmth and the reckless joy of being alive.

[dangerously-human]

I’ve been having a LOT of fun with my too-many WIPs, but alas, I’m not particularly near being able to post anything I’m working on, so I’ve decided to share a couple random snippets. Because, you know, I need The Validation (even if it’s just sharing that I’m working on a thing so that I commit to actually finishing it!).

From the “outrageous flirting” continuation of Those Binary Stars:

“If you kiss me like that at our wedding, in front of our families and God, I’ll turn around and divorce you on the spot.”

The effect is rather negated by the unsteady hitch in her voice. Morse’s grin only widens.

“Oh? Would you rather I kiss you like this, then?” As he cheekily demonstrates various options, Joan tries to summon the willpower for another reprimand, and finds it rather slow in coming. “Or perhaps like this?”

From the Rocket tag/Alice Vexin POV piece:

“You left your notebook,” she says, after an uncomfortable silence broken only by the heartfelt wailing of some lovelorn soprano, thankfully now somewhat muted. “At the library, earlier.” When you saw Susan and me, she carefully avoids saying.

He glances up at that, and she holds out the forgotten item like an offering. “Thanks,” he says, dully, and she can feel her mouth settling into a frown.

“Are you all right?”

He lets out a hollow laugh, wicked as a lie. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She ducks her head. “Well. You looked like you’d seen a ghost, before you ran off.”

He shoots a smoldering glare at the wall, vicious enough that she half expects something to ignite. “Maybe I had,” he mutters morosely.

From a post-TBS ring-shopping/Susan angst fic:

He’d have gone on wallowing ad infinitum, probably, if he hadn’t been sent down, sent home, or to the place that he was supposed to call home, anyway. And it was Joycie who pulled him out of that spiral, just like it had been countless times in his younger years. Back then, it was often enough he could snap back to reason simply for fear of the impact his temptations toward the beckoning darkness could have on his sister. This time, it took the searing shame of her being called upon to fetch him from the pub, as she’d doubtless been asked to do for their father a thousand times, that knocked some sense into him. Staring blearily at Joyce out from somewhere around the bottom of a bottle, seeing the look of genuine, compassionate sadness on her face, he knew he couldn’t let things go on like this. Emboldened, perhaps, by a truly legendary hangover the next morning, he swore off the booze, if only to do better by the one person in his life worth changing for, who didn’t deserve to pick up his pieces.

And another “outrageous flirting” bit, a bonus from the same fic above because I am already obsessed with dad!Morse (and that’s probably going to spiral into yet another WIP):

Once he reaches the kitchen, Morse places a hand at the small of her back as he leans down to kiss the top of Sophie’s head, then ducks around the two of them to dig through the fridge for last night’s leftovers. Joan wishes she could follow in her mother’s footsteps of lovingly prepared sandwiches every morning, but these days, it’s often all she can do to keep the pantry stocked. Maybe she’ll get back into the habit eventually; maybe they’ll find a different routine that works for them. Morse has never once made her feel bad about it, so it must just be that terrible mummy guilt she’s heard plagues first-timers the hardest.

“Big plans for the day?” Morse asks, running his fingers gently through the tangles in her hair she hasn’t had a chance to comb out yet. She knows it’s been difficult for him, too, leaving Sophie in the mornings. She’s usually asleep when he gets home, and now and then Joan will secretly jostle her awake just before he walks in the door, even knowing she’ll pay for it in crankiness later, just to see Morse light up at getting to play with their daughter for a bit before she goes back down for the night.

[lem0nylem0nz]

Joyce and her loveelelyyy boyfreiennddd

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Right-Side Up AU, Part Three: It’s the End of the World {AO3} {tumblr} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Fifteen → Secret Lairs

“Are we there yet?” Nancy asked. 

“We’ll get there when we get there.” Hopper said. 

Nancy groaned and flopped onto Jonathan’s shoulder. “Babe, tell your parents to drive faster.” 

“No, no, Hopper’s-” Joyce began. 

“Don’t-” Hopper started. 

“Oh, shut up.” Nancy said. 

“Nance, we can’t break the speed limit.” Jonathan said patiently. 

“But Hop’s a cop and he just beat up the mayor. We should be able to do what we want.” 

“I’m worried about your morality right now.” 

“Eh, we’ll deal with that later.” Nancy sighed, before glancing out the backseat window. “It’s getting dark. If we don’t get back- what if the kids need help?” 

“We get that, Nance, trust me. We’re going as fast as we dare.” Joyce assured her. 

“We’ve just got one more stop.” Jonathan added. “The… Hess Farm, right?” 

Joyce nodded. “We’re almost there, don’t worry.” 

Jonathan hesitated, glancing between everyone in the car. “What if we find something there?” 

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Nancy said. 

Jonathan took a deep breath. “What if we don’t?” 

They fell silent, and remained that way until Hopper parked the car, and remarked, “Well. Looks like somebody’s home.” 

A truck was beside them, marked in large letters with LYNX. “What’s that?” Nancy asked, peering over Jonathan’s shoulder to see. 

“I think it’s a delivery service?” Jonathan guessed. 

“Then why don’t we see a delivery guy?” 

“Son of a-” 

“Okay, Holly, here’s what you have to do to find the treasure.” Steve said, looking about as uncomfortable as he felt- fortunately, Holly didn’t notice. 

Dustin and Will were way less uncomfortable than the older teens at this plan, but they’d managed to convince Holly that they had a treasure hunt, but she was the only one who could go through the tunnels; however, if she got lost, it was game over. Then, when they were done, they were just going to wait in the parking lot for her Mommy to pick her up! She was very excited to play the game- Steve was very much not. 

“We’re directing you through these radios.” Steve said, “So you don’t have to memorize anything. But every time you come to a fork- that’s when there are two or more paths- you call us and ask us which one to take. If you get hopelessly lost, find the nearest exit and tell us where you are, and we’ll pick you up. If you get scared of the small space-” 

“‘m not.” Holly assured him, giggling. “I’m plenty brave!” 

Steve took a deep breath. “Yeah, but also, you’re four-” 

“Five.” she held up five fingers. 

“See? She’s five. Practically a grown up.” Dustin said, smiling at Holly as she giggled. 

“When I was five, I was already undergoing testing.” Will said. “Fun fact, that’s when I stopped speaking.” 

“Not a fun fact, Will.” Steve said. “Fun facts make you feel better.” 

“What does he mean, ‘when he stopped talking?’” Robin asked. 

“Trauma.” Will replied, repeating a word he’d heard his Mom use. 

“Not making me feel better about sending Holly through the vents, Will!” 

“I’s okay, Steve!” Holly beamed, bouncing a little. “Nancy and I have adventures lots! She helped me climb a tree, and I helped her climb in the window and didn’t tell anyone!” 

Steve bit his lip. “Ah. Okay. Um, in that case, why don’t we keep our scavenger hunt secret for a bit, too?” 

“Got it!” Holly made a motion akin to zipping her lips. 

“Okay, you’ve got a helmet me and Will slapped together.” Dustin grinned, handing it to her. “Should fit, lemme strap it on. It’s got a flashlight on top so you can see.” 

“And take this.” Will handed her the Russian dictionary. “When you get to the treasure room, drop it first to make sure there are no booby traps.” 

“Robin’s going to help you up, and the rest of us will be waiting, watching your dropoff point to make sure pirates aren’t there.” Steve said. “Are you sure? We can always just sit back here and eat ice cream.” 

“I wanna find treasure!” Holly nodded. 

Steve sighed and said, “Just be careful. And if you hear someone who’s not us-” 

“I know, Mr Steve, can I go now?” 

“...okay. Okay, Robin, you help her up, we’ll meet you on the roof.” 

Robin shot him a thumbs up before kneeling by Holly to make sure her helmet was on right. Steve held the door open for Dustin and Will, who were whispering to each other as they walked out. 

As soon as the door slammed shut, Steve said, “Did we just kidnap Nancy’s little sister?” 

“Pfft, she’ll be fine.” Dustin said. “We’re on the radio for her.” 

“She’s five.” 

“No,” Dustin shrugged, “I think Five was that kid they made me hang out with who could change emotions.” 

“That was Three.” Will said. 

Steve started. “Wait, there are more of you?” 

Will’s face fell quite a bit, and Dustin quickly linked their arms, in some form of comfort, before blinking back his own tears and turning back to Steve. “Not, um… not anymore.” 

It was just them now. Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Will, Kali- wherever she was- and nobody else. 

Right? 

“Did you hear that?” Joyce whispered. 

Hopper and Nancy shone flashlights around the Hess farm, which was supposedly abandoned- however, Nancy was kneeling by an ashtray, looking at the still-smoldering cigarettes. Someone had been here very recently. Hopper also had a gun in his hands, and Nancy had one in her belt. Jonathan was sticking close to his Mom, though at the moment he was running a hand over a shelf, curiously sweeping aside the dust. 

And just as Joyce asked, they all indeed heard the same sound- very vibrant, but with a dark echo. Like something was starting up. As the sound flared, a dim lightbulb overheard flickered. 

“Goddamnit.” Jonathan muttered. 

Hopper stood up straighter, and passed his flashlight to Jonathan. “You three stay behind me. We’ll follow it to the source.” 

Suspecting they didn’t have time to argue, Nancy nodded, though as they followed Hopper, she passed her light to Joyce and reached over towards the handle of her gun, just in case. 

They passed several rooms, but the sound seemed to reverberate across the walls. Just when it got louder, they stepped into another room, and found it had dimmed. 

“Where is that coming from?” Hopper whispered. 

Joyce stepped back behind the group, and glanced around the room they’d just left- an empty bedroom, recently cleared, with only a mattress on a blank bed. She knelt towards the bottom, shining her light towards something- an air vent, right at the edge of the wood. 

She crouched down and put her ear against the floor, just as the sound started up again. There it was- much, much louder. 

“It’s below us.” she whispered to the others. 

As they turned back, her eyes flickered to the vent, to see some kind of red light shine behind it. 

“Oh…” she whispered. 

She gestured to the bed, and Hopper nodded, the two of them grabbing the edges and lifting it up, placing it against the wall. Underneath was a large, rectangular hole, a staircase leading down to a wooden floor. They all glanced at each other, and then Hopper went down first, Nancy at his heels and pulling out her weapon. Jonathan and Joyce quickly followed suite, and they descended into a relatively normal hall. However, once Hopper turned to the left, shining his light, they saw the red glow, and some kind of machinery, the kind that did not look like it belonged beneath a farm. 

Jonathan held up a hand to silence them, and then gestured towards one of the larger machines- behind it, they could hear low, indistinguishable mumbles. 

“Hey, dipshits!” Hopper shouted, running forwards. 

“Oh, okay, fuck subtlety, I guess.” Nancy muttered, running after him. 

On the side, two men looked over at him, a bit shocked and blinking in the flashlights now shining in their eyes. They stood up, as Hopper said, “Hawkins PD, hands in the air.” 

They didn’t make any movements, simply staring in befuddlement. 

“Don’t make me say it again!” 

One of the men turned to the other, and started speaking rapidly, in a language they were unfamiliar with. Joyce and Nancy shared a confused look, while Jonathan swore under his breath. 

“Do…” Nancy stepped forwards, lowering her gun slightly, “Do you speak English?” 

One of the men stepped behind the other, who started to speak, though still in another language, his tone suggesting he was trying to explain something. 

“We can’t understand you!” Hopper said. 

The man pointed to himself, continuing to speak. “We don’t understand!” Hopper continued, but the man seemed as unable to understand them as they him. 

Then Joyce grabbed Hopper’s shoulder, shouting, “Shut up!” They all quieted, and she pointed up. Above them, they could hear thundering footsteps, slowly walking towards the opening. 

“Shit.” Nancy said. 

“Holly, can you hear us?” Steve asked. 

“Uh-huh!” came the light voice at the other end of the radio. “Like I could last time!” 

“Steve, stop checking in on her.” Dustin said, peering off the roof. “She’ll be fine.” 

The door to the stairwell opened, and Robin stepped out, asking, “What’s up?” 

“Holly’s doing great.” Will said, showing her the blueprints under him, where he was tracking her progress with a red marker. “She’s just got a turn or two and then she’s there- so long as she didn’t get lost.” 

“Oh, God, don’t say that.” Steve put his head in his hands. 

Robin took his walkie-talkie, just as they heard a buzz. “Right or left?” 

“Tell her she goes right.” Will said. 

“Right.” Robin said. “You know which way right is, right?” 

“Yeah, the one that doesn’t look like an L when you hold up your hands.” 

Dustin held up his hands, making an L shape with both. “Oh, hey, she’s right.” 

“This was a horrid idea.” Steve groaned. 

“You keep saying that, but she’s doing great.” Dustin said. “Honestly, I didn’t even know my way through vents at this age.” 

Steve banged his head against the edge of the roof. 

“I think I found it!” came Holly’s voice. “I see the boxes!” 

“Good! Good girl!” Robin said quickly, as Will sat up and nodded that Holly had likely found her way there. “Do you see anyone there? Anyone at all?” 

“No. I’s empty.” 

Dustin took the walkie, and said, “Push the book against the grate to pop it open, then drop on the ground to check for traps. Then climb down to open the door for us.” 

“Gotcha!” Holly said. 

There was another pause as she turned off her radio to push the grate, and Will said, “Should we go down to meet her?” 

Dustin moved to help him fold up the blueprints, and he said, “No, wait until she has the door open. We need to make sure nobody else is coming.” 

“Once the door’s open, we run down as fast as we can.” Robin said. 

“And then we get some incriminating shit outta there and figure out what’s going on.” Steve said.  

Will and Dustin shared another glance, and Will said, “What if what’s going on… affects us?” 

“How?” Robin rolled her eyes, but Steve also shot them a worried look. 

“Look,” he said, “Whatever happens-” 

A radio buzz sounded. “I jus’ move the panel and press the open button?” 

“Yes!” Steve took the walkie. “Very carefully.” 

“Hold on. I have to climb on a box.” 

“Be careful.” 

“I’m good. I can climb good!” 

Steve groaned and passed the walkie to Dustin, who slid it into his bag, along with the folded blueprints. “Jesus.” 

They heard a clang, and Steve and Robin breathed sighs of relief as the garage door opened up. Holly slid off a box and ran to the front, shooting a thumbs-up and jumping up and down with glee. 

“We found it!” she squealed. 

Nancy knelt beside Jonathan and Joyce, as well as one of the men who’d been in the basement- Hopper had moved very fast, stuffing tape over the mouths of both of them and around the wrist of the second as a sort-of cuff, while the first was handcuffed beside them. One of them was beside the machine, in more-or-less open view, while they guarded theirs, and Hopper waited behind another machine for their intruder to step through. She held out her gun, waiting, just in case… 

“Don’t move!” Hopper shouted, and Nancy tensed, positioning herself in front of the Byers, starting to feel her heart pound in her chest. “Drop the gun! Drop it!” She didn’t hear any gunshots, so Hopper must have the man at gunpoint, but from the sound of Hopper’s frustration, the intruder wasn’t putting down his weapon. 

“You understand what I’m saying, big guy?” 

Nancy held her breath, glancing down at her weapon to make sure it was ready to fire. 

“Drop! The Weapon!” 

“Or what?” Nancy froze, shutting her eyes as the man spoke. It was definitely the same man from the lab. Jonathan reached out to put a hand on her arm. “You going to shoot me?” 

“Good. So you do understand what I’m saying, huh?” 

Joyce moved over to the man they had handcuffed to a pipe, looking him over quickly. He didn’t seem injured, just very confused. 

“Yeah, if you don’t put that thing away, I’m gonna blow some daylight into that thick skull of yours!” 

“No, you won’t do that.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Cause you’re a policeman. Policemen have rules.” 

Nancy muttered under her breath, “Yeah, but I don’t,” and started to stand up. 

Jonathan moved his hand to her shoulder and pushed her back down. “Nancy, no.” 

“Why not? I’ll just go over there and shoot his fucking face off.” 

“Nancy, Hopper’s got it under con-” 

A gunshot went off, bouncing against the metallic floor, and they heard shouts of a struggle, and someone being slammed into the wall. 

“Or maybe not.” Jonathan sighed. “But Nancy-” 

“Too late, I’m going to kill someone.” Nancy said, standing back up. “You two stay here, I’ll be right back to deal with that guy.” 

Before she could move, they saw Hopper’s gun slide across the floor, landing near them. “Son of a-” Nancy began. 

Joyce grabbed the weapon, flipping it over in her hands, as they heard machine gun fire, bullets hitting against the ceiling. “Yeah, you’re not going out there.” Jonathan said. “You’re gonna get shot.” 

“I shoot him first, no big deal.” 

“Nancy.” 

“Hopper needs this.” Joyce said, holding up the gun. 

“Then throw it at him.” Nancy said. “Or, just shoot the guy yourself.” 

“I can’t shoot.” 

“Then throw.” 

The machine gun fire stopped, and they heard a clatter as the gun slid across the floor. There were more shouts and thumps, and Joyce finally said, “Alright, I’m gonna throw him the gun.” 

“Good.” 

Joyce leaned out from the machine, shouting, “Hopper!” He looked up from the ground, where he and his assailant had fallen. She threw the gun, and they watched as it soared completely over Hopper, skidding into the wall. 

“Wow.” Nancy said. 

“Uh, nice try?” Jonathan said. 

“Son of a bitch.” Joyce muttered. 

“Okay, my turn.” Nancy said, finally pulling away from Jonathan and stepping out with her gun. Just then, she saw that the Russian intruder ha leaned over, grabbing Hopper’s gun, and she immediately turned and pushed Jonathan and Joyce back, as Hopper ran to them, ducking behind the machine for cover as gunfire blasted. 

“We are so fucked!” Jonathan shouted. 

“We are not fucked!” Hopper said. He raced to the man and undid the cuff connecting him to the pipes, before slamming it on his own wrist. “He’s coming with us, everybody run!” 

“I think he ran out of bullets, let me try to shoot him!” Nancy said. 

“God, fuck, Nancy, just run with us!” Hopper said. 

“Okay, damn!” 

They raced for the stairs just as the machine gun fire started up again. Joyce shouted and pushed the teenagers ahead of her, though Nancy turned and fired a few shots towards the source of the gunfire before they reached the upper floor. Even as they shut the bed back over the entrance, though, they could still see bullets pouring through, shattering the mattress and sending pieces flying into the air. Hopper grabbed a nearby bookshelf, knocking it over onto the bed, before shouting, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” 

They raced out of the house, Nancy moving herself to the rear of the group in case the intruder should follow them. As they ran into the yard, Hopper tossed Joyce the keys and said, “Joyce! Drive!” He then turned to the teenagers and said, “You’re in charge of Smirnoff here in the backseat!” 

“Why do we have to be in charge of the prisoner?” Nancy whined. 

“Because I said so, now get back there!” Hopper undid his handcuff and said, “And one of you cuff to him for the drive.” 

“Not it.” Nancy said. Jonathan groaned. 

“Kids, we are running from an assassin with a machine gun!” Joyce reminded them. 

“How is this worse than last year?” Nancy shrugged, before throwing open the car door. “Let’s move out.” 

Steve pulled the edge of a pocketknife across the tape atop one of the boxes marked for Imperial Panda, narrowing his eyes. He passed the knife back to Dustin, before opening it to see a large, metallic box. There was some kind of handle on top, so he simply reached down, twisting it to the side and pulling it open. 

There was some kind of hiss as a bit of steam burst out, and Steve dropped the lid onto the ground. Inside the box were four canisters, stuck into the metal and topped with similar handles. 

“That’s definitely not Chinese food.” Steve said. “Okay, everyone step back, in case what’s in here is radioactive or something.” 

Robin stepped back, and Holly obediently moved a few paces, though she seemed to be getting a bit bored of the game and was now playing with her pigtail. Dustin and Will, meanwhile, stayed near Steve. 

“Boys, seriously?” Steve said. 

“We’ll be fine, probably.” Will said. 

“We have a better chance at survival than you.” Dustin pointed out. 

Steve groaned, but said, “Okay,” before reaching down and turning the handle of one of the cannisters, pulling it out for them all to see. It was a long tube, inside of which was some bubbling, green liquid. 

“What the hell?” Steve muttered. 

“What is that?” Robin asked. 

Before anyone could guess, there was a metallic clanging, and the room shook. 

“Uh, was that just me,” Dustin asked, “Or did the room move?” 

“Oh no.” Steve shoved the cannister back into the box. 

The room trembled again, and he ran to Holly, picking her up and taking off for the door. 

“Steve?” Will asked. 

The room shook again, and just as Steve feared, the doors started to slide shut. He wasn’t quite there yet, so he leaned down and carefully threw Holly, watching her slide under the closing panel and land on the concrete. 

“Steve?” she called, as Steve raced for the door, just as it slammed shut. 

“Holly, listen!” he shouted. “We’ll be right out, tell your parents we’re just closing up, okay? Wait for them in the parking lot- don’t go with anyone but your parents, you understand?” 

“What the fuck?” Robin ran for the door, pounding on it. “Where’s the button- Dustin, press the open button!” 

“Are you okay?” Holly asked worriedly. 

“We’ll be fine! Just… dealing with the pirates!” Steve said quickly, and then he thought of something. “Holly, listen to me- tell Nancy we have a Code Red, okay? At the mall. Code Red at the Mall.” 

“Code Red?” 

Dustin ran for the button panel, pressing onto the Open button. “It’s not working.” he said. 

“What do you mean it’s not working?” Robin said. 

“Holly, can you remember that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Steve said, “Now go wait for your parents. Be safe, okay? We’ll be right out.” 

Will shook slightly, and he stumbled into a corner, sitting on a box, and hugging himself. “Dustin?” he called. 

Dustin, who was incessantly pressing the open button, turned, eyes widening. “Will?” 

“Something’s wrong.” Will squeezed his eyes shut. “Do you feel it?” 

Dustin ran to him, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around him. “Will, calm down, buddy, it’s okay-” 

“What the fuck is happening?” Robin asked. 

And all at once, Dustin understood what Will had meant- because at that moment, he felt flashes. Flashes of the future. 

Vents, bright lights, tunnels, metal. A door pounding behind him. Shouting- from all of them. Screaming. Some kind of pain, in the arm- was it his arm? Will’s? Someone else’s? Being chased, electricity sparking in front of him, and… falling… 

“We’re gonna drop!” he shouted, grabbing onto Will, who had already started screaming. 

“What?” Robin shouted. 

Steve grabbed Robin’s hand, dragging her over to the corner, before protectively throwing his arms over both of the boys. All Robin could do was join the huddle as another metal door slammed over the one that had just closed. 

And with that, the room fell. 

Joyce drove as fast as she could. The intruder had managed to escape just as they were driving away, and they had a few bullet dents and a shattered back window to prove it. As they moved down the road, Hopper muttered to himself, trying to figure something out. However, after what had to be an hour or two, he got a buzz on his walkie-talkie. 

“Oh for fuck’s-” he muttered. He picked it up and said, “This better be good news.” 

“Not really, Chief.” 

Everyone flinched at the sound of the voice of one of the other officers- Powell? Had Hopper been found out? “What?” 

“You know how you wanted updates on that Driscoll woman in the hospital?” 

Hopper shut his eyes, and said, “Joyce, pull the car over. I feel like we’re going to need to plan some shit.”

[judesowndaughter]

| starter for @et-inarcadia-ego |       Choppy waves crash against sand and mossy rocks, the ocean foam leaving little white striations across the dark blue expanse. The wind rises, blanketing shivering needle-point pines in bracing sea spray. Minute droplets of cold ocean air mingle with the heady scent of tobacco smoke. Rubber soles scrape sand-dusted asphalt, short legs swinging back and forth. Palm presses against the hood of her dented car, noonday sun warming the paint-peeled metal. The sound of tires crackling over pavement diverts Bee’s attention to a rusty truck pulling in park. Smoldering cigarette end is stubbed out on fading blue paint, Bee placing the squashed remains in a small ziploc bag.        Truck door slams shut, and Bee slides off of her sedan to land on the pot-hole dotted parking lot. Hands are unceremoniously shoved into the pockets of her jacket, autumn breeze whipping around limp strands of greasy hair. Plastic burner phone bumps against her knuckles in the oversized pockets; another insistent reminder of Frank’s request for his pound of flesh from clients. Debt-collecting is the worst part of the job, especially when she has to micromanage Frank’s favorite blue-haired fuck-up. But Chloe has their uses: their wiry frame and sharp tongue are perfect to play the loose cannon to Bee’s benevolent negotiator.        They have a busy day of shaking down debtors ahead of them, but there is another matter on Bee’s mind that she can’t let go of. American Rust is usually picked over by strays looking to sell what valuable scrap they can carry off, but something has changed of late. Takeout from the Two Whales and blankets are surreptitiously stashed in Bee’s scrapyard hiding spots with alarming regularity. Someone has taken her as their charity case, and the list of culprits is short enough to narrow down within seconds. Frank would never be so patronizing, and Joyce is too stubborn to tiptoe around Bee’s carefully constructed veneer of toughness. Katie is nixed from the list without a second thought---they can’t afford to keep secrets anymore---and she’s not one to linger around the junkyard if either twin can help it.        Only one suspect remains.       Bony hip leans against the rusted shell of the truck, Bee’s arms crossed tight over her chest. Mouth is drawn in a hard line, one eyebrow quirked in mock curiosity.        ❝  So, ❞  Bee’s drawl is drawn-out,  ❝  I found your blanket stuffed under an old bus. What a crazy coincidence.  ❞       Eyes flit down to examine her fingernails, fresh scabs and old scars scattered across dry skin. An uncomfortable silence ensues, ugly like an old carcass fit for carrion. She wants to make Chloe sweat; if nothing else, it’s excellent practice for pressuring Frank’s clientele to pay up.

      ❝  What I can’t understand is why there was a bag full of diner food---hot off of the griddle---perched on top of a very neatly folded quilt. I must be missing something here...maybe you could piece this together for me.  ❞       It’s not a question; Bee wants to hear her charge fess up now.

[didntlie-blog]

@lightcoded asked :  "Hey, Jonathon? Can you come here a minute? Hop and I... We have something we want to tell you." Joyce and Hopper are seated at the kitchen table, next to each other but not close, an ashtray between them half full with fresh ash and two smoldering cigarette butts. The chair across from them is empty.

he hadn’t done anything worth warranting a meeting with his mother and the chief of police . not recently , anyway . a bit of worry etches into his features as he follows his mother’s voice into the kitchen . ‘ everything okay , mom ? ’ he questions with a cautious tone , hesitating with a hand on the back of the dining chair , eyes traveling between the two adults , before he would finally sit down . ‘ did i... do something ? ’ a pause , and then , with a bit of panic , ‘ is will okay ? ’

[ao3feed-byeler]

heartworm

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/33dKUwv

by xoxkimmiexox

“Heartworm n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.”

 Will visits Hawkins after three years since he left the sorry town. He finds himself longing some sort of reminder of his childhood before heading off to college.

It's safe to say he receives more than what he bargained for.

Words: 19095, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Mike Wheeler, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Jonathan Byers, Joyce Byers, Nancy Wheeler

Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Will Byers & Mike Wheeler, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Dustin Henderson/Suzie

Additional Tags: Angst, Will is 18, mike is 17, Mike is emo, Kinda, byler, Siblings Will Byers & Eleven | Jane Hopper, jonathan and nancy are in love, there is drug mention, Drug Use, No Smut, at all, there will be making out, nothing heavy will be written, will is more out there, will visiting hawkins after forever, more like three years, the party is mentioned here and there, will and mike are the main focus though

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/33dKUwv

[timeinabottle]

Joyce & Hopper meet-cute in Melvald’s over the holidays, Will & Jonathan make an appearance. Life in sleepy Hawkins before the upside-down. 

Read on AO3 {x}  Mixtape on spotify {x}

If The Fates Allow

Christmas, 1982

It was quarter to seven on December 21st, and Joyce Byers was finally coming up on the tail end of her shift at Melvald’s General Store. She was all alone, sitting at the checkout counter, chin in her hands, mindlessly flipping through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and listening to Brenda Lee’s holiday hits on the tape deck. Nearly an hour had passed now without a single customer and the minutes were crawling by.

Busy little bee that she was, Joyce had already swept, restocked the shelves, dusted the displays at the front of the store and replaced a few worn snowflakes hanging in the windows. She even remembered to water the poinsettias. All she had left to do now was cash out, and she was gone. Her fuddy-duddy of a boss wouldn’t normally approve of such things, but Joyce decided to close out her cash register early anyway. Donald would just have to understand.

Tonight was special after-all: the Hawkins Middle School Christmas pageant began at seven-thirty sharp, and she would need to lock up the store within the next twenty minutes to get there on time. The sixth-grade students were putting on a production of A Christmas Carol, Will was playing Tiny Tim, and she couldn’t be more thrilled. She was so proud, in fact, that she had bragged non-stop all day to anyone who’d listen.

Her youngest had devoted the past two weeks to rehearsing with his brother and friends in her living room, while she sat cross-legged on the floor, reading their stage directions aloud. She knew that script word for word by that point and while he might not have the most lines like Mike or the funniest ones like Lucas and Dustin, Will’s lines were the most important of the whole play, in her opinion. She was more than excited to see her baby’s debut performance.

Jonathan had called the store shortly after six to say he was running late and might not make it to the store in time to pick up the finishing touches for Will’s costume before he needed to get his brother back to the school. Joyce still had the pageboy cap (she had finished sewing it on her lunch break that afternoon) and a crutch borrowed from the pharmacy down the street, so she absolutely, positively could. Not. Be. Late.

She was nearly done tallying up her receipts with two minutes to close when she heard the bell on the door chime behind her. Of course a customer would walk in as she was closing up tonight, the only night of the year she had somewhere important to be.

“Oh come on,” she muttered under her breath, looking up in time to see her inconsiderate shopper breeze by. The familiar face glanced her way and gave a slight nod, acknowledging her unapologetic stare. He looked like a man on a mission brushing the fresh snowflakes off his corduroy jacket with that perpetually annoyed expression on his face.

It was always a strange sight to see Hopper out of uniform.

That night, he was wearing a festive plaid flannel and jeans. His dirty blonde hair was mussed, missing it’s sheriff’s hat, and day-old whiskers shadowed his cheeks. He passed the disheveled look off like it was intentional — even though she knew that he had likely just rolled out of bed from patrol the night before and didn’t give a hoot what he looked like. That just made it all the more sexier in her opinion and she scolded herself for thinking that way. She couldn’t help herself, though. He was aging into the perfect blend of Harrison Ford and Jack Nicholson: A bit rough around the edges, handsome as hell, and cocky… like he knew it.

Her heart was creeping its way into her throat as she watched him head to the back of the store. You don’t like him like that anymore, she reminded herself sternly (even though she knew deep down it was a lie).

Bee-lining to where Donald kept the liquor, he snuck another glance back at Joyce before turning down the aisle and disappearing from view. She pretended not to notice and promptly checked her reflection in the dark windows, thanking her good sense that morning to put a bit more effort into her hair and makeup for the pageant tonight. Smoothing her new bangs in vain, she took out the cherry chapstick from her vest pocket, popping some color on her lips. Joyce was nonchalant but mentally preparing for the worst.

An unsavory exchange at the supermarket on Labor Day that year had left a sour taste in her mouth and she vividly recalled swearing to herself on the drive home that if she never saw Jim Hopper again, it would be too soon. She regretted every word she said by the time the groceries were put away and meant to apologize when she saw him again, but in spite of their small hometown, they managed to avoid each other for the rest of autumn. Joyce really couldn’t be too surprised to see him now; they were well overdue for a run-in, and it was quickly becoming apparent he was meant to play the Ghost of Christmas Past in this twisted little production of her life.

But maybe (emphasis on maybe) enough time had passed now, and Hopper wouldn’t be on the defensive with her this time. He could see for himself that she was doing good and she could let him know that she took his words of advice, got her life back on track. She could finally, properly thank him. They could both say their sorry’s and move on.

Sure, it wasn’t the greatest timing, and she had maybe less than ten minutes to follow through on this little burst of spontaneity, but she could work with what she was given and was grateful for the opportunity at a fresh start. This could be her new year’s resolution for ’83, and it was something she could get started on right now.

She had unplugged the Christmas lights in the window, turned the radio and overhead lights off and moved the open sign to ‘closed’ by the time he reappeared.

Out of all the stores in all the towns, in all of Indiana…

This had to be fates giving her the nudge she needed to make amends. Or maybe she had just listened to one too many sappy Christmas songs that day, and they rotted her brain. A hundred ways to say hello ran through her head, but any notion she had about where the conversation would take them went out the window the second he opened his mouth.

“Am I keeping you?” he called out across the darkened store, leisurely taking his time walking back, making it clear he didn’t give a shit either way… slower than molasses in January.

Despite the actual answer and her simmering annoyance at his choice of greeting, she shook her head 'no’ and peered at the contents he carried up to the checkout with wide eyes.

“You okay there?”

Hopper scowled at the question, shifting the weight in his arms. She raised an eyebrow at him, pushing for an answer.

“Yeah, what’s it to ya?” he finally muttered, looming over her on the other side of the counter now, but Joyce didn’t back down.

She looked pointedly at him. His arms were full; a 40 of Jim Beam and Stoli were both tucked into the crook of one arm, with a box of wine wedged under the other. He expertly balanced three six packs and a stack of styrofoam cups on top of two flats of beer.

“‘Lot of booze for one person. Even you.“

She meant for her comment to come off as light-hearted teasing, but it fell flat. Rolling his eyes at her concern, Hopper dropped the beer on the counter with a thud, stacking the other items around unceremoniously. One of the bottles rolled towards the edge of the counter, and Joyce thankfully caught it before it could fall, placing it gently down next to his other items.

She didn’t mean to pry, but as long as she had known him, Hopper was possibly the most stubborn man she had ever met. If he were suffering, he’d die before he’d let on, and that worried Joyce more than she cared to admit. Over the last few Christmases, she had watched him from afar, a silent witness to his inner struggles dealing with the holiday season. She could only imagine how he felt, especially since she could barely cope herself after her own divorce. But to lose your only child too? She couldn’t bear the thought.

Even if they weren’t exactly on speaking terms, and even if he drove her up the wall when they did see each other, he was still (kind of) her friend. She felt compelled to ask, if only for her peace of mind.

"It’s not all for me, Joyce. It’s the PD Christmas potluck tonight,” his irritation peaked, and he waved the sleeve of cups at her with a wry look on his face, like it should have been obvious.

“Oh, well my mistake then,“ she snapped her mouth shut, feeling stupid she didn’t think of that first and even more so for assuming. Joyce grabbed the cups from Hopper and found the price tag, focusing on the task to take her mind off the fact she could sense his eyes watching her every move.

"Gimme a pack of camels too,” he sniffed. Two twenties were flicked at her across the counter, like he was leaving cash on the nightstand. Like he didn’t even know her at all.

Joyce’s blood started to boil.

“Say please,” she snapped, glaring at him. It wasn’t what Hopper said; it was how he said it.

He locked eyes with Joyce, not budging, and now it was her turn to roll her eyes. It didn’t take long before she gave in and grabbed his pack of smokes from the drawer under the counter, adding them to the total, punching the price in with a tepid fury. So much for peace on earth and goodwill to men. Not only was he making her late, but he was ruining her mood now too.

Her cheeks smoldered, but Joyce held her tongue, fighting the burning desire to tell him off. A small part of her recalled that this is what always happened between them: she’d go out of her way to initiate the conversation, trying her best to be pleasant, if not a bit friendly (sometimes even a bit flirty). Hop would instantly go on the defense with an ignorant remark or two. She would retort to start the fight, and then they were off to the races. Both would walk away smarting, leaving all the words they shouldn’t have said hanging in the air for all of Hawkins to see. Everyone in town knew that Joyce and Hopper were on the outs and had been for a long while.

But after all the damn self-help books she had read that year, it finally clicked: They didn’t have to ride on this merry-go-round of hurt feelings anymore. She knew she could break the cycle if she really wanted to. Truth be told, she missed his companionship, and if there was one thing Joyce was in need of right now, it was a friend… maybe even something more. It drove her batty how much she wanted to console him as a friend, throttle him like a nemesis and rip his clothes off all at the same damn time.

Clearing her throat, she spoke up again, refusing to give in to his silent treatment, “Got any plans for the holidays?”

He grunted in response, making her venture a guess that was a “no,” or “none of your business,” — possibly both.

Joyce carried on, fidgeting with the box of wine. She looked for the price, instead of at him, “Well, the boys and I are planning a big breakfast on Christmas morning, um, since I work Christmas Eve. You should stop by. I mean, if you don’t have anything else going on…“ She side-eyed his reaction and set the wine aside.

Hopper’s eyes narrowed. His mouth drew tight at her words as if he was considering it for a split second, before he declined with a curt, "No, thank you.” Didn’t even bother with an excuse.

The outright dismissal took her back by surprise before she quickly recovered with a half-shrug, half-smile.

“Oh okay, maybe next year,” she said, just hoping she didn’t look as defeated as she felt.

With a sober nod, Hopper let his attention fall to the items on the counter between them. He passed them off to Joyce without another word as she rang them up, one by one. With each button pressed, the silence between them grew more and more awkward. Joyce expected some pushback from Hopper, but this was really taking the cake. Here she was, putting herself out there, doing her best to extend an olive branch during the holiday season, and he was still holding a grudge. Un-be-lievable.

She wasn’t about to give up, though. She wanted to make it clear to him that this little game they continued to play year after year had gone on long enough. They were both adults now, and it was time to put their differences aside. Forgive and forget.

Joyce would melt Hopper’s little Grinch heart, even if it killed her.

She gave him his receipt and change, slowing down to let the tips of her fingers pause over the palm of his hand. Joyce lingered for a slow, taciturn moment until she finally caught his eye, her thumb brushing over his. Hopper’s steely demeanor softened at her touch, if only for a brief moment in time, and there it was: a fleeting glimpse of the man she once knew.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke again, "Merry Christmas, Hop.”

His acknowledgment was barely there, but unmistakable. He gave a subtle squeeze back before pocketing the change.

To an outsider, it would have looked like nothing more than a momentary pause between acquaintances or perfect strangers, but to them, it was a spark of hope on the longest night of the year.

“Merry Christmas, Joy,” the words tumbled from his mouth like he didn’t want to say it, but she could tell he meant it nevertheless. And just as quickly as the moment fell over them, it passed.  

Without another word, he opened the pack of Camels and lit up, ignoring the ‘No-Smoking’ sign taped to the wall behind Joyce. She didn’t bother to say anything, watching, amused as a puff of smoke enveloped him in the dark of the store, like a magician making his grand exit. Loading up his arms, he took one last glance to make sure he got everything and was on his way. Her heart was heavy to watch him go, but what could she do? Chase after him? Beg him to talk it out? Force him to be her friend again? It was going to have to be on his terms if anything, and it was clear to her now that he wasn’t ready to make nice.

The door swung open before Hop could reach it, and Will ran into Melvald’s only to stop short, practically colliding head first into the beer.

“Chief,” Jonathan nodded politely.

“Hi uh, M-mister Hopper,” Will smiled up at the tall man he recognized as his mom’s old friend before running over to her counter to grab his hat from her outstretched hand.  

"Hi baby,” Joyce beamed at her youngest, admiring his costume. “You look great! Very Dickens!”

Will proudly donned the pageboy hat for his mother’s approval and grabbed the crutch. “Thank you! Love you! See you at school,” he called to Joyce over his shoulder, running back to where Jonathan was offering his assistance to Hopper.

“Need a hand with that, sir?” The teen didn’t bother to wait for a response from the police chief, shifting his camera bag upon his shoulder, and grabbing the bottles off the top of the stack, while Will held the door for them.

Hopper could only watch it happen; he was bombarded by the trio of Byers’ and completely caught off guard. He looked down at the two smiling boys in front of him before looking back at Joyce, who was glowing at the sight of her polite, little men.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Take these, too.”

Jonathan grabbed the six-packs without hesitation from under Hopper’s arm and started for the door while Joyce stifled a giggle, drawing the attention of all three.

“So I’ll uh, meet you boys at the school in twenty,” she told her sons before turning to Hop. “Nice to see you,” she smiled, her heart fluttering just the tiniest bit when it was returned.

It might not have been a complete reconciliation like Joyce had hoped for, but she would accept it for what it was; a Christmas armistice in their war. With it came a renewed sense of hope that 1983 could be a fresh start for the both of them.

The boys led Hopper to his marked Chevy parked out in front of the store. The snow was finally tapering off as the temperature started to drop, the tiny flakes sparkling in the soft glow of Hawkin’s street lamps wrapped up in pretty red bows. The street was empty and quiet, the fresh snowfall making it seem like they were the only ones left in town.

"You in a play or something, Tiny Tim?” Hopper called out to the younger Byers boy, who was running ahead outside the store.

“Yeah!” Will turned back to him at the truck and raised the crutch in the air as Hopper approached. “How’d you know?”

“Just a guess… Your mom’s real proud, I can tell,” Hopper smirked at the kid, despite himself. “Y’know, she used to star in all the school plays when she was your age, too.” He glanced behind the Byers boys to the storefront, where he could see Joyce locking the door behind them. The urge to go back and talk to her was pulling at him now, but he stayed firmly in place.

Jonathan opened the trunk and started to load up the back of the Blazer while the Chief was distracted, exchanging a look with his little brother. Turning back to Hopper, Jonathan grabbed the last of the load from the older man and his attention.

“We have an extra ticket, you know.”

“Oh?” Hopper mumbled, Jonathan’s words breaking him from his daze. Firing the styrofoam cups in behind the booze, he slammed the trunk hatch and took a long drag off the cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. He glanced back, but she was gone.

“It was supposed to be for my dad but… he’s not coming,” Will was looking glum, poking holes in the fluffy snow with the end of Tiny Tim’s crutch.

Rage prickled the inside of Hopper’s chest as he took in the sad sight. He instantly wished he knocked Lonnie’s teeth in a lot sooner than he did.

“You should come,” Jonathan perked up, offering Lonnie’s ticket to the other man. “She won’t mind.”

Hopper highly doubted Joyce would agree with that statement. But then again, after her little grab at attention in Melvald’s just now… maybe the kid was right.

“Yeah! You should come,” Will perked up, echoing his brother with a sly look. It was suddenly very apparent the angle was to make him Joyce’s date for the night.

Nope, sorry boys, not happening. Maybe in another life.

“Ah thanks, I’d really like to,” he lied, fishing for the keys in his pocket and a quick excuse. “But I have to get this stuff back to the police department. People are waiting on me, important police business, y’know?” he dropped the last of his smoke to the ground and stamped it out.

“Merry Christmas boys, and thanks for the help.”

He gave the Byers boys a small salute as he climbed into the truck, frantic to get out of there and away from the barrage of emotions his little errand brought with it. The Chevy’s engine roared as it turned over in the cold, making the boys take a step back onto the curb. He didn’t mean to be a jerk, but he was walking a fine line here; he had boundaries to maintain.

Through the fogged up windows, he watched them share a look of disappointment and turn to go.

Hopper’s blackened, frozen heart tapped on his chest to remind him it was still there and he heaved a sighed. Rolling his window down, he called out to Will & Jonathan, “Hey, how about a raincheck for next year?”

"Sure,” Will brightened up instantly.

Hopper choked back his smirk, “Break a leg tonight, kid.”

Jonathan chuckled, and Will waved the crutch again with a laugh, “Thanks!”

There — that could be his good deed for the Byers family this holiday season. Even if he couldn’t keep the raincheck next year, the gesture was enough. While Hopper let his diesel warm up, he watched the boys climb into Lonnie’s beat-up, old Ford.

They were good kids. It was clear Joyce had done her absolute best in raising them on her own over the last three years, even if it was only to spite the asshole who fathered them. Hop was sure Sara and Joyce’s youngest would have made great friends, too. A twinge of sorrow hit him at the realization they never even got the chance to meet.

The brothers waved to him once more as they pulled out of the parking stall, leaving just him and Joyce, the only cars parked on Main Street. Deciding it was a good a time as any to chain smoke, he lit up again and idled, getting lost in his thoughts.

Why did he have to stop there instead of the gas station or grocery store? Sure, Melvald’s was the closest store to the police station, but if he really wanted to, he could have gone out of his way to avoid her altogether. Hopper would be lying to himself if he said that he didn’t stop in to check up on her, to test the waters. He figured if he was feeling lonely, she was probably lonely too…

Turns out, he wasn’t ready. Seeing Joyce only brought the bad feelings bubbling up to the surface, making him feel worse. Now he had all these unfettered emotions to deal with, and lord knows, it would take weeks to get them back in their bottle.

With nearly twenty years of history between them, they had been through so much. Forgive and forget was easier said than done at this point. There were some words you couldn’t take back, and some things you just couldn’t forgive, and it would take a lot more than some simple pleasantries or a soft touch to make him change his mind and start rebuilding all the bridges Joyce Byers burned.

The cigarette had burned down when the chime of the bells jostled him out of his thoughts, his eyes darting to the rearview. Joyce was locking the deadbolt and hadn’t yet noticed that he was still there. He stubbed the butt out in the ashtray, watching closely as she turned around and saw his truck still parked in front of her store. There was no hiding from her now.

She paused, blinking once, twice. The corner of her lips curled.

Hopper’s eyes flicked to the passenger side mirror to watch as she began walking towards her car, head down, stifling a satisfied smirk in her purse.

Watching Joyce struggle to find her keys through the frost-bitten truck windows was a strange mix of bitter and sweet for Hopper. It was a familiar sight, almost comforting, like shaking up a snowglobe and watching it settle. A shimmer of frost and foggy breath swirled around her head like a halo, and he swore she glowed like a goddamn angel under the lamplight. He fought the impulse to roll down the window and say something, anything, knowing full well a she-devil still lurked underneath that pretty little exterior.

Danger, Will Robinson. Time to tread lightly, think logically and not let his festering feelings get the better of him.

She threw him one last look over the roof of the Pinto to let him know she saw him watching her, before climbing in and starting her car. It was the same look that she always shot him right before ripping him to shreds: exasperated, like she was tired of his shit. Hopper had grown to hate that look, yet it still wound him up all the same. She was teasing him now.

He shook his head, shaming her for playing games.

Joyce shook her head back and flipped him the bird.

Hop narrowed his eyes at her. Very mature.

She wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out, hesitating before finally waving goodbye. Hopper chuckled to himself as Joyce put the car in reverse, a serene sense of nostalgia settling over him then.

She must have felt it too. Glancing back to him one more time, a tiny smile played about her lips.

He nodded a simple farewell, and she returned it before driving off towards the school, retreating into the dark and silent night. Once she disappeared around the corner, he started to make his way back to the party at the station, turning the radio on to distract himself.

Hopper wasn’t quite ready to let Joyce back in just yet. Even if they could go back to being friends… Did he really think he could be open with her? Allow himself to be vulnerable? Not when it still felt like everything he ever loved had been taken away from him too soon (including her, more than once).

He’d see how the new year panned out, but he wasn’t sure if he could ever shake this feeling it might never be the same again.

But, dammit if he didn’t miss her anyway.

[addictedforbooksquad]

P I C K (S)  O F  T H E  M O N T H: D E C E M B E R

Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold by Stephen Fry

Luna and the Lie by Mariana Zapata

Wild Embers by Nikita Gill

Hotshot Doc by R.S. Grey

Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold by Stephen Fry

Genres: Mythology, Nonfiction, History

Synopsis:

The Greek myths are the greatest stories ever told, passed down through millennia and inspiring writers and artists as varied as Shakespeare, Michelangelo, James Joyce and Walt Disney. They are embedded deeply in the traditions, tales and cultural DNA of the West. In Stephen Fry's hands the stories of the titans and gods become a brilliantly entertaining account of ribaldry and revelry, warfare and worship, debauchery, love affairs and life lessons, slayings and suicides, triumphs and tragedies. You'll fall in love with Zeus, marvel at the birth of Athena, wince at Cronus and Gaia's revenge on Ouranos, weep with King Midas and hunt with the beautiful and ferocious Artemis. Thoroughly spellbinding, informative and moving, Stephen Fry's Mythos perfectly captures these stories for the modern age - in all their rich and deeply human relevance.

Why we love it:

modern retelling of the Greek Myths

a wide range of some of the best stories told with Fry’s humour, wit and intelligence

an entertaining read

this book will fulfill anyone’s curiosity about the Greek Myths

Stephen Fry is a wonderful narrator and would highly recommend the audio version of this book

Trigger warnings: n/a

Luna and the Lie by Mariana Zapata

Genres: Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

The problem with secrets is that they’re too easy to keep collecting. Luna Allen has done some things she would rather no one ever know about. She also knows that, if she could go back in time, she wouldn’t change a single thing. With three sisters she loves, a job she (mostly) adores, and a family built up of friends she’s made over the years, Luna figures everything has worked out the way it was supposed to. But when one of those secrets involves the man who signs her paycheck, she can’t find it in her to regret it. Despite the fact that he’s not the friendliest man in the world. Or the most patient. Sometimes there are things you’re better off keeping to yourself.

Why we love it:

Zapata manages to capture the readers attention with her beautiful writing and fleshed out characters that you really do come to appreciate this well earned romantic ending

boss/employee romance trope

age-gap

family dramas

addictive angsty romance

Zapata is the queen of slow burn romance

Trigger warnings: past family abuse

Wild Embers by Nikita Gill

Genres: Poetry, Feminism, Nonfiction

Synopsis:

They have lightning in their souls, thunder in their hearts, chaos in their bones. Nikita Gill's poetry has captured hearts and minds all over the world; her inspirational words have been shared hundreds of thousands of times online, been plastered across placards on international women's marches and even transformed into tattoos. This collection will showcase mostly unseen poetry and prose, delving into ideas about passion, identity, empowerment and femininity.

Why we love it:

emotional journey

a tribute to female power, strength, self-love and empowerment

left with feelings of  being lifted up, consoled, reassured, moved and understood after finishing it

written in an interesting way, with spot-on analogies, simple, short lines that cut to the point, fairy tales retellings and praises to mythical goddesses

Trigger warnings: rape, mental and physical abuse, bullying, mental illness

Hotshot Doc by R.S. Grey

Genres: New Adult, Romance, Contemporary

Synopsis: Dr. Russell has a bad reputation around our hospital. The scrub techs say he’s cold-blooded, the nurses say he’s too cocky for his own good, and the residents say he’s the best surgeon in the world—really, just a swell guy!—on the off chance he’s within earshot. I try to avoid him and his temper at all costs. It’s just as easy to admire his sexy, grip-it-while-he’s ravishing-you hair and chiseled jaw from a healthy distance, preferably from the other end of the hallway half-hidden behind a plant. Unfortunately, my plan crumbles when my trusty ol’ boss decides to swap his white coat for a Hawaiian shirt. His retirement leaves me with two terrible options: switch specialties and spend months retraining, or take an open position as Dr. Russell’s surgical assistant. That means I have to stand near him in the OR for hours on end and anticipate his every need without letting his biting words and bad attitude intimidate me. Oh, and as if that’s not difficult enough, my silly crush on him—the one I’ve tried to stomp on until it disappears—might just be reciprocated. It’s fine. I’m fine. I take my job seriously. There will be no smoldering bedroom eyes across the operating table, no angry almost-kisses in the storage closet. (Well, no more of those.) What’s the phrase? An apple a day keeps the doctor away? Maybe I should go for a whole damn bushel.

Why we love it:

funny characters and cute banter (when they’re not arguing!)

enemies to lovers trope

side characters that are interesting

good development of the story

lovely relationship between Bailey and her sister

Grey’s Anatomy vibe

Trigger warnings: n/a