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phantomphangphucker · 4 years ago

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Phic Phight - The Weird Little Shit

For: @darks-ink

A class discussion held by Wes about Danny’s weirdness was never not going to be an absolute cluster fuck

Wes smacks the board, “alright, fuckers, thank you for coming-”.

“We’re only here because we lost a bet”.

“Shut up, Dash. You shouldn’t have to be strong-armed into learning the truth”. Everyone rolls their eyes at Wes pretty actively. “Anyway, since you all refuse to see or even listen to the truth of what Danny Fenton is. Instead, this. Weird shit about Danny Fenton one oh one”.

Dash snorts, “now this I can get behind, little shit weighs, like, ten pounds or some shit”. Wes points at him aggressively, “exactly”. Scribbling down ‘weighs less than a sack of potatoes' on the board. Star throwing in her two cents, “yeah and I’ve seen Sam just pick him up under her arm and run off”.

Brittney smacks her desk, “half the time he makes food directly in home ec it’s fucking cold, which ew, but also really weird”.

“Oh yeah he does that with his drinks too. He whole ass ‘drank’ a solid chunk of ice, major power move honestly”.

“And remember that snowball fight? I don’t think he ever actually made any snowballs, he just kept acquiring them”.

“Kid made for a great air conditioner when all the windows got stuck shut though; guy runs cold as fuck”.

Wes is just aggressively scribbling more down with a mildly manic grin.

“We should totally invite him to parties so he can keep the fucking beer cold”.

Dash laughs loudly and smacks Dale on the arm, “now there’s an idea!”, deadpanning, “still not inviting freaky Fenton though”. Dale chuckles very awkwardly.

“Well he’s an ice sculptor so that’s not surprising”.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘ice sculptor’? He clearly lifts weights in his spare time”.

“Oh yeah, he lowkey picked up the back end of my car once”.

“James, your car is a tiny little piece of shit. I could lift that damn thing”.

“Hey”.

“Anyway. Like I was saying, people who handle cold shit all the time, you know, like ice sculptors, usually have cold hands”.

“He lifts weights! Not ice sculpts!”.

“Here I though he was a painter”.

“Why the fuck would he be doing that?”.

“Well he’s always randomly splattered in green paint”.

Basically everyone pauses to look at Hanna. Kwan blinking, “the green is ectoplasm, duh”. Emilie shrugging and nodding, “everyone knows that”.

“Well I thought it was paint”.

“Well you’re clearly stupid”.

“Shut up”.

Dash waves everyone off, “so clearly not a painter or weight lifter, because have you seen his goddamn noodle arms?”.

“He lifts weights!”.

“No he doesn’t!”.

“Who cares! Have you seen his dad? Of course he’s a strong little shit! What really gets me is him getting out of locked rooms”.

“Oh he whole ass climbs out windows and shit”.

“All that ecto that gets on his skin makes his hands all sticky, hence why he can climb the side of buildings”.

“When the heck did you see him doing that?”.

“Oh I totally saw him showing off knife swallowing to some elementary kids”.

“I think he hangs out and does drugs or some shit on the roof”.

“So he climbs up the school building to do drugs? Why wouldn’t he just use the hidden steps like a normal person?”,

“I’m pretty sure the kitchen staff actually include him in their budget for missing utensils cause he eats so many of them”.

“Julie, no one’s saying Danny’s close to normal. Also kids got an iron stomach damn”.

Dash has to jump in there, “I totally made him eat my underwear once”. Earning him a round of judging glances. “What? I didn’t expect him to actually do it. I was planning to mock him for pussying out. But then the little fucker went and did it”.

“Power move”.

“Shut up”.

“You fed your underwear to a guy who builds guns?”.

“Excuse me but what?”.

“Maybe him doing so much dangerous shit is why his heartbeats all slow and stuff”.

“Again, excuse?”.

“Well we totally tested everyone’s heart rates and breathing and shit and he’s super low. He blamed his corn supper”.

“That’s stupid”.

“His corn supper had teeth, Todd”.

“Back to the gun making because what?”.

“FentonWorks is a weapon company what do you expect?”.

“James, he made a shotgun out of a pencil, two toothpicks, an elastic band, and a snapped in half penny. The thing was magically welded together”.

“You can’t weld a fucking pencil. It’s wood, moron”.

“Well it was goddamn wielded”.

Wes grumbles, “yeah he welded my binder zipper together once, stupid pyrokinesis”. Star glares at him, “I thought this wasn’t about your crazy conspiracy crap?”. Wes glares at her like she’s stupid.

“Ignoring Wes being crazy again. You guys do know he has laser beam lipstick right? He could totally weld stuff with that”.

“Didn’t he have a tail that one day?”.

“Huh?”.

“That lipstick of his is the plasma peach one right? Because girl I so need some, it makes amazing blush”.

“Oh no a dog just crawled under his shirt. I think he was trying to hide the treats or some shit?”.

“Fucking where? in his shoulder blades?!?”.

“Oh my god that’s right, he can totally pop all his joints out so probably yeah”.

“Since when could he do that? Better yet, why? Fucking ow”.

“His fingers also glow green when he cracks them”.

“Right Right I remember that! We also got him under a black light, totally wild”.

“I wish I could pop out my joints randomly”.

“He probably just eats glow sticks and they leaked into his joints and shit”.

“THAT MAKES NO SENSE”.

“Who cares, take him to a rave”.

“Oh my god yes he does amazing makeup”.

“Wait Fenton does makeup now too?”.

Wes points at Dash, “he’s got to cover up the dead parlour to his skin somehow”. With half the class shouting, “HE’S NOT DEAD”.

Emilie pursing her lips, “but what if he was, that would be hot”.

“EXCUSE ME!?!”.

“Oh get off your vanilla basic bitch high horse, Karen”.

Wes rubs his forehead, “not this shit again”. Smacking the board, “weird shit about Fenton, people! Not y’alls weird necrophilia fetish!”.

“Hey that’s just Emilie”.

Jesse looks genuinely offended, “bitch what? Have you seen a ghost? That glow? Mmmmmh yeah, daddy”.

Star chokes, “oh my god. I love our town”.

Wes sighs, “I should just start blocking you people from seeing ghosts at all. Cover those eyes until you stop BEING FUCKING BLIND”.

“Eyes never stop seeing, they just get covered”.

“NO! NO! BAD!“.

“That weirdly reminds me that Danny can totally walk with his eyes closed”.

“That’s weird how?”.

“How ‘bout you fucking try it then!”.

Dash shrugs, “well his eyes go glowy green all the time so no surprise he can just see through his eyelids”. More than a few people look to him, “why did you not add that to the weird list?”.

“Because it’s not weird”.

“Dash... do you know anyone with goddamn glowing eyes... besides ghosts”.

“Uhhh the entire Defect Quartet”.

“Excuse?!?”.

“Honestly him biting open pop-cans is weirder”.

“Oh god yeah, that’s horrible to hear”.

“He dead ass cut his lip up once doing that and just... kept doing it. There was blood all over his neck”.

“Why the heck didn’t anyone take an edgy aesthetic photo of that? Goddamn”.

“I feel like this is more an off-the-books class on discovering that Danny might actually be hot”.

“You wanna say Fenton’s hot again? I’ll goddamn choke you, motherfucker”.

“Do it you fake ass bear dom”.

A couple of people shuffle out of their desks and away when Dash actually throws a punch at Jasper.

“On a side note, once saw Danny sleeping in a trash can”.

“How is that weird”.

“How isn’t it? It’s a trashcan”.

“And he’s trash, your point”.

“YOU'RE GONNA HAVETA HIT HARDER IF YOU WANT TO MAKE AN IMPRESSION ON YOUR TWINK BOY! HE’S DURABLE AS FUCK!”.

“FUCK YOU!!!”.

“Huh, he did survive falling from the ceiling multiple times and that drowning once”.

“Fucker wasn’t drowned, he can breathe underwater”.

“Excuse me?”.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?!”.

Dash snapping his head around, “IM TEACHING HIM A LESSON!”. Jasper just smirks, “I DON’T NEED BREATH PLAY TIPS FROM YOU!”. Dash tries punching him again.

“This is ridiculous, I mean really, Danny would be the dom”. That silenced the entire room.

“What?”.

“Come on, he ate Skulker once ‘cause the guy was coping him an attitude”.

“DANNY EATS GHOSTS?!?”.

Wes turns around and slams his head on the board, “God fuck this is such a cluster fuck”.

“You’re hosting this and holding us hostage here”.

“YOU’RE NOT MY HOSTAGES! YALL LOST A BET!”.

“Oh suck my toes”.

“WHAT?!”.

“While Wes loses his mind for the fifth time this week, what we’ve got is he’s icy as shit, likes welding and makeup and ice sculptures and weight lifting, weighs fuck all, just vores goddamn everything, and climbs shit weirdly well?”.

“You’re forgetting all the glow shit”.

“HA! Glowing shit”.

“Fuck Todd, you are a dumbass”.

“IN SHORT LOCAL ELDRITCH TEEN BUT HE’S STILL NOT A GODDAMN GHOST WES!”

“FUCK YOU! IT’S SO GODDAMN OBVIOUS HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE LIKE THIS OHMYGOD!”.

Just then Danny Fenton opens up the door, the class going dead silent while he glances around slowly. Him looking to the whiteboard, then slowly back to his fellow teens, speaking “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no”, while slowly backing out and closing the door.

At first, no one says anything before Star snickers, “pffft”; the entire classroom bursting out into laughter directly afterwards.

Wes turning around and smacking his head on the board once again, “why. Just. Why me”.

END.

Prompt: Wacky reveals (ex: Danny drying up too quickly bc intangibility, Danny's drink stays cool way too long, people's electronic devices are always more charged when they've been near Danny, etc)

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

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Kingdom |Prologue: Catching Fire|

And so we begin :) please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed!

Pairing: Juyeon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

Triggers: death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 1.8k

A spark of betrayal lights the flame of a war.

Tag list [ dm or send an ask to be added! ]: @itsapapisongo @dearseungie @chrisbahng @reverienostalgia @wingkkun @juyeo-on

TBZ Masterlist | Kingdom

Changmin can’t breathe. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t even think over the pounding of his own heart as he strains helplessly against the chains that bind his arms. They dig into the stinging cuts on his skin, iron burning the magic that seeps from his blood.

How could everything have come to this, just days before Juyeon’s coronation, the coronation that was supposed to bring his kingdom to peace?

He struggles in his bonds, chains that bind the remaining magic in his veins, erasing the humming thrum that usually bubbles below his skin. It leaves him cold, empty, helpless as he strains against harsh metal imbued with spells he knows but can’t break.

His magic is gone.

Gone.

And the simmer in his blood isn’t the only thing that’s gone silent.

Bom steps around his kneeling body, her footsteps the only sound in the still air. Changmin raises his head to meet her solemn eyes, gazing down at him with a stony pity flashing in the darkness.

Changmin never liked Bom, never got over the crawling of his skin whenever she brushed by a little too close. She always seemed too cold, too uptight, and several times, he wondered how she was even ordained as a mage. Even now as he stares, refusing to back down even when he knows he can’t escape, his mouth twists into an expression of the faintest disgust, disgust for her single-mindedness that has plagued him, the Board’s gray mage, for the past five years.

“Why?” he finally asks, voice hoarse with remnants of shouts, cries of surprise and betrayal as he tried to fend away the mage standing before him. “Why would you do this?”

She’s opening her mouth, probably about to give some pithy reply to make his blood boil, but the shrine door opens with a crash and a bang before she can start. Another mage walks out, ivory robes stained with red.

High Mage Jung Sungkyu of the Ivory Kingdom. Changmin’s former mentor and a father figure.

Covered in blood.

Changmin blinks once. Twice.

The red doesn’t disappear.

So none of this is a hallucination, a nightmare he’ll soon wake up from.

Yes, this is the mage from whom he learned, the mage who bound him and his queen together in their promise, the mage whom he looked up to for so long. That kind, powerful mage is the same, the very same as the one walking toward him with bloodstained robes and an expression of pain on his face.

Blood stains.

Changmin doesn’t even want to think about what that means for those who didn’t manage to escape the shrine, for the guards who defended him, for the queen who told him to flee, the queen he left behind.

Oh, my queen…

A mask falls over Changmin’s features, and he stops struggling against the chains now cutting into his skin. His eyes bore into those of the mage walking forward, piercing holes into his skin until the man can’t even hold his gaze anymore and drops his head instead.

“You thought you could escape and warn your friends, didn’t you?” Bom asks, eyes impassive. Her lips curve slightly, coldly, blade-like under the crescent moon. Iron. “Don’t worry, young gray mage. We’ll pass on the message soon enough. We’re just not ready, not quite yet.”

We’re not ready.

We…

“We” doesn’t only include Bom and the high mage. This is something bigger.

We.

Changmin swallows, trying not to go dizzy from the realization. With every word that falls from his lips, he only becomes more certain that he’s right.

“You’re working with the princess.”

Pawns and kings, how can he warn Juyeon and his sister when he’s miles away, stuck in magic-binding chains, and, judging from the knife at Bom’s waist, about to die?

Stall. Stall, keep stalling. “How could you betray the orders like this?” he asks, desperation dripping from his lips. “You swore loyalty to the Board above all, not to your kingdom – why would you do this?”

“I believe the Board’s balance lies in supporting the ivory queen,” Bom says, a faint but manic glint of excitement entering her eyes. It makes Changmin’s skin crawl. “I am sworn to protect the balance, no? This is what I believe is best.”

“The princess is not the queen,” Changmin snaps, brain still running. How can he do anything without his magic? “She has no title other than that of a royal pawn.”

“Oh, she’ll be queen, soon enough.” Bom smiles, a curve of the lips that feels more like a knife blade than a grin.

What does that –

Oh.

Oh, no.

No.

His queen…

His queen must be dead.

Changmin’s head snaps upward, the gold insignia around his neck thumping painfully against his chest. Desperately, he looks at his old mentor.

He wouldn’t have killed his queen, would he? Might have subdued, might have knocked them out, but – he couldn’t have killed –

The mage refuses to meet his eyes.

Red clouds Changmin’s vision, mixes with the black of night and the cold light of the moon overhead. A scream builds in his chest that fights to leaves his lips as his head drops once more.

Lost in pain, barely able to breathe, he almost doesn’t feel the gold at his chest, the carved queen and king that always rest at the base of his throat. As he breathes, though, clearing his mind, the insignia dragging his neck to the ground catches his attention.

It’s charmed as it always has been, never to leave his side until death. The gold symbol, a queen and king standing next to each other on a miniature chessboard, is a gift passed down from one gray mage to another, one of only three keys that exist to unlock a kingdom’s crown jewels. It hasn’t left his neck since the day it was given to him by his predecessor when he was ordained at fifteen, one of the youngest to take on the mantle of gray mage.

They will take it when he dies. Undoubtedly they will – it holds magic, magic they will need for whatever it is they’re planning. At the very least, they wouldn’t leave such a powerful relic to be burned with his body.

So what are they planning?

“What do you plan to do, when your princess is a queen?” Changmin tries to make his voice sound as disbelieving as possible, hopes they can’t hear the shaking in his words. He’s rewarded with a twitch of Bom’s eye. “Surely you don’t think the ivory citizens will accept her, not when their current rulers are so loved?”

“That won’t matter.” Bom’s grin makes her look ghoulish under the moonlight. “Not when the entire Board is under our control.”

Changmin’s heart almost stops. Never, not once in the history of the Board, not even when the high orders had to intervene and send down the current laws of the land, has one kingdom attempted to completely take over the other. There have been revenge plots and assassination plans, even one notable attempt by the former ruby bloodline to murder the onyx royals, but nothing… nothing of this scale.

He needs to warn Juyeon.

“An ambitious plot,” he chokes out, all of his former nonchalance gone. The insignia quivers at his throat, a reminder of what will be lost if the ivory princess succeeds. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Onyx Kingdom next.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Bom dismisses him with a flick of her hand, ready to unsheathe her knife. “You’ll be dead then, anyway.”

But Changmin doesn’t hear her. He focuses on the knowledge that they’ll be going to the Onyx Kingdom, that they’ll probably take his insignia with them.

A plan springs into his mind, fully-formed and wholly impossible. Impossible because he needs magic, magic that’s been stolen from him by the chains that bind his wrists.

Wait.

He closes his eyes, blocks out the sound of Bom’s droning voice and the cold twinkling of stars overhead.

And focuses on the faintest thrumming of magic beneath his skin.

His magic isn’t gone. It’s subdued, yes, but it isn’t gone. There’s some left, simmering in his blood, and if he concentrates it, it will be just enough for…

A smirk threatens to form on Changmin’s lips as he strains, invisibly, against the chains. Magic coalesces under his control, forming a small but warm stream as it travels through his blood, coming to a stop at his chest, just beneath the insignia resting against his skin.

Find Juyeon.

“I see,” Changmin says blandly, not having heard a single word of what Bom just said. “Interesting.”

Find Juyeon.

An eyebrow raises. “Interesting, that I’m about to kill you?”

Changmin blinks. “Hasn’t it been obvious from the start?”

Find Juyeon.

The magic in his chest grows warmer, brighter, as Bom’s face twists into an embarrassed scowl. “Any last words, then?” she snaps.

The bland look stays on Changmin’s face, even though the bejeweled knife in Bom’s hands sends shivers up his spine. “No, not to you.”

Find Juyeon.

The insignia sears against his chest with heat. His skin must be burning – he can’t smell cooking flesh just yet, though it’s probably only a matter of time – but he grits his teeth and bears it. It means it’s working.

It means it’s working.

Silver flashes down, the knife arcing towards his neck. Changmin shuts his eyes, prays, thinks those two words over and over again, find Juyeon –

“Wait.”

The blade stops at his word. He blinks his eyes open, looking up not at Bom, but at the High Mage who’s frozen to the spot. It’s one question, a question whose answer has only been implied, an answer that he needs to know. “Is my queen alive?”

Silence follows his question, which only confirms what he knew but dreaded. And even though it feels like his heart is tearing apart, even though tears are beginning to in his eyes for the second time tonight, Changmin musters the strength to use that brief silence to speak those two words once more.

Find Juyeon.

“I see,” he finally says, staring fully at the old mage. High Mage Jung, his former mentor, one of the most powerful high mages, looks smaller than Changmin has ever believed him to be – small, weak, helpless as he gazes helplessly at the ground, robes stained with blood. “Well, you may proceed.”

“It’s not a question of whether you’ll permit it,” Bom snarls, bringing his attention back to her. “You’re at our mercy now.”

Find Juyeon.

This time, as the insignia sears its mark into his flesh, Changmin allows a smirk to spread across his face. “I suppose that’s what you might like to think.”

Bom’s snarl only grows harsher in the moonlight, but unlike before, Changmin doesn’t feel fear at the ghoulish twist of her lips. Instead, he takes a last comfort in the harsh burn of the insignia resting against his skin as the knife comes slicing down.

My queen, I’ll see you again, soon.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for changmin and me please don’t kill me)

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litwitlady · 4 years ago

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Never Have I Ever (5/?)

Read the Board Game Verse on AO3.

The next Friday night Michael shows up early and with a list of demands. ‘Put on some warm clothes and grab a couple of blankets you don’t mind getting dirty. We’re taking this show on the road.’ He heads into Alex’s kitchen to pilfer the fridge, and Alex doesn’t bother asking questions, he just does as told.

Outside at Michael’s truck, they toss the blankets and whatever Michael took from his kitchen into the bed. ‘Your firepit? Where are we going?’

‘The desert. Our old spot. Hop in.’ A little thrill shivers down Alex’s spine as he climbs into the Chevy. In all their years of each other, spending the night in the desert has only ever ended one way.

Their drive out is twenty minutes of quiet, radio softly playing between them. Michael’s window is down despite the chill, and Alex enjoys the way the wind dances through his hair, making a mess of his curls. Every couple of miles, Michael glances over at him with a promise-painted smile, the same way he used to when they were seventeen.

They turn off the highway, tires kicking up dust clouds behind them. Beyond the mountains the sun is setting, pink and purple and orange flames licking at the first stars daring to blink down at them. The desert around them looks the same as it ever does with pockets of snow still unmelted from the season’s first snowfall. Eventually, two familiar mesquite trees appear and it’s like coming home, both of them breathing a little easier.

Michael puts the truck in park. ‘This place never changes.’ He slides out of the Chevy and before Alex has even set foot on solid ground, he’s managed to float everything out of the bed and onto the desert floor. ‘You want to sit on the ground or would the tailgate be easier?’

He looks nervous and that makes Alex nervous. ‘On the ground, near the fire. Just need a hand getting down there.’ He reaches out to Michael, asking for help but also offering comfort for whatever anxiety is biting at both their heels. Michael helps him onto the blanket and plops down beside him, the fire close enough to keep the encroaching sting of autumn winds at bay.

Scattered around them is an array of food. Everything from paninis oozing melted cheese to a handmade Greek salad from a recipe Michael had found at Isobel’s house while rummaging through her cookbooks. ‘I might have gone a bit overboard, but in my defense, I skipped lunch and was starving.’

Alex is already halfway through one of the paninis, eyes closed in satisfaction. ‘This is delicious.’ Michael makes a mental note to keep the panini maker he’d borrowed from Max. It’s not like Max ever uses it anyway.

Once they’ve eaten their way around the blanket, Michael gets back up and removes a large black case from his truck. ‘There’s a reason I wanted to come out here tonight.’ He winks down at Alex. ‘And no, it’s not the reason you’ve been thinking since I first mentioned the desert.’ Alex looks away quickly, hiding the disappointment that suddenly floods his face.

Michael doesn’t notice, too busy pulling a large telescope from the velvet lining inside the opened case. ‘Mars is brighter than it’s been in years this month. I’ve been itching to get out here and have a look. Isobel gifted me the telescope on our shared birthday in June. I was going to pawn it.’ He shrugs and peeks his eye through the eyepiece, adjusting the fingerscope per the instructions he’s found on his phone.

Alex looks up at the night sky and finds Mars with his naked eye. It is extraordinarily bright, a glowing pink orb rising through the inky black expanse of space. And when Michael finally captures it in the lens of the telescope, he gasps and grabs at Alex’s arm. ‘You can see so much detail. All the pockmarks and craters. And the dust looks almost orange. It’s amazing. Look.’

He drags the telescope closer to Alex so he doesn’t have to move much, checking through the eyepiece one last time to focus directly on the red star. Leaning back on his heels, Michael motions at Alex to take his place and turns his own eyes upward. They are both looking at the same star but he also knows they are seeing something entirely different. He huffs out a sharp laugh which draws Alex’s eye away from the telescope. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. Just metaphors and nonsense. The ways that perspectives get so warped and are so hard to understand when everyone doesn’t have the same telescope.’ Alex gives him a funny look and Michael laughs outright. ‘I’ve been hanging around Max too much.’

Alex shakes his head gently. ‘No. I think I get what you’re saying. For a long time, we’ve wanted the same thing, but we’ve been coming at it from our own messy angles. I’ve often thought we were similar to the codes I break. We’re on the same page, but written in a language the other needs help translating.’ Michael nods at him, smiling sweet.

They spend an hour searching through the various stars and distant galaxies before a growing ache in Alex’s chest pushes him to ask a question he’s been holding inside since they decided to work on their friendship weeks ago. ‘One day you’ll be able to find your star. The one you’ve been searching for since you crawled from that pod. And you’ll figure out how to finish building your ship.’ He pauses to collect himself, already feeling the emotion in his chest threatening to overwhelm him. ��One day, you’ll be able to go home.’ His eyes start to burn with unshed tears, but he keeps going, meeting Michael’s gaze with determination and readying the fortress around his heart he was so sure he wouldn’t need anymore. ‘Is that still what you want?’

Michael reaches up and swipes at the first tear that falls from the corner of Alex’s eye. ‘I found my star a long time ago. And I’m not going anywhere without you.’

Alex drops his eyes to his hands. ‘I have no right to ask that of you. I know that. Not after all the leaving I did.’ He tugs nervously at the hem of his shirt, hands starting to shake with the cold. ‘But I’m never going anywhere without you ever again. I promise.’

‘I know.’ Michael grabs an extra blanket and wraps it tight around Alex. ‘So what’s tonight’s game? Didn’t see you toss anything into the bed when we were leaving.’

They both lean back against the Chevy’s tire. Alex stretches the blanket around Michael’s shoulders so that they are sharing more than just the woven wool’s warmth. ‘How about the classic drinking game, Never Have I Ever? Sans alcohol but with a new twist.’ He grins, lips sharpening at the edges and eyes darkening with dare. ‘Instead of taking a drink, you have to kiss the other person.’

Michael snorts. ‘So we’re just soundly saying goodbye to the friends experiment then?’

‘No. Platonic kisses only. No kissing on the mouth and no use of tongue.’ Alex hears the bullshit in his words and knows Michael does too. His nerves return and he begins to second guess himself. ‘Or we can play like normal. There’s still plenty of wine left. Or not at all. I’m happy to just sit here with you too.’

‘That’s okay. I like the new rules. Not much of a wine guy anyway. Who goes first?’

‘Me.’ Alex sits up a little straighter and spends a fair amount of time considering his first move. ‘Never have I ever used my telekinesis to do literally anything.’ He follows the statement with a cheeky grin, clearly quite proud of himself.

‘Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? That’s how we’re going to play?’ Alex tries to suppress the manic giggle that bubbles up in his throat but loses the fight pretty quickly. Michael shakes his head. ‘Have a placement preference?’

‘Nope. I’m looking forward to wherever you choose.’ He blushes and struggles to meet Michael’s eye, muscles tensing in anticipation once he feels Michael shift against him.

A breeze nestles between them, but neither of them notices. The cool air doing absolutely nothing to assuage the heat pulsing between them. Michael presses his lips to Alex’s temple, less a kiss than a remembrance of every kiss that has come before. Alex closes his eyes and lets this new memory burn a spot next to all the others.

It’s strange. Michael has kissed him goodbye dozens of times over the past few weeks. None of them half as affecting as this barely glancing touch.

Abruptly, Michael pulls away. ‘Never have I ever gone to war.’

Alex reopens his eyes at the sound of Michael’s voice. ‘If we keep this up, we’re going to dig ourselves into a hole, Guerin. One we can’t get out of.’ He brings his fingers up to the sleeve of Michael’s shirt. ‘You told me to dress warm when all you’re wearing is this thin t-shirt.’ Michael watches as Alex slowly guides the sleeve up over the top of his arm. Alex bows his head far enough to leave a trail of rough, chapped kisses where the bony end of his collarbone meets his shoulder.

Michael’s breath hitches the instant Alex doesn’t stop with one single kiss. The dry scrape of his lips sending goosebumps down to his toes, his heartbeat a staccato rhythm echoing throughout his entire body. ‘That doesn’t feel at all platonic.’ His voice is low and strained, edged with the desire to flatten Alex hard against the wool blanket beneath them.

Alex smiles and smacks his shoulder with one last loud kiss. ‘I guess that depends on your perspective. Never have I ever stepped foot on another planet.’

‘How about I share a little bit of my perspective with you?’ He scoots impossibly nearer to Alex, hand cupping his cheek and tilting their mouths dangerously closer. Their breaths mingle together although Alex is almost certain he’s not breathing at all anymore. Michael’s lips hover over Alex’s, the anticipation building to a crescendo they’ve both been waiting for since five Friday nights ago at the Wild Pony. And it doesn’t matter how many times they’ve kissed before. Because there’s never, not once been this much hope waiting for them on the other side.

When Michael’s lips finally land on Alex’s skin, they narrowly miss his mouth. Instead they fall at the corner of his lips, a sliver away from touching home. Alex exhales, half-groaning with the comedown. He’d been sure, so sure this was their moment. Swallowing down what he really wants to say, Alex turns to Michael just as he pulls away. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘I think this was the best idea.’ He tilts his head and smiles at Alex so beyond innocent that Alex yelps when Michael pushes his shoulders roughly onto the blanket and slides effortlessly between Alex’s welcoming thighs. Alex barely has time to take another breath before Michael’s mouth steals it away, sucking at his bottom lip so desperately Alex has to lift his head to chase after Michael’s urgency.

The kiss is needy, both of them grasping at each other like they’re dangling off a cliff holding on with nothing more than their fingertips. Michael’s hands tug at Alex’s hair, jagged, work-worn nails digging into the softness of his scalp without apology. And Alex fills the gaps between Michael’s ribs with his fingers, feeling Michael’s lungs expand with each new, shuddering breath. Eventually twisting Michael’s t-shirt so tight in his fists it rips at the seams.

One kiss becomes two becomes twenty until neither knows whose tongue is whose anymore. Michael’s shirt is long gone and Alex’s pants are shoved halfway down his thighs before either of them has the sense to stop. ‘Your skin is like ice, Alex. It’s too cold out here for this, even with the fire.’ His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. Leaning back on his knees, he helps Alex back into his jeans, despite his ardent protests that he’s not too cold, and grabs the remaining blanket to wrap around them. Even with two thick, wool blankets, the night air is still harsh enough to make both of them shiver. ‘Maybe we should go back to your place.’

‘No. Please not yet.’ Alex shifts closer to Michael, joining their bodies wherever he can reach. Laying his head on Michael’s chest, he hums in satisfaction at the steady beat of his heart. ‘You’ll keep me warm. Tell me about the stars like you used to.’ Alex points to a random patch of desert sky. ‘Isn’t that Polaris?’

Michael snorts into Alex’s hair. ‘You’ve always been so bad at this. You can’t really see the North Star from here. It’s not bright enough.’ He drags Alex’s still-raised finger to another part of the sky. ‘That’s Gemini. The twins. I’ve always thought of me and Max as Castor and Pollux. But the version where only one of them, Pollux probably, is immortal.’

‘Max is Pollux, I’m guessing?’

Michael nods, chin tapping against the top of his head. ‘Yes.’

The stars glow brighter as Michael spends the next hour recounting so many of their mysteries, fingertips dancing up and down Alex’s arm like he’s tattooing the stories into his skin. Alex pretends like he’s never heard them before when in reality he’s had them all memorized for over a decade. The stars and Michael’s stories are what had kept his first tour overseas from chewing him up and spitting him out.

Tilting his chin, Alex kisses into Michael’s neck, leaving a sloppy trail in his wake as he nibbles up to his ear. ‘Take me home.’

The warmth of Alex’s house beckons as they pile everything back into the truck. With no traffic, they pull into the driveway in record time, not bothering to unpack the Chevy before heading inside and straight to Alex’s bedroom. They collapse onto the bed and undress each other slowly, allowing the furnace’s heat to melt them into nothing but nerve-endings and sensation, their sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly together.

Once they’re sated and sleepy, Michael throws a leg over Alex’s thighs and wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him as close as possible. ‘I guess we’re dating now.’

#malex #malex fic

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moviesrotbrains · 4 years ago

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DANIEL ISN’T REAL... but I’m so very glad this film exists.

After dealing with increasing anxiety and fearing a grip on reality, a college freshman turns to his childhood imaginary friend for comfort and confidence boosting… only to realize that his much cooler and carefree pretend buddy has an unsettling violent darkness about him. Could Daniel possibly be something more than a figment of his imagination?

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DANIEL ISN’T REAL is an utterly surreal fever dream, channeling the best in cosmic horror, body horror, and psychological horror while also taking a bold look at deeper issues. It comes from Elijah Wood’s SpectreVision imprint, the same company that gave us such gems as MANDY, A GIRL WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT, and COLOR OUT OF SPACE... and this one’s right up there with those modern classics. And you can watch it now on SHUDDER!

Full review and some seriously kickass poster art below:

Directed by Adam Egypt Mortimer (and based on Brian DeLeeuw’s book, In This Way I Was Saved), DANIEL ISN’T REAL is a wonderfully fantastical ride through fucked up subject matter. It tackles mental illness, trauma, dual nature, identity, male toxicity, and empathy… with a good amount of Lovecraftian madness and trippy, yet terrifically disgusting Cronenberg-esque visuals thrown in for good measure.

It’s an engaging story too, about a young man, Luke, overwhelmed with life as his mother’s mental health condition worsens. He’s dealing with that on top of everything else college kids go through, lack of confidence, anxiety, etc. There’s also a fear of his own sanity. He keeps hallucinating and blanking out. His therapist suggests that maybe he should try to tap into that creativity he had as a child, where he’d regularly play for hours on end with his imaginary friend, “Daniel”. Only things got very weird and unsettling the last time he played pretend with his fictional playmate.

Once Daniel re-enters his life, things start to change. Luke’s mother issues get better. Luke suddenly feels more confident in life. Luke is finally doing well with girls. Luke’s getting creative again with photography... and all of his problems seem to go away… Only Daniel seems to want more credit and recognition. And Daniel seems to be getting angrier. And that’s when things get really fucking messed up.

This film is wonderfully acted by a mix of up-and-comers and veterans of the scene. Luke is played by Miles Robbins (HALLOWEEN 2018) and gives that immediate likeable and kind, yet also meek, portrayal that perfectly conveys what kind of a person that Luke is. There’s a lot of range in emotion in this performance, from hurt and confused to confident, to something else entirely. I always get a kick at seeing an actor completely flip their performance and style midway and totally embody something else, and this film has that and more.

Contrasting that likability and meekness is Daniel (played by Patrick Schwarzenegger, SCREAM QUEENS), the titular imaginary friend who’s pure Freudian Id. He’s cool, slick, charismatic, and always knows the right thing that Luke should say, or do, to get ahead. He’s helpful… when he wants to be… but he also has a lot of darkness. A scary darkness that seems to stem from… something else. Patrick excels when he taps into this dark alias. He’s evil as fuck. There’s a sinister glee in his manner. Epitome of “Chaotic Evil”. He’s such a great asshole. He really kicks it into gear when the audience fully know what we’re dealing with…

Yet even then, nothing is over explained. And that’s the beauty of this film. There is no expository dialogue or wasted scene. Everything is laid out there and the actors just bring it. This film lives in a world of it’s own and the audience is a passenger for the unholy ride. It’s a very slick flick full of world building and the kind of outstanding performances that really make everything shine.

Rounding out the supporting cast is Luke’s troubled mother (veteran Mary Stuart Masterson, who powerfully played a similar and memorable role in BENNY & JUNE), Sasha Lane (HELLBOY) as the love interest, artist, and really, the heart and soul of the film, and Hannah Marks (DIRK GENTLY) as the other girl faced with Luke’s dark side. again, all perfectly played and perfectly cast, giving a much needed balance in this heavy film.

And it’s a very heavy film. The story was a deeply personal one for Mortimer (as he explained to us in 2019, when he brought the film to the Montreal FANTASIA film fest). The director drew from his own experiences from his youth, when a friend was similarly dealing with mental health issues. Mortimer had to help him, because his friend was “falling off the rails”, with no one around really helping him out, “not friends or professionals”. He talked of his friend’s life being in ruins, and how it just “spiraled off into mania”.

That experience deeply impacted Mortimer. It was from this that Mortimer wanted to make a film about empathy and compassion for people going through severe mental illness issues. While Luke’s troubles stem from something more, the parallels are still there to people in real life going through non-otherworldy issues. The overall sense of helplessness, and a desire to be understood and taken seriously, is still there, and still a universal theme. Especially right now.

This film also tackles a lot more than just matters of wellness. Mortimer also wanted the film to deal with the “increasing danger” young men are in these days. “The Dangers they face and the danger many are to themselves”.

Mortimer talked about them, “Living in a world where men have been driven insane by society. A society where many men are both the product and the villain of it.” A lot of this is seen on film when Luke battles for control with Daniel. Daniel representing that alpha and that Id. Luke grasping for control and trying to be that voice of compassion and reason. It’s a wonderful character study that is only heightened by the horror elements that come into play.

And yes, it’s an absolute horror fan’s delight and it’s visually stunning to boot, mixing psychological & psychedelic horror together. It felt like I was watching HELLRAISER again for the first time, but if that film was shoved in a blender with FIGHT CLUB, JACOB’S LADDER, and copious amounts of mind altering drugs. But comparing it to anything else does no justice to the wholly original eye-gasmic feast set before us. I keep saying this, but it truly is an utterly wonderful surreal fever dream. It’s so very layered and out there.

It’s refreshing to see new films like this come about with something to say and looking as great as it does. Yes, this film looks very different from most things that are currently out there, with it’s violet texture throughout, and otherworldly feel. Mortimer, who came from a music video background, wanted his second feature to have a distinct look to it, saying that the “violet hue throughout had a very futuristic and contemporary colour about it”. He wanted to create the feeling of a manic episode, and overwhelm the viewer with colours and density.

And he totally does. It’s such a beautiful looking film, and one you’ll definitely go back to just to soak in the wonderful hypnotic visuals. Much like MANDY, from the year before, DANIEL is a cinematic treat for your eyeballs.

And there’s also some deeply messed up visuals that mix in with that beauty. The FX on a whole are amazingly bizarre. There are visuals that are so jaw-droppingly good that you’ll permanently have them etched in your brain. It’s the kind of film where you’re watching and you immediately want to rewind and see that scene again.

From faces being merged into each other in a pink tentacled mess of VIDEODROME-esque flesh, to other visages literally being mangled like putty! Pure body terror. People crawling into other people’s mouths– I could go on, but I don’t want to spoil it. It’s icky and wonderful all at once.

And I can’t go on about the FX without mentioning the nightmarish and hellish creature design by Martin Astles (who also worked on the brutal and classic nightmare fuel that is EVENT HORIZON). The creature FX are so fucking out there, each very distinct and very memorable. The kind of things that if you confronted them in real life you’d be quick to claw them out your own eyes.

One beast looks like a hellish death beast with a fleshy castle for a head-- an absolute architectural artifice. Mortimer said they attempted to convey that a whole universe was in its face, and it existed outside space and time. Another Face looking like piercing bullets poking through the flesh and protruding from his cheeks, like a moment frozen in time. They’re all so freakishly creative and disturbing. I can’t even describe them right. I’m not sure I want to, but they’re seared into my mind. Body Horror and Cosmic Horror at their best.

In addition to the visuals, this film also brings it on the sound design and score front. It’s got an incredible score by Warp Records act Clark. It contains synthy goodness along with manipulations of actual orchestral pieces. And it was Clark’s first time working on a film score, something Mortimer preferred.

He wanted someone that wasn’t used to working on horror films, or films in general, so they’d throw everything they had into it from the get go. Mortimer told Clark to make it sound like Bernard Herrmann got stuck in some horrible industrial accident. A relentless sonic assault that tries to capture that same feel that Clint Mansell did with REQUIEM FOR A DREAM. The results are a superb original work of music that completely enhances and already spectacular looking film.

I was a fan of Mortimer’s SOME KIND OF HATE when I caught it six years ago at FANTASIA FEST, but DANIEL is an entirely different beast and next level filmmaking. He’s easily grown as a filmmaker and I’m totally on board to see more. I can’t wait to see what he tackles next, because DANIEL was easily one of my top Fantasia picks for 2019.

DANIEL ISN’T REAL is one of those dark films that will most likely be seen as a cult classic in a few years, right up there with DONNIE DARKO and movies of a similar ilk. It’s full of so much imagination and gusto, all while tackling important issues and core themes. All that and it remains highly watchable and engaging. It’ll satisfy any horror junkie while also winning over fans of thought provoking art. Daniel isn’t real, but I’m glad it exists.

-Theo Radomski, Movies Rot Brains

Seriously how fucking awesome are these posters? Why can’t more horror films hire the people that made these posters? Why can’t film in general hire these people to make better promo art?

This article was previously seen on Mobtreal.com

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ofbloodmagick · 4 years ago

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ROSE ARABELLA GORE

pronouns: SHE & HER + THEY & THEM

age: TWENTY - FIVE

sexuality: PANSEXUAL * DEMIROMANTIC * MONOGAMOUS

astrological signs: GEMINI SUN * SCORPIO MOON + ARIES RISING

occupation: BARTENDER @ DUTCH’S + MULTIPLE SIDE HUSTLES

+ traits: PERSUASIVE. ARTISTIC. RESILIENT. FASCINATING. ORIGINAL. RESOURCEFUL. WISE. ADVENTUROUS. BOLD.

-- traits: ECCENTRIC ( CREEPY ). SECRETIVE. DAMAGED. RESTLESS. TWO-FACED. JUDGMENTAL. RECKLESS. IMPULSIVE.

faceclaim: BILLIE LOURD

soul sounds: PLAYLIST !

aesthetic: ( TW: BLOOD ) BOARD !

YO YO YOU YO — it’s lydia here with my lil blood witch arabella , i have yet to get the chance to r e a l l y play her and i’m super excited for the chance bc i love them so very much. i have headcanon after headcanon for them , so hit me up if you want to do something bc i am ready to do some shit. anyway , LYDIA ( nary , nettle , snottie , etc. ) here again and i love a good name change , i’m twenty-five years old , a pansexual demigirl ( she / her * they / them ) like arabella themselves , and i reside in the central timezone ( FLORIDA IS HELL ). continue reading to learn all about ARABELLA GORE — the intense , mysterious clever little powerhouse that loves to be number one.

PERSONALITY

RULING PLANETS: pluto — planet of power & regeneration * mercury — planet of communication * mars — planet of war & energy BODY PART: crotch * reproductive organs * shoulders * hands * head * face GOOD MOOD: resilient , magnetic , passionate , loyal , protective , artistic , brave , fascinating , original , resourceful , wise , adventurous , unstoppable , bold , devoted BAD MOOD: obsessive , possessive , jealous , secretive , vengeful , manipulative , eccentric ( creepy ) , restless , two-faced , judgmental , proud , self-centered , impulsive , bossy , stubborn , reckless ( SOME ) FAVORITE THINGS: obscure underground music , spicy food , an air of danger , one of a kind objects , organic ingredients , vinyl , magic , the color black , horror films , blood , fast cars , guitars , new clothes , road trips ( in fast red cars ) , expressing themselves through stunning verbal and physical feats ( SOME ) THINGS SHE HATES: simple small-minded people , insincere flattery , personal questions , living at someone else’s house , mornings , dress codes , authority figures , silence SECRET WISHES: to have complete and total control + to have all the answers + to be number one HOW TO SPOT THEM: intense eyes , hawk like gaze , smooth movements , dry blood/bruises/cuts/scars on pale skin , silver hair , big black bow , mischievous twinkle in their eyes , talking with their hands , focused or manic energy , aggressive stance WHERE TO FIND THEM: listening to bauhaus in her dark room , sitting at the corner table of a shitty underground bar smoking a cigarette , selling her magic and / or blood in some dimly lit room KEYWORDS: intimacy , secrecy , power , intensity , obsession , cleverness , wittiness , inventiveness , ingenuity , willpower , initiative , determination , passion , self-belief

arabella’s mind and mouth are busy machines , always moving at warp speed. this witch is one of the most curious and cutting-edge individuals you will meet. there are at least two personalities inside of her at all times. adventurous , she can change her mind faster than the weather and is constantly flipping between moods.

a true pioneer and trailblazer they’re the first to initiate things , fight for their beliefs and fearlessly put themselves out there. headstrong and determined , ella’s energy can be stubborn and willful a lot of the time. she does have a tendency to dig in her heels , stand her ground and absolutely refuses to be pushed around.

they will butt their own metaphorical horns against the same obstacle until they break it down — often with sheer force of will. extremely confident , she believes in herself and will on occasion champion others she deems worthy.

she does love to chatter and has a million great ideas , always keeping a notebook handy to jot down her thoughts and ideas at any time. at times , their energy can circulate in a quick and frenetic way , the silver haired wiccan is known to inspireswitty wordplay and dynamic dialogue.

when she applies herself , arabella is great at brainstorming and socializing. she also craves her “ twin flame ” and kindred spirit’s energy , always up for an intellectual meeting of the minds.

under the influence , they find themselves with the gift of gab; talking and conversing with others for hours , hopping from pop culture trends to deep political topics. beware “ gossip girl ” ella though , they can crank up the rumor mill sometimes unknowingly. as renowned dr. bernie siegel says , “ [ we ] have the ability to cure with either ‘ words ’ or kill with ‘ swords. ' ”

powerful and sensual arabella is perhaps one the most misunderstood and mysterious person you could ever meet though. secretive by nature , this southern witch tends to linger in shadowy and hidden places that most wouldn’t usually have the courage to face.

she believes strongly in life , death and resurrection and arabella embraces these life cycles. she is continually transforming and reinventing herself. there are actually more like four sides of arabella and it really just depends how she feels about you.

the first is venomous and possessive like a scorpion ; the second as slippery , charming and deadly as a snake ; the third like a soaring eagle whose piercing gaze sharply observes the landscape ( and its prey ) below ; and the fourth side ever burning and all seeing as a phoenix that rises up from the ashes into eternal rebirth.

your muse may find themselves dealing with an intense individual with lots of energy. she has been known to hole herself up late at night to process complex emotions or channel her overwhelming feelings into focused work and creativity.

the essence of arabella’s personality is magnetic , fascinating , original , passionate , loyal , protective , trendsetting , controlling , unstoppable , bold , powerful , resourceful , wise , adventurous , focused , bond oriented and brave. on the flip side though , she can also be obsessive , possessive , jealous , prideful , self-centered , impulsive , bossy , stubborn , reckless , competitive , two-faced , judgmental , overwhelmed , secretive , vengeful , to even cruel , calculating and manipulative.

she channels her intuitive tides into a forceful stream of psychic and healing energy. arabella excels in exploring the darker , unexamined sides of life. it has given her excellent research and sleuthing skills , helping her plumb the depths and peer below the surface. this witch likes a challenge , but she does have to really try hard not to fall into being selfish and domineering.

she will without question help out in the darkest hours; this witch bitch is not afraid to go into the murky waters of the emotional and spiritual unknown. intense feelings surface around her closest ties , but around those she isn’t close to ella has a wall up.

believes strongly in merging , bonding and sharing resources. she may get obsessive about a passion project or lover ( forrest ) , even becoming jealous or insecure. this mysterious demigirl wants to hide all of their vulnerabilities. yet , those raw and unprocessed feelings are often their access to power.

arabella can be tricky to understand. with her reserved persona , she seldom starts a conversation or expresses interest in others openly — unless she feels out the situation first.

once you get her to open up , however , you’ll feel her scorching passion for whatever topics fascinate her. be warned: arabella can focus on one subject to an extreme , so you may be in for a deeper dive than you or your muse expect — or want lol

her natural charisma can quickly pique someone else’s interest in the topic too though.

another way to spot the witch ? look for her piercing gaze , which is hawk like at times narrowing in on her “ prey ”. if you happen to be the focus of that look , watch out. you will feel read as easily as a children’s book as arabella seems to just KNOW all your secrets , soft spots and fears.

their focused attention can be addictive , even painful when pulled away. be careful how quickly you fall down their rabbit hole — it’s not as easy to crawl back up once you do. when you befriend them , you are likely entering into a power couple or formidable alliance. while she doesn’t give up loyalty and trust easily , once she does she’ll stick with you through thick and thin.

don’t even think about double crossing her tho bc she WILL unleash her fury on you , divulging secrets and airing dirty laundry or worse. revenge is her favorite dish to serve and it’s ice cold. on a positive note , arabella’s like the perfect person to help explore darker emotions or sexuality , happy to guide most through fifty plus shades of irresistible and soul communing experiences.

arabella can come across as clever and quick-witted , but part of the fun ( and curse ) of interacting with the witch is that you’re never quite sure which personality you’re going to experience. will it be the vivacious jokester or the snarky , mean-spirited critic ?

although they may crave complete and utter control over everything , they secretly yearn for the very thing they fear: true intimacy with others. it takes a lot for ella to reveal her vulnerability , so guard that privilege with the utmost care. as she opens up and learns to show her shadow side , she can heal in ways that are truly profound.

highly impatient and competitive , they have the fighting spirit. ella were born to be number one , a star who steals the spotlight and inspires with her confidence. yeah , they can be impatient , even a little bossy , especially when they don’t get their way. she need lots of attention and can throw quite the tantrum when she doesn’t get it. fortunately , arabella rarely has a problem turning heads.

others love to follow as they take the lead on the latest adventure. she has to be reminded to make sure and let other people be the boss every now and then too , because she has a tendency to alienate potential allies. when they focus their competitive streak into a diva-worthy goal and delegate , they will always rise to the top !

they have a lot of energy , which they apply to everything from tackling supersized projects to unleashing their lusty libidos with forrest. this confident demigirl is known to leap before looking , diving into each new experience with a zest for life that few others can muster.

they love to be number one and can be a bit of a trendsetter. she has been described before as ‘ a true original who inspires the rest. ‘ with all of their fire power and can-do attitude , there’s nothing arabella can’t ( or won’t ) take on. at times , ella can be selfish or overly focused on herself and it can be a “ blind spot ” for them , they may need a gentle reminder from time to time to share.

she likes to shatter glass ceilings but can also be off-putting to people in extreme doses. this go-getter can come across as abrasive or overly aggressive , however; arabella will never back down from a challenge and can take on being the champion of those in distress when need be.

BACKGROUND

( TW: child abandonment ) so arabella doesn’t know her parents are but she does know that they ended up in some small southern town called suspiria , located in virgina of all places. her mother was really into the surface level southern gothic aesthetic suspiria offered and the unlikely couple settled there until arabella was born. her parents didn’t keep her very long though seeing as their shotgun wedding was never built to last and after she was born they both returned to where they came from or at least that’s as far as the story goes if you ask anyone in suspiria.

( TW: military ment. , death ) her parents actually went their separate ways , her mother returned to her wealthy family and comfortable life never to seek out the unnamed child she’d left behind in some no name town. her father went on to join the military and was lost in the line of duty with no one to even pass that knowledge on.

the infant rose , as they were first called back then , was left on the doorstep of an orphanage and that was where they would spend their childhood. it was not a pleasant place to grow up at all , but she was incredibly lucky in finding her twin flame in a sad , lonely young boy also growing up there.

little ella was never once adopted and she made damn sure to change the minds of anyone who so much as looked in her direction or asked her name. they grew an unhealthy attachment to forrest almost the minute they laid eyes on him , but they are connected very deeply and even as children arabella was acutely aware.

growing up ( maybe even to this day ) they were considered a loner , an outsider , the weirdo , a creepy kid , etc. and the bullying only got worse. the people in the shitty children’s home and the tiny backwoods town in virginia ? they didn’t really respond too well to the two strange kids that collected animal bones and hunted for ghosts.

in their early teen years ella started practicing satanism , but that was really just a gateway religion into wicca and her true passion , witchcraft. forrest took to it just as quickly as they did and soon the two had formed their own little coven , something that didn’t stay secret very long.

forrest , being the more scholarly of the two , found himself working for the governor on his campaign and eventually recruited arabella to do the same , but she worked more closely with the governor’s wife and the children. it only took a week , two tops , for the power hungry woman’s true intentions to came to light — dark magic.

( TW: cheating , infidelity )it’s true that ella helped with the gardening , the children , the cleaning , the cooking , all the usual suspects but she also did a number of spells involving blood and shadows. the items they created most for the governor’s wife was their own recipes for love potions and anti-aging blood serums. the woman was extremely suspicious of her husband having affairs with younger women , pretty self explanatory as to why she was seeking help from a known magic user.

( TW: blood ment. , devil ment. ) it was something of a hot topic in suspiria , the governor and his family hiring the two freaky orphans and why. not long after , a photo was leaked of the governor’s wife as arabella painted her face in the bright crimson blood serum they had concocted themselves. it was common knowledge by then that the two practiced witchcraft and suddenly every headline was about the governor and his wife being ‘ corrupted by the evil devil worshipers the kind family had taken pity on. ‘

( TW: assault ment. , death , arson , house fire ) the town ? literally ready to burn them at the freaking stake and the two couldn’t go anywhere without fear of assault of some sort or worse. to make matters all the worse , the governor’s wife and children perished suddenly in a terrible house fire and who was the easiest target to pin it on ? arabella and forrest , the two town rejects , which is exactly what the governor did. they were treated as murderers , hunted like criminals , which is why as soon as they found out about the raging fire they left town.

( TW: death ) for the next four years arabella and forrest were on the run from the governor and his goons , not stopping in any one place for very long for fear of being caught up to. over a year ago they finally got word that the governor had kicked the bucket and that anyone still looking for them likely had stopped by now. not long after , arabella came across a beautiful , vintage gothic home far more expensive than it was priced , but luckily for them the home had a rather grisly history and had been on the market for so long that the owners had cut the asking price tremendously.

( TW: scamming ) arabella was convinced that it was a sign from the universe letting them know it was okay to settle down for good now and once she’s convinced there’s no real changing her mind. so , by halloween of 2019 they were moving into the beautiful gothic home of the witch’s dreams and not long after they had rooms in their ‘ haunted home ‘ listed on every website possible to lure in dark tourists everywhere. how true everything is ? well , the two did take quite a few creative liberties and the occasional diehard , truly experienced fan of the paranormal would ( possibly have ) call them con artists.

( TW: scamming ) not only do they rent out rooms , but they also have the occasional ‘ murder tour ‘ of their ‘ serial killer ‘ house. what it really boils down to is arabella has been hustling their whole ass life and it’s never going to stop. there is quite a bit of truth to their stories , but though both ella and forrest have encountered the paranormal multiple times in their lives , not just in pleasance either , they’ve never had any real activity that could count as reliable proof. everything involving the businesses run out of the house are little more than sideshow entertainment for pleasance dark tourists.

( TW: blood ) the witch also has a part time job working for jules at dutch’s , her official title would be a bartender but she really just does what is asked of her. you probably guessed it already , but she does also have a side operation selling her blood magic from underneath the bar at dutch’s and they’re hopeful that their boss is none the wiser.

ETC.

she does still have a slight accent because she is from such a small town where everybody had a drawl or twang. she doesn’t have a good education by typical societal standards , because she had such shitty public education growing up as an orphan and no one who enforced her learning or attending. they are , however; incredibly street smart and by no means stupid. they have since taught themselves how to learn in a way best for them and are always devouring book upon book in order to teach themselves things otherwise she may never know.

( TW: blood ) ella is a blood witch and often uses her own blood , animal blood , someone else’s blood , pretty much if there’s blood in any form she’s set. she 100% sells her magic to anyone who wants it and does dabble in the shadow side. it might not actually work all the time , but that’s not entirely her fault.

( TW: bruising / injury ment. , blood , scar ment. , self harm ) a pretty big feminist , used to be in an all femme band called the hex girls ( come for me ) , goth and proud ??? a really big horror movie fan , pansexual demigirl representinggg ! always has bruises and cuts , dried blood covers their skin a lot where they miss it or just don’t care to hide it , also has quite a few scars from where she’s cut too deep ( some maybe on accident , some maybe on purpose ).

( TW: blood ) ella’s very creative ! they like to read , write , make art — out of blood lol she uses blood of all types to create a lot of art. she takes blood baths ( animal blood ) occasionally on the full moon , drinks animal blood during certain rituals , etc. also super into bone and taxidermy , you can definitely find her at deblanc’s. they also like to haunt the cemetery and creep around spotlight cinema , film is a big passion of hers.

( TW: drugs & alcohol ment. , blood ) DOES imbibe lol a partaker of alcohol ( prefers animal blood with red wine or vodka ) and certain drugs. ella definitely smokes weed & cigarettes , they enjoy partying just like the rest but she’s more reserved and likes to people watch.

okay so it’s getting late and i can’t believe how long this intro actually took me to finish tweaking , but if you want to plot with me pls pls pls hit me up bc i’d love to do some stuff !! my tumblr DMs are always open and you can always hmu on discord too !! i also write bryce winslow ( milo ventimiglia FC ) but you likely know that lol. i’m sure there’s more i could say about arabella honestly , but if you have any specific things you’d like to know or it seems like i left something out or need to take a second look at something i’d appreciate any / all feedback. can’t wait to get some replies out , but that might have to wait until the morning. @phqextras

#DOSSIER.#phqintro #TO BE TAGGED.#she like actually has tags #i swear #like already done #bless up #swear to post them tomorrow #BLOOD TW #DRUGS TW #ALCOHOL TW #INJURY TW

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abbacchiosbelt · 5 years ago

Text

Still Breathing | Cioccolata x F!Reader

This is a commissioned piece for @jashin-priestess! Please heed the warnings on this one before you read it - it is very dark.

CW: Non-Con, Extreme Violence, Mutilation, Amputation, Blood, Knives, Mind Break Elements, Guro, Broken Bones, Bondage/Restraint

The building located at the address you were given, had you been a regular citizen strolling down the streets in the pleasant warmth of the evening, wouldn’t have been worth giving a second glance. It looked to be rather old and desolate, vines crawling up the crumbling brick and debris scattered on the cracking steps leading to the entrance. When you look at the building, though, a chill wracks your body so violently that you almost decide to abandon your mission in favor of fleeing.

The potential rewards that would come from your visit convinced you to stay and carry out your personal desires.

Every single thing about your target, Cioccolata, made your skin crawl – from the way he always smelled like rotten flesh to the cold and spindly fingers he always tried to touch you with whenever you were unlucky enough to deliver a package to him. Not to mention his strange assistant, always crouched on the floor in a full-body suit, eying you with noticeable interest that made you uncomfortable.

The building in front of you was a different location than usual – the packages you’d delivered previously had been exchanged on neutral ground. There would have been no reason for your mission, had you not been subjected to rumors from other members of Passione that left you horrified and insatiably curious. If they were true, though, there was potential for extorting the doctor.

(If only you’d know then, you thought – as cold metal sliced into your skin unforgivingly – how wrong you’d been.)

Eyeing the street to make sure it was empty; you approach the house cautiously and glance at the windows – boarded shut and covered by dark curtains. Your plan had been to approach directly, but an escape route would be necessary for back up. It wasn’t exactly smart, to take on another member of Passione, but your greed for knowledge left you to make a decision you’d come to regret.

It was now or never, then. Smoothing down your skirt – pausing to ensure your gun was holstered and in reach – you lean forward and knock on the door in a symbol that he’d recognize as another member of Passione. You only hoped that a visit from someone else wasn’t a rarity, lest you make a spectacle of yourself immediately.

The beat that passes between the time it takes you to remove your hand from the door and how fast it opens startles you – you’re immediately met by Cioccolata’s assistant at the door, panting and staring at you with what you hope is recognition.

“Hello?” You try, pulling your lips up into the best smile you could muster. The man in front of you smells so rotten that you want to retch, but that wouldn’t exactly gain you any favors. The man in the suit tilts his head and grunts, moving to a frog-like position and sitting as still as a statue.

“Secco?” Cioccolata’s deep voice rings out from the darkness of the house (ah, so Secco was his assistant’s name) before you hear heavy footsteps approach the front door. When he appears, almost melting in from the darkness like some otherworldly creature, he’s wearing a crooked grin. Secco grunts at Cioccolata and his eyes slide to your thighs for the briefest moment before he turns his intense gaze back to you.

“Oh! A guest, this late?” His smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes widen after he looks at you for a moment longer. “Ah, I haven’t seen you in quite some time, cara. You’ve come at the perfect time, come in, come in!”

Cioccolata almost sounds manic in the way he speaks to you, his eyes shining brightly as he waves an emphatic arm to welcome you inside. Secco scampers away and you’re left to stand on the doorstep, the burn in your gut telling you to run and never look back.

“Well?” He continues to grin at you, still waving his arm. With a nervous chuckle, you take slow steps forward until you’re inside the dimly lit house – suddenly aware of how unlived and dusty it looks. Grimly, you realize that perhaps you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. The door shuts behind you and you’re shrouded in complete darkness. A hand comes to rest on your lower back and the hair on the nape of your neck stands up, a chill wracking your body like it had outside the house.

A dim light appears from low on the floor, along with a blinking red light. The room is lit up enough that the bloodstains marring the floor stick out to you like a beacon, making your heart pound uncomfortably fast. Cioccolata hums, deep and low, and starts to trail his hand down your body.

Attack him. Run. Do anything – but the screaming in your mind can’t overcome to fear running through your veins and gluing you to the rickety floor, directly in line of that flashing red light. Your breath hitches when Cioccolata’s hand dips beneath the hem of your skirt and cold fingertips trail your exposed thigh – and then it dawns on you that he’s inches away from touching the gun you had snug on your thigh.

It’s too late though – he senses the change in your breathing and the way your heartrate increases even faster. His fingers close the gap and you wince when they close around the handle of the gun, sliding it gingerly out of its holster, cold metal trailing against your skin as it pulls it above your skirt and presses it to your temple.

“That’s curious. You don’t have a Stand, do you?” Cioccolata digs the metal into your temple when you hesitate to answer. The red light doesn’t stop blinking, but the light travels slowly up your body until its resting on your face.

“N-no,” you whisper. Your voice betrays you by cracking and Cioccolata lowers the gun, trailing it against your jaw before he fits it in his own pants.

“Ooh, you’re getting all of this on camera, Secco?” The sudden shift of Cioccolata’s voice makes your stomach drop – he could so easily switch from menacing to a sadistic glee in seconds. Secco grunts and nods eagerly, holding the camera steady. Cioccolata’s hand comes to cup your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the thin skin. “Good, good! This is the best part, when they lose hope… Oh, you have lots more to go through, so this is just a taste. How long can your pretty little face hold up?”

– And then everything is a rush of white-hot pain, wood floor biting into your skin and splinters tearing at your hands scrambling for purchase, warm liquid trickling down your aching head. There’s a searing pressure digging into your right leg and you want to cry out as it melts into your flesh – god, it’s bubbling, and you have no idea what it is, but it burns, like your flesh is being flayed into a million little hot pieces – and then everything is black. The last thing you see is the blinking of the red light and the glint of excitement in Secco’s eyes, dimly lit from the camera.

There’s darkness, when you pry your heavy eyes open. It stings – there’s something sticky stuck to the insides of your eyelids – you grit your teeth and hiss through the uncomfortable sensation. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust, darkness ebbing away to a dimly lit room, too poorly lit to see beyond your own body.

Your whole body aches horribly, head throbbing so insistently that you want to throw up. It’s nothing compared to the ache in your back and lower body – and then you look down and your vision goes white and you thrash your head to the side, and whatever was left in your stomach is heaved onto the floor as you realize your entire right leg below your knee is gone. The skin looks like it’s melting off your body, sinewy red flesh dangling from the jagged tear.

There’s a horrific searing pain gnawing at the stump that’s been left behind, a strange dull ache pulsing behind it, and you want to scream but it comes out hollow. It’s almost enough to send you back into darkness – you have to stay awake if you want to live, though, so you do your best to even out your rapid breathing and try to focus on anything but the unbearable pain blooming from what’s left of your leg and the ache afflicting the rest of your body.

Looking down, you see that you’ve been stripped naked, the dim lighting making your skin look sallow. Metal scraping against something draws your attention to the far corner of the room and you realize the door is being opened. Panicked, you try to move but realize your arms and legs are strapped to the table you’re laid out on. A wheeze escapes from your throat, fear coursing through your veins.

“Awake already? Hm, you’ve exceeded my expectations.” Your eyes dart wildly as you try to find Cioccolata’s location, but an insistent press on the knee of your right leg makes you cry out.

“Secco, leave that alone for now, you’ll have your fun later.”

You flail in the restraints hopelessly, not wanting to find out what later meant. Secco grunts near your leg, hot breath fanning over the raw flesh and making you shudder. Footsteps echo across the room until you realize they’ve stopped and there’s a presence looming behind you. Cioccolata grabs your jaw and holds your head in place, staring intently at you with bright green eyes. The smile he had earlier is replaced with the curl of his lip, smug.

“You’re quite energetic. The human body is tenacious, isn’t it?” His fingers clench around your jaw harder, like he’s trying to dig through the skull under your flesh. You wince and try to bite back the cry of pain that leaves your lips. Cioccolata tuts. “Don’t hold anything back, now.”

Whimpering, you avert your eyes and try to look for an exit – it appears that the one door is your only way out. Cioccolata follows your eyes and chuckles.

“Looking to leave already? I am curious as to what your plans were.” The fingers around your jaw unclench and instead stroke at your cheek, making you grimace. “Actually…” Cioccolata trails off and moves around your body, unfastening the restraints that tied you to the table. The skin is red and rubbed raw from pulling, but the lack of pressure gives you the slightest bit of relief – though the relief is short lived when you see Cioccolata’s smile. “Go on, then, coniglietta. Try to escape or attack me, whatever you were going to do. I’ll give you a head start since you’ve got that pesky leg problem.”

It’s a trap, you already know by the look on his face (and the state of your body, already broken) but the irrational part of your brain has you heaving yourself off of the table and trying to balance on your left leg – it’s numb, though, and you immediately topple over. Pain shoots through your entire body, right leg throbbing so hard that you cry out, but you manage to drag yourself forward, chest heaving from exertion.

You only get a few feet from the table before you see that little red light start blinking from the darkest corner of the room, and your heart constricts in your chest. There’s not time to think before a crushing pain assaults your left side, loud crack resounding in the air as you wail pitifully and try to crawl away – the next breath you take is followed by an unbearable pain in your ribcage. Still, you desperately claw at the floor and try to crawl forward.

There’s an impact against your left side again and you grunt loudly when you’re flipped onto your back, chest painfully contracting as you try to draw in a full breath. Cioccolata is staring down at you with that same smirk, eyes hungrily trailing over the purple and black bruises rising under your skin.

“Surely you had more in mind than that? Though bringing a gun…” Cioccolata brings his foot down on your right shoulder and presses in with his full weight, excruciating pain flaring under his impact. A sob escapes from your throat and you writhe under his foot. “It’s a good thing Passione won’t miss someone as worthless as you.” Another press of his foot to your shoulder and you wail. Cioccolata drags his heel down your chest, the pass of it over your ribcage unbearable as your body seizes under him.

“I’m not,” you pant, dredging up the last will you had to fight. Cioccolata tilts his head and watches you struggle to speak, amused. “—not worthless.” It’s merely a strained whisper. Cioccolata’s face falls into a frown and his shoe slides back up your chest, heel dragging slowly, until it’s resting square on your face.

“Speak up or it’s no fun.” Cioccolata’s foot lifts up and slams down directly on your nose, loud crack as the cartilage is crushed under the heavy weight of his heel. The impact has you screaming as blood gushes from your nose, dribbling into your mouth and down the sides of your face. “That’s what I like to hear!” Cioccolata lifts the bloodied heel of his shoe from your face to look at the aftermath.

The stinging pain in your nose is nothing compared to the brutal pain biting at your severed leg – you never thought you’d be crying out for mercy so early, hoping for Cioccolata to end your suffering.

“Please,” you manage to choke out. The blood in your mouth tastes bitter, and you spit weakly before catching your breath. “Please stop.”

“Oh?” Cioccolata kneels down beside you, close enough that you can smell the mix of his cologne among the rotten smell in the basement, making your aching stomach twist unpleasantly. “But we’ve barely started! I suppose there’s other things we can do.”

From the corner, Secco shuffles closer and keeps the camera obediently trained on your body. With a muted horror, you realized he’s been filming the entire encounter – it was a rumor you had hoped was true due to it’s potential for blackmail, but now, you just felt ill.

The hope that he’d end your suffering early was snuffed out like a flame. Cioccolata stands from your side and briefly disappears into the darkness, only to come back moments later with a large butcher knife. You finally find your voice and scream again, wiggling on the ground helplessly and trying to pull yourself with your good arm and leg.

“Don’t throw a fit, I’m not using this yet.” Cioccolata places the knife to the side of the table you were strapped to earlier before he turns back and lifts you off the ground with ease. Weakly you claw at his back, but the thick material of his white shirt leaves your efforts fruitless. With a resounding crack, Cioccolata drops you onto the table and lets your head bounce from the impact, leaving your vision starry as you try t to get your bearings.

You weakly protest when you feel your arms being tugged at roughly until they’re snug in the straps again, ropes rubbing at the already torn skin around your wrists. There’s pressure near your wounded leg again and you expect to look down to see Secco nudging at it, but instead it’s Cioccolata attending to it with a wet cloth and bandages.

“Why?” You grumble. Cioccolata lifts his head at your question, but he continues working on your leg. The pain radiating from there doesn’t lessen, but the cool washcloth gives you the barest reprieve as the wound is cleaned.

“I can’t have you giving out on me yet. You practically gifted yourself to me, it’d be a waste to throw you in the trash so quickly.” His response makes you whimper weakly – you shouldn’t have expected anything else. The time that passes is lost to you as you fade in and out of consciousness, called back by the feel of his fingers digging into your wound, until you’re made aware of his face inches from yours, bright green eyes looking hungrily at you.

The camera that Secco’s been handling is shoved into the other side of your face and you cough weakly, a mix of saliva and your own blood running in a thin line down your chin. Cioccolata leans forward and licks a stripe up your bloodied face. Any struggle you’d had left is long gone so you’re forced to whine in discomfort as his hot tongue swipes across your bottom lip.

Cioccolata’s tongue forces its way into your mouth with no resistance, trailing against your teeth and exploring the wet cavern thoroughly, your stomach rolling in disgust. He pulls back, leaving a trail of bloodied saliva connecting your lips – and then you hear the sound of a belt buckle being undone.

You know what’s coming and you don’t want to look, don’t want to think about it, but your eyes fall to the side and find Cioccolata’s erect cock freed from his white pants. It’s thick and veiny, coarse green public hair at the base with heavy balls. His free hand darts out to grip your sore jaw when he catches you staring.

He pulls his foreskin back and steps forward until his cock is resting on your face – you feel sick when he slides his heavy member under your still bloodied nose and slicks it with blood before trailing it to your mouth, swollen purple head nudging insistently at your lips.

“Surely you don’t need to be told what to do?” Numbly, you open your mouth, gagging at the strong musky smell that invades your senses despite your stuffed nose.

“Good, good,” Cioccolata muses, sliding his cock inch by inch into your mouth. “Secco, you’re still filming?” There’s a series of grunts from behind you, and you hear rustling followed by the sound of heavy chomping. “So obedient today, very good.”

All you want to do is cry out for him to stop, or fade out from consciousness again, but your body is clinging to every painful and uncomfortable sensation it can find – the burning pain of your broken nose, every sharp breath rattling your broken ribs, the almost unbearable pain of your mutilated leg – and now the feeling of gagging on Cioccolata’s cock, slowly pushing in and out of your mouth.

You groan around his cock in protest, but it only pulls a moan from Cioccolata and he pushes his cock in even deeper, drawing tears from the corners of your eyes.

“Make sure you’re recording her face, Secco. We’re nearly at the best part!”

Cioccolata’s thrusts start to grow erratic, the sensation of his cock repeatedly slamming into your throat drawing pained whines from your mouth – the vibrations have Cioccolata growling from above you, staring at you in sadistic glee as tears roll down your face. Without warning he rams his cock all the way in, hot and bitter ropes of cum shooting directly down your throat. You gag around his cock and try to roll away, but it only causes your good leg to dangle off the table.

He milks himself fully in your mouth, keeping his cock snug in your throat until every last drop has been released. With a wet pop, he pulls out and a mixture of saliva and cum bubble over your swollen lips.

“If you keep that up, maybe we’ll have a use for you here after all.” Cioccolata swipes his thumb along your dirtied cheek and holds his thumb out to Secco, who eagerly leans over you and sucks at the taller man’s thumb. Secco drools on you when he pulls back and grunts, staring at you with wide violet eyes. “Yes, Secco, you might have a new playmate if she holds up. Don’t put that camera down, now.” Cioccolata fondly rubs at Secco’s covered head before trailing his eyes down your naked body.

One of his wide hands comes to rest on the center of your tender chest, purple and black splotches blooming under the injured skin – his hand almost spans the entire width of your chest. A quiet moan leaves your mouth and you don’t know if it’s because this is the first gentle touch you’ve felt, but you feel sick when you just push your body into his hand. Anything would be better than pain; the delirious haze in your mind was growing worse by the minute.

“So sensitive, just from that?” Cioccolata moves his hand to brush over one of your nipples, the bud already hardened from the cold air. You cry out again and he rolls the nub between his fingers until it’s red and sensitive. “Do you want more? Are you going to give in so easy?” You want to squeeze your eyes shut but you look at him, eyes half lidded, and nod against your better judgment.

His hand moves and tends to your other nipple in the same way – the arousal building in your stomach is fighting with the burning disgust you feel for him, but his warm mouth coming down around one of your nipples distracts you. He sucks at your nipple hard enough to hurt and you cry out in pain. The harsh sucking fades to a gentle pull of his mouth while his tongue rolls over your nipple – it’s enough to pull a real moan from you, enough to have tears of shame pricking in the corners of your eyes and rolling down your already wet cheeks.

One of Cioccolata’s hands snakes down your lower body and you startle, thrashing in the restraints.

“N-no,” you whisper, throat too sore to shout. “Not there, please—”

“Are you sure about that?” Cioccolata slides a finger down until it makes contact with your already slick center, giving him no resistance when he pushes in the tip of his long finger. The shame in your gut isn’t enough to push back the arousal and you instinctively push into his finger, biting back the moan you want to let out. Cioccolata tilts his head up from your chest and meets your gaze, blood-smeared lips pulled up in a smile. “Weak little girls like you are easy to read.” He sinks another finger inside of you and curls them up, drawing a muffled moan from you. “You were already all spread out for me anyways. Secco, you saw her throw her leg over the table, didn’t you?”

Secco makes a loud affirmative sound, earning a cube from Cioccolata’s pocket, thrown as he lifts himself away from your body. Your eyes widen in fear when you look down and see that he’s fully hard again, thick member still dripping with his release and a mixture of your blood.

He shrugs his pants off before he adjusts the table you’re laid on, sliding in-between your legs and leering down at you. Helplessly, you tug at your arm restraints and try to move your legs, but your mangled leg is useless, and your good leg barely has enough strength left to try and push him away.

“Stop, stop,” you whine – you desperately want to pass out, or just have him end it all, but there’s a tiny part of your body that’s aching and begging for friction. Cioccolata responds to your pleas by rubbing his thick cock head against your entrance, smearing your juices onto himself with a pleased groan. His hands dig into your hips to pull your lower half towards himself, leaving you hanging off the edge by the slightest bit.

“Secco, make sure you get her face for this part. The despair in their eyes… It’s always exquisite.”

There’s only a brief pause before he sinks himself into you with a deep thrust – and you scream. You’ve never been with anyone this big and his thick cock stretches you apart with no mercy, walls burning from the violation. “It’s too big,” you whimper, willing your body to adjust before he tears you apart.

Cioccolata doesn’t heed your complaint and starts rocking into you, cock pulling painfully against your walls as he draws all the way back before pushing back in again. Tears roll down your face as he continues pumping into you, but eventually the burn begins to turn pleasant – the pleasure clouding your mind has you focusing on the way his cock rubs against your inner walls.

“Good, good, keep taking it.” Cioccolata lilts. He continues his slow pace for another minute until he pauses to throw your good leg up over his shoulder. When he pumps back in, the burning stretch return as his cock pushes inside your pussy even deeper than before. It feels like your guts are being pushed to the side, if it were possible – when he bottoms out, he pauses, looking at your stomach with an expression of surprise. Your eyes follow his to find a noticeable distention in your stomach – when he pulls back and thrusts, the bulge follows his motions.

“What a good little whore you’re turning out to be.” The admonishment sends a shameful jolt of arousal through your body – it makes you feel disgusted at how eagerly you’re responding to his cock, at how your body aches with every movement, yet you still find yourself feeling sated from the friction being granted by Cioccolata’s cock. You clench around him involuntarily and draw forth a pleased growl.

Every thrust is punctuated by throbbing pain in the rest of your body, each pained breath you’re taking contracting achingly in your chest. And yet when Cioccolata starts pounding into you harder, heavy balls slapping against you with a wet smack, you feel whatever was left of your rational mind fade away as you weakly rock your hips in time with his movements and moan shamelessly.

“I knew you’d be easy to break the moment I saw you,” Cioccolata pants. His hand slides under what’s left of your mangled thigh and squeezes at the flesh before trailing down to the bandaged stump, gripping it tight.

A sob rips from your throat at the overwhelming pain from his fingers digging into the still-fresh wound, almost certainly raw and festering underneath the bandages. Your agonized cry has Cioccolata thrusting into you erratically as he fondles the stump, his eyes darting between his cock pumping inside of you, distending your stomach with every thrust, and the way your face contorts under his ministrations.

Cioccolata chases his release with a final set of frenzied thrusts, burying his thick cock deep inside of you with a final push to fill you with his hot cum. Despite his earlier release into your mouth, his load is sizable and oozes out from you when he withdraws, his cock covered with a disgusting mixture of juices and your blood.

Your body contracts around nothing – the aching in your core was practically pulsing, begging for release just to have something else to focus on besides the pain assaulting the rest of your body.

Secco appears next to Cioccolata to get a close-up of your swollen and dripping pussy, pushing in close enough that you can feel the cold lens nudge against your clit, and you whine quietly.

“What’s that?” Cioccolata pushes Secco away and puts the heel of his hand on your clit, feather light pressure making you squirm. “What a fun little subject you are.” He presses down again, harder this time, and you try to rut against him. “I think you should use your words.”

“Please,” you whine – you want nothing else right now and the disgust you felt for his touch earlier has ebbed into desperation. “Please let me cum.”

The words feel wrong in your mouth, almost as if you’re not there (and maybe you aren’t – your mind is in a hazy and delirious cloud from all the pain throughout your body), but you repeat them until you’re sobbing, until Cioccolata is moving his hand in a steady rhythm over your clit.

“Good, good. I may have use for you yet.” Cioccolata’s praise, even just the tiniest bit of it, sends you over the edge with a strained moan, leaving your body shaking as your orgasm washes over you. He works his hand over your clit until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, pulling away when the table rattles from how hard you tug at your wrist restraints.

You roll your head to the side and stare blankly at the wall, completely and utterly defeated in both body and mind. For a few minutes you’re left to yourself while Cioccolata and Secco exit the room – only to feel panic rise in your chest when you hear the door opening again. The fear of what could come next still sends adrenaline shooting through your veins, yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to pull at your restraints as you lay there drying in a puddle of semen and blood.

“So obedient already. She’ll be a good pet, Secco.” A moment later you feel your lower half being pulled around, and your left ankle is strapped back into the restraint. Another restraint is soon tied taut to your left leg, so tight that it makes you groan in discomfort. “Now stay still like a good pet and this will hurt less.” You want to scream and cry, but there’s nothing left – whatever hope you had of escape is slipping away by the second.

You finally roll your head up to look at Cioccolata, manic grin on his face as he brandishes the massive butcher knife you saw him put down earlier.

“God, no” you plead, your voice finally coming back to you, but Cioccolata tuts in response.

“Shh, now.”

Before you can protest any further, you watch with horror as the butcher knife slices through the air and begins its assault on your leg – all you’re doing is screaming, screaming so loud that it’s all you can hear and whatever pain you had felt earlier is nothing compared to the blade tearing and slicing at your skin. You’re fading in and out of consciousness and when you look down – oh god, you wish you hadn’t and you wish you were dead – there’s deep red blood gushing from the wound, spilling over your leg and onto the table and floor below. The last thing you see is the blade slicing through the air again before your body mercifully gives out in what you hope is the final time.

It’s dark, when you wake up – there’s a heavy sensation around your neck. For a moment, and you hope so badly that it’s true, you wonder if this is just part of death, a weird in-between place that you’re stuck in. The agonizing ache of your body, though, has silent tears rolling down your dirtied face as you realize you’re still alive. You’re positioned on the floor, against a wall, but you’re unsure if you’re in the same room as you were earlier.

When you twist your head to look, there’s a clinking noise and suddenly you’re pulled back violently – your body flops awkwardly and you try to right yourself. The pain, despite how all-consuming it is, isn’t as prominent as it was before you passed out, and you blearily wonder how much time has passed.

When you look down, you see that your other leg is gone – but the shock you had felt when you looked down the first time is gone. It was expected, now. Both stumps have bandages on them, clearly more carefully wrapped and well-tended to. You’re still naked, too, and each shallow breath you take is sending a shooting pain through your chest.

A door opens and you hear footsteps scampering along the floor, followed by heavy footsteps you recognize as Cioccolata’s. You blink in pain when low light floods the room, not daring to look down at yourself. Secco sits on the floor beside you and grunts, leaning over to nudge at you.

“Careful, Secco, she’s still fresh. You can play later.” Cioccolata stands over you, kneeling down to pull your chin up with his hand. “You were very good for me, pet. You’ve done better than I expected.” You try to turn your head, but his grip is too strong.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” You murmur – your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. Cioccolata clicks his tongue at you and squeezes your jaw between his fingers painfully tight until you whimper.

“Behave. That’s no way to talk to your master.” With a final squeeze, he releases you jaw and instead slides his hand down to press on your chest, making you wheeze and cough up bloodied spit. “Are you going to listen to me?”

There’s nothing left to do but nod your head, resigning yourself to your fate. When you meet his gaze, he quirks an eyebrow. Taking a shaky breath, wincing at the pain, you reply. “Yes, master.”

“Very good.” He removes his hand and stands back up, Secco following suit to perch next to Cioccolata on the floor. He gives you a sick smile before he leans forward, towering over your helpless body.

“If you keep behaving, perhaps I’ll grant you that wish of yours. Good pets get rewarded.”

#commission #jjba fanfic #cioccolata #cioccolata x reader #non con cw #non con #extreme violence #not sfw #mutilation #amputation #blood #knives #guro #vento aureo #my writing

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shutupandshipit · 5 years ago

Text

Magic in the Blood - Ch.7

Summary: “You used magic on me,” Neil said, mildly accusing. He opened his eyes, staring into the glowing honey gold of Andrew’s eyes.

“Don’t I always?”

Instead of answering, Neil asked, “Yes or no?” because his hands were aching to run along Andrew’s skin, up his toned thighs, to tug him down over him. …..

Or where everything is the same, but magic exists. The school year is over, there’s no more practices until mid-summer and for the first time, Neil can spend his time the way he wants. Without suppressants muddling his system and Andrew sober, they’ve got magical and logistical issues to work through.

And then there’s the new Foxes when they show which is a whole other magical nightmare of itself.

Pairing: Andreil

Rating: T

Previous <- Chapter 6

Chapter 8 -> Next(post to come soon)

Chapter 7: Lavender Pills

Neil:

As soon as Neil stepped off the plane and found his way to a bathroom, he frantically rummaged through his bag. He could hear the bottle of suppressants rattling incessantly, calling to him with the bliss of repression. His magic had begun to crawl to the surface halfway through the flight, but he'd taken a suppressant before boarding and assumed that would be enough. Only, he hadn't anticipated the anxious magic pouring from the other passengers, filling the cabin until he was suffocating. He shouldn't have been able to feel them with such a recent dose, but something about the altitude or proximity or his own anxiety had somehow diminished the affects of the suppressants.

There was the possibility that the suppressants were just loosing their potency as Neil's body grew more accustomed to the dosage.

Stewart had procured them for him after California. After his mother's death. After his magic left a destructive path behind him as he it poured from him unchecked, a path that Stewart had to pay a lot of money to cover up.

With Mary's death fresh on his mind, he hadn't been able to put a cap on his own magic, and he'd burned through their collection of suppressants trying to. Stewart had pressed his suppliers for the strongest dosage they could make that wouldn't kill anyone.

When he'd first started taking them, he could only handle half a pill once a day. Even then, he'd almost had a panic attack with how quiet the world had gone. He'd wondered if that was the way normal people who couldn't sense magic felt. There had been so much more quiet in his head for his mind to circle around and around. So much more space to think about his dead mother.

He'd vomited and passed out almost immediately. When he'd woken, magic still tucked away in his chest, they'd tried to drop his dose to a quarter of a tablet.

He didn't let them.

Now though, he had to take one every couple of hours to keep his magic under wraps, and even then, it leaked out around the edges. He couldn't keep it up much longer, not without contacting his uncle, and that was something he didn't want to have to do. He had about a year's worth left, but at the rate he was going, he might have even less than that. He'd have to start rationing if that were even possible.

Popping the small lavender pull into his mouth, Neil swallowed it down dry and shoved the bottle back into his bag. He waited ten long minutes for the pill to begin taking effect before finding his way towards the exit where he found a particularly small blond man waiting for him.

Andrew:

It took Neil Josten much longer to come out of the terminal than Andrew would have expected. He would have assumed it was something innocent like using the restroom, but he'd seen the way Neil had looked at Kevin. He'd felt the magic bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, the suppressants trying to keep his magic in and failing. He wouldn't trust the man as far as he could throw him, not until he gave him a reason to.

He doubted the man was smart enough for that, especially if he was stupid enough to sign with the Foxes.

Leaning against the wall, he stared up towards the ceiling and let his magic stretch its limbs for the first time in awhile. He's skipped his wake-up dose to meet with Neil, and without the constraints of his medication, there was no reason his magic needed to stay on a leash. Relief washed through his body while his magic pushed out and out and out, soothing the fever of a screeching child, easing a woman's migraine, calming a flight attendant's throbbing feet. He couldn't do much without physical touch or his herbs, but he still could do a little.

As the baby's screams calmed to whimpers, a blank spot entered the Arrivals area.

Neil Josten was the personification of a lack of presence, a blank spot in the middle of the crowd, a black hole without an end or beginning.

Everyone had magic whether they could use it or not. Whether it was strong or weak. Even magicless people had magic, but they were people that had such a small amount that it was unusable. It couldn't be utilized by the holder. Even then, there were people with magic that either didn't know how to use their magic. Even under suppressants, there was still the barest traces of magic on a person's skin.

All being, living and inanimate, gave off magic. Neil Josten gave off absolutely nothing as if he were already dead. Which was all the more curious as he had been actually vomiting up magic the first time.

He stared the man down as he glanced this way and that, stepping further into the crowd. It only took Neil a moment to spot him, and another to weave through the crowd to get to him. When he was close enough for Andrew to take a good look at his eyes, he found a very familiar look there.

His pupils were blown wide, and there was a dullness to them. Neil was high, and whether that was on true drugs or something else was still to be determined.

Suppressants couldn't erase someone's magical fingerprint the way whatever he was on had.

“Neil. Baggage claim,” he said simply.

Neil:

It only took a day for Neil to understand that there were almost no good times for him to take his next dose of suppressants, especially when he'd had to start taking them so frequently. By the time the first week had come to an end, he was nearly going crazy with the havoc the cousins had put his schedule through just trying to keep a lid on his magic.

He couldn't walk around with his pill bottle, so the only solution he could come up with was carrying a few around with him that he shoved deep into his pockets.

He knew he was getting sloppy by the third week, dipping out as soon as he felt his magic surfacing. When Andrew's eyes started to drift towards him more and more often. He didn't know if it was the stress the others were putting him under or the lack of sleep or whatever other reason there could be, but his doses had grown closer again.

That scared him, made him more cautious with his doses, but also stupider.

And he found everything coming to a head one afternoon after practice with the cousins.

He showered last as always, but found the locker room empty save for Andrew sitting in front of his locker after he was done. The man tossed and caught something idly, not looking at Neil when he came to a stop. “Can I get to my locker?” he asked, irritated with the afternoons events and now having to deal with the murderous midgit again.

Andrew caught the package again, and Neil finally noticed the small ziploc bag he held. A flash of lavender through plastic.

“Give that back!” Neil spat, lunging for Andrew before immediately thinking better of it.

Andrew had a knife in his hand even as Neil retreated. “I think... not.” He let the bag swing between his fingers so they could both stare at the pills hanging between them. “I've been wondering what you were on. These look professional, but still homemade.” Dull hazel eyes glanced back towards him. “You know, Coach and Abby don't allow for drugs unless they're court mandated. Kevin would burst a gasket if he knew his pet project was high on court. So, what are they?”

“Nothing!”

“Oh, they're definitely something, pushing down your magic like that. Erasing it completely.” Andrew's grin was manic. “And judging by your reaction, you seem pretty attached to them. What would happen if I just...” He trailed off, peeling open the top and holding one over his tongue.

Neil lunged forward again, catching the pill before it could hit Andrew's tongue. His side stung, shirt splayed open from Andrew's knife strike. The cut was shallow, and he held the flaps of his shirt closed, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. “Don't,” he snarled. Blood dripped down his side, warm and slick.

The smell of blood only made him angrier.

“Oh ho,” Andrew laughed, leaning back against the lockers, “Now, what was that all about?”

Neil bit at his lip. Andrew already knew he had magic, but he didn't know what his pills were. Was it worse for him to think that he was a junkie or to know they were suppressants? Strong ones. Would he tell Kevin and Wymack if he thought he was a drug addict? Would he really be all that wrong though? Wasn't he just a different kind of addict, using the suppressants as a crutch rather than an escape? As a means to an end?

Making a decision, Neil decided to go with the truth. Or a partial truth. Partial truths were his specialty after all. “They're suppressants, but if you take a whole one, you'll go into a coma. Or vomit everywhere. Or not see your magic for a whole year.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Yet you pop one every hours it seems like. So, how are you still standing? Unless you're lying.” He fished another pill from the bag, staring at it intently.

Fear slid through Neil. Not fear for Andrew, but fear of what the others would do if Andrew died from overdosing on his suppressants. What would they even do mixed with his other drugs? He was scared of what Wymack would do if he found out about them. What Kevin would do because Kevin preferred to practice with magic intact. What the cousins would do if Andrew never recovered.

“Don't,” Neil said again, trembling as he stared at the pill. He'd taken his dose over an hour before hand, and his magic slipped from his mouth in bright rainbow threads. His magic was spewing from him as if under high pressure. He was trembling with the force, nausea roiling through his body. The release had gotten worse over the couple of months since meeting Wymack, Andrew and Kevin, and he couldn't stop the storm clouds from building around him.

Andrew raised an eyebrow, watching curiously as he pressed a sparking hand to his squinting eye. “That's a lot of magic for someone who's supposed to be magicless. How are you standing if these suppressants are so strong?” he asked with more emphasis.

Neil's hand was trembling as he pressed the pilled he'd taken from Andrew into his mouth and swallowed dry. The effect to a moment, but eventually, his clouds dispersed and his magic slithered back into his body. The tremors took longer to subside, but eventually, they did. “I've built up a tolerance.”

Smiling wickedly, Andrew leaned forward with his elbows propped against his knees. “That's no good, Neil. What happens when you run our? Or miss a dose? Or can't get to them during a game? Are you going to pop off and kill everyone in sight?”

“I'd like to kill you right now.”

Andrew laughed. “Alas, that's not an option.” He slipped the pill back into the bag and pushed them int his pocket, passing the outside over his hip. “I think I'll keep a hold of these. For safe keeping. You understand. I'm sure you have more, so you won't miss these ones.” He stood, stepping as close to Neil as he could without being pressed flush against each other, the flat of his knife tapping along Neil's knuckles where they still held his shirt closed. “You're going to have to make a decision here, Neil. You can't keep popping pills all year. At the rate you're going, you're going to run out before December, and then where will you be? Find me when you want to let off a little steam. We'll have a long discussion about your role here.”

He stepped around Neil, but Neil didn't have the never to grab for the bag in his pocket.

Andrew:

It took Neil a lot longer than he'd anticipated for him to make a decision. It took Neil until Andrew rifled through his belongings and took the entire pill bottle, not that he believed that was all he had. It took for Andrew to put him through hell in Columbia. For him to hitchhike back to Palmetto. It took forever for Neil to make a fucking decision.

Andrew was so frustrated with the whole situation by the time Neil got himself knocked out in Columbia that he was ready to spill every secret he'd collected to both Wymack and Kevin. Threatening him hadn't made him spill his truths. Stealing his drugs hadn't made him spill his truths. Drugging him to high heaven against his will hadn't made him spill his truths.

Not until Wymack was standing between them, and Neil decided to speak fluent German.

He'd never been so utterly taken with someone who was suck a fucking mess.

“I'll be gone by out match against Edgar Allen,” Neil said, and Andrew had never been more sure of a lie in his life though he didn't think Neil knew that himself.

He knew that Neil believed every word he was saying. A junkie like him wouldn't be able to give up what the Foxes had already given him. In the end, Andrew simply said, “We're leaving.”

“Where are we going?” Neil asked, sweat dripping down his forehead, iridescent with his own magic.

Andrew didn't look at him as he said in English, “Back to the dorms. Your teammates have been annoying us ever since we got back, demanding we return to Columbia and scour the streets in search of you,” and then in German, “Somewhere to take care of your problem.” He turned a pointed look on the sky outside Wymack's window where storm clouds had gathered.

“My problem?” Neil asked in German, confused.

Sighing, Andrew spun around at the door to glare at him. “You're barely holding it together. Not many people can feel magic, but I'm sober way more sober than I'd like to be and I can tell that if you don't either take your drugs or release the magic you're literally going to implode.”

Neil pressed his lips into a thin line, but didn't argue. “I ran out. My suppressants are at the dorms.”

“Then release it is.”

Wymack, of course, had to open his mouth and meddle. “He can stay here if he wants. I can call Dan and let her know he's safe.”

Andrew didn't look at Wymack, but turned and opened the door. “Neil wants to come with me,” he said, and he didn't need a lie detector spell to know he was telling the truth.

When he climbed into his car, Neil was climbing into the passenger seat.

…..

“This looks like the kind of place someone comes to get murdered,” Neil commented as Andrew pulled into the campus construction area for the new dorm. The area was deserted, only the skeleton of a building and a dirt packed parking lot. Not even any workers around.

Andrew climbed out of the car, pulling one arm across his chest and then the other. He meticulously stretched while Neil simply stared, and he could nearly feel the confusion radiating off Neil in waves. “This is where I plan to dump your body when I kill you.”

Neil pulled himself out of the car, still staring around. He crossed his arms on the roof, but didn't move from the passenger side. They sky was thick with black clouds, the air muggy with a Summer thunder storm. Or maybe that was just Neil's magic. Possibly, it was just both simply feeding on each other.

Yawning, Andrew stepped away from the car. He'd parked on the edge of the lot, and strode out to the middle to turn and face Neil. Holding out his arms, he said, “Let's go.”

Neil rounded the car, confusion lighting his features. “What?”

“Take out the fucking contacts and let loose. I'm tired of seeing you drugged to the gills. I know you've wanted to take a swing at me, so take it while I'm giving you the chance,” Andrew said. Neil simply stared at him, and Andrew shrugged. “If you don't do it on your own, I'll just provoke you into it.”

Neil was silent for a long moment, just staring at him. Finally, he said, “You can't handle my magic.”

“Try me.”

Neil's magic was pouring from him, a faucet left completely open. His seams were coming loose, stitches popping all over his person. “Okay. Okay, bit... I warned you.”

When Neil finally released the choke hold he had on his magic, Andrew almost laughed with how drunk he felt. The rush was nothing like he'd ever felt. When the thunder rolled through the sky and the sky all but fell, he did laugh.

Neil's face broke with euphoria as his back bowed. “Oh, thank god,” he groaned. When he raised his eyes, despite the brown contacts, they were startlingly blue as lightning pulsed behind them. A grotesque smile pulled at his mouth. “Are you ready?”

Soaking wet, hair plastered to his scalp, Andrew mimicked his smile. “Yes.”

…..

Andrew woke with a sharp intake of breath, staring up at the ceiling of Randy Boyd's guest room. His body buzzed with the Neil's remembered magic. Just a ghostly film. He remembered how it had lit up his system like the Fourth of July.

But...

He could also actually feel Neil's magic buzzing along his skin. Restless and uncomfortable.

Scrubbing a hand over his arms, he swallowed and rolled out of bed before he padded shirtless from the bedroom.

In the living room, he found Neil with his armbands off, a jar of olive oil and herbs on the coffee table and a paint brush between his teeth. He fanned at the sigil on his wrist with distant eyes while the news played silently on the television.

Leaning against the hall wall, Andrew watched him for several deep breaths. “Where did you get the paint brush?”

Neil kept fanning, not looking around at him. “Found it in a drawer.” He glanced up to him. “Are you... better?”

Andrew didn't move. “Relatively. Why are you still awake?”

“You were dreaming too loudly, but I guess that would be loud whether you were dreaming or awake, huh?” Neil dropped his gaze, his fan pausing. “Are... are you going to leave me?”

Pushing away from the wall, Andrew stared at the side of Neil's head. “What?”

“Are you going to leave me?”

“Why would you think I'm going to leave? Because of what happened in the bathroom today?” Neil didn't say anything, and Andrew felt the sudden urge to strangle him. Instead, he leaned on the back of the couch close to Neil without touching him. “I'm not going to fucking leave, junkie. This shit is just something I've been working through for a long time with Bee. Sometimes it's worse than others. It doesn't have anything to do with you. I'm not going anywhere.”

Neil sighed, chuckling around the brush. “Okay, yeah. Matt said that was it.”

Dryly, Andrew said, “I'm glad to see mat knows me so well. Don't ever tell him.”

“Never.”

They stayed silent together, the air calm around them.

“You should go to sleep,” Andrew said.

“So should you.”

“I'm not tired.”

Neil looked up, hope in his eyes. “Sit with me then? We can watch a movie or something.”

Andrew dropped his arms. “Sure.”

#all for the game #the foxhole court #aftg #andrew minyard #neil josten #andreil #my writing #magic in the blood #magic user au #witch au

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fic-xation · 5 years ago

Text

Spicing It Up

Sam proposes something a little unorthodox for his and Max’s night off. But is it too much for even Max to handle? Archive of our Own

"Uh-huh? ... Yeah. Oh, yeah. Absolutely... Ah, Mahzeltov! ... Well, give her my best. Goodbye, sir."

"Well?" Max asked, anxiously popping his head out from the crowded confines of their office trash can. Their usual scuffle over the phone always landed him in the strangest of places... "What'd the commissioner say?"

Sam, shaking his head, hung up the receiver.

"Sorry, lil' buddy. No aliens, demons, mutants, or some unholy amalgamation of the three."

"What about a ponzi scheme?!" Max rocketed himself from the trashcan, snagging at Sam's collar in a panicked frenzy. "Embezzlement?! ... Hell, I'll even settle for mild insurance fraud, jut gimme SOMETHING, man! Anything!"

With the air of one casually removing a tick, Sam snagged at Max's ears, and plucked him from his lapel.

"Nothin' doin', Max. There isn't even so much as a WHISPER of crime tonight."

Tossing his friend to one side, Sam crossed over towards the open window, his hands comfortably nestled in their respective pockets.

"Seems as if the city that never sleeps is taking a much needed power nap." he said thoughtfully.

His partner, however, was far from thoughtful.

"... AaaaaAAAHHHH, I CAN'T TAKE THE SILENCE, SAM!! I need chaos! I need mayhem! I need some sense of superiority as I beat the snot out of some slimy smuggler!"

With a faintly groan, Max collapsed, face-first, against the floor. Sam, meanwhile, merely observed him, scratching at his doggish ear with a contemplative sort of expression.

"... Well..." Sam slid the window shut. "If you're REALLY eager for something to do... We could, uh..." he cleared his throat, awkwardly straightening his tie. "Y'know... Spend some 'quality' time together..."

Max's despair seemed to vanish as quickly as it'd appeared. Scrambling to his feet, he race over towards Sam, leaping into his unsuspecting arms like a bride readying to cross the threshold.

"Why SAMMY, you dirty dog..." Max cooed, snuggling up to his partner's broad chest. "Why didn't you just SAY so?"

He gave a saccharine giggle of mock, girlish delight, coyly tracing little circles against the fabric of Sam's tie.

"What did you have in mind? ... Ooh! Why don't we break into the aquarium again and have a brief make-out sesh in the shark tank?"

"Ehh," Sam shrugged. "I don't think so... I always get the feeling those great whites are enjoying it far more than they should..."

"Fair enough... Oh! How's about a game of ~French Maid Shooting the Balls Off a Nazi Officer?~" Max's smile then faded slightly. "Wait, no, I tore up my fishnet stockings after that caper in Reno last week... Ooh, I got it! How about you leave me handcuffed to the bed, forcing me to relive my mysterious childhood trauma as I desperately struggle for survival?" Max seemed to salivate at the very idea. "Oh my god... HOT..."

"... Actually..." Sam gave a sheepish little smile. "I was thinking we could try something... Different."

"Oooh!" Max flashed a carnivorous grin. "Spicing it up, I see! Do tell!"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, before snapping it shut with a bashful whine. Whatever this idea was, it was evidently too embarrassing to speak aloud. Chewing his lower lip, Sam gestured for Max to come closer. Max, kicking his elongated feet excitedly, happily obliged, gleefully leaning in as Sam finally mustered the courage to whisper his proposal.

Max's smile melted like an ice cube on a frying pan. Mouth agape, he suddenly drew back from Sam's embrace.

"... Y-you're... You're not SERIOUS, right?"

"We don't have to try it if you don't want to!" Sam said hurriedly, waving his hands. "I-it was just a thought!"

"... Yeah, but... Why THAT?" Max seemed repulsed by the very notion. "It's just... It's so... Ugh! I can't even SAY it!"

"I know it's a little... out of the norm for us-" Sam said, settling himself onto a chair as he shyly rubbed the back of his neck. "I just... y'know..."

"... Are you bored with our usual shtick?" Max looked almost hurt by the idea.

Sam's ears pricked up almost at once.

"No! No, buddy, far from it! ... I was only thinkin'... Maybe if we TRIED it, we might wind up likin' it... We wouldn't make a habit of it, of course, but..." he trailed off, lowering the brim of his hat down over his eyes. "... Nothing. Forget I even-"

"Do YOU wanna try it?"

... A surprisingly straightforward question, considering it was Max.

With a sputter of surprise, Sam felt the heat rise against his muzzle. Squaring his shoulders, he hurriedly glanced away.

"... Th-that... That's not really impor-"

"Up-up-up!" Max swatted a finger against Sam's lip. "Shut it, Sam, I've heard enough. Look, if you REALLY wanna give this... THING a shot, I'm in."

Sam finally returned his gaze to Max, eyes wide.

"But... But I thought-"

"Well, QUIT thinkin', or you'll work yourself into a freakin' tizzy! And mind you, I don't use the word 'tizzy' that often." Max reached up, readjusting Sam's hat to its proper angle. "... At the risk of sounding like some pouty-faced teen in a bad chick-flick, I..." he glanced down, fidgeting with his hands. "... Well, I trust you. You wanna do something, so I'll try it. If I like it, great. If I don't, I get to take a baseball bat to your kneecaps. Win-win!"

"... When did a baseball bat enter into the equation?" Sam smiled slightly.

"It's called 'incentive,' Sam." Max huffed, folding his arms. "So, we got a deal?" Sam's chuckled lightly, patting a gentle paw to the crown of Sam's head.

"Okay, lil' buddy... If you insist."

Two hours later, Max found himself in the desolate hallway of their building, just outside their office door, feeling increasingly foolish with every passing second. Swallowing hard, he tugged at the faux pearls lining his throat. In spite of his bravado earlier, the whole ordeal made him uncharacteristically nervous... THIS was new territory for him and Sam... Sure, they'd been married almost eleven times, did the horizontal bop practically every hour, and fooled around with everything from jumper cables to piggy banks... but THIS...

This wasn't just spicing things up, this was dousing it in tabasco sauce before lighting it on fire...

"Saaa-aaaam-" he whined aloud, hurriedly glancing over his shoulders. "C'mon, aren't you ready YET?"

God forbid any of their neighbors, (least of all Flint Paper) should see him like this... Not that he didn't look amazing. All these years later, and he could STILL rock his old prom dress like an absolute queen... It was just the context of the outfit that made it feel... weird...

And the cheap Taiwanese plastic of the jewelry rubbing up against his fur probably didn't help either.

"Just one more sec, pal!" Sam called back, and suddenly, there came the muffled noise of a clattering misstep, followed by a hefty THUMP.

Curious, Max raised a brow.

"... Ya still alive in there?"

"... J-just lost my footing!" Sam hollered, and Max, with a faint giggle, could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

'... Clumsy goof...' He thought fondly, straightening the candy-colored lace of his hem. Just then, the door swung open, and Max, glancing up, barely troubled to suppress his laughter.

A holdover from their 25th anniversary at the Inventory, Sam was all dolled up in his best, (and probably ONLY) tux; all in black, with a prominent bowtie and tophat replacing their casual counterparts.

"... Look, I didn't have the time OR the money for a new suit, okay?" Sam grumbled, scowling at Max's derisive mirth.

"H-hey! It's important to recycle!" chuckled Max, wiping away a tear as he strolled across the threshold. As soon as the door closed behind him, however, he suddenly took stock of Sam's... 'renovation.'

It quickly became clear why the whole elaborate set-up took close to two hours. The office was cleaner than Max'd ever seen it, (though, admittedly, most of the clutter had just been shoved up against the walls.) In the center stood their rarely used ping-pong table, made only somewhat classier by a red sheet posing as a tablecloth. The lights'd been dimmed, and the shudders drawn, leaving only the rust-stained candelabra as the main source of illumination. Max's nostrils twitched, and he caught a familiar blend of tomatoes, diced onions, and oregano.

Spaghetti sauce.

... Romantic spaghetti sauce... Romantic spaghetti sauce with romantic outfits and romantic mood lighting... How could it get any worse?

"Oh, I hope you don't mind-" Sam's voice cut through Max's train of thought. "I found one of my Sinatra CDs while I was cleaning. Would it be alright if I...?" he trailed off, smiling all too hopefully.

Sinatra. Of course. The perfect soundtrack for any romantic setting.

Max did his best to smile in spite of the anxiety twisting his stomach.

"Sinatra? Sure! Put him on! Ol' blue eyes! Swoonatra! Chairman of the board! After all, the guy's been married four times! Who better to serenade our... d... d-d.." the very word seem to swell Max's tongue. Dry-heaving, he promptly struck his own gut.

"D-DATE! OUR DATE!" he finally choked, gasping for air as he pressed his hands to his knees.

... The relief of finally verbalizing it was dampened slightly by the palpably awkward silence that followed.

"... You good, buddy?" asked Sam, worryingly. Max hurriedly straightened up, forcing a smile with such manic intensity that his left eye began to twitch.

"You betcha! I'm great! I'm better than great! I'm about to have a romantic candle-lit dinner with my... s... s-sweetheart..." Max felt the blood rush to his face, but he bared his teeth, determined to persist. People used cutesy terminology during these things, right? Sam was probably expecting it by this point.

"... I-isn't that right? ... My little... Er... Sh-shumbly... w-wubbles?"

... Max would've given six of his own ribs to crawl under that table and never be seen by anyone ever again.

"... Y'know-" Sam smiled, though not unkindly, as he placed a gentle hand to Max's rigid shoulder. "You don't have to talk like that if it makes you uncomfortable... Heck-" he shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "It's kinda makin' ME uncomfortable..."

Max exhaled, his body going limp.

"Oh, thank GOD... No offense, Sam, but I just can't do the cutesy-wutesy crap... At least NOT unironically."

"I'd have to agree," nodded Sam, pulling out a chair for his partner. "Watching you trying to be purposefully adorable is like pulling teeth."

"Um, I beg to differ, Sam." Max hopped up onto the chair, the length of his legs barely making it past the edge of the seat. "Pulling teeth is both exhilarating and vaguely erotic. What I did a moment ago was just..." he gave a faint shudder. "Creepy..."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he carefully pushed Max in.

"Well, that aside, I DO appreciate your willingness to give this a shot, Max. Just remember, if it gets to be too much, you can tap out at any time." He fetched a comforting smile, playfully tussling the space between Max's ears. "Don't forget, our safeword is 'subvert.'"

"Aaah, subvert." mused Max, settling back against his chair. "My favorite variety of 'vert,' second only to 'per.'"

"Noodle-head." Sam chortled. Leaning over, he planted a soft kiss to Max's cheek, briefly savoring the familiarly fluffy texture against his lips. Max, with a sigh, contentedly leaned into it, a slow smile stretching across his face.

... Maybe this 'conventional' date night wouldn't be so bad...

"Oh, speaking of which-" Sam straightened up, breaking the kiss almost as soon as it'd begun. "I better check on the pasta before it burns."

"Ohhhh," groaned Max, reaching his arms out like a needy toddler. "Can't we just skip the food and play tonsil-hockey for an hour?"

"Your vividly grotesque idioms for making out are strangely winsome, Max." Sam commented, crossing through into the next room.

While his partner made himself busy, Max tried his best to occupy his sporadic attention, absent-mindedly studying the slender prongs of his laid-out fork.

'... I wonder how far I could get this up my nose...' he pondered, before hurriedly shaking his head. 'No, no... No zaniness... Sam wants a nice, romantic evening, and by God's left nipple, I WILL DELIVER!'

... But there was that word again... Romantic... There was just something to it, some sense of unease that dangled from the phrase like a booger. But then again, maybe it wasn't the word, but rather the aesthetic that came with it. Hearts, flowers, naked cherubs and giggling waifs and long walks on the beach... It was just all so...

'Disgusting? Stupid? Flagrantly artificial?'

... Embarrassing....

Maybe it was just because he and Sam never had to experience the awkwardness of a first date. They'd grown up together, and once they finally took their relationship to the next level, their lives just became one long, uninterrupted honeymoon phase. There was never any anxiety over impressing the other, no charade of exemplary manners.

Now, they were on a REAL date...

And Max had to suffer all the emotional torment that came with it.

"Hot stuff, comin' through!"

Max gave a slight start. Quickly setting down the fork, he watched as Sam reentered the office, a saucer of steaming spaghetti on each hand.

"I'll say you are." Max smirked, disguising his surprise behind a snide little wink.

"Aw, hush." scoffed Sam, smiling modestly as he placed their dinner towards their respective ends. Moving over towards the CD player atop his desk, Sam carefully slid the Sinatra disk into place, before hurriedly switching to his favorite track.

"~Every kiss, every hug

seems to act just like a drug.

You're getting to be a habit with me.

Let me stay in your arms,

I'm addicted to your charms.

You're getting to be a habit with me.~"

"How apropos," sneered Max, as the honey voice filled the space.

"Eh, what can I say?" Sam winked in return. "I'm a sucker for theming."

Briefly retreating under the table, Sam soon withdrew a small ice bucket housing a bottle of something pink and bubbly. Holding it at arm's length, Sam popped off the cork, taking care not to spill too much froth.

"... Champagne, eh?" Max smiled, a little uneasily, as Sam poured out their glasses. "... Gee, you, uh... Ya really went all out, huh?"

"Well, go big or go home, right?" Sam said, sounding somewhat unsure. Sliding the bottle back into the bucket, he took his seat opposite Max, suddenly looking around as if having noticed something.

"... Did I overdo it?"

"What? ... Oh, no! No!" Max shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that in a bad way! I'm just..." 'Intimidated?' "... Flattered that you went to so much trouble, that's all!"

Sam relaxed, taking a small sip from his drink, before chuckling. "... Heh... Well, I guess this is what you'd call a childhood fantasy."

"... Really?" Max raised an eyebrow.

"Sure," Sam bowed his head bashfully, his muzzle shifting from brown to red. "I'm only a little ashamed to say so, but ever since my blossoming adolescence, it's been a secret dream of mine to treat my special someone to a hand-crafted night of atmospheric intimacy."

Max pressed a hand to his chest. That was.. surprisingly kind of touching...

"... What are you, a girl? Who refers to themselves as blossoming?"

Much like any knee jerk reaction, the quip was out before he even had a chance to think. Ears standing on end, he clenched his fists so hard against the table that the cloth began to bunch under his fingers. This wasn't right, this wasn't romantic... If the circumstances had been different, it would've been fine. Hell, it would've been expected... But this was a DATE, people aren't supposed to make fun of their dates!

"But I DID blossom," continued Sam, completely unfazed. "I blossomed like a beanstalk. What's YOUR excuse, pint-size?"

Max heaved a sigh, releasing his snag on the wrinkled cloth.

'I've served as the racket for games of tennis that were less stressful than this...' he thought, snatching at his glass, and downing the drink in one quick-fire gulp.

"... You doin' okay, buddy?" Sam said, and all at once, Max felt as if his hand were encased in an oversized catcher's mitt. Max looked up, and saw Sam's platter-sized paw gently caressing his apple-sized fist.

All at once, inspiration took hold; a chance for redemption.

... Or further mortification, depending on how you looked at it. For Max, the odds were pretty split.

Nevertheless, Max screwed up his courage, clutching at Sam's hand with both of his own, he yanked at his partner's arm, drawing the knuckles to his mouth...

... And kissing them.

It was light, clumsy, and about as awkward as a grade school play, but he managed, hurriedly throwing Sam's hand aside like a used snot rag before slumping back against his seat.

Sam, meanwhile, just sat like an open-mouthed totem pole, slowly glancing between Max, and his hand.

Was that a good reaction?

... Then, quite out of the blue, Sam was chuckling. That special husky, back-of-the-throat sort of chortle that Max typically adored, but was NOW making him feel about as hot as a steamed vegetable, and just as stupid.

"Don't laugh!" he snapped, though something in him was grateful for the sound breaking the tension.

"S... sorry, Max..." Sam snickered. "I-it's just... I haven't seen you blush like that since our ninth honeymoon."

Max's beady eyes narrowed. "... What're you talking about?"

"Oh, come on..." Sam smirked, leaning against his elbow. "You remember."

Max's eyes suddenly went wide.

"... Oh, good Lord Sam-" he whimpered, ears drooped. "Not that, please-"

"Now what WAS it?" Sam playfully pondered, scratching at his chin. "What WAS that little word...?"

"Sam, I beg you-" Max slid further into his seat, his aforementioned blush only deepening. "Please, no!"

"That magic little four syllable phrase-"

"Sam-"

"That rarely used pet name that makes you crumble like a Jenga tower-"

"SAM!"

"Hm?" Sam finally looked towards Max, still smiling his complacent little smile. "Something amiss, my little Lago-Muffin?"

... As soon as it was out in the open, Max wasted no time, slamming his face into the plate of spaghetti with a low, muffled groan. Sauce went flying in all directions, but he didn't care.

He hated Sam.

He hated that stupid nickname.

And he hated how much he loved both of them and how weak they ultimately made him...

"... So you DO remember." Sam piped up, evidently proud of himself. He slid a noodle from Max's scalp, before slurping it up with a satisfied gulp. "I know I remember. You and I had just nabbed the infamous Pinwheel Purloiner, and were celebrating over a chocolate malt. The whole set up was so beautifully Rockwellian that I called you that as a joke... But, low and behold, you purred like James Dean's motorcycle makin' sweet love to Martha Stewart's blender."

"... Done in by a lousy play on words." Max mumbled into the pasta. "... How humiliating..."

"Nah," beamed Sam, raising Max's head up by his ears. "On the contrary, I find it rather endearing." Taking a moment to observe his partner, he added, "Sheesh, Max... ya look like a tomato..."

"Don't remind me," Max grumbled, eyes downcast. Sam shook his head.

"No, I mean ya got sauce all over your face. Here-"

Lifting him up and across the table, Sam drew Max into his lap. Plucking at a napkin, he then began to smother it against Max's unwitting cheek.

"Agh-! S-Sam!" Max sputtered, writhing like a dug-up grub. "Quit it!"

Sam paused.

"Lago-Muffin."

‘... God dammit.’

Max's eyes turned to comical spirals as he slumped against Sam's stomach in a love-struck daze. Satisfied, Sam was able to finish his cleaning before Max came to.

"... That nickname NEVER leaves this room, understood?" Max growled, still red-faced despite the lack of pasta sauce. Sam gave a soft guffaw,

"Whatever you say, Max. Do ya want me to put you ba-"

"No." said Max stoutly, folding his arms. "I live on your lap now."

"... For all intents and purposes, that may as well be true." Sam considered, spooling a strand on pasta onto his fork, before passing it along to Max. Max happily obliged, snaring the fork between his razor-like teeth like a shark.

Just then, Sam's CD reached the final track of the album.

"~I won't dance.

Don't ask me.

I won't dance.

Don't ask me.

I won't dance,

Madame, with you.~"

And once again, Max was granted an idea.

This time, however, with more confidence.

Leaping to the floor, he bowed slightly, offering out his hand in an all-too romantic fashion.

"Sinatra may not dance, but I'd like to." He grinned. "... Care to join me?"

The outright coolness of the gesture was enough to surprise them both. But while Max kept his composure, it was Sam's turn to look flustered. Blushing, he nervously tugged at his bowtie.

"... W-what, uh... what brought this on?"

"Eh," Max shrugged. "I've already been humiliated beyond belief... Twice now, in fact! So, I figure... third time's the charm, right? ... Besides..." He gently threaded their fingers together, urging Sam onto his feet. "... I'm a sucker for theming."

... Maybe the awkwardness of a first date wasn't so bad. Heck, maybe Max was even better at this romance thing than he thought! He'd just have to keep at it if he wanted to get any better.

But that was alright. After all...

Max didn't mind spicing things up every once in a while.

An entire fanfic inspired by a single throwaway line of @supermary64‘s marvelously charming prom comic!

Hope you lovelies enjoyed it!

#sam and max #sam and max freelance police #freelance husbands #I might have gone a little insane writing this #but I'd like to write more #not just Sam and Max but for other media I enjoy #we'll just have to wait and see #<3 #fanfic #fanfiction

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crescentmoon223 · 5 years ago

Text

Two Worlds Collide Chapter 14

Read it on AO3 | Rated: NC-17 | Stella x Scully

Chapter 14

(read it from the beginning here)

Stella grew restless about four hours into the flight. She had finished the book she’d brought with her to read, and now there was nothing to do but think about where she was going and why she was going there. And she didn’t like the answer to either question. Beside her, Scully was asleep, black-rimmed glasses on her face and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone open across her lap.

It was irritating the way she could sleep anywhere. Stella was tired to her soul, and yet she couldn’t sleep, not in her own bed, not in Scully’s, and certainly not on this airplane currently jetting its way across the Atlantic, carrying them toward Scully and Mulder’s son. Stella shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have taken time off work so soon after her return, and she sure as fuck shouldn’t be anywhere near this family reunion.

At least she’d had the presence of mind to request the aisle seat, so she didn’t have to disturb Scully as she stood to stretch her legs, desperate for something to do that didn’t involve sitting here, dwelling on her current situation. She made her way down to the lavatory, which was thankfully empty. When she returned to her seat, Scully was still asleep.

Somewhat curious and a whole lot bored, she slipped the book off Scully’s lap, earmarking her place before she flipped back to the first page. The idea of a woman her age reading about an eleven-year-old boy wizard was completely laughable, and yet, she found herself getting sucked into the story. It was hard not to root for Harry and his friends, and she couldn’t help noting the similarities to her current situation. Scully’s son was the same age as Harry. When young Harry about learned his parents’ true identities and the circumstances that had left him an orphan, it wasn’t so different from young William learning about Mulder and Scully and the mysterious, dangerous situation surrounding his birth.

Stella saw a bit of herself in Hermione. She too had been an insufferable know-it-all once upon a time, so naïve as she marched through the halls of the private academy her parents sent her to, enjoying the admiring looks she got from the boys—and the girls—while earning top marks in all her classes. A lifetime ago.

“Well, there’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Stella looked over to find Scully watching her read with a sleepy grin. “I was bored.”

Scully turned her head to peer out the window at the ocean stretching endlessly below. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours.”

“What did you think?” she asked, gesturing to the book.

“Not bad.” Stella handed it back.

“I’m enjoying it too.” She held it tightly, a faraway look in her eyes that probably had nothing to do with Harry Potter and everything to do with where they were going.

“It looks like they’re preparing the meal service,” Stella said, more to distract Scully from her thoughts than anything else, but it was true. The cabin had filled with the scent of something savory, and a cart loomed at the far end of the aisle.

“I’m going to sneak out to the bathroom before they block the aisle,” Scully said.

Stella stood to let her out, fingers tapping against her thighs as she attempted to corral the restless energy inside her. If only they were staying in a nice hotel with a pool, she’d at least have a good, long swim to look forward to once they’d landed, but no, Scully had insisted that they rent a cabin in the woods so they could experience nature while they were in Wyoming.

Everything Stella knew about nature had to do with dead bodies found there, corpses left in desolate places by deranged people. She saw herself walking through the woods in Ireland, as she so often did in her dreams, looking for Rose, and the restlessness inside her intensified.

Scully returned to her seat, and Stella sat back down beside her, buckling herself in. She let the metal snap against her fingers as it closed. Fuck. What was she doing on this airplane?

As if sensing her discomfort, Scully reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I have a little surprise for you when we get there.”

“A surprise?” Stella attempted a smile, trying to give Scully the reaction she was looking for, even as her mind spiraled around all the well-intentioned things Scully might have planned for her that would no doubt make Stella feel even more uncomfortable about being here. She didn’t want a gift. She didn’t want anything out of this weekend except to provide comfort for Scully where she could.

Scully was looking at her now like she knew every thought currently spinning through her head, and Stella had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she might. Scully had always been too perceptive where Stella was concerned. Then again, she didn’t know her well enough to know Stella hated surprises.

They ate mediocre airplane food, read more Harry Potter, passing the book between them, and shared idle conversation as the flight dragged on. Eventually, they landed in Minneapolis, where they boarded their second flight to Jackson, Wyoming. Scully became visibly more anxious as the day wore on, and Stella put her own discomfort aside, distracting Scully and providing what reassurances she could.

“I can’t believe Mulder isn’t coming,” Scully admitted as their plane began to descend into the Jackson airport, tears shining in her eyes.

Stella wanted to kick him in his very fine ass for not being here for his son and for causing Scully unnecessary pain and stress at an already overwhelmingly painful and stressful time. “I’m sorry,” she said instead, squeezing Scully’s hand.

“I’m going to see William tomorrow.” Scully turned her face against Stella’s shoulder, weeping silently.

Stella rubbed her back as uninvited tears pricked at her own eyes. She swallowed them, gathering Scully closer into her arms, wishing and hoping with every fiber of her being that everything would go well for her on this journey back to her son.

They landed uneventfully and picked up their rental car. Stella fought to contain her frustration as she plugged the address for their cabin into the GPS in the dash and watched it direct them out into the middle of fucking nowhere.

“I wonder how many serial killers have used this cabin before us,” she quipped as she drove them out of the airport.

“So funny,” Scully scoffed at her, but she was smiling.

It was late, and they were both exhausted after traveling for more than twelve hours. But Stella held back her complaints about the cabin, even though it meant they had to stop for groceries on the way, since they wouldn’t have the convenience of room service. This trip wasn’t about her. Stella was only here for emotional support.

So, she dutifully picked out groceries for the next two days and drove them into the middle of the fucking forest, and when they got there, she put everything away, made sure Scully took the sleeping pill she’d brought with her for tonight, and tucked her into bed, holding on to her until Scully fell into a restless sleep.

When Stella woke the next morning, she was hit by the disorienting sense of confusion that always followed a long journey and jetlag. The bedroom was decorated in the slightly garish American style that was meant to celebrate the wilderness…or blood sport. A deer head was mounted on the wall over their bed, and a bear skin served as a rug on the floor. It made Stella’s skin crawl.

But this trip isn’t about you.

Scully walked into the bedroom, a cup of coffee in each hand. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” Stella sat up to accept one of the cups, registering two unsettling facts at once. First, Scully had never woken before Stella before, and second, there was a slightly manic gleam in her eyes. Today was already taking its toll on her, and it had barely begun.

Scully sat beside her in bed, and they drank their coffee in silence, both of them lost in the uncomfortable depths of their own minds.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” Scully asked after the coffee cups had been set aside.

Stella did her best not to flinch. This was all wrong. She didn’t want anything from Scully right now—not ever—but especially not this morning. “Maybe it should wait until after the party.”

“The party isn’t until two,” Scully said, practically vibrating with nervous energy. “We’ve got hours and hours to kill until then. Come on. Get up and get dressed, just throw on something comfortable to go for a walk with me.”

“Okay,” Stella conceded. For Scully, she’d accept whatever this was and try her very best to be grateful for it. She wouldn’t let herself add any stress to Scully today.

Scully pulled a black canvas bag out of her suitcase and stuffed a few covert things into it while Stella pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went into the bathroom. By the time she’d come back out, Scully was waiting by the door, toe tapping nervously against the hardwoods.

Scully tossed her a granola bar as they headed out the door, and they ate in silence as they walked down a narrow trail leading away from the back of the cabin. Stella resisted the urge to make another quip about serial killers and buried bodies. It was probably more likely that they’d encounter a bear or some other similarly murderous animal than a human.

“Oh, here it is,” Scully said quietly as something glimmered through the trees ahead of them. “Your surprise.”

Stella’s surprise was a thing already out here in the woods? She walked faster, curious in spite of herself. The woods opened up in front of them, and a lake came into view, glittering sapphire blue beneath the sky yawning overhead.

“You can swim all the laps you want to out there,” Scully told her. “Bigger than the biggest hotel pool. And there should be…yep.” She gestured to the side. “A beach right over there to go in.”

“A lake.” Stella stopped short. “This is my surprise?”

Scully nodded. “I knew you would need to swim. Actually, I thought a swim might do us both some good this morning.”

“But I didn’t bring my—”

“Swimsuit?” Scully patted the bag she was carrying. “I packed it for you. And mine too.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.” Stella’s eyes stung. Her lip quivered, and her chest had grown uncomfortably tight. Was this what it felt like to experience a happy surprise? Or was this what it felt like to fall in love?

“You’re welcome,” Scully whispered, pressing her lips against Stella’s.

“Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around Scully, holding on to her until she’d regained the ability to speak. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

Scully gave her an “I told you so” of a smile, pulling free to open her bag. She tossed Stella’s suit at her and took out one of her own. “I don’t think the local wildlife will mind if we get changed right here on the beach.”

“Scandalous,” Stella said as she tugged her T-shirt over her head. She stripped down and pulled on her black racerback suit as Scully did the same beside her. And then, hand in hand, they waded into the lake. The water was cold, shockingly so as it first met her skin.

“Shit,” Scully whispered beside her, shivering past a nervous giggle.

“You’ll get used to it,” Stella told her, wading deeper. The water was a deep green color but clear enough to reveal their toes against the sandy bottom and the little fish that darted between them. Stella tried not to think what else might be lurking out there. Usually, she preferred to keep her distance from wildlife, but right now she was so touched by Scully’s grand gesture with the lake, she was more than willing to swim with hungry fish and snakes and who-knew-what else.

She waded in up to her waist and then dove beneath its shining surface, eyes closed since Scully hadn’t packed her goggles. It was just as well since she didn’t really want to know what was below her. Leaving Scully behind, she stroked her way out to the middle of the lake, burning through everything inside her that needed burning.

She treaded water as she took in the scenery around her for the first time. Mountains rose in the distance. She was surrounded by trees and birds and the endless blue sky above. There wasn’t a house or any other sign of civilization in sight. And despite her resistance to being here, she had to admit it was beautiful. Scully’s crimson head was visible near the shoreline, swimming lazily in the shallows. Even more beautiful than the scenery.

The lake felt like liquid ice beneath Stella’s toes, so she brought them to the surface, floating on her back while she soaked it all in. After a few minutes, she struck out again, swimming toward shore, sucking the brisk mountain air into her lungs, inhaling energy and exhaling peace.

By the time she reached Scully, she felt like a whole new woman. She gave Scully a warm, leisurely kiss before heading back toward the center of the lake, swimming until she was calm, inside and out. The ache in her almost-healed ribs was barely noticeable. When she’d swum herself out, she made her way to the beach where Scully stood in waist-deep water, watching fish nibble at her toes.

“It tickles,” she said with a smile as Stella approached.

“Disgusting,” Stella countered, pulling Scully into her arms and sending the fish darting off into the deeper, darker parts of the lake.

“Better?” Scully asked, touching Stella’s cheek.

“Yes.” She pulled their bodies flush, Scully’s hardened nipples teasing hers through the fabric of their suits. “You too?”

“Much,” Scully said with a nod. “It was just what I needed this morning.”

“Yes.” Stella kissed her deeply. “Also, this.”

Scully smiled against her lips as her hand slipped between Stella’s thighs, pushing her swimsuit to the side. “And this.”

“I like the way you think.” Stella tugged at the fabric of Scully’s suit, fingers encountering the heat of her body beneath the cold of the water. Ripples spread around them, disturbing the glassy surface of the lake as they moved together, swaying beneath the cloudless sky. Scully came first, dropping her head onto Stella’s shoulder as her body gripped Stella’s fingers, pulsing with release. Then she was moving again, fingers pumping in and out of Stella’s body as an orgasm built inside her, as big as the Wyoming sky.

She came against Scully’s fingers, release rippling through her like the water around them, so intensely grateful for the woman in her arms she could cry. She very nearly did. She’d come on this trip to give Scully her support, but Scully had given her just as much in return.

As they waded out of the lake, Stella gave her hand a squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you ready to meet your son.”

#Two Worlds Collide #fanfic #Stella x Scully #stella and scully #The X Files #The Fall #Dana Scully #Stella Gibson

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jmeelee · 6 years ago

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Sterek and #3 things you said too quietly please and thank you 😊

#3. Things you said too quietly

The first few weeks after Stiles is turned are unnervingly easy. Derek anticipates a tide of rough full moons, blood-lust and base instincts, but these growing pains ebb almost immediately, and a beta more even keeled than any of his others breaks the surface. It’s as though Stiles has taken every manic impulse and focused them entirely on self-control. He’s insistent, brave, loyal and smart, qualities he always possessed now amplified, turned up to maximum volume and calling to Derek like a serenade outside his bedroom window. He tracks Stiles’ movements with his eyes, his ears. And it’s because of this close monitoring that he notices the deafening silences before anyone else catches on.

Human Stiles is a cacophony, a wave of noise smacking you in the face, dragging you under. He’s butchered song lyrics and inharmonious humming, he’s drumming fingers and tapping toes. Werewolf Stiles is contemplative stares and controlled intensity, head cocked, listening for answers to questions he hasn’t asked. There’s a swelling of pride in Derek’s chest when he looks at Stiles, and a jolt of wild unease. Something is unnervingly familiar about his behavior, but every time he tries to pin it down, it slips through his fingers. After all these years, Derek is fluent in Human Stiles, can translate every flail and facial tic with authority, but Werewolf Stiles breaks his confidence. His silences communicate at a decibel too low for Derek to comprehend. They quietly suggest a lacunae, slyly offer him teasing glimpses of things he can’t comprehend.

The only thing loud about Stiles these days is his thundering heart.

“Has becoming a werewolf finally shut you up?” The words are spoken as a joke, but not a joke at all. Stiles spreads his hands in response, a gesture of…what? Defeat? Concession? Repudiation?

It’s like the Nogitsune all over again, something just below the surface darkly thrashing, only this time around Stiles is the epitome of perfect physical health. Gone is the sickly pallor and bruised, gaunt eyes, replaced with hardy muscle, lupine grace and a blushing glow. He is palpably the same man, the planes of his face intensely familiar and as eye catching as always, but something is off enough to set alarm bells shrieking inside Derek’s skull.

So he follows Stiles, a regression to the early days when he camped out in the woods alongside the high school lacrosse fields or behind Stiles’ bedroom door. This time he leaps to Stiles’ rooftop, lingering above his cracked bedroom window, listening for signs of life within. He hears shallow breathing, then Stiles’ amused tone. “Just come in, Derek. I know you’re there.” And pride rears up again, sinking sharp claws into his heart. It would have taken the other betas hours to notice he was there.

He swings down, sliding the window open and leaving it at half-mast behind him, allowing the world outside to filter in. A lone bee travels the overgrown lilac bushes two feet below the windowsill, wings humming at a low frequency. In the woods behind the house a fox takes down a rabbit with a choked-off scream, and car tires continuously buzz down the highway a few miles away.

Inside the room, Stiles is sitting on the carpeted floor, an unopened glass mason jar laying next to him, half eclipsed by the baby-blue dust ruffle of the bed. These days Derek is a pendulum, swinging wildly from culpability and guilt to gratification and relief each time he sees the flash of golden-yellow, always so similar to Stiles’ whisky-brown irises. Does he hate me because I turned him? He’s alive, that’s all that matters.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” Derek is not a natural sounding board. It’s one—of the many—ways in which he falls short of his mother and Laura. When people talked to them, they listened, the kind of committed listening that produces a sense of catharsis. Derek chafes against that form of therapy; he’d rather act, find a remedy. But for Stiles, he will be a confidante. He will do whatever needs to be done, and he always will.

Stiles sighs. “I keep coming back to this.” He shakes the jar, jostling the contents—powdered, formless, but obviously significant. Derek sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Stiles, offers out his hand. Stiles places the cool, heavy glass in Derek’s outstretched palm, and when he holds it up to the light he sees the dark gray power is mountain ash.

“Peter was right, about me.” It takes Derek a few seconds to recognize Stiles is referring to Derek’s uncle. He’s not used to the name being spoken so plainly, without a mockingly offensive nickname or colorful obscenities attached.

“What did he say?”

“That I wanted this, to be a werewolf. That I wasn’t allowing myself to acknowledge it.”

“When did he tell you that? Where? Why?”

“When I was sixteen. In a parking garage. And why not? For once, he wasn’t lying.”

How has Derek gone so long without knowing about this conversation? For someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, Stiles is awfully good at smoke and mirrors. Derek racks his brain for why Stiles is looking at the mountain ash with a mixture of longing and dislike.

“Would you rather I…” Derek stops, clears his throat. “Do you wish I never turned you?” His entire body revolts against the thought of the burning flame being snuffed from Stiles’ eyes.

“No,” Stiles answers, heartbeat strong and steady. “I’m glad you did. It’s just…stupid.” He averts his eyes. “It’s childish and ungrateful. But when I laid a line of mountain ash I felt useful, I felt different, but in a good way. That magic, it was coming from inside me, my belief, my brain, which had always seemed like such a spastic failure.” He reaches over, plucks the jar from Derek’s fingers, holds it to his face and studies the contents that are now dangerous, a tool to be used against him. “This transformation has granted me a wealth of riches, and a painfully sharp deprivation.”

And now Derek finally recognizes it, the ghost that has been hovering at the corner of his eyesight, dispersing into mist when he looks too closely at Stiles: grief. Stiles feels like he now has everything, and nothing at all. It’s so obvious. How could he not have known? This whole time, he thought Stiles was speaking too quietly for him to hear, but he’s been screaming.

“I was born like this,” Derek reminds him. “It’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t ever hope to understand, but I’ll help you however I can. However you’ll let me.”

Stiles shoves the jar under the bed frame, out of sight. “May I?” he asks, eyelids lowered and shoulders braced for rejection, though Derek never would. He holds out his arms, and Stiles crawls into his lap, nudging Derek’s chin, running his nose along Derek’s neck and breathing deep. Stiles sighs, content. Satisfaction wells up again, at how tactile Stiles is, his fearless physical expressions of devotion and intimacy.

“It will get better. Things will get easier,” Derek consoles, sure that, together, there is nothing they can’t overcome.

“I know,” Stiles answers, breath hot and wet against Derek’s throat. “I can take care of myself, but knowing you’re here, your strength, your friendship…” Your love. The words aren’t spoken aloud, but they will be. Someday. “It helps. More than you could ever know.”

Outside these four walls the lone bee is joined by a few friends, working tirelessly to gather pollen to transform into sweetness. The fox shares her kill with her hungry growing cubs, and an endless parade of cars continue on their journeys to destinations unknown.

Time marches on, and so will they.

Send me a pairing and number and I will write you a mini fic

#sterek #eternalsterek #haleinski #evanesdust #stiles x derek #answered asks #oh man dori I know you love crack and this ended up as anything but and I am so very sorry

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funkymeihem-fiction · 6 years ago

Text

Bombs and Boards

(pinch-hitting for @mypnotism and meihem santa. The theme was Pirate Junkrat and Mei getting out of a sticky situation together.)

He landed headfirst with a rattling crash on the wooden floor, scraping up splinters as he went, his coat upending to drape over his head as he hit the far wall. Long body unfolding, he lay sprawled face down on the ground for a few moments before he whirled about, bouncing upright like a springboard. Landing on boot and peg leg, he grabbed onto the metal bars and began rattling them, yelling so hard that foam started to gather on his chapped lips.

“Drongos! Blighters! Dog’s arses! The lot of ya! Bloody turncoats, I’ll see ya hanged or blown to smithereens! Nobody messes with the famous BilgeRat! Oi, when my mates find out about this—”

Rough, scornful laughter interrupted him, the other pirates waving off his threats.

“Shut your mouth, Rat.”

“The only thing your ‘mates’ are gonna do is pay up for your return. Whatever’s left of you, anyway.”

“Maybe a few days without water will soften him up. Should’na tried to cheat at cards!”

Rat aimed a ferocious kick at the bars, roaring uselessly after them as they ascended the stairs and left the brig. He was left in the cold damp of his cell, with little more than a lantern on the far wall to see by. Not that there was anything to see. His new living arrangements offered nothing but a pile of moldy straw and a slop bucket that smelled more than a little suspicious.

Which wasn’t fair at all! At least the other cell had a pile of pretty blue fabric in it. Pretty blue fabric that was moving, scrambling to the other side and away from him. And the blue fabric was actually a ragged dress attached to a person, crawling into the light as she fled from the newcomer next to her. It was a woman. A very pretty woman, too; small and softly featured, with pale skin and dark hair and dark eyes that were glaring at him in a way that made his ears heat up.

“Qǐng bié dǎrǎo wǒ!” she said, and whatever that was, it didn’t sound friendly.

“Uh? English?” He tilted his head at her. “Anything? No? Well, so much for scintillating conversation with yours truly.” He let go of the bars, turning about and cursing as counterfeit playing cards fell from his coat, scattering on the floor. He fell to both knees to quickly try gathering them up. “Whoops! Forget you saw that, love! So, what’re you in for?”

“Nǐ zhège liǎngmiànpài, wǒ zài yě bùhuì xiāngxìn nǐ le.”

”Woah, woah! Let’s not say things we can’t take back!” he replied good-naturedly, before slumping down atop his itchy straw.

The woman eyed him for a while longer before she grumbled something to herself…and spoke up in English this time. “Wait, I don’t recognize you. Who are you? Are you one of the crew?”

“Oh, ya do speak! Foreign, aren’t ya? Well, maybe you’ve heard of me anyway?” He struck a pose, as impressive as he could make it without having to get up again. “The most famous and most scurvy of scoundrels, pirate king, scourge of the seven seas— that handsome bloke stealing priceless treasures and lady’s hearts alike! The one n’ only Buccaneer BilgeRat!”

“…I haven’t heard of you,” she said flatly.

“Arright, owch. Maybe they just know me by another name in wherever you’re from. And no, not from this crew. These cretins are a whole different breed who can’t stand losin’ a simple game of cards… Guess you’re not in for card-sharkin’, are you? What’s a cute lil’ button like you doing in a place like this, anyway? You got a name? They ain’t hurt ya, did they? Scum, the lot of ‘em. Now me, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m a proper gent.”

She frowned at his barrage of questions, drawing her knees up under her torn blue dress. “My name is Mei-Ling. And they’re keeping me for a ransom. Although once my organization hears about this—!” She huffed, turning away. “If they can get here in time, anyway. I think it’s already been a few days. And one of them tried to get…handsy, and was suggesting very awful things. But I pretended I didn’t understand the language and broke a lantern over his head. So they put me in here.”

A small spark of admiration lit in his chest. “Good on ya, Mei-Ling! Give ‘em hell, darl! Not to worry. When I bust out of here, how about I take you with me?”

She pursed her lips, still looking unimpressed. “But you’re just another pirate.”

“The pirate, love. THE pirate. The famous Buccaneer BilgeRat’s gotten his self out of worse than this. I’ll get us out of here and then, uh…maybe we can go out for drinks, you and me? How about dinner?”

“Are you asking me on a date while we’re both trapped in a pirate brig?” she said incredulously, before shrugging and sitting back again atop her own hay pile. “Hmph. I’ll go wherever you want to go, if you can just get me out of this awful place.”

“That’s the spirit! I know a great little cafe too, you’re just gonna love it. You just sit tight while ol’ BilgeRat works his magic.” He offered her a wide grin, which she didn’t return. But she did watch when he stood up again and moved to the door, inspecting the lock. “Would’ve waited just a bit longer so I could get me bearings a little, but we’ve got a date and all now, so let’s get on with it.”

Her brows furrowed a little more curiously, scooting forward into the light and towards the bars separating them. “Do you actually have something that can get us out? Really?”

“Always pays to be prepared, Mei, sweetness. I’ll admit they did give me a bit of a pat down. Removed my bombs and matches and all. Even searched my peg, the blighters. Took the dynamite out of it, so that’s a no go.”

“You…keep dynamite in your leg?”

“Well not anymore, that’s the problem. They near on emptied me clean. But!” He winked at her in what he hoped was a charming manner. “Pat-downs can’t always find everything. Especially when they don’t wanna pat down everything. Now what you’ve probably been wondering is… Is that a bomb in my trousers or am I just really happy to see you?” He pointed to his crotch.

“Um—”

“The answer is both! Hold on a tick…” Without shame, he pulled his belt loose and dove into his underwear with both hands, searching until he was almost elbow deep. “Right… OW! No, wait…Okay, other one, grabbed onto the wrong bit.”

Mei looked aghast, but brightened when he soon came up with a small round explosive. Plucking a fuse from the tangles that were his dreadlocks, he quickly inserted it into the bomb and held it out proudly. Tossing it up and down, he puffed his chest up a bit and posed for her a bit. Clicking the tips of his metal fingers, he hatched a smattering of sparks until one of them finally caught. And with a quick flourish, he thrust the nob at the top into the door’s keyhole.

“Batten down your beautiful hatches, Mei!” he said, backing away and shoving both fingers in his ears.

Mei retreated to the far side of her cell, doing the same. The fuse sizzled and sparked, then burned down… until there was a loud bang and a bright flash of light, the force of it reverberating around the hollow innards of the boat. With the lock now utterly mangled, the door swung open and Rat stepped through it, waving away clouds of ashy smoke.

“There we are! I’m thinking they might have heard that one, so we’re a bit pressed for time.” He limped across the creaking floorboards, snatching up the keyring and lantern from the far wall. Hurrying back, he searched through the keys to begin sticking them in Mei’s cell door. She was pressed up against it, excitement on her face and actually smiling at him.

He liked that.

There was a shout from up above them as Rat finally found the right key and her door screeched open. Gesturing her out with a twirl of his wrist, he batted his wild brows at her roguishly. “Right this way, lovely. I know where they emptied out the rest of my bombs, so let’s grab them and make a scene. Now let’s— What’re you doing? Mei?”

She held up a finger, hurrying back across to her hay bed and pulling up something from beneath it. “I wasn’t able to find anything to get out of my cell. But I did manage to pry up a floorboard in case one of them came to give me trouble again.” She offered him that wonderful dimpling smile, holding the wooden board up cheerfully. “It even has a nail in it.”

He grinned at his new favorite blue lady and her makeshift weapon. “Oh, I’m liking you more and more by the second. Let’s go give ‘em a bit of hell. And then you and I are off for that date. It’s Two-For-Tuesday at that cafe down at the docks and I’m gonna take you there.”

“Um… Why don’t we discuss that after we deal with this?” She hefted her nail-board over one shoulder as the yelling grew closer.

“Right! Right! Priorities!” He limped off into the storage room with the lady at his heels, rooting around in the pile of booty before coming up with his straps of bombs and explosive devices, slinging them back into place over his coat. With a manic gleam lighting up in the center of both eyes from the yellow heat of the lantern, he lit up a fuse and stuck it between his teeth, picking up his frags in both hands. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

The first of the pirates on lookout appeared on the stairs, cutlass drawn. Although he seemed to become less sure of himself when he saw a living explosive coming his way, grinning and leering up at him. He took several steps back, cursing.

Mei took up her place by Rat’s side, hiking up the remains of her dress and lifting her weapon. “Nǐ gěi wǒ gǔn! You big bullies!”

Rat twirled the sparking fuse in his mouth and lit the first of his bombs. ”You tell ‘em, darl! Thar she blows! Avast, you mangy dogs! Come get some!”

They lunged together.

#meihem #junkmei #meirat #junkrat #pirate junkrat #bilgerat #mei #mei-ling zhou #pirate au #fiction #writing #overwatch #secret santa

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wilhelmjfink · 6 years ago

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November (pt. 1)

So November is a really hard month for me for several reasons. I try to be open about it now in hopes of helping others who felt the way I did! In 2010 when I was a freshman in hs I attempted suicide November 9th. I spent a week and a half in the psych ward and was in extensive therapy after that and still am to this day and that “it gets better” BS is SO cliche but shit, it’s true... so herr we are...

Naturally they went straight to meds and I spent a lot of time sick & drugged out like WAY beyond anything I could’ve comprehended. So I struggled a LOT with horrible nightmares due to different medications after that and I still do now.. But I’ll take scary dreams over any of that any day.

November remains a dismal time for me so I channeled all of those feelings into a story (cuz I can do that now thanks to @crossbowking) so here is a rapid, confusing story about conflicting inner emotions and high functioning manic bi polar disorder and major depression. There are your warnings. Enjoy my inner turmoil ❤️ I tried to make this uncommon and use a plot line that wasn’t already used before that I saw! Xoxox

PS I’m REAL bad with present/past tense shit so humor me ok thanks

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, although everyone else had been convinced it was just another irrational worry of yours. And as you jog through the frozen woods searching for footprints or tire tracks or anything, you were fueled by fear knowing that Daryl was never late just because.

So when you come up on a long imprint of tire tread that jolted sideways and slid, leading you to a familiar overturned motorcycle that lay tipped over on its side abandoned in the snow, you about scream your heart out right then and there.

The bike is lodged against a dead tree trunk that prevented it from tumbling down the hill behind it into a deep ravine, a big ditch of various whites and browns and the sound of rushing water. The front tire still rotates slowly, suspended in the air; you tried to focus on the minuscule relief you felt knowing that it had to have crashed pretty recently at least if it’s still moving, right?

You waste no time diving over the bike, sliding uncontrollably down the side of the steep ravine wall rather than gracefully scaling it like you intended to. You land harshly at the bottom, falling forward onto your hands and knees in the frozen riverbed, pebbles and rocks and Ice jabbing through your thin gloves like shards of glass. And you know for sure that it will all really hurt later, but right now you’re so fucking scared so scared that your adrenaline won’t let you even think about it right now.

You spot what you immediately recognize as his body laying motionless some feet away. Your heart literally stops and words lodged in your throat for a second, and the fucking fear you feel... it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“Fuck, Daryl!” You finally clamber to your feet, slipping in the mud and trudging through the not-quite knee deep waters, the bitter cold instantly soaking your boots and clothes.

“Daryl!” You call out again and again actually hoping to catch the attention of the four waterlogged walkers that are stumbling toward him where he lay just barely on dry land and out of the water flat on his back, not moving, and with an arrow sticking out of his side. Your breath comes out in white puffs in front of you and even through Daryl’s layers of clothing you can see the blood staining his jacket. His crossbow sticks out from a snow bank several feet away. You can’t tell if his head lulls or if it’s just wishful thinking. “Hey! Hey!”

When the first walker spots you and changes his target to you instead, you fumble blindly at your side for your holster that isn’t in its rightful place on your hip.

“Shit,” you whip around and quickly spot it back on the bank where you’d fallen, the metal contrasting the white snow it lay in. You’re frustrated now because running in water is fucking stupid hard, especially when you’re already freezing, and when you finally manage to snag your pistol and unholster it with almost numb fingers, you aim and flick off the safety just as the first walker stumbles over itself and face plants into the water in front of you, successfully colliding with your barrel as it lands.

The shot misses, hitting the ground to the left of where it lands. You curse again, your sights locking on the other three walkers that have still taken an interest in Daryl.

You fire two shots rapidly, the first one hitting its chest and the second one it’s skull, and then watch in horror as it falls forward on top of Daryl and the the other two fall of top of him, still alive.

“No!”

The scream rips through your throat and hurts like fire, echoing through the stillness of winter around you and bouncing off of the ravine walls and trees. In a panic now you completely drop your gun while you scramble over to him as fast as you absolutely can and you’re already positive it just isn’t fast enough.

As soon as you’re close enough you throw yourself into the dog pile, noticing at the very last second how Daryl seems to stir. But it’s too late to do anything about it, because you catch the top two bodies — one alive, one dead — and the three of you tumble down the slate drop off and sink like stones to the bottom of the cold water.

It knocks the wind right out of your lungs and for a second, you’re paralyzed. It takes you some time to gather your bearings, finding the surface while you’re tossed around by the current, tangling with a heavy body that you can’t decide is alive or not.

Your heavy winter clothes are quickly soaked and act as anchors, holding you prisoner underneath the rushing water. Amidst all of the fear and panic you’re faced with, you can’t seem to stop worrying about Daryl.

By the time you resubmerge your body is so fucking cold that the gasp of oxygen you desperately inhale pains you, like you were swallowing electricity and letting it settle inside of your body while it burns every inch of you, inside and out.

You finally drag yourself out of the river, slipping and sliding with little grip on the wet rocks, until you’re finally out and able to lay flat on your back and catch your breath.

The obnoxious clicking you hear turns out to be your own chattering teeth and you can hear yourself gasping audibly while trying to breathe but you can’t help it because it’s so fucking cold. So fucking cold that it hurts.

All you want is to find Daryl and make sure he’s okay, then you remember the last thing you saw was two walkers falling on top of him as he laid unconscious.

So you were pretty positive he wasn’t okay.

You can’t tell if it’s the cold air or the absolute feeling of disbelief that washes over you that renders you useless but you just lay still, staring up at the endless gray sky, too cold to move and too cold to scream and cry.

Daryl is gone.

Your heart hurts.

It really, physically hurts.

The dull ache turns violent when it tries to function, like a broken bone inside of your chest. You want to scream and cry and fucking thrash around to try and relieve the pressure that was building up inside of you, threatening to boil over and send you whirling out of control.

But you were just so cold.

How do you expect to make the trip back like this?

You would be fine with just freezing to death here, actually. Less painful than having to live through this shit world without Daryl by your side to help you and tell you to chill out because everything would be fine. It wasn’t going to be fine. Nothing was going to be fucking fine.

And even if you could make it back, how did you plan to just tell them you let Daryl get eaten? What would they think? You were better off dead than without him, anyway.

It was dark when you stirred next, the silent snow falling around you eerily nostalgic, the flakes landing gently on your skin and eyelashes and disappearing when you blinked.

Sitting upright you felt like a board, so stiff and immobile, and your body ached with every movement and your head throbbed with every beat of your heart.

It was quickly becoming nighttime, the last of the suns rays barely lighting the forest around you. You were confused, dazed, completely out of it and unaware of your surroundings or the frostbite that was setting into your limbs dangerously fast. Despite not being able to feel it, it loomed over you like the dark and heavy clouds above your head, and when you pushed yourself to your feet to take your first few steps, you quickly collapsed back into the snow.

Your fingers couldn’t bend, your toes couldn’t move. Your extremities wouldn’t listen to your brain and so you crawled, blissfully unaware of the snow that was soaking through your already drenched gloves, burning your numb fingers so violently that you couldn’t feel it at all.

Eventually you couldn’t crawl anymore. So you collapsed down onto the frozen ground, chest heaving, body screaming, head swimming. Dizzy. Confused. Tired. So tired... so, so tired.

“C’mon, girl, getcher ass up.”

You shifted uncomfortably, shaking off the weight that was trying to get you up and away from the comfort of sleep. You know, you haven’t had a migraine in years, thankfully, but you had one from hell today and you didn’t want to have to wake up for anything... especially work.

You swatted the hand away, refusing to move for your boyfriend as he sighs — he was even harder to get out of bed in the morning than you are, you remember bitterly — when the voice came back even louder than before.

“Fuck’s sake, woman, come on! Are ya serious right now?”

You felt a surge of energy in your bones that stemmed from the anger that rendered, and were prepared to sit up and lash out when you opened your eyes and realized you were not in your fucking bed.

“Patrick...?” You mumbled for your boyfriend into the bright white above you. When your vision settled and you blinked through the pain, you were looking up at bare tree limbs blanketed in snow. Not your ceiling. Not your boyfriend. Not your warm, cozy bed.

“Real nice,” the familiar voice beside you muttered — now obviously not your boyfriend. “Nah, it’s me. Get up n’ lets go.”

“Ouch, whew, that stung a lil’!” Another voice howled from somewhere around you so loudly it made you flinch. “Isn’t ‘at her ol’ man’s name? Ha!”

“Shut it, Merle,” the first man growled, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. Daryl — your brain was racking itself to decipher who that was. Why the fuck didn’t you recognize his voice? What the fuck were him and Merle doing there? Wasn’t it just Patrick who was shaking you awake? Were you drunk?

“Ya just gonna lay there n’ daydream, or what?”

“She ain’t comin’ with us,” Merle stated matter of factly. You subconsciously rolled your eyes — didn’t you lose him on a roof like a week ago? They must’ve found him. Where the fuck did his hand go?

When your eyes found finally found Daryl, he was standing at your feet, his boot nudging the sole of yours impatiently. You just groaned.

“Come on!”

It was weird — he looked so much older than you remembered: his hair was much longer, shabbier, down to his shoulders now. He’d filled out more — he was more muscular, his eyes darker. He has a thick poncho on, too, despite it being, what, 90° in Georgia? He didn’t look like the Daryl you knew anymore and it didn’t sit well with you. Especially because Merle looked the same as you remembered him; almost as if he hadn’t aged a day. Despite his hand being replaced with a blade.

“Just leave ‘er there, man! She obviously ain’t gonna get up. She don’t wanna come with ya! Didn’t ya just hear her call out for ‘at other guy?” He laughed. “Or did I jus’ imagine that?”

Daryl was staring down at you pointedly, as if he was trying to figure out what you were thinking. But you didn’t even know what you were thinking. Everything was too bright and too loud and your head was foggy, the world was tilting around you. Stupid migraines. Everything hurt. But you wanted Daryl to stay, to hold you and tell you everything was fine.

“D...?” You really wanted to speak but you couldn’t form any words, your mouth dry and unwilling to move other than your teeth that you couldn’t get to stop occasionally chattering, despite being so fucking overheated and sweaty. So cold. What the fuck was wrong with you? “Don’t...”

“She don’t want ya,” Merle was suddenly much closer to you, inches away from your face, sneering down at you. Daryl remained behind him, eyes darting between the two of you. You felt like he was looking right through you. “Ah, ‘sa real shame, too. I bet she was a real treat under the sheets, lil’ brother. Ha! Can’t wait for you to tell me all ‘bout it.” He elbowed Daryl, who shoved him off before turning and stepping away from you. No, no. You tried to reach for him but your arms felt like lead. You couldn’t even tell Merle to shut the fuck up and god that was all you fucking wanted to do! “Good for you, Darlina.”

“Man, shut up and le’s go.”

No! Was Daryl really just going to leave you there? Paralyzed and hurt or frozen or whatever you were — helpless and afraid and alone? You tried to scream for him, plead for him to come back and help you, hold you, anything. But Merle trotted up behind him, throwing his arm around him harshly, and leading him away from you.

“Daryl...” You finally choked out, though feeling like you had a mouth full of marbles or cotton, preventing you from crying and screaming like you wanted to. “Daryl! Please...”

But he was gone.

You didn’t even know what you were doing but you wanted to give up on it. Quit and not feel anything. Not have to deal with anymore. No more loss. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Daryl was somewhere back upstream. And he was probably a walker by then, if there was even anything left of him.

Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad.

It didn’t seem real. You had seen him brush with death so many times and he always came out unscathed — it was just what he did. He just seemed to avoid death. Like he wasn’t meant to die. He was supposed to be okay and be strong for everybody else. This world needed him — you fucking needed him.

Whatever realm of purgatory you were stuck in allowed you to feel everything, and somehow, absolutely nothing all at once. You couldn’t feel the cold that was chilling you to the bone, turning your blood to shards of ice that coursed through your veins agonizingly, but you could literally feel your heart that had shriveled up inside of your chest, trying desperately to resume its regular beat, like everything was fine and you were okay and Daryl was okay, and just failing miserably.

You couldn’t picture anything but his eyes; it was always funny to you how he was so closed off and dark and angry but those blue eyes, God, they were the brightest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. And his small smirk, a smile that he’d flash so quickly sometimes you were sure it was your mind playing tricks on you. The light, breathy chuckle that only you could seem to elicit from him, when it was just the two of you.

You felt like you were floating, weightless, surrounded by dark water that both cooled you off and lit you on fire at the same time. It was a peaceful ignorance, to feel no physical harm, no sickness or fear, but you were happy once you remembered how to move, and all you could manage to do was curl yourself into a ball and tuck your head in and hide away and dig your nails into your skin just to feel something and you screamed your fucking lungs out.

It felt good to finally be able to let something out of your tightly wound soul; unfortunately it didn’t relieve the weight that was resting on your shoulders and crushing you until you felt minuscule and broken and worthless. You were so, so angry.

You screamed until your throat was raw and you were sure you could taste blood. And it was bittersweet, remembering you that you were very much alive somehow, but very much alone.

So alone.

Maybe your unconscious would swallow you whole and you could live inside of your own head forever.

Every time you made a noise there was a bolt of lightning in your throat and you gasped for breath, dragging your fingers through your hair, tangling themselves carelessly amongst the strands and emerging with knots of it stuck in your dull, bloody fingernails.

Why? Why? How did you get here? Why did have Daryl leave you?

You screamed again. “You fucking asshole. I hate you! I hate you!”

Now you were sure you could feel him holding you, if you didn’t know any better. His grip was definitely holding you down, holding you back the way it would before when you’d playfully or otherwise try to run and he would quickly catch you. You’d laugh and sometimes he’d even kiss you. Did those memories even happen, or did you make it all up?

“I fucking hate you! Why did you have to leave? Why did you fucking leave me? I needed you. I still need you. I need you, please come back. Please don’t go. Please say something...”

Though you jumped when he answered you back.

“Y/N?”

The sweetest sound you’d ever heard. Frantically you searched for the source of the voice, unable to find anything in the vast brightness of the world you were stuck in. Empty and bright. Where the fuck were you?

There was nobody there with you. But it was him. He was there. And you needed to fucking find him.

“Daryl!” You were yelling into thin air. But he sounded alive, so he had to be alive, and was he going to leave with Merle again? Had that not happened yet, and you had the opportunity to try and prevent it? You clambered to your feet. “Daryl? ...Don’t go — please don’t go with Merle. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you... I’m so sorry.”

Silence.

“Daryl? Where are you? Please, come back!” The words began spilling out of your mouth with the tears and you just tucked yourself back into a ball because you just wanted to be as small as possible and disappear. It’s your fault you were stuck there anyway. “I’m so sorry, Daryl. I’m so sorry.”

Who were you kidding?

He would leave you — everyone did eventually. He would go with Merle. Gone. Just like that.

No, wait, you killed him...

“Y/N!”

Your head snapped up — he’d come back for you!

But he sounded confused or lost or in trouble. It worries you. Or maybe you were dead too, and you were in your own personal hell and you were about to watch him getting eaten alive by those walkers. No, no, no, no, please, not Again.

You pushed yourself back up and screamed for him as loud as you could.

“Y/N, relax.”

He was holding you again, trying to pull you somewhere else from where you wanted to stay standing until you dropped. So you tried to shrug him off, tried to fight the invisible force that held you back, until it finally gave way and you tumbled and hit the ground with a grunt.

There was somebody else there with you. You could feel it.

Rolling over you saw the first walker, grotesque and gray and bloodied, it’s jaws snapping as it meandered toward you.

It slowly got closer and closer and closer and you just sat there, waiting for it to get closer. But why?

It got close enough. It was Daryl.

You didn’t want horrified scream to tear its way through your already raw lungs and throat as he stumbled forward, falling onto you and grasping you with those cold, boney fingers. He was not your Daryl. Not you’re Daryl. Not your Daryl.

You wrestled him frantically, looking anywhere else to avoid catching sight of those yellow eyes. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. It wasn’t Daryl. There was no way, he couldn’t have died. He wouldn’t turn into one of those monsters even if he did. He was too strong. Too smart. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

You screamed his name a hundred times it seemed, trying to get him to wake up and respond to you, to snap out of that trance and go back to normal.

But when you looked back up at it, using all of your strength to keep it hovering over your body as it flailed and wriggled and barred it’s teeth at you menacingly, hungry. Starved. Dead. It really was him. Your best friend. Your best fucking friend. Why? You had loved him with everything that you had, tried so hard to keep him safe as he did you, you just wants to rescue him when he didn’t come back by dusk that fateful night, and it wasn’t enough. You had known something was wrong that day.

Tears blurred your vision and they were warm and stung your cheeks as they fell. You stopped struggling. You let his body fall on you, deadweight, and sink his rotted, yellow teeth into your neck.

Confused?? Good. Stay tuned for pt. 2 :-)

Tag list❤️❤️

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman @mtngirlforever@sourwolf-sterek32 @winchester-angel @cococruzzmayanns @qrangr @cole-winchester @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic @crazyaboutnorman @deliciousassafrasssandwich@bunnymother93 @96ssi

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #daryl x reader #reader insert

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forkanna · 6 years ago

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[AO3 LINK] [EF LINK]

WARNING: Character death. (Sort of.)

As she rolled into the parking lot of Twin Pines Mall, video camera under one arm, the first and only thing she saw was a huge white eighteen-wheeler truck. It read "Dr Emmett L. Pabbie – Scientific Services" on its side, which really misled any potential passersby as to the eccentric old man who owned it. This late, no one else was using the lot, and she rolled lazily down the ramp and onto the concrete. The momentum took her all the way up to the truck where she could knock gently on its side.

"Doc?" she asked as she kicked the edge of the board to pop it up and catch it. "You in there? Or… what?"

Before she could call out again, a mangy white dog came loping around the corner, barking and wagging its tail. Anna bent down with a slight smile and scrubbed behind his ears. "Heya, Olaf! Where's the Doc, boy? Where'd he go?" He gave an answering yip that really was no help at all.

The hissing of hydraulics and white steam emanating from the back of the truck gave her all the information she needed. Moving around, she watched as the doors opened further; far enough to reveal piercing lights shining through the fog. A ramp slid out and down to the concrete, and out rolled…

A car. Not just any car– it was a crazy old 1980s model that almost looked more like something out of a cheesy movie on Syfy than a real automobile. It was familiar, though Anna hadn't ever seen one in person. What's more, this one was so souped up beyond recognition that it took her a moment to recall its name.

"A DeLorean…?" Stepping closer, she muttered under her breath, "Jesus, Doc. If you wanted a junker, we've got a freshly smashed one at home."

Then the gull-wing door of the ancient car hissed open, revealing a wild-eyed old man. His normally-white frizzled hair was stained green today – Anna didn't even want to ask why – and he was wearing a white radiation suit. When he got himself disentangled from the seatbelt and out of the car, she took a hesitant step toward him.

"Doc?"

He jumped, turning around to catch site of his poor assistant. "Anna!" he cried, breaking into a wider grin as he approached and gripped her shoulder, a zealous gleam in his eye. "You made it! And you brought the camera – excellent!"

Glancing past him at the car and its previous hiding place, she whispered, "Did you rig up a fog machine literally just for this reveal? Dude, that's… a little much."

"Don't be silly!" he chuckled. "Why pay for a fog machine when I have perfectly good dry ice just lying around?"

Anna could have left then and there. Instead, she rolled her eyes, yawned, and gestured pathetically with the camera. "Can we hurry up, please?" she asked. God she sounded pathetic, too. "Today hasn't been great…"

"Ah." Nodding sagely, he patted one shoulder even as the other hand moved to pick up a clipboard from the seat. "Trouble with your parents again? I understand. My own were rather… let's use the phrase 'disapproving' when it came to my own academic leanings. They wanted me to go into law – LAW!"

Then he leaned in, a gleam dancing in his beady eye. "But they were wrong, as are yours. Tonight, you and I are going to make scientific history!"

That was… honestly not what she wanted to hear. But maybe it was what she needed to hear. Something to get her mind off everything. Sucking in a breath, she nodded. "Okay, fine. Scientific history. What are we doing this time? Figuring out how to make weird cars worth something?"

"I know you're only joshing, but what if I said yes?"

Anna stared at him. "I'd say that you seem to misunderstand what 'scientific breakthrough' means, and this was a waste of time," she replied. Doc just laughed again.

"We have all the time in the world! Nothing will ever be a waste of time again because you see, my dear, dear Anna, what you're looking at isn't just a car! Oh no. It's a time machine."

She blinked. Then, she blinked again.

"Time machine," she repeated, voice terribly flat. Doc nodded. Pointing at the hunk of junk in front of her, she said, "That. Is a time machine."

"It is indeed. You're looking at the most valuable material possession in the world! See, look– come on! Turn on the camera!"

Numbly, Anna did as he said, turning on the antiquated device and pointing it at her mentor. It was way too late for this kind of bullshit. Patting down his front, Doc began speaking to the camera.

"Good evening. I'm Doctor Emmett Pabbie, and I'm standing at a parking lot of Twin Pines Mall, Dell Valley, California. It's Saturday morning, October 24, 2015—" here, he paused to check his watch, "—one thirty-eight in the morning, and this is temporal experiment number one."

What the- an actual experiment? Anna had seen enough Mythbusters to know that there should at least be safety glass and a fire extinguisher. Things always either exploded or caught on fire. Or both.

"This is not what I had in mind when I answered your Craigslist ad two years ago," she muttered under her breath as she focused the lens on him. No, she'd expected to be making a thousand pots of coffee a day and helping to type out some terrible handwriting. Not this.

She was brought back to the present by a whistling noise – Doc was flicking his fingers back and forth over the driver's seat, calling Olaf to him. The dog hopped up into seat, and Doc put a seatbelt around his furry body.

"Alright," Doc said as he held up two stopwatches, one from around his own neck and the other from Olaf's. "As you can see, both watches are synchronised, down to the millisecond." They both turned over to 1:40 at the same instant. "Great. Now, Olaf – stay."

The dog obediently cocked its head at his master, as if he might get a treat if he obeyed, but instead the door was shut above him. Then, Doc pulled out something she definitely did not expect to see next: a complex remote control setup that made her think of the ones used by drones and other UAVs. Before she even had a chance to say, "What the actual fuck," the car was zooming away, Doc controlling it with the remote.

Poor Olaf.

He was making it travel to the far end of the parking lot, lining it up so it would have a clear run of the parking lot. Whether it was supposed to do something fancy like time travel or what, Anna had no idea – she was more concerned by the fact that it was pointing directly at them. But they were supposed to move before the experiment began.

Right?

"This is it" he was saying with that same old Doc Pabbie manic gleam in his eyes. "We are standing on the precipice of the greatest scientific discovery since the wheel." He turned to look at his young protegé. "Keep that camera rolling, Anna, because if my calculations are correct, as soon as this baby hits 88 miles per hour, we're going to see some serious shit."

"Well, if we don't move, I'm going to shit myself. It's pointed right at us!" Anna's eyes widened as she stared at him. Doc noticed.

"Don't film me! Watch the car!"

Quickly correcting herself, she pointed the camera at the car, very aware of the fact that the car was pointing at them, and Doc actually seemed pretty keen on keeping it that way. He glared – actually glared! – at her when she shuffled to the side. Then, he hit some buttons and pressed some levers, and suddenly the air was filled with the smell of burning rubber as the car's tires spun in place along the pothole-riddled bitumen.

Anna's brain did some rapid calculations as the car came careening towards them. On the one hand, she was pretty upset right now with her whole life and family and all that shit; on the other hand, she didn't actually want to die.

But, then again, in all the years she had spent assisting Doc, she could truly call him a friend, even with the half-century age difference. Running them over with a rapidly moving chunk of nostalgia was wildly out of character – not to mention the fact that Doc would never, ever knowingly put Olaf in danger.

This was, after all, the man who had taught her to drive because her mother couldn't and her father wouldn't; the man who once spent a not-inconsiderable amount of time working on an immortality serum for dogs. He had a plan, Anna knew he had a plan.

Which was good. because the DeLorean was almost on top of them.

Anna was moments from deciding to shut her eyes, unwilling to be faced with her own mortality, when something odd began happening with the car. Huge crackles of electricity began to crawl over the bodywork of the car and a jet of flame erupted from the back of the vehicle.

And then it was gone. The entire car, everything inside of it, had winked out of existence, leaving behind nothing but two fire trails along the ground.

"I… wait, WHAT?!"

"It worked!" Doc cackled, hopping up and down. "What did I tell you?! Eighty-eight miles per hour!"

Anna stumbled, the camera now hanging loosely from her hand as she walked toward the only piece that had been left behind when it vanished; a smoking license plate that said "OUTATIME". She would have laughed at the humour if the rest of the situation felt as funny. Her hand strayed down to pick it up, but it was hot to the touch, and she dropped it with a hiss of surprise.

"What the actual shit?! Jeez, Doc, you disintegrated Olaf!"

"Not 'disintegrated', Miss McFly!" he said, doing a little jig of pure glee as he joined her side. "I assure you, both my trusty canine companion and his scientific chariot are both perfectly intact!"

Mouth flapping for a moment, Anna couldn't quite find her voice. She opened her arms, indicating the empty parking lot as her head swung back and forth. Almost as if she would see the DeLorean in some far off corner - which was ridiculous, but she couldn't help herself. Doc may have been a tinkerer, and true, many of his inventions did work. But they weren't marketable ones, and never on this scale! It was more likely that he'd figured out how to do literally anything else to the car other than it being a time machine. Disintegrating it was high on her list.

"Then where the hell is he?" she cried, when he didn't seem to be understanding her unspoken question,

"Wrong question, dear girl!" he giggled, like a preschooler with a secret cookie in his pocket. "You should be asking, 'when the hell are they?' I have just sent them into the FUTURE!" Anna was still blinking when he held up a pair of fingers. "Two minutes into the future, to be precise! Only enough to ensure that the experiment is a success, but not so much that we lose control of the testing site!"

Anna needed to sit down. Her legs were jelly. "Time machine," she said dazedly, eyes wide. Her stomach rolled and she wasn't even sure why. "You built a time machine. Out of a DeLorean?" Where the fuck did he even get a DeLorean, anyway?

"Well, if you're gonna build a time machine, you may as well do it in style," he said. Anna barely got through her eye roll before he continued with, "Plus, the stainless-steel construction made the flux dispersal a full 67% more effective than if I'd used a more contemporary model."

"Where did you even find one, Doc?" Anna asked in an exhale. Maybe if she focused on the small impossibilities, it would make the bigger ones less daunting.

Doc grinned. "Well, funny you should ask-" He was cut off from continuing by a sharp beep, emanating from the watch. There was a millisecond of silence before Anna was pushed roughly to the side. "Look out!"

There was a very sci-fi sounding whiz-bang-pop, and suddenly the car reappeared, skidding along the ground. It seemed to hiss as it settled, and steam was rolling off it in waves. Or perhaps not. As Anna moved slowly, a few paces behind Doc, it became apparent that the car wasn't burning – quite the opposite.

It was frozen.

Careful to keep his hand wrapped in the sleeve of his labcoat, Doc opened the door. Olaf let out a cheerful yip and Anna was not going to admit just how relieved she was that he wasn't disintegrated.

"What did I tell you?" Doc repeated over and over, scrubbing behind the dog's ears. Anna had to admit, the man really did love his dog; at first, she had been worried that he used him for experiments - after her initial concern that he wanted to use her for experiments - but it didn't take long to see that he loved Olaf, and only used him as a practical test subject once he was at least reasonably certain that he would be safe. Most of the time, he would use a potato or something similar first, then graduate to Olaf, and then run the test on himself – sometimes herself, too, if necessary. And she consented - whenever it didn't sound like she would be in mortal danger.

"It actually works," she breathed numbly, approaching. But then she saw Doc waving at the camera, so she raised it and aimed at the two of them. It had been recording the whole time; she forgot to hit 'pause' because she was so distracted by a working time machine actually existing.

"As you can see here, now Olaf's stopwatch is exactly two minutes behind mine and still ticking! For us, he ceased to exist for that period in time, but for my little devil here, it was as if he never left. Isn't that right, Laffy?"

Once more, Olaf gave a happy little yip. Well, he sounded happy, but as soon as Doc gave him enough room, he was out the car and into the Doc's trailer, staring at them through one of the grimy windows. Whatever Doc said about it being instantaneous, Anna had the impression that perhaps it wasn't quite that clear-cut. Perhaps it was one of those sixth-sense things that animals had. Either way, Olaf seemed pretty chuffed at not being in the DeLorean anymore.

She didn't have much time to wonder, though, because Doc was quickly calling her over. "Come and I'll show you how it works!"

Intrigued, Anna moved closer. It looked like a car, and it was. Well, the front half. The back started looking more like some relic from an old Star Trek series, all winking lights and buttons.

"This," he said, pointing to a few cables in a glass box nestled in the back seat. It was shaped like a Y and had the words 'flux capacitor' written above it. "Is the flux capacitor." Well, duh… "It's what makes time travel work. And here," he turned, pointing at the front console where the CD – or probably cassette – player should have been. Instead, there were three rows of clocks, looking similar to her digital alarm at home. "This is where you input the destination. The middle one is when you are, the bottom is when you were, and the top one is when you're going. "

"If you say so," Anna mumbled distantly. They were all labelled, as Doc was always completely meticulous about labelling everything. Even a saxophone hanging in his lab had a label stuck to its side that said "saxophone", as if it was at all necessary.

"Anywhere – anyTIME you want to be is at your fingertips. Let's say you want to witness the signing of the Declaration of Independence. All you need to do is type the date – in the scientific fashion. Year, month, day." In he typed 1776-7-2. "Or the Normandy landing?" 1944-6-6. "What about… seeing 'The Wizard Of Oz' when it was brand new?" 1939-8-25.

"Follow the yellow brick road," Anna couldn't help muttering, filming everything even as her head spun. "Wow… you can seriously do that? I mean, not just make a dog disappear for a few minutes?"

A twinkle shone in Emmett Pabbie's eyes. "That, and so much more. Ah – here's a red letter date in the history of science: November 5th, 1985." Wistful, he typed in the date.

"Right, yeah. I mean… wait, what date is that? You know I suck at history."

"Well, it's Guy Fawkes Night, but I wouldn't expect an average American student to know that. No… it's going to be remembered for a completely different reason: the date that time travel was invented." His eyes took on a distant look as he leaned back in the DeLorean's seat. "I remember it vividly: I was hanging a clock in my bathroom, standing on the toilet. The porcelain was wet, I slipped and hit my head on the edge of the sink; knocked myself out cold. When I came to, I had a revelation! A vision, a picture in my head! A picture… of this."

His finger drew both of their attentions to the flux capacitor, gently glowing in the technology-appropriated back seat. He had said that was the only thing that made time travel work in the first place, and it had all come to him because he was a klutz. Why not? That was one of the few things they had bonded over when she started working for him: both were slight outcasts who could be remarkably uncoordinated.

It was sort of encouraging, in a way. It meant that Anna could maybe be a complete failure and still succeed at something. Then again… her parents didn't have a great track record.

Ugh. She didn't want to think of her parents. Shaking her head, she followed him as he moved back towards the trailer. "So Doc, I don't suppose this runs on regular unleaded? You sure did add a bunch of equipment on the back there."

Doc gave a snort. "Unfortunately, no. A machine like this requires a little more… kick. Plutonium."

Wait, what? "Plutonium? What kind of- Doc, are- are you telling me this baby is nuclear?" Anna found herself taking a cautious step to the side – not that it would make much of a difference.

"Of course not. It's electrical – what is this, the Dark Ages? I just need a nuclear reaction to generate the 1.21 gigawatts of power I need."

"And where, might I ask, did you get the plutonium? Just run down to the closest nuclear power plant and ask for a sample?"

At that, the Doc came striding back, waving his hands like he was trying to get her to shut up. "I stole it," he whispered harshly. "From a group of nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb, so I took their plutonium and, in turn, gave them a shoddy bomb casing full of used pinball machine parts. Come on! Let's get you a radiation suit. We must prepare to reload."

"Wha-?" Honestly, Anna had not signed up to handle nuclear material. Seriously. The ad had said "part time assistant to help eccentric inventor". The pay wasn't half bad and he had zero expectations other than "show up". It was perfect!

Except for when shit like this happened.

Soon enough, they had "reloaded" the nuclear chamber in the back of the car. At least Doc was professional enough to have dressed them both in radiation suits; Anna was sweating from the thick material, but she definitely didn't feel any weird tingling that might mean she was infected by the plutonium.

"Almost forgot my luggage," Doc said, slipping a suitcase into the car. "Who knows if they have my brand of underwear in the future?"

"The future," Anna breathed, mystified by this entire series of events. Now that she had gotten over the bizarreness and thought about the possibilities, she was excited and began to grin. "Headed forward, like Olaf? How far?"

"Twenty-five years," he said with a shrug. "2040 should be interesting. I've always dreamed of seeing beyond my years, observing the progress of mankind. Find out if that Phantom cartoon was correct about anything."

Anna's eyebrows twitched together. "What cartoon?"

"Roll tape." Obediently, she raised the camera. He was the inventor and she was just along for the ride; no sense in delaying him. "I, Dr Emmett L. Pabbie, being of sound mind, am about to embark on a historic journey." Then he slapped his forehead. "IDIOT!"

"What?!"

"I almost forgot to bring extra plutonium!" Gesturing toward the yellow crate, he laughed. "Where is my head today? One rod, one trip – I'd never be able to come back here without it! I must be losing-"

They were interrupted by Olaf's excited barking. Both of them looked over at the far corner of the mall parking lot to see a beat-up white VW van barrelling toward them. It was still quite far away, but it looked very conspicuous given that the entire carpark was completely deserted.

Anna was still staring at them when Doc stumbled towards her, a hand on his head. "Oh my God. They found me. I don't know how they possibly could have, but they found me." Taking a staggering step back from the DeLorean, he shouted, "Run for it, Anna!"

"Who?" Anna swung the camera round reflexively as Doc rushed away and to the other side of his own truck. Even in that short a time, the camper had come significantly closer. The men inside appeared to be hell bent on arriving as fast as possible, with no regard to safety whatsoever. They did not, however, need safe driving, since what they appeared to have was a statistically significant quantity of AR-15s. One of the people inside, wearing a scarf and a balaclava to hide his identity poked his torso out of the sunroof of the camper and pulled the slide back on his automatic weapon.

Anna considered herself something of a wild child – and perhaps in her more fanciful moments even a child of the world – but this was completely outside of her norm. No one should find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun, let alone a teen girl whose only weapon was a video camera. She jumped behind the only object nearby that might offer her any protection, the DeLorean, as her mind went blank with terror. The distinctive sound of automatic gunfire resonated in her torso, as the sound of bullets tore through her mind.

It is an oft-noted fact by gun enthusiasts throughout the world that handling an automatic weapon is a tricky endeavour at best, and that a solid stable firing platform is required, along with good trigger discipline and time down the range to learn to deal with recoil. But clearly the half-crazed fanatic leaning out of the top of the camper had absolutely none of these qualities, and consequently managed to place bullets in a wide array of locations in the car park. None of them in Anna, Doc, or Olaf and none in the DeLorean either, she hoped.

That would really ruin her boss-slash-friend's day.

'I don't want to die. I really don't want to die.' The thought kept rolling through Anna's mind, over and over again.

"Stay down, Anna!" Doc shouted, pulling out of his toolbox… a revolver. Not a handgun, not a police-issue Glock or a private one, but an actual legit revolver like someone would use in an old gangster movie. It would have been comical if the situation weren't so serious.

The van bore down on him, and he held up both hands before he could get the gun loaded and fire off a single shot. So he tossed it toward them, palms open. From her position, Anna could see him. Hands up and sweating, despite the cool air.

"Gentlemen! Perhaps I could persuade you to reconsider such a drastic course of action? There's still plenty of plutonium left; I could have something for you by the end of-"

He never got to finish the sentence. Now that they were parked and idling in front of him, the jilted terrorist seemed to have no trouble firing a few rounds into his chest, blowing him backward and out of Anna's sight.

"NOOOOO!" she wailed, face stretched wide in horror. Gripping the camera more tightly, she ran toward them. She didn't know what made her do it, other than adrenaline and grief, but she ended up screaming the stupidest thing possible with tears running down her cheeks.

"IT'S NOT NICE TO SHOOT PEOPLE!"

By the time she realised that running towards the armed men was possibly even sillier than the words she'd just uttered, it was too late. She was directly in their sights.

Shit. Her life flashed behind her eyes. Pathetic life, obviously, but with a few bright spots. Despite the bizarre experiments, she had actually enjoyed working with Doc. And Jennifer… she would wake up tomorrow to see her face plastered across the news She could even see the headlines: "Eccentric Doctor, Stupid Assistant, Killed".

Closing her eyes, accepting her fate, Anna sucked in a breath. It was like the world had narrowed into this one moment; lights flooding down, bad guys staring at her down the barrel of a gun. Maybe her family could finally be happy this way. Always a silver lining somewhere.

Click.

Eyes opening, Anna realised with some surprise that she was actually Not Dead, and her face lit up in a grin. "HaHA, suckers!" she crowed – before they glared at her. "Oh shit!"

But they were still struggling with the jammed rifle. That gave her time to actually get out of the way. There was only one option: she leapt into the open DeLorean.

Her hands found the keys as her foot punched the accelerator. Luckily, the car seemed to have been converted to an automatic at some point in its existence, and it flung itself forward across the tarmac. The crazed gunman twisted wildly whilst yelling something at the driver, and the camper lurched forwards.

"All right, time to see if your shitmobile can keep up with a time machine," Anna muttered as she swerved the DeLorean wildly across the lot, forcing the camper to turn unexpectedly and throwing the terrorist's aim off. The staccato of bullets caused Anna flashes of sheer terror and she punched the accelerator right through the floor.

Anna had of course forgotten something significant. It actually was a time machine, and not just a getaway vehicle. Just as she saw a rocket launcher in her wing mirror – AN ACTUAL ROCKET LAUNCHER, IN DELL VALLEY, WERE THEY CRAZY – lights began to flash and flicker, both inside the car and outside. She gripped the wheel more tightly, glancing down at the speedometer: 88.

That particular number seemed familiar for some reason…

Then electricity began to crackle in front of and all around her, temporarily blinding her, and the car was shaking as if caught in a hurricane. And something felt very different, as if she were being forced through a pinhole by an unseen deity. There was else nothing for her to do but hang on for dear life.

"Help!"

To Be Continued…

#Fractal The Future #fruipit #forkanna writes #Back to the Future #elsanna fanfiction #forkanna the writer

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sidpah · 6 years ago

Text

Glory!

“Royal families, listen! Destitute soldiers! Listen! Listen to me, my sisters and brothers!” Demented cries bellow from the pulpit of what’s now Greene Street. In front of a boarded up ex-liquor store I’m transfixed by the sermonizing of a one-legged African-American-Sidpahan man known only by the locals as Jerry. He’s propped on a cane of some light-hued hardwood, the handle carved into a striking asp. Preaching to a crowd with his bastardized southern American drawl, inciting praise to his powerful transplanted gods.

I pause my running from nowhere to nowhere to listen, bag once more clutched protectively to my chest. Immensely glad and entirely astounded that no one plucked it from me while I slept. There are still some good people here, surely…

“Glory! Glory! Tell the root-high children to seek their fame! Tell them to swarm the hills with golden royal violence! The journey has been sanctified! It’s far but the effort is justified! They’re lewd as the brothels of Sodom to the Antigens.” With every punctuation mark he projects a crooked finger toward a different member of the crowd, impaling them on his accusation.

“The bomb in your chest will beep incessantly – clicking – ticking – a reminder of smokestacks and time-clocks you are avenging. Dark brown broth will splash the feet of the weary. But don’t be dismayed! Don’t be dismayed… Don’t be dissuaded from the path of your glory! Glory, ah, Righteous Glory – Ah! We sing under our inked cloaks, smoking Xeroxed doctrines of perpetual change. Our lungs may blister. Our teeth may fill our throats, gums raining radiation-poisoned bone, all the while the bomb is beeping…”

Superimposed across his face I see monochromatic images of nuclear weapons tests, two-dimensional facades swept away by shadows and dust clouds. Nuclear tornadoes shredding suburbia. A few grains of blowing sand get caught in my nose –

I sneeze.

Jerry doesn’t seem to notice.

Why would he? His eyes are raging to the heavens, his free hand shuddering upward.

“Don’t be distracted by sunlight, by bikinis, by cold intoxicating drink! Seasons change, my friends. Seasons always change! And you must not be caught off guard… Summer, summer, bringing its rumors of a fruitful future – Bare loins, wet lips… One child thought something radical and was lost! Blinded, his lot was hidden beneath the craterous clay. Feel that giddiness of adolescence, but focus its fire! Even if you can’t pinpoint exactly what that adolescent fire felt like… Remember possibility, hopefulness, the feeling that your efforts are all aimed at that fruitful boundless Future that promises you the fulfillment of every desperate wet dream – seventy virgins and all the booze your ghostly liver can handle. Remain diligent and grounded, yes, for you can beware, my friends and children, be aware that without any formal ceremony, all those delusions, twenty-some years of them, will crumble the day you find, with a cold detached bluntness only this godless realm can provide, that you’re there. You’ve arrived. And that the Future proves to be nothing at all like the brochure. Someone’s transformed it into the simple drudgery of an endlessly repetitious present with no time off for good behavior and no window from which to watch the Sun plunge herself hopelessly into the ocean. And those seventy virgins have likewise been melted down and congealed into one gargantuan craggy, flabby old housefrau with runny pendulous tits and uncontrollable flatulence who lords herself over you and crushes your nuts twice as hard every time you feel so bold as to ask her for a sip of her cheap screwtop port wine… Let that image ground your feet to the earth where they can be utilized for the good of humanity while they can still leap and run!”

“Age don’t mean shit!” a young man yells at him, a red plastic cup of frothy beer in his hand. “Guerillas got guns and capitalists got money and power. All’s you got is words!”

“Never underestimate the power of words! Words are the beginning and the end. Words are sound and sound began the universe like sound’ll destroy the universe! Don’t tell me you can’t make a difference! You’re one man, you’re one woman… You’re all god! Do you see? You are all god! Only you can make a difference! Don’t be fooled. The mugshots are overflowing with young men staying cool shot by hot gunpowder flashes while the bomb ticks. Tell me, how hard is it to fool a fool? Stay still. Eeeaaase into the insurgency. Don’t smile. Suck in your gut. Sneer a little. Pooch out your lips. Sniff in those nose hairs, (sniff!) no, no, on second thought, blow them out. Tangle that mop – let’s not continue the charade that you are civil… and human. You are a wild beast god! You are a warrior god! You are a vengeful god! And you can make all the difference! Differences are just a matter of opinion… Opinions are a matter of disparate states of ignorance… You’re a god whose awareness is clothed in the trendy garments of your generation. It’s hidden beneath oversized basketball jerseys with someone else’s name on the back. It’s hidden beneath Saris and batik dresses and overalls with a confederate flag on a red trucker’s cap. It’s there underneath tunics and black berets, balaclavas and vestments with satin crosses running vertical pillars beside the grey tufts of hair in your ears. You are what you wear and whose name you rent. So rent a good one for today! Rent a good one! Chernov, Bookchin, Gibran, Chavez, Crowley, Ashoka, King, Ghandi, Gautama, whichever one resonates your bones, whichever one will move you to action! For the name will be your armor! The name will be your will! You will conjoin the name and flesh as one and reconcile collapsed dynasties of promising risk to the present stifled by this potential-refracting smog!”

I applaud with the crowd and look to the slick old Rat Pack reject next to me who seems not to hear a word Jerry’s said. He’s a tourist in the worst way…

“It costs fifty goddamn cents to tune a note up a single half step these days; you know as well as I do someone’s getting rich on the deal,” he croons to the woman next to him… He’s an old crooner from the Vitalis school… He’s just sightseeing. His paradigm’s been rusted in place for decades… He grinds out his flower cigar in the hair of a tiny Mexican boy in front of him… The boy winces but makes not a peep… He knows how to earn his pay… And the hair may grow through the scar tissue someday, he consoles himself through the pain. And if not, he already has the head of a monk, so maybe it’s a sign from the dios…

“What’re you selling?” a pretty young girl with dirty hair chides Jerry. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with your revolution.”

“You have everything to do with it. For it is your revolution. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see it?”

“See what, that you’re a raving crackpot?”

“That smog filth creeping up blue windowpanes as if its fingers were pulling its body of decay face to face with little eyes contemplating Saturdays eternal,” Jerry continues to the mostly enraptured crowd. It doesn’t matter what he says when it’s projected with such vim and tenor. “Well those eyes will be lucky to see week’s end! Those thin grey gauzy straw fingers scale the slick glass. And we’re stuck! Trapped! What can we do? Bending slick rubber spines, conforming to the bulldozer force against our bodies, we dirty things, soft things, rubbery things bend in acceptance; what else can be done if we can’t first accept? The world must first be the world it is for it is with us as we are – It is as it is it just is! We are as we are as we always were! Oppression ferments our miserable weakness into fuuuel for expansion, fuuuel from the incineration of our carcasses, trees and fauna immolated to produce scores of glowing numbers on a screen – Something sick’s crawling mold up the outside wall – Don’t nobody open that window! Don’t nobody even think of opening it up and lettin’ that mean-hearted bastard in here! What trains pass by with ignore-angst and great pillars of concrete hum into the world is the mating song of that decrepit fiend...”

I’m now not so much listening as swaying, my body scooping and rising in waves with the loops of each phrase, and I’m fighting the heavy urge to run up and grab him by the arm. I must speak to him after his sermon is finished…

“Meanwhile, right here, the Mass’s Fragile Hope makes her pillow of unsheathed straw while smokestacks burn halos of oil and lead around all the bowed heads singing her praises while pissing on her gravestone – their cronies making their fortunes by burying her dead in these distant lands – Look up! Look all around you at these iron girders miles high, each one proclaiming itself a shiny monument to frame her beauty, while their mirrored glass reflects the steady demise of a glorious culture in angry spiteful children eyes… Can’t you see why this is your revolution? All around you this quaint village’s roofs are all in cinders. Never mind the culprits and heroes bound together by fear, all running chaos as cedar smoke recedes, buckets of water splashing the cobblestones so there’s none left by the time they try to throw it on the burnt-out hulls of their homes – Guarantees mean little in a village of burning houses... On veldt and stones, a bright sun turns… She sleeps among the weeds and moss… reeds are her tangled arms – And we all eye her sweetly yearning for those things she brings us, those things we had once back when we were living in the garden, back when we were inchoate and dust and dreamskin clad…”

Sometime in the meantime, I must’ve been mesmerized by the rhetorical arrows slung by his amped-up jaw bow streaking manic implications that made everyone watching him see a second good leg supporting his torso of angry beaming bricks of light. But damned if I didn’t get struck upside the head by one of those darts missed its target and I tumbled… Or maybe I got cold-cocked by some fratboy’s beer-leaden fist. Either way, down I went, listening to his warning admonitions singing a paranoid lullaby…

Fragrant holy spirals off her eyes rain down over my glistening melt tongue… A cloud rolls her tongue making roof glisten with tiny ice eyes… Melt on fragrant crystals in tiny spirals, holy and glistening…

Sprawled across sidewalk… a gaping hole above my ear… How far I’d slid since the demiurgic healing of that strange blond delicacy in Kalday’s mud-walled hovel… I’m so far distant smelling gin or urine, smelling roasted goat limbs over flaming spit, smelling the dead leather shoes of bright fashionistas complaining about meals three weeks since digested to bored mannequins in distant cities… I’m mindful of the patterns being woven by that nightmare-spirit casting my shadow on his own behalf... And as I sidle away from this decaying body already having lost the earth, water, heat and breath, wavering through currents of black chi, I’m pulled. Left shipwrecked on bed with a diseased stranger… Calling a number I wrote on palm to breathe heavy and cum in my pants… Curled under blankets soaked with dejection. I’ve already got what I need, I mumble in my twilight sleep…

#fiction #revolution #anarchism #dreams

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