#Death of a Telemarketer

[doodleloopsy]

y'know, technically Ody's mom was also a Queen of Ithaca. so.... whole kingdom was mourning. ...yeah.

[ddelline]

losing my mind at the near-pitch perfect parallels btwn rion attempting 2 summarize sakamoto’s whole vibe vs oikawa dunking on kageyama I have been chuckling all morning

incredibly talented one track mind Dumb Guys sakamoto taro & kageyama tobio u are so special 2 me

[lunion]

No matter how awful receiving a telemarketing call is, I can't muster within me the willpower to lash out at them. I feel miserable receiving those, I feel I'd be twice as miserable having to make said calls, let alone as a job.

R.I.P. telemarketing workers.

[marimariserasa]

I have just read your Au idea of making Diomedes the main character of the Odyssey and Odysseus waiting for him in Ithaca AND pregnant!! And I love it!

It would be so funny that it was Aphrodite's doing because that would make Ody going crazy after getting to that conclusion while dealing with his father asking him to choose a queen and poor him is very much worried about his lover and father-to-be (and gods he can't believe this yet). Not only that but having the suitors being girls -because it is important for kings to have children that can rule after them- implies he needs to deal with the girls' fathers. They can't disrespect him because he IS the King of Ithaca, so it won't be as bad as Penelope's situation, but they can bore him to death with their fake smiles and lies. And the pregnancy is not helping him at all. But I trust him into making good use of them anyways.

Poor Dio he doesn't know he has a son. 🥹 He wants to get back to his lover and when he does so he is going to see him playing with a 9 yo Telemarketing and his heart is going to break until Ody gets to convince him the child is his. (Or maybe if he stabs Poseidon like they did in epic he discovers this when Poseidon threatens him by drowning Ody and their son) so many possibilities.

MY FIRST ASK lol I feel famous

Didn't think I'd get any comments about a silly odydio AU, even less it would focus on a part that was meant to be a joke- but here we are and I love ur thoughts

First of all- I didn't imagine Ody getting the suitors right after getting back to Ithaca/before he finds out he's pregnant. But it makes sense because he just got back from a war that the Greeks win thanks to him! He's the hype at the moment.

And that just makes it harder for him, because his suitors can't just find out that he, like, can make babies. That would wound his pride and... And... And create other problems that I can't think of now. I don't know how he hid the baby bump but like. It's Ody, he's a fatass liar

Unlike etm, all his friends and family are here, alive and well. So he doesn't lack support! (But they lack sanity because if Ody is sensible normally I don't want to see him with messed up hormones)

Dio just getting back and finding out he's a father 😭😭😭 maybe halfway through his journey Athena just revealed(?) but it would be funny if he found out when he arrived Ithaca

And poor Telemachus too! He probably grew with his father telling everyone that he's adopted and only getting the confirmation that he isn't in private, he probably felt like his father was ashamed of him. And on top of that, the suitors probably bullied him for "being adopted" nonstop.

Anyway that's all uhhh god I never thought I'd do a big ass rambling about PREGNANT ODYSSEUS. What is this

[the-inner-musings-of-a-worm]

the twins have a deep and unreasonable dislike for erik klose. at first it was bc he was the only thing that could convince nicky to leave them and go back to germany (and yes, he did try) but when nicky stayed it became much more petty.

they definitely didn’t have a good first impression. from erik’s point of view, his bf left an incredibly toxic family that messed him up a lot and was finally starting to heal in germany, only to have that taken away by a car accident. from erik’s point of view, nicky would be dropping everything to take on debt, two jobs, his parents, a minyard out of juvie and a minyard on drugs. nicky was so young and taking care of two traumatized teenagers is hard, no matter how much they deserve a second chance. so yes, maybe the twins did overhear erik trying to convince nicky on skype in the first week of him moving to the us to come back. and yes, when nicky refused, it might have opened them up to him a little more. but they certainly didn’t like that little german bitch that made nicky stare at the wall for 5 minutes after the wall and cry.

the first time erik visited them was before the foxes and the twins for the first time joined in a common goal: freeze erik out. all he got from them was glares and frigid silence, and yes he did want to take nicky far far away from america and these 16 year olds with death glares, but he also trusted his boyfriend. so he endured their attempts to shut him out (literally they tried to lock him out of the house) and met their hostility with an easy smile. this made them hate him more.

listen, the twins are possessive of nicky. they don’t show their love well but they will lash out at anyone that is a perceived threat to them. whenever erik and nicky fight? boy do they make erik suffer. they’re not great at comforting nicky when he’s crying, but andrew easily calls erik from a burner phone when he knows it’s 3 am in germany, only to hang up immediately and call again. aaron signs erik up for a bunch of telemarketer calls and spam reports all his social media accounts. it’s not much but nicky never finds out and that’s enough.

not to say erik just takes it. he’s a strong advocater for nicky rights and when he comes to the us he will not hesitate to lecture the twins about their treatment of nicky. he has valid points but they ignore that and let it fuel their righteous anger of “who’s this asshole that comes in and tells us how to treat nicky, we know him better than he does” (do they?)

when they’re all older and more settled in their skin the twins stop viewing erik as a threat, but they still grumble in annoyance or roll their eyes whenever he’s around. nicky loves it bc they look so much like brothers when they do that.

the twins have a dislike for erik, but it’s not a dislike for him it’s a deep love for nicky. he was the twins first advocate, and this is their way of having his back. they’re defending nicky against a false threat, but they care enough to defend.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Bait and Switch. || Scammer!Reader x Victim!Ghost

Rating: M Words: 2.6K~ Pairing: scammer!Reader x victim(but not really)!Ghost CW: phone scams/conning (reader never actually cons him), financial issues?, threats (Simon threatens to find reader), degradation?. other tags: crack, OOC Simon., you/your pronouns (gn!reader but uses a female fake name), obviously fake names (pun/funny), lying, joking, the weirdest meet cute? a/n: this started out as a joke/crack and turned serious/dark at the end? idk how i did this.

Simon Riley would say that being legally dead is the best thing to have happened to him and that's because it allowed him to escape a bunch of responsibilities that regular men have to uphold.

He gets paid covertly, in full, and does not have to pay taxes on his income.

He rented a flat from a sweet ol' lady, who didn't run a background check or ask for a copy of his birth certificate (terrible choice on her part), and he pays her by dropping an envelope of cash in her mailbox on the 1st of every of the month.

He not only is old enough to drink but also sounds and looks old enough as well, which means he doesn't need I.D. to buy alcohol (not that any shops or bars really care enough to check).

He doesn't have a credit card. Or a debit card for that matter. Hell, he doesn't even have a bank account, so he doesn't have to pay maintenance fees.

He doesn't have a smartphone. And up until recently he only had a pager. In fact, the only reason he doesn't have a pager anymore is because it got shot in the crossfire during a mission... so Price forced him to get a jitterbug.

In short... Simon Riley can escape a lot of things (death, taxes, Philip Graves...). But telemarketers and phone scammers are not one of those things.

That's how, on a boring Wednesday afternoon, his new phone ends up ringing, like it had been doing multiple times a week for the last four weeks.

Telemarketers.

He never got telemarketers on his pager.

He hated telemarketers.

But that didn't mean he blocked them-

"What?" He answered as soon as he picked up the phone.

An automated voice came over the call, one of those typical Siri-esque robot voices, delivering a prepared speech: "Congratulations! You've won a free cruise to the Bahamas! To claim your prize, press 1."

Oh, now, this was different. He didn't need to hear more to know it was a scam call. But that didn't mean he was going to hang up.

So Simon pressed key 1, which caused a beep to sound over the call.

"Thank you!" The automated voice continued. "We are now connecting you to a live operator to claim your prize!"

Barely a millisecond went by before you took over the call. "Good afternoon, this is Stella Gormoni with Blissful Blessings Inc.! Who am I speaking with?"

As stereotypical as it is, Simon had expected a different voice on the other end of the line... maybe from a scammer in a foreign country who'd speak heavily-accented English...

But instead, he got a sweet and professional sounding person... It almost made him second-guess the scam that was being pulled on him.

His mind moved quick at coming up with a fake name. Not just a fake one, but a pun one too. "Wanh'a, first name Aiden." He replied, his gruff voice reverberating on the call.

"And how do you spell that?" You asked him politely, and, through your headset, he could hear your keyboard keys clacking in the background.

"That's A-I-D-E-N." He replied as he entered his kitchen, spelling his first, as if that was somehow what was causing you difficulty.

"Uh-huh!" You acknowledged in a peppy tone. "And... your surname?" You asked him.

"W-A-N-H-'-A." He continued spelling as he crossed the small kitchen, hearing your fingers tapping away at your keyboard in his ear.

For a moment, you didn't talk, as if stunned into silence. Had you just picked up on the fact he was trolling you by giving you a name that, phonetically, sounded like 'I Don't Wanna'? Probably. But you hadn't hung up yet.

"Well, congratulations, Mr. Wanh'a, you just won an all-inclusive, two-week long cruise to the Bahamas!" Your peppy tone made him bite his lip to contain a laugh. Well, at least you were dedicated in continuing the scam. "How are you feeling?"

"Very well, and yourself?" Simon asked casually as he leaned himself against the door of his refrigerator, leaning down to look inside and find a snack.

"I'm doing very well, thank you, sir." You replied in a cheerful tone. "So, let's process the information so we can get you your prize, shall we?" You announced in a polite tone.

"Go right on ahead, sweet'eart." He murmured as he grabbed a yogurt and closed the fridge with his hip, sitting at the table and peeling open the lid.

"Well, for us to start, I'm going to need your-"

"Actually, I have a question, before we start." Simon interrupted your speech, cutting off your silver-tongued lies.

You went silent for just a moment before you replied with a sweet little: "Of course, what can I help you with, Mr. Wanh'a?"

"I want to know how exactly I signed up to receive this prize." Simon replied before he placed a spoonful of yogurt in his mouth.

He was trying to accomplish two things by doing this: 1) throw you off your game and make you stammer and stutter, and 2) see how long it took for you to get annoyed, and hang up on him.

"Well, that's what I was going to explain, you see-" You replied, a smile behind your voice, but his trained ears could pick up the slight frustration. It made Simon smile.

"Oh, then, I'm sorry for interrupting you, sweet'art, please go ahead." He replied and gestured with his spoon, as if giving you the stage, unnecessarily so, because you were not there to watch it.

"As I was saying... You were entered automatically into the draw by buying a cereal box of any Kellog's cereal at Tesco. I'm sure you saw a 'Win a free cruise!' sticker on yours?" You asked in a professional and sickly-sweet tone.

He could see right through your scam, he had already done that. You name a famous brand, one people trust, to trick naive or impressionable ones into believing you...

Normal people would tell you they no longer have the cereal box, many of them naive enough to believe your scam despite the fact they hadn't even bought one of those boxes in the first place...

Next, you'd ask for the card used to make the purchase, and some people were dumb enough to read their number aloud to you...

Oh, how he hated scammers. Even more than telemarketers.

"I do remember seeing something like that..." He murmured, his voice deepening, before he popped another spoonful of yogurt past his lips, loudly smacking them right against the receiver of his jitterbug.

"Well, all I need is for you to get the box and read me the code that's imprinted on the inside of the flap!" You announced.

"Well, you see, I would, sweet'art... But my sight isn't so good anymore..." Simon replied. "I'm getting up there in age, you know?" He continued eating his yogurt.

"I understand, sir." You replied. "I'm sorry to hear that. One of my cousins also started losing his vision pretty early." You announced.

Huh.

There was no hint of forced sympathy in your voice.

No, you were being genuine. That was a real story of your life you were telling him...

But you had picked up on the fact he was trolling you, right? So why were you-

"Good thing though, about this system of ours, is that you can just confirm your credit card details so we can double check them and get you that prize!" You had, your tone right back to the scamming silver-tongue you had held until now.

Secretly, Simon had to admit that he admired your commitment to the bit. He couldn't help but smile a bit, amused.

"Oh, of course. Let me just set you down while I get my card." Simon replied and got up, finishing his yogurt and tossing out the plastic container, popping the spoon into the sink, and, after setting down his phone, he walked out of the room.

Simon glanced down at his wrist watch, noting the time on it, then, approached his bedroom door, grabbing his over-the-door pull-up bars, and began doing a quick set, leaving you to 'wait' for him in the kitchen.

After a few sets, he waltzed back into the kitchen and grabbed his phone again. "You still there, da'lin'?" He beckoned in a gruff tone.

You sighed, your politeness sounding slightly more forced. He had kept you waiting for over ten minutes after all. "Yes, sir, I am. Did you get your card, Mr. Wanh'a?"

"Oh, please, enough of this 'sir' thing, Mr. Wanh'a was my mother." He replied, then went silent for just a beat, almost like he could hear your frustration sizzling on he other end.

He was being more and more obvious with his trolling... And it pleased him immensely to imagine a parasite like you seething on the other end of the line, reaching your wits' end.

"You can just call me 'Ai', it's what my friends call me." Simon continued, a smirk forming on his lips. "And we're friends now, right? You're giving me a cruise and everythin'." He added, his tone just as charismatic and peppy as his had been.

"I guess we are!" You replied, returning the overly cheery tone. "So, 'Ai Wanh'a', then?" You asked, but he could hear the mix of frustration and amusement behind your voice.

"Yeah? What d'you want, babygirl?" Simon asked, unable to resist making a more impish remark. And, unfortunately, it had the desired result. It genuinely caused your brain to blue-screen for a moment.

Sure, you'd experienced plenty of people getting angry at you when you attempt to scam them, or even trolling you the same way this bloke was doing but...

It was definitely a first, to have someone flirt with you, even if it was still part of his trolling attempt.

"Your... credit card details?" You ended up adding, your voice still showing the surprise and light meekness that came from him catching you off-guard.

"Oh, of course. Are you ready? It's a very complex number." He replied.

"Ready when you are." You added as you steeled yourself for another smartass response or run around from him.

"Here it is: 1234-5678-9987-6543." He replied, reciting the numbers 1-9 in order and then backward. "And the three digits on the back are: 210."

Oh, he was so fucking annoying! He didn't get to troll you, even if it was pretty amusing of him to do so, then flirt with you, then go back to trolling.

"Sir, if you're not interested in the cruise, just say so. There's no need for this mockery." You replied, your tone serious and professional though you were definitely seething on the inside.

Simon could tell. And he reveled in it. "Oh, but I am interested!" He replied with a smirk behind his voice. "In fact, I want to know more. Will my cabin in the cruise have an ocean view?"

Simon heard you inhale aggressively on the other side of the line, steeling yourself not to hang up on him, or down right berating him on the phone. "Yes, Ai, of course!" He heard your fake cheeriness through your clenched teeth. "It'll be a luxury cabin, actually. Isn't that great?"

"No, it's not that great, actually. I get very seasick, you see?" Simon murmured. "Not to mention, ever since my pet goldfish died, I've just never been able to look at the ocean the same..." He added in a forced pitiful tone.

You went quiet again on the other side and Simon knew he had finally worn you out. He waited to hear the clicking sound of the call falling, but, instead, he just heard you let out a sigh.

"You're very frustrating." You murmured.

"Oh, my, is this how you speak to all your prize winners?" Simon gasped dramatically.

"Shut up... You didn't have to be a smartass, you know?!" You scolded him, as if you had any ground to stand on.

"No, I fear I did, sweet'art." Simon replied as he leaned casually against the kitchen counter. "You called me, interrupted my day, and wasted my time with a scam, of all things. I have every right to be a smartass and have some fun with it." He added, a smug tone obvious in the dulcets of his deep voice.

"Okay? You could've just hung up on me?" You were truly grasping at straws to justify your behaviour. It was comical.

Simon laughed dryly. "And waste an opportunity to annoy a parasitic leech like you?" He quipped.

That stunned you into silence for a moment and you couldn't help but pout a bit.

"Not to mention, what you're doing is illegal, you know that righ'? And I'm military, I could get you arrested for this." He added.

"For that, you'd need to know where I am." You retorted, maybe a bit bratilly. "Besides, I knew you were a soldier."

"And how did you know that?"

"You used the NATO phonetic alphabet while spelling 'your' name'." You replied directly. "Nobody spells 'Aiden' as 'Alpha-India-Delta-Echo-November'."

"So you knew I was military and you still went ahead with your little scam attempt? You're not that bright, are you?" He defied you, which earned him a scoff from your end.

"No, I already knew you were trolling me."

"Oh, so you just wanted to waste my time?"

"That's exactly it, Aiden."

"Sounds to me like you're just looking for trouble, da'lin'." He quipped, his voice having lowered to a gruffer tone.

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed. "Am not. I'm just enjoying myself. You're not the only one that can make jokes at people's expenses."

"No, you really are..." He tutted his tongue and shook his head. "Need I remind you you were trying to scam me, and other people?" He added in a tone that sent a shiver down your spine.

"I know what I was doing."

"Yeah? And are you proud of that? Proud of being a conniving little cunt who tries to take people's hard-earned money?" He taunted you.

You didn't reply. Of course you weren't proud. You still had a conscience! But you wouldn't tell him that. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing you apologise.

"I see. You don't like what I'm saying, so you give me the silent treatment, is that it, sweet'art?" He teased. You could hear the smirk behind his words.

"I wonder if you'd still act like this if you had to face me and had to answer for yourself."

Closing your fists tight, you steel yourself again to gain some edge and reply to him. "I guess you're going to keep wondering then. Because it's not happening."

"You know, it's a shame your little computer spat out my phone number for you to call..." He trailed off.

"And why's that?"

"Because instead of anyone else, you got me... And that's just... really bad luck for you. Any other service member, you would've been fine..." He trailed off.

"What, are you some sort of General-Major-Chief thing, super high up the ladder?" You taunted.

Simon simply chuckled dryly on the other side of the line. "No. But I'm definitely the worst person you could've tried to play with."

"Oh, big scary man, what are you gonna do? Gonna come teach me a lesson?" You added, taunting him some more, clearly feeling comfortable behind your laptop, with your smartphone, sitting at home, comfortable and warm, with your pet at your feet. "Oh, I'm so scared!" You added, feigning fear in a dramatic tone.

"Is that a challenge I'm hearing, sweet'art? Inviting me to come pay you a visit?" Simon asked you, his brow cocking, despite the fact you couldn't see it.

You don't know what it was about the way he spoke. The way he said that. The way his voice sounded.

It sent a shiver down your spine, a cold sweat, like he was, for the first time, not joking around anymore.

"No...?" You murmured in reply, feeling your shoulders tensing in an unpleasant way.

"Yeah... That's an invite I'm hearing..." He disregarded what you said and chuckled. "Maybe I'll come pay you a visit then, hey? How does that sound, little leech?"

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 106 (A Cautious New Year's Eve)

Ray Pierce, the Landgraabs' driver, arrived after dark to pick up Ash on New Year's Eve. Heather's parents, Daisy and Neal, had come from Henford to spend the night with Lavender, as Heather and Conrad had intended to catch Johnny Zest's stand-up at the Calico Lounge that evening.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Would you believe there was an accident on the Simmerloop tonight?"

"It's alright," said Heather, as she and Conrad pulled on their outerwear to head to the Salty Paw. "My sister made it with her wife and said Johnny's having a great show! We'll still be able to meet them at the bar well before midnight."

Despite the dangers circling their lives these days, the police detail outside their home and the clinic remained in place. Conrad had checked the number that called Ash on the police database, and found it had been passed around a few telemarketing scams. With reports of similar threatening calls from the same number, he concluded it was likely nothing more than a robocall and a prank, and not targeted to Ash whatsoever.

Though still uneasy, Heather accepted this and was, for once, glad her son was headed to San Myshuno to stay with the overbearing but security-heavy Landgraabs. Malcolm hadn't aired a story on Simlandia National, just as they'd hoped, and she knew she couldn't let her fears of a curse - or worse - affect her son. They would not let Ximena control their lives from wherever she was hiding.

"Have fun at your Dad's place, buddy," said Conrad, as they sent him and Ray on their way.

Before they left for Fisherman's Wharf, they showed her parents where Lavender's beloved yogurt melts were kept inside the fridge. Their picky eater had finally found foods she loved - unfortunately, they were all sugary finger foods like yogurt melts, Oaty-O's, and Peanut Butter Puffs. "Try the banana slices with her first," Heather pleaded. "Or she'll be up all night from too much sugar."

Daisy grinned, kissing her granddaughter's forehead. "I'd stay up all night long just to hang with this cutie."

Neal spent time playing with Mayor Whiskers and didn't really look at Conrad, which wasn't all that surprising. The precinct hadn't made any progress on the search for Ximena, so it wasn't like there was much to say. The lack of progress bothered Conrad much more than it did Neal, anyway.

"When you see Nicola, tell her we say hello," said Daisy. "We missed not having her at Winterfest this year, but I know it's been hard for her mother ever since poor Eddie's death."

Heather smiled. She wasn't convinced the only reason Nicola didn't join Hazel for Winterfest with their family was because of her grieving mother, Kim. But for Hazel's sake, she kept her opinion to herself.

She remembered her conversation with Hazel the night they brought home Felix Psyded, and worried things between her and Nicola had only gotten worse since, not better. But they would both be in town this evening, and she hoped they'd both be in good spirits.

The Salty Paw was full of revelers by the time they finally made it to the bar. Johnny and Eva were already there, preferring to watch the countdown to midnight with their friends - instead of a room full of complete strangers at the swanky members-only yacht club that paid him to perform.

Hazel and Nicola were with them, and Hazel shot her sister a pained glance as soon as they got up together to order a round.

"We fought all the way here," lamented Hazel by the bar. "She complained about everything, she thought the show wasn't funny. She almost decided to stay at the yacht club without me all night."

"Things are really that bad between you these days?"

"No matter what I do, I can't make her happy. And lately, it's reciprocated. No matter what, I get anxious whenever she walks in the room. I don't know what kind of mood she'll be in and I just...freeze. Wait for the tornado to pass, you know?"

"Hazel, I'm sorry. Have you tried counselling?"

"We keep talking about it, but we can't get our schedules to line up."

"You're both here tonight," Heather pointed out. "Are you sure it's not that you just can't get your schedules to align for therapy? That's kind of telling..."

Hazel sighed, with a small nod of her head as they returned to their table with drinks. "That took a while," Nicola sniffed. "I hope my ice hasn't melted."

"Yeah, well, it's freezing outside. You could keep your drink cool with some nice Brindleton Bay snow."

Nicola sneered, pasting on a facetious smile. "You mean snow covered in stray animal droppings? Only you have a taste for that, Hazel."

"So, anyway, has anyone made any resolutions for the new year?" asked Heather, desperate to change the vibe while her baby sister's marriage all but crumbled before their eyes.

"I'd like to travel more!" offered Eva.

"Wouldn't we all," Heather agreed, grateful Eva seemed as anxious as she did to silence Hazel and Nicola's bickering. Conrad glanced out the window in the midst of their chatter and did a double take, spotting a familiar figure standing in the snow by the patio tables.

"I'll be right back," he said to Heather, before making his way outside. Eyes wide, he stared at the man before him, reaching out to shake his hand. Though he looked as corporeal as any human sim, their hands slid right past one another. "It's really you," he said. "You're back."

The old man smiled. "Hello, Sargent. The name's Ben Gordon. Nice to formally meet you. Finally." ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

[pinguwrites]

Forever Yours | Jackson Rippner (Kinktober 2023 | Day 31 — Jackson Rippner + ghostface!reader)

READ DISCLAIMER

pairing | jackson rippner x reader

summary | In this college au, Halloween is nearing its corner, only for the festive mood to be cut short when your classmate is brutally killed. As the series of murders continues, Jackson Rippner finds himself the next target, oblivious to the fact that his hunter is you, his girlfriend, the ghostface.

word count | 5k

Warnings: smut, rough sex - SM, jackson's insecure, kinda sub!jackson, reader and jackson are sick and crazy, mention of parental abuse, masturbation, brief mention of animal death/abuse (hinted)

Disclaimer: This is part of my unfinished works. I don't write anymore, but I still wanted to publish what I have. I'll use bullet points to explain what I planned to happen at the end. Also note that this is heavily unedited, there will be a lot of mistakes.

"You can have my isolation, you can have the hate that it brings. You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything" — Closer, Nine Inch Nails

Jackson Rippner was trying to become more romantic for you, an endeavor that started about a week ago after he noticed you liked passionate men. It was a simple conversation about fictional crushes — you know, the ones you have as a kid when he realized all the men you had pointed out were terribly lovey-dovey and all sentimental-like. A few origami roses here and there, some thoughtful gifts, maybe some poetic letters, and he was sure that he could outcompete all of them. He was the only man you needed, the only man you could ever want.

He knew how it sounded — pathetic. Since when was he the type to change himself for a girl? He was no Romeo or Jack Dawson, and he certainly didn’t want to be. He wasn’t a simpering fool, chasing after a pretty girl like it was his life’s mission, but as it turned out, he was for you. And if you liked your men romantic, then Jackson would be romantic.

Starting off with whatever this was: a package of your favorite stuff. Two books you mentioned wanting to get but couldn’t spare the money for, which Jackson just knew he had to buy, even though it would piss off his father — he was always stingy with money — but he figured it was fine as long as it came out of his own pocket. Some bath bombs he made from scratch, swiping the ingredients from around the house. He used a cedar wood scent for the essential oil, as it was the closest smell he could get to his cologne, and made three bombs, wrapped them in plastic, and put them alongside the books in the bag.

It was nothing big, but it was perfect. You were going to love it. You had to love it. How could you not?

He closed the bag and placed it on his desk, ready to go to sleep, when the landline downstairs rang. It was probably telemarketers, but it could also be his parents, who were out on date night. He decided to go head down and check anyways. 

He headed downstairs and picked up the phone, but the voice on the other end caught him off guard. “Hey,” a woman said, but it didn’t sound natural. It sounded like there was a voice modulator, the ones that criminals used in those crime shows you forced him to watch.

“Hey?” Jackson responded, confused, and a little irritated.

“I know who you are.”

Jackson tried to focus on the sound of the voice. Maybe he could pick out who it was if he listened close enough, but it was a fruitless effort. It was female, but too common to tell.

“You’re the one calling me,” he said, tone laced with amusement, “I should assume so.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“A creep? A weirdo?” Jackson laughed. “A stalker? I dunno. Take your pick.”

It was quiet. For a moment, he thought the woman hung up, but then she spoke again, “A lover. I’m a lover, Jackson.”

“Good for you.” He was tired, and didn’t want to deal with this right now. “Now, how about you either stop acting mysterious and tell me what you want, or I cut the call.”

“Someone’s going to die tonight, Jackson,”  the woman said. Oddly enough, Jackson felt a twinge of excitement at her words. It was oddly thrilling, and adrenaline inducing to hear such a thing. It was at this point he realized with himself that this woman was just messing with him, because who would admit to premeditated murder? 

“I hope it’s that girl from my English class. What’s her name? Ah, fuck, I forgot. She’s the annoying one—all emotion. Screams every time the lights go out. You know her?”

“Yeah, I know her.”

So, she’s been on campus, Jackson thought. Following me, maybe. I can’t believe it! 

“It’s not her, though. But who knows, maybe she’ll be next. Would you like that?”

“Doll, I really don’t care. Do me a favor, and don’t call me again.”

He put the phone down and went back upstairs. What a fucking psycho. He was too tired to deal with this shit. After a night of wrapping gifts, all he wanted was to rest. But still, even as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t stop thinking about that call. A gut feeling told him not to dismiss it as a prank, but before he could contemplate it any further, he fell asleep.

+++

Jackson drove his car to Westwood’s campus, towards the west side of the college where he knew you were going to be. You had a 2 PM class on Thursday, and right about now was when it ended. He usually picked you up, driving afterwards to a diner, or sometimes to a random spot where you could both be alone and make out in.

As he watched the students pile out of the building, he spotted you, near the back of the crowd, having a conversation with your good friend Lisa. He narrowed his eyes once he saw what you were wearing — a dark, plaid miniskirt with a black crop top. Even from this distance he could see the curved outline of your breasts, and imagined the view from behind, but as you got closer, he noticed the look on your face — concerned, nervous. In fact, he noticed the look on everyones face. They were whispering amongst each other in hushed voices, unlike most days when they were loud and rowdy. 

You waved goodbye to Lisa, then headed over to the car, getting into the shotgun seat. In a quick movement, you gave Jackson a kiss on the cheek, then leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Did you hear?” you asked.

“About what?” He was a little worried, but knowing you it was probably because you got a B on a test or some other stupid bullshit. He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, exiting onto the main road.

“You know,” you said, not leading much on. “The girl.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “I can’t understand you when you speak all cryptic like this.”

“Sorry — I just thought you knew. She went missing, just last night or something.”

Jackson froze. “What?”

“Well, not missing.” Your voice was a little awkward, as if you were uncomfortable talking about it. “Lisa told me she’s dead. At least, that’s what she heard. But you know, the police haven’t come out with a report and I haven’t looked at the news yet.”

Jackson couldn’t believe it. His mind went to last night, and the mysterious call he got. Did the murder have anything to do with that? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Would it be interfering with an investigation if he didn't tell the police?

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your tone holding a hint of concern.

Jackson wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell you. It was probably just nothing, but still, he didn’t want to keep any secrets. It was Relationships 101, communication, even though he was shit poor at it. 

“I got a call last night,” he said, as nonchalant as he could. “It was this woman. Her voice was masked, so I couldn’t recognize it. She, uh, told me that someone was going to die.”

You huffed. “Are you being serious?”

“Yeah.”

You swatted his shoulder, making him chuckle. “You have to go to police, Jackson! They can track down the call and find out who it is — maybe she’s the murderer. Haven’t you thought of that?”

“I did,” Jackson said. Seeing the look on your face, he relented. “Alright. I’ll go to the station after I drop you off, happy?”

You shook your head. “I’m coming with you. I don’t want to leave you alone. What if you’re being targeted, hmm? What if you’re next?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Stop overreacting. You can come, but you’re just gonna get bored.”

You were fine with that, so it seemed.

He drove to the police station, noticing the presence of reporters. He managed to slip you both past them, though he suspected that the only reason he got through was because they weren’t interested in them.

He went up to the front desk and told the lady he needed to report something. She nodded and brought out a paper to record, when she realized exactly what Jackson was reporting and decided to call the lead detective on the case.

It took a while, but eventually called Jackson and you over to Detective’s Reisert’s office, settling you both down in a pair of chairs.

It was a series of routine questions. When did the phone call happen? What was said? Who was in the house at the time? Why didn’t you tell anyone? What did the voice sound like? 

At some point, you were ushered out of the room. It was silly, because it’s not like you had anything to do with this, but then Reisert asked: Who do you think it was? Is it possible you knew this person? Why were you called?

“She knows who I am,” Jackson answered. “I mentioned English,” Jackson didn’t specify exactly why he brought it up, “and this girl in my class, and she said she knew her. She could’ve been lying, though, I never told her a name.”

“And what do you think she meant by saying she was a lover? Do you think it’s possible this is someone who has a crush on you?”

Jackson laughed. “Probably.” He didn’t know many men or women who didn’t have a crush on him at some point.

“Someone who doesn’t like your girlfriend?”

Jackson’s mood got cold. The idea hadn’t even passed his mind. If this mysterious woman was the killer, and did have a crush on him, then of course, you were a threat. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and it was clear Detective Reisert could sense it, because he placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and said, “Son, don’t worry about it. Those are all the questions I have. You’re free to go.”

Jackson shrugged him off, not leaving. “Who was the victim?” he asked.

The detective hesitated. “Miya Reinhart. She’s currently missing, but we’re doing everything in our power to find her,” he said, getting up from his seat. “We’ll investigate the phone call and see if we can find out where it came from. If it’s anything worth checking out, we’ll call you back in.”

He ushered Jackson out the door. You were patiently waiting in the lobby, hands interocked, nervously glancing around. Why did some bitch have to die? he thought. Now I’m going to have to deal with all of this.

As he approached you, the name Miya Reinhart ringed in his head. He could’ve sworn he knew who it was. Maybe someone in one of his classes, a friend of a friend? It wasn’t until you both started walking out the door did it click in his head.

“It’s Miya, right?” he said, looking over at you. “The curvesetter?”

You groaned at the mention of her. “She thinks she’s so smart, it’s a wonder she has any friends at all. You know, just the other day —” you fell silent, taking in the look on his face. Slowly, your eyes filled with guilt “. . . Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You nodded your head, licking your lips. You opened your mouth to speak, but ended up not saying anything at all. Maybe it was for the better.

Jackson put his arm around you. He drove to your house, a two-story with a nice front lawn and backyard, pretty flowers and sprinkles that ran through the night. He parked in your driveway, hesitating for a moment, before deciding to hell with it and reach into the backseat, pulling out the little bag of presents he made for you.

“I don’t want you to be thinking about anything bad,” he started, handing you the gift. “I got you a little something, maybe it’ll take your mind off of things.”

You opened it up. Inside was a bath bomb, colored red, and two books. Horror books. Stephen King novels.

You paused for a moment. Jackson got a little nervous and glanced over at you, wondering if you liked it or not, but when he saw the little smile on your face, he relaxed.

"Thank you, Jackson," you said genuinely, closing the bag. "You didn't have to get something for me."

He shrugged. "You're my girl." He didn't say anything more after that. There wasn't anything else to add. That was all the reasoning he needed.

+++

Jackson liked to think he had a reasonably good friend group. There were four, not including him — Daniel, a football player who got here on a full scholarship ride; Aneria, a relatively calm girl who liked basic things like the mall and stripped blue jeans; Lisa, your ride-or-die, not much more needed to be said other than the fact that you two were so close he was almost concerned you were gay; and then, of course, you yourself. He wasn’t entirely sure how this group of people came to be, but the basics were — Daniel and Jackson were friends, you and Lisa were friends, Daniel had a crush on Aneria who was loosely friends with Lisa, and so Lisa agreed to try and bring them closer together, and lo and behold, everyone came together like ingredients in a cake.

Jackson’s eventual investigations revealed that Aneria did not like Daniel back, and so the entire thing was a waste except for the fact that he met you, but it wasn’t like he was booting himself out of this group anytime soon. 

“She’s been scared recently,” Daniel told Jackson one day as they were both smoking outside behind a dingy restaurant. “Because of the murder, you know?”

Ah, right. The police report came out the morning after Jackson went to the police station. Miya Reinhart’s body was found in the woods near her house. Police were apparently investigating some promising leads, but at the moment they had nothing more to say.

“And how does that benefit you?” Jackson wondered, taking in a slow puff.

“She’ll want protection,” Daniel said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been driving her back to her dorm recently, she doesn’t want to go by herself, nor do her parents. They like me, dude. Parents plus my masculine energy should be more than enough.”

“Masculine energy?” Jackson said with a scoff and chuckle. “Sure, dude. Just ask her out.”

“It’s not that easy. I mean, how’d you ask your girl out?”

Jackson leaned his head against the brick wall. “She wooed me.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. I should be asking her for advice, not you.”

“That’s probably right.”

“You know, I’m planning a party next weekend. Halloween-themed.” Daniel got up from his position and dusted off all the dirt from his pants. “You gonna come?” He lent out his hand.

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

Jackson let himself get pulled up to his feet. They started walking down the street and back to the general vicinity of where both their neighborhoods lay.

“It’s a costume party, obviously. And I’m thinking I should make Halloween-themed treats, the type that moms make when we’re kids, you know?”

Jackson never experienced that. As a child, his Halloweens were his mom trying to do something nice for the family, then getting drunk and upset after his father never showed up. After a certain point, Jackson stopped anticipating any type of celebration and his mom stopped making an attempt. 

“It’s a little childish — but who cares? You can get the drinks, right?” Daniel continued.

Jackson nodded, hands in his pocket. “Yeah, and food, too. How many people are gonna be there?”

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t want this one to be big. I was thinking just us five and, like, a plus-one.”

That was more than fine with Jackson. In all honesty, he didn’t like Daniel’s big parties, the ones where everyone he ever talked to was invited, where he had to clean the house out because Daniel was too crossfaded to move a muscle. 

At least he had something to look forward to this week.

+++

“I told you someone was going to get murdered.” 

Jackson sucked in a breath. He had an awful feeling when he picked up the phone — he should have known it would be her again. His eyes darted nervously around the room, paranoid — across the walls and the crevices of the room, the windows and the opened crack of the closet door.

It was almost enticing. It was like a game, in a sick, cruel way. Who was she? A tormenter, a killer. Criminal.

“What do you want?” Jackson asked, stern.

 “You.”

The audacity! he thought. “I have a girlfriend,” he responded simply, wondering whether this was the right time to call the police. He almost didn’t want to. He wanted to see how far this would go, but he knew that was stupid.

He was still wondering whether this whole thing was a prank or not. It was possible that this was a huge coincidence, and with the murder they were simply taking advantage of a bad situation. 

“Maybe she’ll be next.” 

Jackson’s heart thumped in his chest, so loud he could feel the beat throughout his entire body. He felt his body chill, goosebumps along his arms. No. This was not a prank anymore. 

“Listen here you bitch,” he spat into the receiver, “you hurt her in anyway I’ll find you and gut you like a common whore. You understand?” 

She laughed, no — giggled.

“You’re so protective. What a man.” 

Jackson was about to end the call and call the police but then she added, “But it doesn’t matter. You’re too late.” 

He could feel his breathing waver, shaking. In fear or anger, he didn’t know — probably both.

“What do you mean? What have you done to her?” 

The call ended.

“Fuck!”

Jackson threw the telephone into the wall, watching as it broke apart and left a dent. Upstairs, he could hear his mom call out his name in worry, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was already putting on his shoes, sprinting out of the house and towards his car. Without abandon, he started the engine and sped down the street towards your place. It would take a good ten minutes. Your parents house wasn’t as close to Westwood as his was. The whole time he couldn’t stop thinking, What if you were already dead?

His palms were sweaty, and he was driving recklessly. There were few cars on the road. He he was subject to honking more than once, and it was out of sheer luck that he avoided being pulled over by a cop car.

When he finally arrived, he rushed up to your front door and rapped, frustrated when there wasn’t an immediate response. Where the fuck were your parents?

He thought about going over to the side of your house and climbing to your window like he used to do when you first started dating, but the door opened and to his great relief it was you standing there, unharmed and looking rather confused.

But still. He couldn’t take any chances.

“Jackson?” you said, surprised. “What are you — ”

Jackson pushed his way inside and locked the door, wrapping his arms around your figure, letting your head rest against his chest as he used your comfort to calm his heart. It felt like the world was not functioning the way it was supposed to — everything was so fast and heavy but muted, like he was in a dream. A disturbing, horrible dream.

When you pulled away, you opened your mouth to speak, but he placed his finger against your lips, shushing you.

“Are all the windows locked?” he asked, his breathing steadying.

“Um.” You thought for a moment. “I dunno. Maybe.”

Jackson sighed, wanting to pinch your side for being so careless. How many times had he told you to keep all house openings locked?

He went to every window on the first floor, while you followed behind, barraging him with questions. What happened? Why are you here? Is something wrong?

He placed his hands on the side of your arms. “Call the police, okay, doll?”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Just do it, I’ll explain after I check upstairs.”

“Babe, just tell me now.”

Jackson moved past you, but you grabbed his hand and dug your nails into his palm. “Tell me,” you said softly, but your tone indicated that you weren’t playing.

He paused. After taking a deep breath so he could speak properly without running out of air, he spilled everything. When he finished, you reacted in a way he didn’t expect, but was grateful for— calm and collected, albeit worried.

He went upstairs to lock the rest of the windows. He heard your faint voice talk to the police downstairs, explaining the situation. When he made it to your bedroom, however, he noticed something odd. There was a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Once he made sure that all the openings on this floor were locked, he removed one of the shirts, which had small red spots. Like a splatter.

He sniffed it, against his better judgement, and recoiled at the scent. It was most certainly blood. The iron was unmistakable. 

“What are you doing?”

He turned around like a deer caught in headlights.

Jackson held up the shirt. “What is this?”

“N-nothing,” you stammered. “Lady stuff.”

“Like what?” He narrowed his eyes. “Periods?”

With a faint blush, you nodded. He rolled his eyes, wishing that this type of conversation wasn’t so embarrasing.

“Give it to me,” you pleaded. “I was just in the process of cleaning that when you came. I don’t want the police to see this.”

Jackson gave the shirt back to you. What you wanted to say was — ‘I don’t want a bunch of old men to see this.’ 

+++

“One more time, let’s go through what happened when you came here,” Detective Reisert said. “When you told her — your girlfriend — what had happened, would you say she was frightened? Panicked?”

Jackson sighed. He was sitting on your couch with the police as they canvassed your home. You were being interviewed in the dining room, and your parents were on their way back from the work convention they were supposedly at. There was a swath of news reporters outside your house, as well as confused neighbors. All the curtians and blinds were shut closed, to give you guys at least a bit of privacy, but the nosie and flashing lights were just as distracting as the sight of them.

“I mean, yeah,” Jackson said. “But it’s not like she was having a panic attack. I don’t see why you’re interested in her reaction. I need to know whether she’s safe or not! What happened to the phone call? Did you trace it or — ”

“It’s from a burner account,” Reisert said. “The person who did this was smart. But we’ll find them.”

Jackson was not satisfied. “I want security. For her.”

“We’ll have someone protecting her twenty-four by seven. What I want to know is why she was so calm.”

Jackson couldn’t believe this. “Because she was. She’s just like that. I mean, her cat died a few months ago and she didn’t even shed a tear.”

“Didn’t even shed a tear,” he repeated slowly. “That’s odd. How’d the cat die?”

It was then that Jackson realized what the detective was implying. “She didn’t do this, if that’s what you think.”

“Everyone’s a suspect, son.”

“I’m not your son!”

Reisert paused. “You’re right. Where is your father, by the way?”

“Not important.”

“I think it is. I think it’s a parents responsibility to raise their child properly. To tell them not to say things like, ‘I’ll gut you like a common whore’. That is what you said, right?”

“She was threatening my girlfriend,” Jackson snapped.

“Of course, of course. What about the stain on her clothes? The blood?”

Jackson wished he had never mentioned that at all. “It’s from her period.”

“And what did it look like?”

“I dunno, red.”

“. . . Those are all the questions I have.”

Detective Reisert got up from his seat and gave a polite smile.

Jackson rubbed his temples, finding this whole situation to be absolutely insane.

When he passed by the dining room, he overheard you and some others officers talking. It’s not like it was a crime to eavesdrop. This wasn’t a police station, he could stand wherever he wanted.

“It was a period stain,” you said with an exasperated tone.

“On your shirt?”

“Yes, I was . . . I was doing something, and I didn’t have a towel, you know? I don’t want to explain this, I shouldn’t have to! It’s personal.”

“Can we see the shirt?”

“It’s upstairs, but I already cleaned it.”

“With what?”

“Hydrogen peroxide. I-It’s not weird, I’ve been doing it since I was eleven. Ask my mom when she comes back, she’s the one who taught me.”

“We will. Thank you for your time.”

You got up, the chair rubbing against the hardwood floor. You walked over to Jackson with tears in your eyes. He immediately pulled you into a hug, guiding you away from everyone else and towards a more secluded area.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay.” He rubbed your back, soothing. If only Detective Reisert could see you now. Look what his team had done to her. “Let it all out.”

“I wanna go upstairs,” you cried, grasping onto his shirt. 

“Yeah, I’ll take you.”

They went to the guest room, as your bedroom was being occupied. He laid you down on the bed and wrapped a blanket around you two, letting you sob into his jacket. It was wet now, which he didn’t like, but he wasn’t about to stop you or move your head.

As he soothed you, he thought about everything that was going on. He couldn’t believe that this was happening, to him and his girlfriend of all people. And the thought of you being targeted . . . 

They were still like that for a while. Your parents came back home and made a big fuss, rightfully. They never liked Jackson that much, so after thanking him with a half-assed smile they asked him to leave the house. There was no way Jackson was going to leave you after this, but the police officer who was being stationed at your house insisted as well, so reluctantly, he agreed and headed back home. He kept you on call the entire night, even when you were sleeping. He needed to hear you, even if it was just your breathing. He needed to make sure you were alright. 

+++

“That’s absolutely crazy,” Aneria said, walking side by side with Jackson. They were both heading to their next class which they both shared. They always walked together. Usually Jackson would drop her off and go on his own way, but he’d been missing too many classes and he didn’t want to get in trouble with the school. If that happened they would contact his father, and his father would just give him the fist.

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed, kicking a small pebble across the sidewalk. You were staying at home for the time being. You had taken a few days off, and while he knew you were protected, he still couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“What exactly happened?” Aneria asked, brushing back her blonde hair. “I mean, I heard rumors that they think it might be . . . you know . . .”

“Might be what?” Jackson snapped, turning to look at her. He didn’t mean to lose his patience, but he was in a bad mood. He sighed. “Sorry. I’m just pissed. Tell me.”

Aneria hesitated, then spoke, “That it might be her this whole time.”

Jackson paused in his tracks and turned to look at Aneria. “It’s not. It’s not, why would she do that?”

“I’m not saying I think it’s her, I’m just letting you know how people are feeling,” Aneria said with a shrug. “Also,” she added nervously, “I’m looking out for you.”

She placed a hand on Jackson’s arm. He felt mildly uncomfortable.

“I’m worried about you. Some psycho is stalking you. She’s murdered people, and I — I’m worried about you. So is James, even though he might not say it.”

Jackson shrugged her hand off. “I’m flattered.”

Aneria didn’t say anything more after that. When they got to class, a few people were looking at him with pitiful stares, and after the lecture was finished, the professor pulled him aside to ask if he was okay. Jackson said he was, which was a lie, but he was not about to pour out his heart and feelings to the old man who used to yell at him for not doing his work. 

+++

———

(This is where I stopped writing 😬)

The next part is a short scene where Jackson reminisces about old times and how he met you. Back in highschool you were a good student, but also a preppy bitch and he didn’t really like you. But somehow you won over his heart and instead of going to some fancy college like you thought he would, you ended up staying with him in community college, which he suspects is the reason your parents don’t like him so much.

He also talks about the fact that he’s never had sex with you, and is actually a virgin. He’s nervous about the intimacy.

+++

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jackson chastised, pulling you away from the rest of the crowd and into his arms.

They were at a football game.  

So basically this a small scene where Jackson and the rest of the crew except Lisa and Aneria are at this football game. The next day they realize someone else was murdered, and the police clear you up as a suspect because of your alibi.

In another scene, you try to have sex with Jackson, but he pushes you off. You get a little annoyed and decide to just call it a day, because you’re under the assumption that he has slept with people before, he just doesn’t want to sleep with you.

The police start looking into more clues related to Jackson. They think this is the work of some yandere/stalker, and they think it might be Aneria for a hot moment because she so obviously has a crush on Jackson. They end up dropping that train of thought.

At the Halloween party, Aneria makes a move on Jackson, inviting him into a bedroom upstairs. But you stop her by stabbing her through the heart. Jackson is shocked and also incredibly turned on. You rape him. He struggles at first but eventually gives in and fucks you back. It was supposed to be a blood kink, knife play sort of scene that was really rough and crazy on both sides.

Jackson doesn’t understand fully though, because you weren’t there during the time of one of the murders. You tell him not to worry about it. You suggest running away to some other state or maybe a foreign country. Jackson is ready to leave it all behind.

As you get in the car before anyone notices something is wrong, Jackson notices Lisa in the driver’s seat. She’s been your accomplice this whole time, and she was the one who murdered someone at a football game. You both drive into the night and are never heard from again. 

________________

Taglist in case anyone's still interested: @shroombloom-rry @madnessandobsession @henrywintersdearestgirl @hllywdwhre @your-nanas-house @ellebelleshelby @Meetmeatyourworst @hanawrites404 @Emimurphy2008 @wild-rose-35 @nela-cutie @slut4thebroken @flwrs4aust @httpxgray

[wormshirt]

As someone who uses a mobility aid and has muscular tension that cause me general body and joint pain and stiffness from the hips down on both sides what would kill me with doctor who wouldn't be the running it'd be the fucking stairs. They don't always have stairs in doctor who but oh boy when they do. I can run super fast and then inevitably injure my hips and suffer through it and keep limping along through the pain but if it's a flight of stairs between me and safety I'm so dead. If I don't take those stairs 1 step at a time my knees WILL lock or my muscles will throw such a massive hissy fit that it'll take me TWICE the time it takes your average person to go up those stairs and I will be killed or kinapped or put through some strange and unusual scifi horror by step 3. The doctor and I (limping) run down 50000000 hallways and we reach the end of a hall with only a reasonably sized staircase on the other end of it and the doctor immediately starts vaulting up the steps 3 at a time until he turns around and notices that I have stopped completely at the bottom of the steps to stare at him blithely. He starts trying to get me to go up the stairs or ask what the hell I think I'm doing and I slowly lower myself back down to the ground and cross my arms over my chest and begin reciting funeral prayers with a serene smile. The big evil monster comes after me and I am eaten. Badly. The doctor yells NOOOOO really loud and cries a little maybe idk and then is emo about it for like half a season until they end up back by the staircase in a season finale or something and it's revealed that the stairs are magic stairs that preserve the conciousness of any ugly ass bitch who hates staircases enough and the doctor is implied to have know this all along. and the doctor gives me some heartbroken major depressive disorder poster child look and a little speech about how they "couldn't have come back here for blah blah excuses reasons" and I smile sweetly and say "why the fuck didn't you have an emergency exit strategy or some shit incase the guy who uses a fucking cane couldn't do some shit like go up stairs super fast because he uses a fucking cane. Hello. Not even mad. Are you stupid. You are a timelord. Your people let your gay ass fuck off to who knows where because you're the dumbest timelord ever and they couldn't stand your stupid ass. I can't believe I'm stuck on this gay ass space station with this lame ass death for all of eternity because you didn't think that the guy who struggles to go up stairs would struggle to go up stairs. You wanna know what the alien said to me before he ate me. He said hey that dude you're here with sucks so bad and is stupid and gay and lame as hell. And I would have said 'yeah lol' but then he ate me. He ate me because of stairs doctor. Stairs." And then I'd stay forever trapped with my soul in that staircase just so I could spend the rest of enternity sending spam calls and telemarketers to the tardis phone. The doctor's investigating something outside an alien bar somewhere and sees ads like XXX Brittany Wants To Spend a NIGHT With YOU Sexy! Hot Singles in your area! Call here for a night of FUN! HOT SINGLE Xxeksifloryean Milfs Looking For a MATE in GALAXIES NEAR YOU!!!!❤️❤️❤️ and softly puts a hand on the posters and goes "I'm sorry I couldn't save you....." five seconds later jerry from *TOTALLY REAL* intergalactic statefarm NOT A FAKE NOT A SCAM calls up the doctor on the TARDIS phone to ask about the doctor's insurance info. Somewhere I kick an ugly ass step on a stupid fucking staircase and break my ghost toe. I hop around and start swearing.

[crowleysgirl56]

Book Omens! A meandering journey to reading Good Omens to my son. The finale!

Well we finished it! Here are some thoughts and observations from both my son and myself (mostly myself actually).

- did I miss something or did Hastur just not do anything further once he got out of the answer-machine and ate all the telemarketers? In the show he manifests in the Bentley then gets discorporated and sent back to hell when Crowley drives through the ball of fire on the M25. But the book just has him coming through the phone line, turning into maggots, devouring the room of telemarketers and then that’s it. Also, it’s been a while since I’ve watched season 1, do they show that the telemarketers are brought back to life because the book has one of them call Newt and then gets annoyed that they’ve lost an entire day because they think it’s still Saturday (assuming this is thanks to Adam putting the world right again). Anyway, this is all to say that I find it odd that the thread of Hastur is just left hanging like that. Which makes me wonder if he was always supposed to have a major part to play in the book’s sequel (and therefore season 3). I recently read an old interview where Pratchett said the makings of the sequel are built into the book. Could this be one of those threads?

- on the subject of Hastur my son said that while he was stuck in the answer-machine Crowley should have just turned him into The Best of Queen, and HOW THE HELL HAS NO ONE THOUGHT OF THAT?! This kid is so clever sometimes he’d make Crowley proud.

- another major thing I noticed and I’m hoping I just didn’t miss something crucial here, is it’s never explained where Crowley got the holy water from. Is it implied it was Aziraphale in the book and I just completely missed it? All of this backstory was of course included in season 1 and I’m wondering if it was included specifically because it was never explained in the book. And again, because there was no explanation, would this have been included in the sequel?

- a sudden though regarding the bikers. There’s never any indication that they were restored. I don’t know if this means anything specifically, but considering there’s the short gag at the end of the book that implies the telemarketers were returned and also the delivery man, I wonder why this didn’t happen for the bikers. Again, is this another thread for the sequel?

- I’ve taken some screen shots below of more passages in the book that made me realise why I never thought Aziraphale and Crowley were romantically coded to each other the first time I read through the book (and I think I might do a deeper dive into these passages in a separate post).

Any thoughts about this is welcome. But again, it seems to be one of those “squint to see the deeper relationship” cases here.

- I will admit however the fact that they had no problem holding hands may have been what gave people pause to think about their relationship. Though could their relationship have been framed platonically, like for example Frodo and Sam in LoTR? (don’t come at me for that comparison. I get that Frodo and Sam are shipped constantly, but Tolkien very specifically said their relationship was about platonic companionship and the type of companionship that hetero men seem to be afraid to show each other in modern times.)

- the last passage involving Warlock was really interesting. Again I couldn’t remember if it’s included in the show, but there definitely did seem to be some kind of implication that there was more to Warlock than him just being the swapped child. Again, was this another thread for the sequel? Was it implied that he would now be the new antichrist? Or could he perhaps be the second coming? Will we see him in season 3?

So, overall impressions. My son liked it but I think a lot of it went over his head (I had to stop and explain a lot of religious canon to him, a lot of the satire, and most of the jokes). He liked Death and the rest of the horsemen and also the bikers. He identified with Adam but still didn’t quite understand why Adam just didn’t use his powers for good (bless him). He didn’t really feel anything in particular for Aziraphale and Crowley (sob!). He also asked me to explain what happened season 2 and why I’m sad about it. He is also now very sad for me, and is very angry with NG.

Maybe one day he’ll read the book again for himself and find the humour much more relatable. He is interested in reading Discworld again and maybe this time will stick it out.

I personally am glad I read it again for myself. And I’m also really grateful for all the fanfic that we have that expands on the story and the characters. Thank you so much to the fandom for your fabulous stories and your love for these characters. And thanks for following along with my ramblings.

[wawamouse]

Oz Rewatch 3: S6E07: Junkyard Dawgs

Storylines

The Homeboys are frozen out of the tits trade; Stanley Bukowski crime flashback; Stanley starts dealing weed brownies out of the cafeteria; Stanley its steamed to death in the boiler room; the Homeboys go back into telemarketing to steal credit card numbers

Stella gets her lumpectomy; Pablo shanks an Aryan and gets send to the Hole; all is well with Stella; the TV crowd makes fun of Busmalis; Norma is late to the wedding but shows up in the end;

Idzik is impatient for Omar to kill him; McManus doesn’t believe Omar; Idzik describes his existential crisis; Idzik kills Omar when he refuses to kill Idzik;

Robson has HIV;

Ryan is in denial about Cyril not being in the clear yet; Gloria ???; Ryan wants to work at the hospital; Seamus O’Reily crime flashback;

Schillinger auditions for the play; Beecher gets MacDuff; Beecher confronts Schillinger and Keller in the library; Keller tells Schillinger he’ll kill Beecher; Keller tells Beecher he’s playing Schillinger;

McManus asks Ruiz to see Miguel; Miguel visits with Cathy Jo again; Schillinger pressures Miguel about signing the papers

Alonzo Torquemada crime flashback; he arrives at Oz with plans to take things over;

Yood warns Glynn to drop the Loewen investigation; Eleanor and Glynn romance is discovered by Tim;

Correctional Officer’s association; McManus goes to retrieve Glynn who is nowhere to be found; Glynn has already been stabbed, dying in the gym;

Sister: You think no one’s going to notice? …You think no one’s going to notice? …You think no one’s going to notice? …You think no one’s going to notice?

Me: Why is he still here?! Sister: What do they stay so late for?

Sister: When has [Omar] ever schemed? Why would he be scheming right now? No, he does things spur of the moment.

Sister: Does he have some kind of life insurance policy out where he can’t kill himself and needs someone else to do it? Me: I have a new theory that his family died or his wife left him and took the kids or something, because he said he had a family. Which means something must have happened to them. Sister: Yeah, and he wants to leave them the life insurance money to make up for being a loser.

Sister: How he treats his special projects, haha.

Sister: They’re still doing this damn play? What, is the season finale gonna be the doing this play? And someone gets shot?

Sister: She came alone? Me: Yeah, you’d expect her to show up with guards. Sister: Yeah, especially because there was the whole realization with McManus. It seemed like they were all going to come running, but it's just her.

Sister: Why are they still introducing new characters?! Aren’t they supposed to be ending the show?

Sister: …Why would Miguel be the man to know? He’s not even in the drug trade. Me: I ask this myself.

Sister: He has a backdoor? In his bathroom?

Sister: The turn out for this party is not great.

Stray Thoughts

Bukowski getting arrested while shoveling weed brownies in his mouth is so fucking funny

What was McManus’s 40th bday party that they (according to Murphy) were wearing tuxedos?

Torquemada in the background of the episode before he's even arrived:

They must've filmed his bits first because Bukowski's still alive in the background of his arrival, too.

Sister’s Final Thoughts

“Why did they have a back door into the bathroom of the warden’s office?”

“They didn’t need to add the weed guy. They could’ve just foiled them a different way.”

Sister thought Miguel looking around the visiting room and hearing the baby crying was supposed to be spooky and signaled that he would back away from Cathy Jo

New Predictions by Sister

Someone will die during the play

O’Reily’s dad will either die or get incapacitated

Stella will come back next episode to finish her story with Bob

They’re not going to find Leo’s killer (the investigators will be as incompetent as he is)

Nobody else is getting out of prison

Something will happen to Cathy Jo, depending on how much the writers want him to go with Chico… (Me: The writers don’t want that… That’s just me). Oh, okay, then she’ll live and the baby crying wasn’t an evil omen but an angelic chord of inspiration. So Miguel will get with that lady and become the new leader of the Aryan Brotherhood. And that will be how the Latinos win. (Me: Be serious…)

Maybe the new gay guy will take over Em City like he wanted to and that’s how the Gays will end up winning.

Do they have a spinoff show? Because if they do, they're going to introduce like five more characters.

[fallen-gravity]

One Call Away

It's 1982. Somewhere in New Mexico, Stan recieves a phone call from not-quite his brother. Someone is threatening to take his life. Whether Ford himself is desperately reaching out for help, or someone else entirely has him at gunpoint, Stan knows one thing for sure: He needs to find him and fast.

Alternatively: An AU where the payphone Bill used to call Stan while posessing Ford worked, and Stan is actually forced to listen to his "brother" threaten to kill himself.

Notes:

Caution: This fic has MAJOR spoilers for The Book of Bill. Proceed with caution.

Author's Note 2 Electric Boogaloo: God, this book has had a huge grip on my psyche all week. I'm losing my mind. I'm going absolutely feral. I lost my shit at the section of the Missing Journal 3 Pages where Ford revealed that Bill tried to make a phone call in his name to Stan threatening to kill himself. I audibly gasped. I read it three times. God. I'm insane.

No character death tag because nobody dies! This fic ends on a positive note, I promise :')

AO3 Link

Or under the cut:

When you’ve been scamming suckers out of their money as long as Stan has, you come to learn to expect that anything can happen. You learn to tend to your own injuries, you learn the best escape routes, you learn as many languages as you can in case you need to flee the country, you learn to disappear without a trace; when you expect everything, you learn to let nothing surprise you.

When you have a public phone line that anyone can call, you learn to expect that only about half of those calls are gonna be potential new customers eager to try out your products. When you’ve been relying on these new customers to provide the money for your next meal, you tend to pay attention to patterns; you notice when your commercials air, how many customers are likely to call in, and how long it takes for customers to realize they’ve been scammed and call back demanding their money back. To most, it looks like the world’s most elaborately thought out scam they’ve ever seen. To you, it’s survival.

Expect everything so you can be prepared for anything. That’s how Stan sees it, anyway. As long as he’s prepared, nothing can catch him off guard. If he knows what’s coming, he’ll never have to wake up in the trunk of a car with his hands tied behind his back ever again.

Unfortunately for Stan, though, that means being hyper-alert at all times, even in his sleep, so even the most mundane of noises can wake him up. If the couple in the hotel room next to him drops a bottle of shampoo in the shower, he’s gonna hear it and wake up. 

If the phone starts ringing at god-knows-when in the morning, he’s going to shoot up awake, even if it just turns out to be some dumb telemarketer trying to reach him about his car’s extended warranty.

The alarm clock on the hotel nightstand tells him it’s nearing four-thirty in the morning when the complimentary phone in his hotel room starts ringing. 

That’s…strange. There’s no way that could be a customer, because Stan never bothered to buy commercial spots for late night and prime time television. For one, prime time is incredibly expensive and has too many competitors who are selling actual products, and secondly, Stan’s found that he has the most success when he advertises on the daytime soap opera channels, because that’s when all the bored housewives and old folks’ homes are likely watching TV. 

Could it be someone he’s pissed off? No, that doesn’t make any sense either, because they don’t usually have the courtesy to call before they show up with a shotgun or twelve. It can’t be Ma, since she usually calls when Pa goes away on his weekend trips to Atlantic City. 

Nothing’s adding up. Every fiber in his being is telling him not to answer.

And yet… 

He fears more for what will happen to him if he doesn’t answer. 

He pats his hair down, takes a deep breath, and picks up the receiver. 

“You’ve reached Stan-Co! Totally authentic and worthwhile products. If you need it, I have it. Stan’s your man. How can I legitimately help you today?”

“Stanley!” replies an all-too familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard in nearly ten years. “Just the man I wanted to see!” he says, despite not being able to see him and having been the one who called first. 

“Wh- Stanford?!? The hell are you doin’ calling my infomercial line?” Stan splutters, too shocked to even bother trying to keep his voice down. 

“Awww, that’s not a very nice hello for your favorite brother, is it?” Ford’s voice replies, sounding like he’s suppressing hysterical laughter. 

Something’s wrong.

 Stan may not have spoken to his brother in years, but he can instantly tell that something’s wrong.

“Stanford, what the hell is going on?”

There’s a short pause, and then Ford blows a raspberry into the receiver. “You’re no fun! I thought for sure you’d cry like a baby when I called!” 

Yeah, okay, something is definitely wrong. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on, Ford? Why the hell are you calling me so late? Why me? I thought you hated my guts!”

“Oh, I do!” Ford replies without a drop of hesitation, giggling like a madman. “But I don’t have much time, and there’s something really important I need to say, and you’re the only person I want hearing what I’m about to say.” There’s something…off about the way he sounds, not quite the slur of someone who’s drunk and far too energetic to be that of someone lacking sleep. But there’s something almost garbled about it, like he’s not all that aware of what he’s saying, and if Stan listens close enough he’s sure that he can hear an echo.

But Stan can recognize the cheap, static-y sound of someone calling from a payphone anywhere. Wherever Ford is, he’s calling from outside, and the last time Stan checked the only places outside that echoed were either very high up, very dangerous, or both of them put together. Stan does his best to repress the lump forming in his throat trying to imagine what kind of danger he possibly could’ve gotten himself into, especially if he felt the need to call him, rather than the cops, but he still can’t quite shake the tremble in his voice when he replies.

“Not much time? C’mon, Ford, don’t say that! I can help you! Screw this cold shoulder bullshit! I can help you! Just tell me what’s going on so we can figure this out together!”

An eerily long pause, and the next time Ford speaks it’s as if he brought the phone as close to his mouth as he possibly could. 

“You’re too late,” he replies, colder and more dismissive as Stan’s ever heard in his entire life. “I’m going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back, so if you don’t hear from me, I just want you to know that it’s because I never loved you. Buh-Byeeeeee!” 

“WAIT!” Stan screeches, and thankfully it’s enough to stop Ford from hanging up. “Ford, c’mon, there’s gotta be something I can do! You’re acting crazy! I’m not asking anymore, I’m begging! Where the hell are you?”

Another pause. 

Then, a voice that doesn’t sound anything like Ford’s.

“Oh, goody! An audience! You want to watch him die so badly, that’s fine by me! I’ll even hold off just for you!” An ear-shatteringly high pitched cackle. “Gravity Falls, Oregon. If you want him, come and get him.”

“Him?! Who the hell is-” Stan snaps, but before he can ask any more questions, Ford hangs up, and all Stan is left with is the droning buzz of the dial tone.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Either Ford’s lost his mind and really is planning to off himself, or someone else is threatening to do it for him. Shit. Shit. Stan has to go now. Everything else be damned, if he doesn’t leave before this other maniac gets bored of waiting then Ford’s not gonna be there at all when he finally makes it to Oregon. That’s nearly halfway across the country from his hotel in New Mexico as is, so he already doesn’t have any time to spare.

He leaps out of bed, reaching underneath until he finds his duffle bag, and practically tears the place apart trying to get all of his belongings together. There’s something in his gut telling him he’s not coming back any time soon, and even if Ford had miraculously said he was only one state over, Stan isn’t willing to risk leaving behind anything important, weaponry included. How’s Stan supposed to know what kind of bullshit Ford got himself into? How could he live with himself if he assumed all was well and left his brass knuckles behind, only to find his brother half-dead in an alleyway somewhere? 

He’s not risking it. Even if everything is fine, and Ford had only sounded like that because he was drunk off his ass and had no idea what he was actually saying, Stan’s not risking it.

Even if Ford doesn’t want him in his life, Stan’s not willing to risk losing him. Not again. Not permanently. 

Once he has all his stuff together, Stan scribbles down a half-assed apology for housekeeping and tapes it to the door alongside a twenty dollar bill. He hastily tosses all of his stuff in the back of the car, and speeds off out of the hotel parking lot as if it were his own life on the line. He doesn’t want to think about the worst case scenarios, so for now he focuses only on the road signs for directions to the closest pit stop and hopefully enough energy drinks to last him the twenty-something hour drive he’s about to make. 

Thankfully, the closest one is less than an hour away and open 24/7 to boot, so Stan is sure that his luck is turning around; all he has to do is pop in, grab a few things, and be on his way. He’ll be in Oregon before he knows it.

That is, of course, until he realizes that none of the maps at the place even have a so-called Gravity Falls listed on any of them.

“Uh, hey,” Stan calls out to the worker behind the cash register, who looks like he’s falling asleep where he stands. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Gravity Falls is, do you? Gravity Falls, Oregon?” 

At first Stan’s not entirely sure if the poor guy even heard him, but then the worker eyes him up and down and sighs heavily. “You makin’ fun of me or something?”

Stan blinks. “What? No, A’course not!” he sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t exactly have a lot of time here! I don’t know why I can’t find it on any of your brochure maps, but I’ve got a gut feeling that someone I love is in a lot of danger and I need to get there as fast as I possibly can. Do you know where it is or not?”

For a brief moment the man still doesn’t answer, eyeing him up and down again, before he sighs and leans forward, like the information he’s about to give him is top-secret government information. “Alright,” he whispers, and glances around the store to make sure the two of them are alone. “I’ve heard things. Rumors. Crazy stories about ghouls and goblins and people who come and go without a trace of memory of who they were before they entered that town. I’ve got a general idea of where it is, but I’m not confident. If you’re willing to listen, I’ve got theories.”

Under any other circumstances, Stan would wave him off as insane and book it out of there as fast as he could, but he’s desperate for any information he can get, and he’s not entirely sure when the next time he’ll find anyone even remotely familiar with the town will even be. So Stan agrees, and does his best not to show how insane he thinks this worker is as he starts going off about the supernatural and monsters that sound like they belong in a Saturday morning cartoon. 

If Ford really is anywhere near any kind of place that fits this man’s stories, it’s no wonder he sounded like he was starting to lose his mind. 

After listening to the man ramble on for god knows how long and watching him draw circles in the map where he thinks the town could be, Stan thanks him by actually paying for what he came in for before jumping back into his car and speeding down the highway as fast as he possibly can. 

It’s an agonizing two day drive, only stopped by the times Stan fell asleep at the wheel and forced himself to pull over and take a nap, and the time he was so desperate for food that he pulled off at some truck stop (with admittedly the grossest food he’s eaten since becoming homeless) for a hot meal. If it were up to him, he would’ve done the whole drive in one go, but it was when he nearly careened his car off a cliff trying to stay awake that he realized that he wouldn’t be any good to his brother dead, so he resolved to also take short driving breaks here and there to make sure he kept his energy up; if he really does need to fight someone when he gets there, he’s gonna need all the strength he can get. 

Thankfully, upon arrival at Gravity Falls, Ford’s place of residence is much easier to find than Stan had feared; for a guy who’d been longing for a place he belonged since early childhood, Ford sure likes to stick out like a sore thumb wherever he goes. As soon as Stan goes around town asking townsfolk if anyone had seen anyone who looked like him “except a lot smarter, I guess,” nearly every single person he asks points off in the same direction of the woods and gives him the same confused sort of I think he lives somewhere in there. If he hadn’t gotten it from at least five separate people, Stan would’ve been sure that they were all screwing with him. 

And, as it turns out…every single one of them is right. It doesn’t take that much venturing in the woods for Stan to come across the giant cabin aglow in eerie blue lighting and surrounded by tall fences of barbed wire with pieces of cardboard stapled to it and “KEEP OUT” written on them in shaky handwriting. If Ford is anywhere, it’s here. 

Now…breaking into somewhere he’s not allowed? Stan can do that in his sleep. He’s done it hundreds of times, and he’ll probably do it another hundreds of thousands of times again before he dies.

But… 

Seeing his brother again? 

That terrifies him to his very core. Reason for driving all the way out here aside, there’s still a very real chance Ford’s gonna tell him he still never wants to see him again and slam the door in his face, and then Stan’s really gonna have nowhere to go. After everything, if Stan rescues Ford from whatever’s after him and he still tells him to leave and never come back?

What then?

…No. That’s not what matters right now. He can worry about that later.

With a shake of his head to brush off his thoughts, Stan rams his car into the fence hard and fast enough to topple it to the ground. He drives down the path until he’s close enough to the front entrance that he can hop out of his car as quickly as he can, but hidden enough that he won’t be seen if someone (or something) tries to escape.

Stan takes a deep breath as he exits his car and makes his way to the front door, and finds himself hesitating to knock the door as soon as he’s on the porch steps.

It’s for his own good, Stan tells himself. It’s for his own good. I’m just trying to help. It’s for his own good. 

He stamps down on any last remnants of hesitation and knocks on the door, loud enough for Ford to hear but gently enough to hopefully assure him that it isn’t anyone who wants to hurt him. Almost instantaneously, Stan can hear the sound of objects falling and glass shattering from inside, like a spooked deer trying to dodge the headlights of an oncoming truck. Stan’s sure he can hear the sound of someone muttering, and he’s relieved beyond comparison that it’s the only voice he can hear coming from inside.  

Because he can tell that it’s Ford’s voice. 

Which means he’s still alive.

Stan huffs out a huge sigh of relief, and subconsciously begins patting down the wrinkles in his clothes to make himself more presentable. He waits, and he waits, but despite Stan knowing he heard Ford stumbling around inside, he never comes to answer the door. 

Stan frowns. This is going to be even harder than he thought. Stan tries again, this time knocking exactly six times in the hopes that it’ll clue Ford in on the fact that it’s just him at the door.

As it turns out, though, that seems to be an even bigger mistake than knocking normally, because now the noises coming from inside sound even more frightened. From inside, Stan can hear a muffled string of curse words, followed by the sound of some piece of furniture being knocked over, and finally, the sound of feet trying and failing to sneakily run across a squeaky hardwood floor.  Stan’s about to give up, head into town, and try reaching Ford from a payphone instead, but the door slowly starts to creak open before Stan has the chance to step down from the porch and get back in his car. 

“Stay back!” Ford shrieks, his voice trembling. Stan still can’t quite see him, because he’s too distracted by the crossbow being shoved in his face. “I don’t care who you’re pretending to be, I will shoot if you try anything!”

Ford finally steps out into view, and Stan’s heart falls to his stomach. Sweet Moses, he looks so much worse than Stan ever could’ve imagined. His hair is a wreck, sticking up in some places and sticking to the side of his face in others. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, which Stan can only hope is from crying and not something…worse. There’s a dried streak of blood running down from his right eye, and there’s scratches and cuts splattered around his face. He’s wearing a ratty trench coat, and the white shirt underneath is practically falling off of his body, concerningly torn to bits at the chest area. And from what’s left of the poor shirt, there’s splotches of vomit mixed with some other…unrecognizable liquids.

Stan can feel a foul-tasting bile rising in his throat at the sight of him. Surely anyone else would flee, thinking him to be clinically insane, but Stan refuses to sit around and ignore whatever caused his brother to turn out like…this. 

“Stanford?” Stan splutters, failing to keep the shock out of his voice. “What the ever-loving  fuck is going on?” 

Somehow, that of all things is what seems to snap Ford out of his trance. He’s still clinging to his crossbow, but his fingers aren’t on the trigger anymore and his eyes are already looking less foggy than when he’d opened the door a minute prior. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, and takes a cautious, shaky step forward, like he’s afraid the ground will shatter like glass under his feet if he moves too quickly. 

“S-Stanley?” Ford whispers, more to himself than to Stan, but Stan can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him. 

He’s not too far gone. There’s still hope. Stan goes to take another step forward, but before he has the chance, all the color drains from Ford’s face.

“Oh no,” Ford whispers, and the crossbow slips from his hand. “Oh no no no no no no no,” he mumbles, retreating back inside without closing the door. He comes back out moments later, gripping a flashlight in one hand and a VHS tape in the other. 

Out of nowhere, Ford grabs Stan by the shoulders, prompting a surprised yelp out of him, and even more out of nowhere, Ford takes the flashlight and flashes it in his eyes. 

“Ow! What gives!?” Stan exclaims, pulling himself out of Ford’s grip and rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. When his vision finally readjusts from the assault, he’s surprised to see that Ford’s whole posture has relaxed significantly. Sure, he still looks frightened out of his mind, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to shatter to pieces anymore. 

“How long have you been here?” Ford asks, completely ignoring Stan’s previous questions. 

“Uhh…” Stan pauses, admittedly taken aback by the question. “About an hour, I think?” he shrugs. “Had some trouble finding you, since some of the folks I asked around town didn’t seem to know who I was talking about when I asked about you.”

Ford’s eyes widen in horror. “You asked around town about me?” He splutters, but then clears his throat to regain his composure. “Did anyone try to get anything out of you? Were you followed?” 

Stan snorts. “Puh-lease. The most dangerous person around here is probably me, and I haven’t eaten a healthy meal in weeks.” He shakes his head. “Nobody said anything. And if I was followed, I’d know. It’s something you learn to look out for when you’ve been living on the streets for ten years.” There’s a shred more resentment in his tone than he meant for it to be, but it seems to get the message across well enough. Ford sighs, and gestures inside. 

“Come in,” Ford mumbles, his gaze falling to the ground. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” Without waiting for Stan, Ford turns heel and hastily returns inside. Stan does his best to follow close behind, but stops dead in his tracks as soon as he steps foot inside. 

The whole place is trashed. 

Trashed far beyond what Stan thought a single human could ever be capable of. There’s papers scattered everywhere, bottles of ink spilled and pooling everywhere, cupboards with holes smashed into the doors, broken plates and twisted rusty nails scattered all over the floor, a concerningly bloodied hammer on the kitchen countertop, multiple windows boarded up with splintered wood, and empty boxes of instant coffee mix strewn all around the kitchen.

Most concerningly of all, there’s a door that leads somewhere that’s covered with scratches and dripping with blood, and Stan’s not entirely sure whether that means something wanted in or if something was desperate to get out. 

Stan’s not entirely sure which thought he prefers. 

He doesn’t have too much time to stew on that, though, because he’s pulled from his thoughts by the loud thwack of plastic being smacked against the wall. He turns to the source of the noise, and he’s surprised to find Ford desperately trying to break the VHS tape in half. When that doesn’t work, he groans in frustration and resolves to throwing it on the ground. 

“Uh…Stanford?” Stan tries, and reaches out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Ford moves swiftly in another direction before he can reach him.

“I can��t do it,” Ford’s voice wavers with emotion. His head droops in defeat, and though his back is turned, Stan can see him cover his face with his hands. “I can’t do it. I’m too late. I can’t do it.”  He starts to shake even harder, like his body wants him to cry but he’s forcing it not to happen because he needs to stay strong.

For who? Himself? For Stan? For someone else?

“Hey, hey…” Stan drops his voice to a whisper, hoping a calmer tone of voice will be more likely to get a proper reply out of Ford. Stan is one-hundred percent not calm, and is in fact getting more and more freaked out the longer he doesn’t get a reply, but the last thing he needs is to stress Ford out even more than he already is. “S’alright. I’m here, okay? Whatever it is I can help you with. I don’t even care if it involves any nerdy-smarts stuff. I can learn it for you. I can help you.”

For a few brief moments, Ford’s heavy breathing pauses. He turns to look at Stan, and it’s hard not to flinch at the fact that he’s looking more and more like a kicked, abused puppy. He looks like he’s genuinely considering replying, even goes to open his mouth, but clamps down on that moments later when another thought seemingly comes to him. 

“I…” he stammers, and violently shakes his head again. “I can’t. I could never.” He starts pacing back and forth in place, rubbing his arms up and down together in a failed attempt to self-sooth. “I wish I could, but…” he trails off, but stops before he can allow himself to finish. He violently shakes his head again, like he’s not allowing himself to even think that things could possibly get better. 

Stan scowls. That’s the last straw. 

“Stanford.” Stan speaks firmly, and grabs at both of his brother’s shoulders. His grip is gentle enough not to hurt him, but strong enough to prevent him from squirming away. As it turns out, though, the strength isn’t very necessary, since Ford practically goes limp in his arms at the touch. 

“Stanford,” Stan repeats as he turns Ford around to force him to look him in the eyes. “I’m not asking anymore. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I know for a fact that I didn’t just haul my ass all the way out to Oregon from New Mexico worried sick to death that my brother was going to kill himself just for him to push me away again. I don’t know if something happened to you after you got rejected from that fancy nerd school, or if someone’s after you, or if you really are thinking about killing yourself. I don’t care if that phone call from the other day was a threat or just a drunk dial you made after watching too much Galaxy Sci-Fi Wars, or what, but I don’t need any of that to see how much trouble you’re in! You’re shaking! You’re hurt! Your house looks like it was hit by every single natural disaster all at once! I don’t care how it happened, I care that it happened. Talk to me, Stanford. I’m not leaving until you talk.”

There’s a heavy pause. Ford’s eyes are darting all around Stan’s face, and Stan’s not quite sure what he’s looking for. He doesn’t look angry or offended, but he doesn’t look all that convinced, either. It’s almost as if there’s a deep-rooted sadness in his gaze, like Ford’s not fully convinced of his honesty, and that breaks Stan’s heart more than anything else.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ford finally replies, breaking eye contact but not bothering to break out of Stan’s grip.

Stan wants to laugh. If the situation were less dire, he would laugh. “Wouldn’t understand?” he replies, gently shaking Ford’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t understand what? Having a target on your back wherever you go? An expensive bounty on your head? You think I don’t understand having to sleep with one eye open? With having to pack everything up as soon as possible because you might not survive the night if you don’t leave? Or do you think I don’t understand being too scared to try leaving, because you feel like the moment you’re out of a so-called ‘safe zone’ is the moment someone’s gonna kidnap you? Or throw you in the trunk of their car? Or do something much, much worse to you? Just because you pissed off the wrong guy? Do y’really think I don’t understand that, Ford? I understand that better than anybody. I understand that better than I’m willing to admit.” 

One final pause, and then Ford sighs heavily enough that Stan can feel the tension slumping off of his body.  Stan finally releases his grip on him, and Stan is hugely relieved to notice that Ford’s posture already looks significantly more relaxed. 

“You’re right,” Ford mumbles, and stretches his arms into the air to try and release any extra remaining tension. “You’re right,” he repeats, and nervously scratches at his chin. “Plus, uh…it probably would be easier to deal with this alongside someone else. I’ve…” he trails off, as if too embarrassed to finish. “I’ve been alone with my…thoughts for far too long. Some human company might do me some good.” 

Stan snorts. “Ha! Listen to yourself. Human company might do me some good. If I’d shown up any later you would’ve turned into a full-time nerd robot!”

Ford cracks the tiniest of smiles at that, whether he’s aware of it or not, and then it’s right back to business as usual. “Alright, fine. You got me.” He rubs at the back of his head. “There’s…someone after me. Someone who wants me dead. I don’t really know how to explain it to you, but it wasn’t exactly…me that called you the other night. I mean, it technically was, since I was the one who was speaking, but it was more like…he was forcing me to say those things. There’s something of mine that he wants, but I’m afraid that if he gets his hands on it, it’s going to hurt a lot of people. No, scratch that, I know it’s going to hurt a lot of people. I know that, and he knows that, and that’s why he wants it. But that’s also why I refuse to give it to him. It’s a big vicious game of cat and mouse. He wants it, I don’t give it to him, he retaliates with violence. There’s no winning.” He takes a deep breath, clearly trying his damn hardest not to spiral again. “Either I give him what he wants or he kills me taking it by force.” He buries his face into his hands. “I can’t do it.” He whimpers. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“...Bullshit.” 

Stan doesn’t even realize he’d blurted that out loud until Ford pulls his face from his hands to stare at him slack-jawed. “Come again?” 

“I said that’s total bullshit.” Stan replies, firmly standing his ground. “Listen, Ford, I’ve been dealing with his type for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit, and lemme tell you something; that’s just what he wants you to think. He wants you to give up and assume everything’s hopeless, because the moment you lose hope and stop fighting is the moment he’ll strike. He wants you to think he’s got no weakness, because that makes it so much easier to exploit yours. Everyone’s got ‘em, Sixer, but only the cockiest and most powerful aren’t willing to admit that they’ve got ‘em, too. And you wanna know a secret? They don’t like to admit they’ve got weaknesses because they know what it does to them. They know the second anyone finds out about their weakness that they’re just like the rest of us. If we know their weaknesses, we can fight back, and that terrifies those suckers to their very core. That’s the kind of stuff that sends them running home to their mamas. If there’s even an inkling of a chance that someone’s gonna knock them off of their pedestal, or that nobody’s afraid of them anymore because we’ve got ‘em figured out, that’s what gets them. They get so obsessed over the power they have on others that they forget to stop and consider that others can have power over them.”

“I’m telling you, Sixer, no matter what this guy tries to convince you, he’s just sayin’ it to keep you complacent. He wants you to think he’s got no weakness because he’s terrified at the idea of losing his power over you. Once you stop letting him control you, he’ll have nowhere else to stand. Once he loses you, he loses everything. It’s not about whether or not you can fight back, it’s about how you’re gonna fight back. Because once you fight back and you take control, he’s gonna have nowhere to run, and then he’s gonna be the one backed into a corner. You can fight back. You can tell him no.”

“B-but-” 

“Up up up, I don’t wanna hear it” Stan waggles a finger in his face. “If I’m still alive after all I’ve been through, I sure as hell know that you’re gonna make it, too. If I can chew my way out of the trunk of a car and tunnel my way out of a Colombian prison using nothing but cheap plastic cutlery, you can break away from whatever hold this guy has on you. Don’t sit around and wait for this guy to strike, you gotta stand up and strike first. He’ll never see it coming.” He slaps Ford on the back. “You’re a smart guy, Sixer, I’m sure that you of all people could figure out how to outsmart this guy. 

Ford looks like he wants to believe him, like he wants to hope that things are gonna be okay, but there’s something that’s still tethering him to his fears. There’s the briefest spark of hope in his eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it arrived.

“I wish I could believe you, Stanley, but Bill, he’s-” Ford starts, but flinches like he’s been shot when he accidentally uses this other guy’s name. It breaks Stan’s heart to see his brother so fearful for his life, but it also makes his blood boil over with rage thinking about the power this guy’s got over him.

 What, is saying his name gonna summon him or something? Did this Bill guy plant bugged cameras all over the house so he could keep a constant eye on Ford so he’ll know if he’s ever thinking of pulling something over his eyes? Is that why Ford’s place is so trashed? Did he tear the place apart looking for secret cameras and hidden microphones? What gives?  

Ford freezes, as if he’s actually expecting this guy to kick his door in, and when nothing happens he audibly sighs in relief. 

Stan crosses his arms. “But what? This Bill guy’s supposed to be different? More powerful? I’m tellin’ ya, he’s no different than any of the other jerks I’ve had to deal with.” He jabs another finger in Ford’s direction. “And even if he was, by some chance? Even if this guy is somehow the most powerful and feared dictator in the whole universe, what’s the first thing I said when I got here?”

Ford goes to respond, but then his cheeks burn red and stops, a clear sign that he’s forgotten. 

“I said I’m here for you. I’m here because I want to help you. I could stand here and lecture you about crime lords all day, but nothing’s ever going to change if you don’t let me help you. I don’t care how big and tough this guy thinks he is! You’re my brother, Stanford. Nothing else matters more to me than my family. You even said it yourself earlier!” Stan throws his arms into the air in an exasperated manner. “Two heads are always gonna be better than one. Two pairs of fists are also always gonna be better in a fight. You don’t have to magically stop being afraid of this guy, but I’m telling you that it’s gonna be a lot easier if you have someone fightin’ the good fight with you. I wish I had someone when I was on the run from Rico and his gang.” 

Ford frowns. “Stanley…” 

“Point is,” Stan waves him off before he can go down a guilt-ridden spiral. “I’m not leaving. Matter of fact, I’m not asking you anymore. I’m telling you. I’m staying. Until we get this whole thing sorted out and send this Bill guy running for the hills, I’m not leaving. Protest all you want, but I’m gonna stay right here by your side until you feel safe again. Hell, I’ll even sleep on the front porch as lookout if you need me to! I’m tellin’ ya, I’m done asking nicely. I won’t let you kick me out this time, Ford. I’m here for ya through thick and thin.” 

For a few painstakingly long moments, Ford doesn’t respond. But he does look like he’s deep in thought, which is a hell of a lot better than all of the flinching and nervous pacing he’s been doing since Stan arrived. If nothing else, that in itself is a huge improvement. But before Stan can start again, Ford pulls a polaroid out of his trench coat pocket, and despite a gentle tear at the corner seemingly from age, it’s looking like the most well-kept object in the entire house. Stan doesn’t bother sneaking a peek out of fear of breaking what little trust he seems to successfully be rebuilding with Ford, but whatever it is seems to bring him a lot of comfort; he only looks at it for a moment, but those few moments are enough to sneak a soft, nostalgic sort of smile onto his face.

“You’re right,” Ford finally says, the calmest he’s sounded all day. “I don’t think there’s any way I could tackle this on my own. But with some help?” He smiles sheepishly. “I think there’s something we could do.”

“There he is!” Stan exclaims, grabbing his brother in a chokehold and giving his hair a rough noogie. “I knew my brother was still in there somewhere!” he grins, and tussles him up one more time before letting go. “And hey, maybe after all this is over you can give Ma a call, eh? She’s worried sick about you, I just know it.”

“Hah!” Ford laughs, tiny sparks of confidence returning to his tone and posture. “Now that’s someone I’m really afraid of upsetting.”

Stan grins, and gives Ford a gentle slug on the shoulder. As hard as Ford’s trying not to show it, Stan can tell he’s starting to enjoy the company. As much as Stan really doesn’t want to admit it, he was desperate for this kind of company again. He watches for a moment as Ford starts to go around cleaning some things off the floor, and Stan can’t help but crack a smile as he goes to join him.

If there’s one thing Stan does want to admit, it’s that he never wants to lose this sort of companionship ever again. Situation be damned, he has his brother back, and that’s more than any material goods he could ever ask for.

Given the situation?

Well, he said he’d stay until Ford wasn’t afraid of this Bill character anymore. But if things were completely up to Stan?

Stan won’t stop until the guy’s dead for daring to mess with his family. 

[tarisilmarwen]

@badthingshappenbingo

… i have an idea for hostage situation…

You know that moment in epic during the song Odysseus? When the suitors are attacking Telemarketing so that they can use him as leverage against Ody?

What if Odysseus couldn’t save him right away? I’d love to see some father-son teamwork/bonding in getting out of the situation along with some assists from our girl Athena…

…not to mention CRAP TON of whump.

“Take me instead” would also be a fitting prompt if that floats your boat more.

I’ve found a few fics with bits and pieces of the concept but I have a feeling you’d knock it out of the park

No pressure tho! I know it’s not one of your preferred fandoms but I at least wanted to put the idea in your head (because it’s taking up waaaaaay too much space in mine lol)

Bonus points for extra father-son fluff&comfort at the end!!!

@badthingshappenbingo

Title: “Til He Can Barely Stand”

Prompt: Hostage Situation

Fandom: Epic: The Musical

Character(s): Telemachus, Odysseus, Melanthius, Athena, other minor suitors

Warnings: Violence and blood, major injury, strangulation, broken bones, character death

AO3, FFNet, Request a prompt/character

OHHHH ANON!

Okay so I know it's completely not obvious from my Tumblr (because most of my fannish activity has been over on YouTube favoriting like 200 animatics in the course of three months) BUT EPIC: THE MUSICAL IS ACTUALLY A HUGE HYPERFIXATION OF MINE RIGHT NOW.

And uhhhhhhh let's just say there's a reason why "Hold Them Down" is my favorite song of the saga.

I hope I filled this request to your satisfaction!

—

Telemachus backed up uneasily, his spear held tight in his hands, glancing from man to man as they seemed to multiply out of the shadows.

"Get the prince!"

At Melanthius's urging, they swarmed him.

He only had a second to react. But a second was all he needed.

His spear impaled the first of the charging men as he raised it; Telemachus nimbly stepped back and yanked the point out of the suitor's ribcage. As the man fell Telemachus caught a glimpse of his face in the dim torchlight—Leiocritus, son of Evenor. Not one of the worst of them by far but always a constant fawning sycophant to Antinous, always one of the ones in the crowd jeering at him or making lewd comments about his mother. Telemachus wouldn't miss him.

He had no time to dwell on his kill, his second of what was sure to be many, if this fight kept up at the relentless pace it did. Things became an almost incomprehensible blur, suitor after suitor coming after him, goaded on by Melanthius, who seemed to have taken charge of the rabble and shouted for them to attack again and again.

"Grab him!"

"Get him!"

"Take him down!"

The cry rang out among them, echoing in his ears with a sense of dread. They charged him in droves and Telemachus was hard pressed to hold them back.

He could feel Athena's blessing of Quick Thought burning behind his eyes and rode on the hot wave of it.

A swipe with his spearpoint sliced a throat, throwing blood in a spray.

A swift jab towards a chest, piercing but not fatal, enough to make that suitor back off.

A blow coming from behind, almost blindsiding him before he felt the wind of it and moved his head out of the way, feeling it whoosh past him.

An elbow jabbed into a man's diaphragm to stun him before a shove with the shaft of his spear overbalanced him enough for a killing blow.

They were coming on faster than he could take them down, faster than even his Quick Thought could keep up with, and his sense of dilated time started to falter as the fight dragged on.

He caught a glancing punch in the temple; he tilted for a moment before stabbing that attacker in the stomach.

He felt hands on his shoulders trying to grab him and ducked down to escape them, hitting one man in the side with the heavy shaft of his spear, leaning over and kicking another in the gut to gain a modicum of space.

The space was quickly occupied by another attacker, who boxed him in from behind, putting great meaty fingers around the spear Telemachus held, hands close to his own, his back pinned to the man's front.

Telemachus jerked back and headbutted the man in the chin, cracking bone against bone. That suitor grunted and Telemachus tore free, pulling his spear out of the man's grip.

He made an opening in the circle of them and darted through it, pulling the fight in another direction. The horde of circling dogs quickly caught up to him, however, before he could escape out the door to the armory.

Hands laid hold of him again, gripping, bruising his arms. He threw them off, killed another two suitors—Amphimedon and Euryades, he recognized—retreated once more. Panting from the effort he deflected the sword of another suitor, metal clanging against metal, ringing loud in the enclosed space.

His arms shook and strained from the effort. He could feel himself growing tired. He was younger than all of the suitors, had more vigor and energy, but there were just... so many of them.

Athena give me the strength, he prayed, as he batted off yet another attack.

He couldn't even hear what Melanthius was yelling anymore, too focused on surviving one more moment, one more breath.

A blow from a wooden shaft smacked across his wrist.

"Ahh!" Telemachus cried, hand stinging from the pain.

He forced that attacker away, somehow not losing hold of his spear, but the next moment caught a sharp slice from a blade across his forehead.

He yelped. Blood stung his eyes, dripping down from the cut. Telemachus blinked furiously trying to clear them but the moment of distraction cost him.

His guard was smacked away by someone's weapon. He took a punch to the gut, then another one to his head. Pain cracked through his skull and he stumbled.

The grabbing hands returned, laying hold of his arms and shoulders.

"Get off me!" he yelled, furious, whiplashing his body in order to break free. "Get off me!"

Another blow to his face, to daze and stun him.

They were inside his guard now and he didn't have enough room to swing his spear. When he tried to stab it into one of the arms encircling him, his wrist was grabbed, his arm pulled out straight as the iron grip squeezed mercilessly, trying to make him drop the weapon.

He could feel the suitor's breaths hot in his ears, tickling his skin. There was a thick arm around his neck, hands pinched around his forearms. His left arm was yanked behind his back and pinned and a sharp kick slammed into the back of his calf.

He fell to his knees, crying out, and the man twisting his wrist finally got the result he wanted:

Telemachus's spear dropped out of his fingers, clattering with a tinny rattle to the floor.

"Got him," came a low, satisfied growl.

Telemachus glared up, eyes tracing along the blade of the sword now pointed at his face. Melanthius smirked down, smug-looking.

"I wouldn't move too much if I were you, little prince," he said.

He gestured with his head, and the other suitors hauled Telemachus up. At least three men had hold of him now, two on his arms holding them to his back, and the one right behind him with the forearm around his neck, who wound fingers into his hair and yanked harshly on the roots to pull his head back.

Telemachus pressed his mouth into a flat line, refusing to whimper or make any kind of pained sound, even though he could feel his skin bruising under the men's grips, feel hair tearing free of his scalp.

Keeping the point of his sword within uncomfortable range of Telemachus's head, Melanthius tossed his chin back, calling out loudly.

"Old king Odysseus!" he yelled. "We have your son!" The suitor's eyes gleamed manically in the dim torchlight. "Come out of hiding, drop your weapons, and surrender!" he ordered. "And no further harm will come to him!"

Telemachus stayed wary, testing the hands on him, seeing where there were weak points he could use to break free. He didn't trust these men to keep their word; he was more likely to be slaughtered the moment they had what they wanted. They'd been itching to do it for years, what was to stop them now that they were backed into a corner and forced into action?

And given the glimpses of the bloodbath he'd already caught, already seen, the bodies lying slashed and lifeless in the halls of the palace on his way in, his father wasn't likely to be generous about sparing the suitors either. Telemachus couldn't help but feel like it was a very bad and dangerous idea for them to try threatening him.

Indeed, as if in response to Telemachus's thoughts, a new voice wafted through the stone halls, dark and frightening.

"Surrender?" it chuckled. "That's cute."

The men in the armory tensed as the voice seemed to echo from new directions, moving around them like a shade.

"Why don't you unhand my boy and get on your knees to beg me?" the voice demanded.

Jolts went through Telemachus at the voice, a million different microthoughts crowding his head. Was that really his father's voice? It was harsher than he'd imagined. But the protective fury coursing through it, protective fury directed towards him. He'd called him his boy. His father was here!

Telemachus strained wide-eyed through the shadows to see if he could catch a glimpse of him, even as he subtly moved one of his feet closer to the ankle of the man behind him.

"Careful, old man," warned Melanthius, twitching nervously as he raised his sword higher, inches away from Telemachus's nose. "The prince might need his eyes later."

"You're not the first one to threaten that." It was impossible to tell which way the voice was coming from, and the suitors' heads whipped to different corners, glanced anxiously at the armory door. "Would you like to know what happened to the last guy?"

Telemachus tensed his stomach muscles, preparing to move the second he had a chance.

One of the suitors not holding him cried out suddenly.

All eyes looked to the doorway in alarm, seeing the flash of a hooded figure standing there.

Telemachus immediately hooked his ankle around his captor's and yanked, upending his foot. That suitor's eyes widened and he flailed as he overbalanced and fell backwards, arm loosing from around Telemachus's neck. Telemachus leaned out of the way of the sword pointed at him and pulled hard to the left, drawing the suitor on his right arm into the path of the one falling, colliding them.

Before Melanthius could make good on his threat to impale Telmachus's eyes, the young prince kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back.

Shouts rang through the room; as Telemachus spun to face the suitor still holding his left arm he glimpsed the doorway—the hooded figure had vanished—before driving his fist into the man's face.

In the fresh scuffle, he heard a wet slice and gargling death cry from behind him.

He didn't turn to look.

The last suitor still had a good grip on his left wrist. Telemachus bloodied his knuckles punching him again, in the jaw, the collar, the diaphragm. He couldn't make the man let go.

The thick hands twisted harshly and Telemachus felt a snap and a staggering sharp pain.

"Aahhh!" he cried, almost doubling over.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes through the blood still stinging in them, his wrist stabbing like a hot poker had been shoved through it.

He aimed a kick to the side of the man's knee, but it was weakened, ineffective. The suitor was squeezing his wrist, grinding the broken bones until Telemachus was gasping, tears in his eyes.

Fffwiiip!

The suitor choked suddenly, and hot blood splattered across Telemachus's front, spurting from an artery wound in the man's neck.

Telemachus watched in a daze as the man toppled, convulsing in death throes.

He winced as he held his broken wrist.

The room was in chaos. Most of the surviving suitors were screaming, stabbing wildly into the dark, too preoccupied trying to find his father in the shadows. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks and causing even greater panic.

A whisper came into his mind, words fluttering as if on soft owl wings.

Behind you Telemachus! it warned.

Startling at the warning, Telemachus straightened, and then yelped as he felt metal slicing his skin. His split-second alerting saved his spine from being severed, the shallow cut bleeding and seeping into the back of his chiton as he whirled to face the threat, remembering he was still in the middle of a battle.

His wrist hurt so much and the fresh wound in his back wasn't helping but Telemachus shoved through the pain, identifying points to strike in the man in front of him and unleashing.

One hard blow to the knee, shattering the cap.

As the man dropped his sword, falling to his knees in pain, Telemachus struck again, square in his nose, breaking it, driving the bones back into his soft flesh.

It probably wasn't quite enough to kill him but it at least ended his attack; his hands came up over his face as he flopped.

Telemachus was still watching him fall when he was struck again, a fist slamming the back of his head.

BAM!

He stumbled forward, winded, wondering if he was ever going to be able to see straight again after the multiple head blows he'd taken today.

Dizzy, he couldn't stop the arm that snaked firmly around his torso. He dimly recognized the phaistos disc bracelet that Melanthius wore, felt the edge of a blade scratch his throat.

"Coward!" Melanthius shouted, pinning Telemachus to his front tightly. "Come out of hiding!"

"Who's hiding?" his father's voice taunted. "I'm right here."

Melanthius whipped them around.

The hooded figure stood there under the halo of one of the torches, an arrow notched to his bow and drawn back, pointed at them.

The King of Ithaca was battle-worn and haggard, with sunken steel eyes and scars under his unkempt beard. He held the heavy bow back with the keen steadiness of a practiced, experienced warrior.

Telemachus gave a little hitched noise, blinking through eyes that were suddenly blurring.

"Father..." he wavered.

The determined gaze dropped to him and softened briefly, frown lines growing gentler.

"I'm here my son," he said. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be all right," he assured the boy.

Incensed and fearful, Melanthius gripped him tighter, squeezing him to his chest. Telemachus flinched as the blade scraped his skin.

"Don't come any closer!" the suitor shouted.

"Let him go," his father growled, the burning rage back in his eyes again.

"Please—" Melanthius begged desperately, "—Please. Just let the rest of us leave the palace in peace and we won't hurt him!"

"Do you expect me to believe that?!" the king roared, taking a step forward that made all the surviving suitors flinch. "After what I heard you plotting?!"

"That was Antinous!" Melanthius cried. "It was his idea—he's the one who urged us on!"

"And where was the man who stood against him?!" his father demanded, fury quaking in his limbs. "Where were those who spoke against the plot?"

At a twitch from another suitor the arrow was loosed, striking with deadly precision. Odysseus smoothly fitted another shaft to the string with calm anger, taking aim again.

"Which one among you thought to seek out my queen and warn her of the danger, of the threat to her house, body, and kin?" he asked. Disgust filled his expression as he looked over them, over the rabble. "None of you deserve my pity."

Telemachus heard Melanthius choke on his words, voice strangling, the terror evident in his every limb. He ought to be afraid himself, perhaps, especially with the blood leaking out of him, the tight grip Melanthius was crushing him with, but he was almost too delirious to feel any fear.

Guided by the whispered nudges of Athena, he slowly raised his good hand up to Melanthius's wrist, and then to his own metal laurel headdress, gripping the wire tightly.

His father noticed the motion, silently acknowledging it with his eyes, before firming his features with determination.

"I'll give you ten seconds," he said.

Melanthius's eyes popped open, mouth dropping in horror.

"Ten..." Odysseus began counting.

"Wait!" Melanthius cried, backing up with nervous terror. "Wait!"

"Nine..."

One of the others let loose a war cry and charged the king, only get an arrow to his heart for his troubles. His father loaded another arrow without missing a beat.

"Eight..."

"I swear I'll kill him! Don't you test me!" Melanthius screamed, digging the edge of his blade into Telemachus's throat, dangerously pricking the skin.

His father met eyes with him.

"Seven... Now, Telemachus!" he shouted.

Telemachus wrenched the laurel wreath off his head and struck Melanthius in the face with it. Howling, the man lost his grip on the youth, and Telemachus was able to slip free out of his grasp.

He fell to his knees, his wounds beginning to take their toll on his strength. He heard more than saw his father rushing in to slay a few more suitors, one man dying to another notched arrow, another getting a full-on slash from Odysseus's sword.

Telemachus blinked at the floor, feeling too tired to think. Athena's whispered encouragement could do nothing to rouse him from the ground. Nothing until her voice turned into a cold warning inside his head.

He was bashed from the side, tackled by a larger body.

Adrenaline surged through him, breaking past his pain and lethargy for a moment of clarity, and Telemachus flipped them as soon as they came to a rest, not surprised to see it was Melanthius again, almost feral with rage.

Melanthius rolled them, inverting their positions with a solid blow to Telemachus's ear. Telemachus cried out weakly as he was pinned underneath the man, Melanthius's thighs straddling his torso, thick hands coming around his neck.

Snarling, Melanthius raised Telemachus's head up and slammed it back down, then increased the pressure around his neck.

Telemachus choked, rasping as he tried to move breath past his windpipe. His good hand grabbed for Melanthius's forearms, tried to claw and scratch at his face. Swimming spots of blackness started to crowd his vision.

He gaped up and wondered if the suitor's twisted and furious expression would be the last thing he would ever see.

But instead what he saw was a bright silver sword splitting Melanthius in two, pushing out through his ribs to impale him dead center.

The suitor's eyes popped open wide, dying shock replacing the animal snarl. He whimpered weakly, gargling on his blood.

Telemachus stared up in dazed relief. The hands loosened from around his neck, growing cold. His father raised Melanthius's body off him like he was mere meat on a spit, kicking him off the blade and letting him fall off to the side, slapping on the floor without dignity, the last of the suitors dead and no longer a threat.

After a tense split-second pause Telemachus remembered his need for air and wheezed, wonderful breath coming back to him. He coughed and gasped, pushing up on his elbows but unable to find the strength to get up.

"Father..." he called in a shaking tremble, hopeful and nervous and tired and relieved and a million different emotions all at once.

He swore his father's eyes changed color, from battle-red to a soft blue. Odysseus dropped his sword and fell to his knees, scooping him up and embracing him tightly, like he was the most precious treasure he could hold.

"Oh my son..." he whispered, reverently. The scratchy beard buried in his neck and Telemachus curled up into the embrace, pressed his face into his father's clothes, inhaling the scent of him, his tears spilling over. "My boy. Look at you," his father was saying. Rough hands stroked through his hair, untangling his curls from the clumping blood. "You were so brave."

Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut with emotion, grabbing on to his father's back with his good hand. He was battered and bloody but his father was here, alive, finally home to hold him and Telemachus thought he could endure a thousand more cuts and punches if he could stay in this moment just a little longer.

He finally turned his head up with a sniffle. Looking over his father's shoulder he caught a glimpse, as if through a thin blue veil, of an armored warrior woman smiling down serenely at him.

Well done, little wolf, Athena told him.

Telemachus clutched his father harder, and both men openly wept with joy as they sat in the middle of the carnage, reunited and overwhelmed.

Soft owl wings fluttered away.

---

Some notes! Lol, I have a bit of commentary on this one.

The battle choreography is a mismatch drawn from various "Odysseus" animatics, you might recognize bits and pieces here and there.

All of the named suitors that Telemachus kills in this fic are ones he kills in the original epic.

Also can I complain for a moment about how useless Google search was when I was trying to look up historical Greek jewelry? NO I DO NOT WANT TO BUY SHIT GOOGLE I AM DOING RESEARCH.

First time writing for this fandom but loved every minute of it. Hope you guys enjoyed too.

[thousand-page-dreams]

Reflections

Written for @hatchetfield-bang!

Pairing(s): Grace / Max

Warnings: some brief descriptions of violence, some brief mentions of sexual content, descriptions of period and menstruation products, religious trauma, religious questioning, slut shaming, purity culture,death, grief

Posting this on mobile so I hope the formatting looks okay!

Summary: Grace reflects on her life and Max's death, and starts to question things.

An hour ago Jason slow danced with her to some song everyone knew except her. For all the time, she spent boycotting coed dances she didn't know what happened at them. The punch was watery. Magenta lighting failed to turn the gym into somewhere else. 

Wouldn't a non-coed dance be a gay dance? I have no problem with that, Ruth told her once in her nasally voice.

Grace didn't mind gym class. She was never the greatest athlete, but volleyball and badminton were fun. The swish of the ball and or the thwack of the racket made her competitive. She aggressively served the ball over the net, but it was in the Lord's name so it was okay. Nothing against her classmates, not at all. Though her pants and sweatshirts bogged her down in comparison to the other girls in their shorts. 

Other than some chapstick, Grace didn't bother with makeup since she didn't know how to use it. No one taught her. Girls still told her she looked pretty, finally seeing her as one of their kind.

A boy in line for the punch bowl looked a bit like Max - similar angular face and strong jaw. But his eyes were too kind, let a girl cut in front of him. Earlier, a boy who looked like Ritchie passed in front of her. The living took on the forms of ghosts.

"Everything okay?" Jason asked in her ear, his breath tickling her skin.

"Do you miss Max? Not that I knew him, or that I even liked him. Sheesh. Obviously not. But it's like there's a gaping hole," Grace said. 

Max's doppelganger faded into the crowd. Another sign he wasn't here - Max was the supernova they all orbited around. He'd be homecoming king if he was here, feared by all, though they never denied him anything.

 "Not really. Not that saying he deserved whatever happened to him, no one does - but life is better without him. I actually get time on the field. I miss Ritchie, though. Didn't really get a chance to get to know him until closer to the end. He was our mascot and we glossed over him most of the time. But after Max died, the team was cool with him. I told Ritchie to go to the locker room, and…I can't help blame himself for what happened. I replay that conversation in my head a lot," Jason said.

After Ruth's death, Grace said a brief prayer for her soul. She felt guilty that she didn't cry - she didn't know the girl. Ruth was too open about topics not to be acknowledged. 

Ritchie - a blank state to Grace. Despite being a fellow outcast, she never interacted with the other nerds much. 

"It's nor your fault, so don't blame yourself. I never got to see Max throw a touchdown - heard he was really good at that. Never went to a football game - too rowdy for me," Grace said.

She came up with the prank. The responsibility for Ruth, Ritchie and Max's deaths fell on her shoulders.  Wherever the two fallen nerds were, hopefully they forgave her. 

What was wrong with her that she only shed a tear for Max? 

They took pictures with Pete and Steph, her arm around Grace's waist. Stacy smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress. Grace danced the cupid shuffle, Brenda gently correcting her movements. Jason introduced her to his friends, they didn't call her two bagger once or even by her last name.

The photos printed instantly.

"Ruth should be here," Steph said. "At the end of the day, I think she just wanted to be seen. She begged telemarketers to stay on the phone with her. She said I was her best friend, and I just brushed her off. I guess I was nicer to her than most, but I didn't even tell her she was my friend. I could've offered to hang out with her, but I thought we'd have time after the murder investigation for all that. But…we didn't. In memorium.."

Steph drank from a silver flask. She passed it to Grace, who took a swig. The alcohol burned her throat, nothing like church wine, room temperature and watery.

"You're not so bad Chastity, oh I mean Grace," Brenda said, the next in line with her cheerleader friends. "Did you three want to join us?"

She was a part of the student body. Like in Corthinians, each part mattered, no football more important than a heart.

"I used to pick on you because I thought you were pretty," Jason said, his hand in hers on the walk home. Oak trees hugged the road. 

What the heck? Why couldn't he ask her out like a normal teenager? Not that she would have accepted, since her first love was Jesus Christ, but she liked easter lilies and Smarties, though she never ate the name brand ones only the no name kinds with bible verses on them. He could've tried to get to know her - though perhaps Max scared him off.

"I'd really like to make it up to you. Go out to dinner, or on a walk, whatever you'd like to do," Jason continued.

They kissed, a nice embrace though it didn't set her on fire like her first kiss did. Wait. This wasn't right. No, pleasure, attraction, that was only something for married couples. She didn't get to feel this way. 

Grace pulled the book out of the folds of her dress, maniacal laughter escaping her chest.

But Jason never pressured her, never questioned her former 

He wilted to the ground.. "Grace? Is everything alright? I know I wasn't the nicest to you…but I'm sorry, okay? If I did something…"

She laughed, a bitter sound escaping her. Like a fever, a strange energy filled her.

"I'm not human anymore. You can thank your good old buddy Max for that one!" Grace yelled. 

Jason looked at her like she was the devil.  

The book in her hand, all Grace had to do was read the passage.

The book was in an ancient text but she understood the language now. She read the first few lines and he ran. It didn't matter - she'd catch him, years of sports no match for her dark magic.

Only a few more words and his soul was hers. Only his body could run from her.

You asked him to kiss you.  It was gentle, he didn't ask for anything more. He's walking you home and hasn't asked to come inside. He's not a dirty dude.

Grace stopped a few lines from the bottom. Jason didn't deserve it. He wanted to be a better person, a positive role model on and off the field. Was she no better than Max, who at least targeted people responsible for his death?

Then why did he never come after me? I pretty much led the pack in hiding his body and covering up the crime. Perhaps his soul could have rested if he'd been properly buried, instead of left to rot in an abandoned house.  

Though if Grace hadn't taken charge, they'd all be behind bars.

She curled up among the roots of an oak tree. The moonlight seeped through the canopy.She wrapped her arms around her knees.  She killed three people already - Max directly, the other two indirectly.  She'd call Jason and apologize for her freakout. Another bout of religious fervor, most people thought she was a freak anyway.

Crickets sang a eulogy around her. Grace buried the book under a rock. 

But the magic thrumming her veins didn't subside. 

Grace didn't do the prank for them. She didn't do it because Max was a bully. In fact, he didn't pick on her, unlike everyone. Not that it bothered her much - Nazareth didn't accept Jesus either. To be divine was to be hated. Jason said he stood up for her once. 

Was she a God now? Though she certainly wasn't divine anymore. 

Her parents didn't hold hands until their wedding night. They rarely kissed in front of her. Sex was for procreation, not pleasure. Grace's peers didn't get that - with their coed dances, raunchy plays like Barbeque Monologues, and hallway make outs. 

One day junior year,  she was out on the quad protesting Seussical, the drama club's latest act of debauchery. Despite it being a warm autumn day, no one joined her. Max stopped to talk to her. He smiled, a rare gesture on his angular face,

Quarterback of the football team. She wasn't a sports person, but it wasn't a coed activity so that was nice. Nobody spoke kindly of him, even his teammates, but no one liked her either. They both repulsed people around them - though no one physically ran from her.

They chatted for a bit about why she was protesting.  The conversation drifted to religion. 

"I think this is my heaven. Nothing good is coming after high school. Fucking Clivesdale is going to beat us in the state championship, there goes my chance at going pro." Max said.

The sunlight made the oval leaves shimmer. They were gold, not dead yet, still safe in the tree branches.

Grace was sitting beside him in the grass, her sign crumbled. Should've used cardboard, far more durable. 

She didn't approve of his cussing, but she didn't bring it up. In time, he'd learn.

"Well, there is an actual Heaven after this life with our father. For the holy that is. If original sin hadn't happened, we'd all be there," Grace said.

It was hard to pay for the sin of two people, though Eve was more to blame. But if being holy was easy, it wouldn't be much of an accomplishment. 

"Hopefully he is a better father than mine."

Grace had seen his dad at church, a stern and gray haired man, a sallow woman next to him. 

Their legs were a few inches apart. A hole marked the knee of his knees, the flesh poking through as pale as a corpse. If she was weaker, she would've taken his hand.

Did Grace love her parents because they were good people, or because they were her family? In seventh grade, she thought she was possessed by a demon  due to the amount of blood pooling on her inner thighs.

It was Stephanie who explained to her what a period was and how to use a pad in the salmon girls restroom. They'd never been friends, but Steph was a kind instructor. But Grace didn't like the feeling of being out of the loop, uninformed to basic biology.

She demanded answers from her mom when she got home. 

"Well, Gracie, I figured this was coming. Let's not mention this to your dad. Men don't have this burden. It happens to  all women, as a side effect of Eve's sin. I'm sorry for not telling you, but I just always wanted you to stay my little girl. Is that so bad?"

"I'm still your little girl!"

Her mom ruffled her hair, but didn't answer. Stephanie said her mom talked to her about it ahead of time. Why did her mom leave her in the dark about her own body? Ignorance was a sin, too.

Max went out with Brenda, a popular cheerleader,  a few weeks later. One day, Grace passed his Jeep Rangler and saw him kissing her neck, like a vampire. He was not her disciple, or hers at all.

If she had sex with him, she wouldn't be the forbidden fruit. Her mom said premarital sex made girls crushed flowers, eventually all the petals fell off and no one married them. Like a shredded dollar bill - no value. If she had a brother, would he get the same lecture?

Not that Max could get married now. Though they'd done what married people did.

Before his first death, Grace hesitated and it wasn't only due to her faith. He wouldn't want her when he was done. He passed through girls too often, scattering a trail of broken hearts behind him. She'd be just like them, discarded. The whole school  would create more awful nicknames for her and ridicule her for not practicing what she preached.

He offered to carry her books. A sweet gesture, no physical contact, but she knew what it could lead to.  

But when they actually did the devil's tango, his touch and lips gently caressed her. She was never told that sex could feel good. It wasn't supposed to be about her.

He asked to cuddle afterwards  and she killed him a second time. It was for the good of the school and the universe. Which when you were in highschool, that was the same thing. A part of her wished she could've stayed a few minutes longer before the spell, to bask in his touch.

She didn't feel like a hero, despite Pete calling her that. No one else besides Steph knew.

But before he fell, he enjoyed the prank. It almost seemed like he wanted to befriend Ruth, Pete, and Richie. Perhaps they all could've gone out for coffee or burgers or bowling, whatever it is you do with friends. She'd never had any. Perhaps instead of a literal monster, zombie, star quarterback, or a bully he could've been a regular boy. A modern steel Pinocchio. 

Of course, he could have returned to his old ways once he came back to school the next day, his reputation on the line. He might have become worse, targeted her because she came up with the prank. Protect the remnants of his ego.

No one would ever know. He'd never grow up, never mature, like a beautiful statue.

I thought you all hated me, he said. It was a ludicrous statement - he made all their lives miserable. A part of Grace resented him in that moment; he was supposed to be like her, not needing to be close to anyone else.

Grace wished she could hate him; Steph didn't miss him and they used to be friends. He tormented Pete daily and that was before he was a zombie. Even his minions worshiped him out of fear. 

A few ago, she had left a bouquet of blue and yellow roses on his grave. White flowers were typically given to the dead,  but those were the colors of Clivesdale high. Best to give him his school colors.

I will pray for you when your body is gone.

No one else left flowers. Of course, he tormented most of the high school. But surely his parents would have come to leave a prayer at his grave? He couldn't have been born evil. Grace struggled with that part of original sin - that even babies were sinners.

Max said a passing comment about his dad, perhaps they weren't close.

Max Jägerman,  beloved son and football player, the text read on the simple headstone. He would have wanted something more flashy, dangerous.

If he was afraid of skeletons, how would he feel about a graveyard?

Without their star quarterback, the team won the state championship. She spent the day by his grave while the town was in Clivesdale. It felt like the world was empty.

Her powers didn't give her the power to raise the dead. She read the agreement thoroughly, her dad was a real estate agent and taught her to read contracts. They bonded over that. He read her the legalese at bedtime when she was little. She didn't like the uncertainty in Goodnight Moon (did the narrator wake up? Why was he saying goodnight to objects, was he alone? It felt kind of worshipful towards the moon, which was idolatry) and the three bears promoted stealing. Three Little Pigs led to discussions about shoddy construction from her father and declining property values.

The legalese put her to sleep. She used to ask her parents if her soul was safe. They would pray with her, but then she asked how many prayers would keep her safe. They didn't know the answer. When she was 10, they told her she could pray on her own. She waited a long time for God to speak back. She met demons before she ever met the Holy Father. 

Patience was a virtue for a reason. 

Was she human still? Did God still love her? If she was still mortal, at the end of her days, would she be turned away at the pearly gates?

Did the other kids always hate her? Steph said it was because her beliefs turned people away, but what if the rejection came first?

Jesus had enemies, but the disciples followed him until the end, when Peter denied him three times.  Who adored her? Steph and Pete put up with her because they had to, and her revenge plans were better. Ruth and Ritchie gone too soon to get to know them.

Max was the closest she had to a friend, and she killed him twice. Once by accident, the second on purpose. For a moment, after he fell through the boards, she was happy: her problem was resolved.

No more bats in her stomach (butterflies felt too weak to describe the sensation), no more dilemmas, no more yearning for his touch, no more vivid dreams.

The contract didn't allow for time travel either. 

Taking a detour, Grace passed the Waylon house on the way home. Cracks ruined the impressive Doric columns. Three of the front windows were broken. 

Yellow caution tape snaked around the porch. 

Until the floorboards crumbled, the day had been fun. Setting up the cameras, assigning tasks, giving everyone their cues, she was the director and the others were her subjects. 

The book waited on her bed, a dark square on the periwinkle sheets. Grace burned it with a match - the cover stayed pristine. She cut out the pages - they grew back. Ran it under hot water - the ink didn't bleed. (Do I bleed still?) The unholy book was indestructible. 

Go find Jason, finish the job. He'll turn on you anyway. Won't it be easy? Like spiking a volleyball, the pure release…

I'm not like Max! I don't want to hurt people. I just wanted to  save everyone's immortal souls - that's why I never shut up even though no one is listening. Though clearly no one is looking out for mine.  

Grace took off her homecoming dress - a thrift store find. The back reminded her of angel wings, now the lace sat deflated on the ground.

She researched the book - there was a cult a few hours and a stare away who worshiped a group of demons who sounded a lot like the ones they encountered. Grace could be their messiah, since she didn't belong in the church anymore. She met the demons, these people didn't. Perhaps one of them had - one of the paintings on the site looked similar to Wiggly, the other portraits pure fabrication. Some pictures looked like neon dolls.

All her life she'd followed rules. Perhaps she could make them - a quick demonstration of her powers, and they'd become instant disciples.

We see beyond, the website read. We welcome all with a passionate mind for the unknown and unexplained. 

Remnants of the Lords' powers were in her. Nibbly, whose human form dressed head to toe in pink. An innocent color for a demon who was eternally hungry. Wiggly, who drug Max to hell. Pokey, who had the ability to possess people - could she do that too? Tinky, the trickster Lord, the name of a secular kids toy she never owned. 

Grace flipped the pages, withered with age. She had read the entire Bible.  Her mom never wanted to answer her questions about Song of Solomon, or who all the names were in Chronicles. "Gracie, the Bible is the word of the Lord. But well..not all of it  is meant to be explained. His ways are higher than ours."

Perhaps neither of her parents had read the word of God in its entirety. 

Jason was at the coffee shop across town, the last business to close at night. A sensation in her veins located the hum of his soul. 

Come on, don't you want to see what it feels like? To be powerful, to be the one standing between life and death? No one can ever ignore you again. Not with the book. You can spread a new Gospel - you'll never have to deal with the dirty feelings Max gave you. Any dirty dude who looks at you will die. Wouldn't that be nice?

Those thoughts couldn't be hers. 

In the cloister of her canopy bed, Grace kneeled on the twin mattress.

I don't want to hurt Jason. God, if you're listening can you take the power away from me? Sure a group of demons put it in on me, and I agreed to it, but aren't you stronger tban all of them combined? I have spent my whole life spreading your word, even as the whole town scorned me. I'm sorry for everything I've done wrong - oh boy's that's  quiet the  tome these days! I want this power gone, or curse. I'll never have lustful thoughts about a boy that way again. Never be anything other than your loyal servant. So if you're listening, please help me. Please forgive me for what I might do. Take this burden off me.

And watch over Jason. Make sure he's safe in case…

Amen.

She made the sign of the cross and waited. Once again God didn't answer her. Though the laughter of the Lords in Black echoed from somewhere far away, or within her.

Grace rolled up clothes into her backpack. She packed a small bible in the front section. No need to pack the Unholy Book, it would find her.

She crept into the kitchen to grab some supplies for the trip.

"How was the dance, Gracie? I hope the music and dancing wasn't too provocative, but it's nice to see you doing out and about with friends," her mom said from the couch, not typically awake at this hour. She smiled up at Grace, strands of gray sneaking into her hair.

"Back when I was in kindergarten I used to pray to have friends, to be a part of the group. To get the joke. But then I decided I'm better than them. I have principles and morals. Not like it ever got me much. A night like tonight…it was a dream."

Dreams never lasted. 

"Perhaps your classmates are coming around. Senior year, a better sense of unity. You're practically grown up. It was never as hard for your father and I to fit in, of course the world was a different place, a lot more morals.

"Do you ever feel like God isn't listening to you?" Grace asked, slipping the bag of beef jerky into her pocket. Protein, nonperishable. 

"You can't say things like that Gracie. We'll go to Mass tomorrow. Maybe confession will do you some good, these aren't holy thoughts. Perhaps your peers are too much of an influence. That Steph girl wears ripped jeans, so much skin showing. I wouldn't let you out in something like that. Too many temptations these days, I suppose," Her mom said, turning back to her soap opera, the light from the screen casting over half of her face.

Grace pilfered the box of vanilla wafers. "Where's Dad? I wanted to say good night."

"Already went to bed, you were out later than we expected. Don't make a habit of it."

She wanted her dad to read to her contracts or housing advertisements, like when she was a kid, to feel her family's love one last time. Imagine herself in the world of other people's houses. Because her soul was not safe and never would be again.

On the shelf in the foyer, family pictures faced all visitors - usually her dad's clients or fellow church members. In a small frame, Grace's dad held her up to pick a Red Delicious apple, at the local orchard. 

I'll never let you fall.

Nothing could hurt her in her dad's arms, the whole world a few feet below.

Grace slipped the memento into her backpack.

Grace was leaving town, her hair straightened and an onyx color. She abandoned her pastels for an ambiguous gray hoodie and jeans. Her rosary was tucked behind the layers of clothing. She traced its outline through her pocket; it didn't burn her.

A burner flip phone was in her other  pocket.

"You can't go," Pete said before she boarded the bus. "Richie, Ruth…we only have each other. I can't handle losing someone else."

"You're an obnoxious pain in the ass, Chastity, but you're our holier than thou pain in the ass." Steph said.

Grace used to like her last name, the sound of it and the vow it meant. Now, it didn't fit. If she hadn't had to make a deal with a demon, would she have been happy?

If Steph or  Pete had her curse, how would they handle it? Steph's sacrifice was Pete, and likely vice versa, so they couldn't turn to each other. 

"Jason is going to tell everyone. A little crush wouldn't erase the fact I threatened to kill him. And intent is a big chunk of the law!" Grace said. 

"Look, we can help you. You're not Max, you're better than him," Pete said.

Steph's expression was unreadable, her mascara and eyelinerfaded.

Did she do anything besides for her eternal salvation? Was fear of damnation her only motivator? Too late now - already damned.

"Would you say I'm a nice person? Like someone you'd want to, I don't know, share a milkshake with. Or go ice skating."

"This isn't the fucking 1950s - and ice skating? Seriously? There's no rink here," Steph said.

"Fine, do an instagram dance together or take pictures with a Facebook filter. Whatever someone does with friends."

Grace wasn't allowed to use social media - only Zillow to look at houses to find comps for her father. It sounded like a good way to spread her ideas, but her parents were adamant. Perhaps it was the other way around - they didn't want her exposed to any other worldview but theirs. 

"Of course you're our friend, you're…smart. And persistent," Pete said.

He pressed his glasses up his nose, his nervous tick. 

"No, Pete, I love you but I can't do this. Grace you do realize you've protested like literally everything? And you fucking judge everyone, and you never stay quiet, you never know when to leave people alone. You made your personal beliefs everyone's business! God, when Ruth died? You said she was in hell! It's like you're the only person in the damn universe." Steph said, sparkly eyeshadow faint on her face.

A few hours ago, they posed like long time friends. They were bonded for life, but not because they liked her. How many times did Steph tell her to butt out?

"Who made the big sacrifice, huh? You couldn't do it. My last name is really fucking ironic now. It if wasn't for me, you two wouldn't even be together. Max would've scared Petey away, and you wouldn't have looked twice at him. I never get a single "gee thanks, Grace!" I saved all of you from your sorry lives," Grace snapped.

"I wouldn't have backed off…well okay probably. But Ritchie and Ruth would be alive. Surely we can get the curse off. There has to be a loophole, or a workaround," Pete said.

Was the curse running through her veins or was it her own desires? Where did the book end and Grace begin? Was there a difference?

"I'm going somewhere where I'll be worshiped."

Outside the bus it started to rain, the drops pounding against the metal exterior. A few rows ahead a silver haired lady snored, tranquil. 

Grace pressed the flip phone to her ear and dialed. 

This is the Chastities! Have a blessed day! Leave a message at the jingle. For real estate inquiries, contact 885-3455.

Her mom's voice, for the last time.

"I'm so sorry. I wanted to be your little girl forever. But I've sinned gravely. Pray for me okay? God won't listen to my prayers anymore.  Perhaps he never has because...nevermind. I love you. Just remember me as your little girl, please?"

Grace hung up and turned off the phone. She wedged it in the crook of her seat and rested her head on the window. 

Though her body was present, her soul was gone. 

[crossnamara]

if post max's death, they actually decided to call the cops, ruth would absolutely just try to talk to the 911 operator like she does with those telemarketers.

[cagenewman]

NOVEMBER 20, 2024 SELF PARA

Cage & Cordelia are honeymooning in Wyoming from November 16th through 22nd when they receive a phone call on the 21st from Colton that changes their lives forever. Gentle warning that the self para contains brief mentions of death and parental loss, as well as anxiety. Written with @cordelianewman!

He had heard it a hundred times: there were always going to be little moments in your life that defined who you were. What kind of husband, father, lover... man. Good things and bad things that happened to you, around you, shaped you in ways that you couldn't have ever imagined, and whether or not you saw them coming, they were still going to happen.

Cage just hadn't expected it to happen on his honeymoon.

Life since the wedding had been a delightful combination of 'bliss' and 'as you were.' Cordelia had resumed classes, that delicate balance between student, mother and wife, and Cage had gone back into the folding, working diligently in the shop at orders that they needed to get done by Christmas time, visiting the job site that they were currently working on, barking orders and picking kids up after various practices and school hours. Colton and Shawn were busy prepping for playoff football, and Rosalyn... well, she would always rule the house. By the time that Saturday morning had rolled around and Cage found himself setting down his suitcase, nearly tackling his wife onto the oversized bed with a rumbling laugh that matched her giggle... 'as you were' had melted away completely into bliss.

And the week had been good to them so far, spending their time adventuring through wildlife tours, spending quality time in their private hot tub, long walks in Grand Teton National Park, horseback riding, and of course, most importantly, spending time with each other. Those might have been his favorite moments, waking up next to her, a leg thrown loosely over his, delicate fingers tracing shapes through the sparse smattering of blonde hairs on his chest, that familiar scent of her shampoo connecting past and present in his brain. Every morning, he woke up grateful, basked in the glow, the golden warmth; every morning, he made love to her like it would be the first and last time that he ever had the chance to touch her, kiss her, be with her.

Until the phone rang on Wednesday, before either of them had woken, before the sun had even finished rising, before they were ready for what was to come.

Groaning, pressing up from her stomach, blonde hair cascading over her face, brushing it out of the way. “I swear if that’s a telemarketer I will absolutely instill the fear of everything into them.” Leave it up to Cordelia willing to threaten someone just doing their job, but she really was just tired from being up far too late. Those late nights in the hot tub and lost bikinis that turned into nights in bed were really catching up.

"Hopefully just a wrong number," he murmured, pushing himself up, onto his arm to lean over his wife, picking up his phone and squinting in the dark. But the name rang alarm bells, and Cage found himself sitting up quickly, his voice hoarse with leftover sleep, "it's Colton -- hey, kid, everything okay?"

"Can you come home?"

The panic that ran through him was sudden, heavy, a vice grip around his heart, squeezing in his chest, holding tight. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is your sister okay?" His siblings, Cordelia's siblings, the barn, the house, his business, had something happened in town, were the animals okay -- he was reminded of the time that he had taken the call from the home nurse, asking him to come home from his trip with Colton, to be there for his father, to spend some time at home.

When he mentioned that it was Colton, she squinted to look at the clock, it was super early there in Jackson Hole, Wyoming but that meant it was still early-ish in Merrock. Shifting onto her side she brushed her hair back again and shifted to sit up, pulling the sheet tight around her slim frame as she leaned over pulling on her nightgown. Furrowing her brows she shifted to move closer to Cage and leaned her head in, trying to hear the conversation and what was going on. By the way Cage was acting it wasn’t good.

"I'm okay, Rosalyn's okay, Shawn -- it's, his parents, dad."

It came pouring out of his son then; Shawn's parents were gone. The details, in that moment, didn't matter. Cage wanted to feel relief, he wanted to feel at ease that Colton, Rosalyn and Shawn were okay, that it wasn't his brothers or sisters, but it didn't come when everything flowed through his mind -- playing football with Travis, sleepovers for his birthday, Cordelia and Maddie hanging out after practice as kids. Colton growing up with Shawn, just a grade behind, following in his footsteps. Cook-outs and movie nights once they had gotten back together. They were friends, they had been friends for so long... his stomach rolled, bringing a hand up to his face, covering his mouth, unsure of what to say as Cordelia took the phone, speaking quietly to his son.

As the phone was handed to her she took a breath, eyes filled with tears, her chest tight, feeling like she couldn’t expand her ribs big enough to take a full breath but she did anyway, forcing herself. Keeping her voice steady even though she could feel it shake in her throat. Cordelia was off the bed before her legs could even understand and stumbled slightly. “I promise, we’re going to be home as soon as we can, I’m going to get the first flight home, okay baby?” Her voice soothing, trying to quell any fear in Colton’s voice. Obviously she could hear his fear with his voice, Shawn’s parents had been traveling, and now they would be. “We will be home okay? Repeat what I said, okay? I need you to hear it.” Letting him say it. After a short time phones were exchanged and now it was Cordelia roughly packing things into bags, and grabbing things. She didn’t care other than getting home to their kids. Their kids. It hit her, these were their kids. Shawn was their kid, he had been since the beginning of the school year, and now — well, was there any denying what this would be? Her fingers worked furiously on the phone to get tickets, hell she’d drain their bank account for a private jet that you could rent for a few hours just to fly if she had to. Thankfully they didn’t have to come to that as she was able to secure the first flight in less than two hours, tossing more things into bags just wanting to get home. Cordelia needed to get home to see them safe, to hold them, to hold Shawn, to make them as safe as possible.

And Cage needed a plan, needed to figure out what they were supposed to do next, where they were supposed to go. He was vaguely aware of voices as he picked himself up from the bed, beginning to throw clothes in the suitcase, joined by Cordelia a few moments later, Colton on speaker phone as she set it on the edge of the night stand, where they could both hear him. There was a nervous edge to his voice, a certain pleading that he hadn't heard from his son before, not for a long time, something he didn't want to hear again, anytime soon. He tried to soothe him, reminding him that he could call Kellan or Lucie, one of them would come over if his cousin wasn't enough to keep them comfortable, if they needed extra support, assured him that Cordelia was on her phone booking a flight, and then Shawn's voice cut in, the deep timbre he had gotten used to hearing over the past few months since he had come to live with them.

"My sister, Cienna. She's in Minnesota."

At the mention of the sister their eyes met, and she knew, she didn’t need to say anything, he didn’t, she knew what she would do, just as much as he would do the same thing. They’d keep them a family, they’d be their family, they’d do whatever Shawn needed, but first things first, they needed to get them home.

It was just a moment of silence, but a thousand things were said between them in that one glance. Cage's fingers reached out to find Cordelia's, curling around her hand and giving it a squeeze. This must have been what they were talking about, one of those moments, one of those times that made you who you were, that defined who you were going to be. She didn't need to ask him, and he didn't need to say that they would, because they both knew where they were going, and they knew what they were going to do, and it didn't matter if they hadn't seen any of this coming, it didn't matter that it was going to change their lives forever. When he spoke, it was as much to himself, to Cordelia, as it was to the boys.

"We'll get her home."