Alright latest Dmitri Antonov x Jim Hopper thought is….
Slight AU where the boys grew up in the eighties together and they’d drive out to a private place in Jim’s truck, sit in the bed of it, and share cigarettes. Dmitri leaning his head on Jim’s shoulder and watching the stars with him while Jim had one arm around him, keeping him close while they talk occasionally but mostly just enjoy each other’s company.
Oh, while I Melt With You by Modern English plays softly from the radio in the truck.
Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?
Peter: I’m sitting in a pool of blood.
Operator: Is it your blood?
Peter: Yes, I think so.
Operator: Do you know where it’s coming from?
Peter: Probably the stab wound.
Operator: Have you been stabbed?
Peter: Oh yeah, definitely.
First finished reroot! It’s a bit too thick, but it turned out nice. I like it better than the mess of hot pink she had before. Francesca’s had a bit of base body customization as well, a few spots of pink where skin shows, such as her paw pads and torso bits (tumblr doesn’t seem to like thenippleword). Still not complete, and I’m out of sealant, so she’ll have to wait a while, but gods I love working with the hair.
Almost every doll I own with Mattel hair feels gross and sticky now.
We haul ass through the tall grass and I try to ignore the ache in my legs. I can't count the number of times I've had to run for my life but I can tell you having Marco at my back makes it a little easier at least. You'd think with all this running I would be in better shape, that my chest wouldn't be heaving as much and my lungs wouldn't be burning; but panic is a fickle thing and no matter how many monsters chase me in my lifetime I know it's going to scatter my brain and fry my lungs long before any actual physical exhaustion will.
Trees fly past us as Marco and I race through the dark woods, branches and twigs snagging at our clothes. They were just like hands, grabbing at his jeans and my flannel, trying to slow us down. I'd say Mother Nature has it out for us tonight, but this is my everyday; and running through the woods in the dead of night shouldn't really be a surprise to me anymore.
My revolver thuds against my hip as we sprint; my lungs burning with the frigid night air stinging my throat. I don't look back, but Marco's harsh breaths behind me are a small comfort.
The guttural howl gaining on us isn’t.
The ghoul is gangling and large; the dense forest doing little to deter its heaving body. It could snap off its own leg on one of these treacherous roots and still find some sort of a reason to chase us.
I shake my head. Me. It could still want to chase me.
We break through the trees into a meadow, bathing everything in blue. Glowing moonlight that should be gentle and calming; but the shadows the moon casts are long, and they reach out toward me as I stupidly hazard a glance back.
I can't see anything in the inky blackness behind us; but I know the damn thing is still in there, still hunting.
Marco grabs my shoulder and twists me back around, shoving me forward roughly as he pivots to face behind us. His sleek nine millimeter Smith and Wesson rings out. Judging by the shriek, it hit its mark. The ghoul hisses, but we both know that's not stopping it and Marco shouts at me to keep moving.
You don't have to tell me twice.
We haul ass through the tall grass and I try to ignore the ache in my legs. I can't count the number of times I've had to run for my life but I can tell you having Marco at my back makes it a little easier at least. You'd think with all this running I would be in better shape, that my chest wouldn't be heaving as much and my lungs wouldn't be burning; but panic is a fickle thing and no matter how many monsters chase me in my lifetime I know it's going to scatter my brain and fry my lungs long before any actual physical exhaustion will.
The ghoul crashes through the branches and splinters a tree in half, but I keep my eyes trained at the waiting gap in the underbrush up ahead. If we can just get to the other set of trees, maybe it'll be dense enough to at least out maneuver the damn thing.
My breath shoots out of my body in puffs of frost and I'm burning, but we keep going. We have to. Marco's right behind me and I can feel his determination, it's like a pulse beneath my skin, and we're almost there, we can almost make it and I just –
A second sturdy gray body slams into my side and I choke on air as I'm sent flying. Everything feels slow as my head cracks on the ground, brain rattling in my skull. I hear the ghoul howl, followed by two echoes, and I would curse if I had air in my chest.
I forgot ghouls hunt in packs.
Stupid, Jean. You're so fucking stupid.
I see Marco open his mouth, lips forming around my name, but my heartbeat is too loud. I can't pinpoint his voice.
The vision of Marco running towards me, lumbering ghouls on his heels, is the last thing I see before everything goes black.
I'm roused awake by a roar that feels too close and it shakes the ground I'm sprawled out on. It's sonorous. Deep. Angry.
Marco.
I rasp out his name but the only response I get is some residual snarling. Shit. He must have panicked when my face hit dirt. My mouth tastes like grass and copper when the black finally seeps out of my vision and my blinking is slow, languid. I definitely cut my lip on the way down and there's a stickiness to my forehead that keeps my nest of hair matted to my brow. Must've gotten a scrape there, too.
When my eyes finally adjust, I see the trees in the distance again and despite my pounding head my memories start to piece together.
There must have at least been three of those fucking things before I blacked out. The stench of rotting flesh greets my hazy mind and I see chunks of gray flesh, bloodied and eviscerated, scattered in a circle around us.
At least that's one thing we don't have to worry about.
I pull myself up to my knees too quickly and my churning stomach threatens to spill out my mouth as the world spins. My arm shoots out to steady myself and I feel the firm muscle of Marco's haunches, tense and covered with thick, dark fur.
The soft denim of his jeans hangs around his hips in tatters, but his coat is wrapped snugly around my shoulders, the material soft and comforting. I catch a whiff of cheap, soapy detergent from the laundromat and feel dizzy from it. Only Marco Bodt could find time to wrap me in his fucking jacket in the middle of a fight before turning into a huge, fuzzy monster.
My chest aches, and not just because of my bruised ribs.
Blearily, I look up and notice Marco's huge, amber eyes are pointed toward the tree line. Something is still there. His large ears are back against his head and his snout is in a menacing snarl, teeth bared and dripping.
He's ready to fight, whatever it is, and I pull his coat around me more tightly, gripping Marco's leg to hoist myself up.
There's an old hag hovering at the wood's edge, and as I stagger to my feet I notice her watching us, her deep-set eyes wide. Her red hair is a tangled mess around her face and her gnarled fingers clutch tightly to her long green cloak, holding it close to her chest.
Banshee.
At least she's not wailing. Good. Means we're not gonna die soon. I'll take whatever small miracles I can get at this point.
From what I can tell the rest of the ghouls are gone, too. Aside from the cut on my forehead, it doesn't look like anyone got hurt but me.
Small miracles.
Marco's nose twitches, hot steam blowing from his nostrils, and I know he sees the banshee as an added threat, with her hunched back and long, fidgeting fingers. His growl is low and menacing, sending a shiver up my spine. It shakes me to my core, freezes my blood. The banshee steps back further into the trees and I feel the tension in Marco's legs ease somewhat.
My own legs are shaking as I grip tightly to the fur of his that I can reach, digging my fingers into his side.
Banshees aren't inherently evil. They're messengers of pain, of loss, and I can see it drawn into the deep wrinkles of her face only half-hidden by her long green hood in the dark. She's haggard. Tired. Thin. She hovers at the edge of the forest; long, pointed fingers splayed out on a low hanging branch. She's not here to hurt us, but she can probably smell the blood, and like a moth she wants to fly closer and touch it, to grab the immortal promise my body offers.
Fuck this curse, honestly. Even things that are relatively passive want to eat my fucking insides out so they can become immortal: no exorcisms, no weapons, no magic. Not even time can stop you if you don't want it to once you get your hands on the elixir flowing through my veins.
Doesn't work for me, though. I'm just the container for their eternity juice, and the amount of people who have been after me is staggering.
I can't remember how long I've been running, but now that I'm twenty-one it feels like I'm constantly out of breath, like the air just won't reach my lungs anymore even though I'm so close to being free.
But if I'm the promising, everlasting light of immortality, Marco is the flame that burns anyone who gets too close. The fire of their hubris. Whether he's a massive beast or just a guy with a Smith and Wesson, Marco is my protector. My bodyguard. My best friend. In a better world, maybe he would be more.
I can't count the number of times I wish we had been born somewhere else, been something else. Where Marco wasn't cursed and I wasn't a time bomb. Maybe I'd be on a cruise with my family and he'd be working on the boat and then we'd fall in love and have a sweet summer romance. Maybe we'd both be in college, rooming with each other and sharing meals and sweaters and falling in love to the sounds of Hall & Oats on a jukebox. Or maybe I'd be some stuck-up rich kid and he'd be my pool boy. Can you just imagine it? Marco in some dumb polo shirt smelling of chamomile and chlorine instead of old soap and wet dog.
I always thought I'd die before I let someone get under my skin like he has, but here we are. He's just another person for me to drag down when I inevitably fail to live up to expectations.
Or fail to live in general. Whichever comes first.
The banshee won't come close as long as Marco hangs over me like this – standing on his haunches and pushing eight feet, his jaws wide and dripping with his long claws outstretched and ready. He's huge and fast and his dark fur is speckled with even darker spots and he's terrifying. I'm still not quite used to it.
I'm not sure I ever will be.
My hands shake as I reach into my holster and my revolver feels heavy in my hands. Cold. Reliable. I use Marco's leg to steady me but my aim is all wonky and my finger flinches on the trigger. My shot misses the banshee by at least three feet but the sound is enough to send her fleeing and her frantic shuffling disappears into the trees.
I take a deep breath and rest my cool forehead against Marco's warm fur, closing my eyes for a minute. I still feel so fucking dizzy and my legs are jello, but at least we aren't in danger anymore.
I mean, we're still in danger because I'm still being hunted by almost everything that moves, but not in like, active danger.
Small miracles.
Marco lands on his front two paws with a surprisingly delicate thwump before sniffing the ground around my feet, making sure nothing else is in the area tracking us.
I roll my eyes. His concern is unfounded in my opinion, but I know if I say it he'll rumble at me and lick my face with his stupidly large tongue. The last thing I need is him slobbering on me. I already need to take a shower and I sure as hell don't want to wipe dog spit on my last clean shirt. I knew I shouldn't have worn the Fleetwood Mac one today.
The dull blue stone around Marco's neck is like a scapular – runes on the front and back – but rather than keeping the devil away, it keeps it in, draws it in close enough to burn Marco with its hellish fire. It's a fire I know he can control, but it doesn't stop the ache in my chest every time I see it. The lump in my throat subsides only a little when he turns his huge doofy head toward me, his cold wet nose poking my chest. I catch the concern in his wide, amber eyes and can't help my smirk. Even as a gigantic wolf he's still the same, still warm and gentle and compassionate. I cradle his giant jaw and scratch the scruff behind his ears, watching as his tail thumps the ground lightly.
“Stop worrying, you dork,” I chide him, “And let's get out of here.”
