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mh073099 · 2 years ago

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“I’ll Find You” - Captain Rex x Reader Part 2

Lovers to Enemies to Lovers with some spy razzle dazzle AU~

Warnings: Violence, Torture, Sexual Harassment. Mommy issues.

This one has much more of a linear timeline, rather than jumping back and forth from past and future.

Part 2- I’m choking on snow and Park Benches

Master List Prologue Part 1

Washington D.C. 01/02/2067 01:34

“Wrong guy kid” is screamed in my face the second she opens the door.

Wait, what?

The confusion is clear in my face as I’m grabbed around the cuff of my peacoat and dragged “Wait, wait no there’s been a mistake.” I start to ramble. “Mom, no please I followed the coordinates and instructions from the message. Please, mom” But she just kept dragging me deeper in the dark house. She looked so angry. Somehow, still stronger than me, dragging me like I’m a rag doll. Her face was red, lips in a thin line. Eyes cold and empty. “You killed the wrong guy sweetheart. Now I have no choice. Mistakes are to be corrected. Punishment is atonement. He must be satisfied.” Her voice sounds like she’s repeating a mantra Dread fills me as I process her words. “M-m-mom?” “DO NOT CALL ME THAT. RIGHT NOW, I AM THE MASTER, YOU ARE THE STUDENT AND I WILL MAKE SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. YOU HAVE FAILED ME. DISAPPOINTED ME. EMBARESSED ME. YOUR ACTIONS ARE A REFLECTION OF MY OWN! HOW DARE YOU!”

I cower back at her words, but her hand still manages to find my face. She’s drags me and throws me into the middle of the … the living room? It barely crosses my mind to seem like she has super strength. “You redecorated.” I note on the tarp, the lack of furniture and no art pieces on the walls. Just a chair next to a table with a car battery. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I look up to her pulling out a camera. “He’ll want proof of atonement.” She says as if in a trance. Completely detached to the reality of what she’s about to do. “I still don’t understand” I whispered and that somehow made her pause. “The man you killed tonight was a separatist. Someone hijacked your phone, was able to block our message and give you a different one.” She stared at me, with dead eyes. Her voice empty of anything recognizable. “How is that my fault? How should I know? That guy was a sleeze anyway-“ “THAT GUY WAS A VERY IMPORTANT PART OF THE CAUSE. HE WANTS ME TO KILL YOU. DO YOU NOT BELIEVE IN THE CAUSE? DO YOU NOT BELIEVE IN MAKING A WORLD A BETTER PLACE? PERFECT. WE COULD MAKE IT PERFECT, IF ONLY YOU WOULD DO AS YOUR TOLD.” Those last words are left in the air. Suffocating. Why do her words always seem to leave me choking? She makes me feel as though I am a child. Her words are confusing. Rambling and misguided. Or am I the misguided one? How is killing people making the world a better place?

I have no time to contemplate further, for she grabs me from the floor, hauls me up and into the chair. It’s when the ropes are pulled out that I start to struggle but another slap to the face is jarring. With the whip of my head to the side, I realize two things. Mother is freakishly strong at the moment, if the taste of blood in my mouth is anything to go by. And it’s going to happen again. This is really happening again. Even though she promised she wouldn’t.

I try and ready myself. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Recite the code” is the command given.

Then she clips the cables from the car battery to my hands and to the chair.

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion” I start.

Then she flips the switch.

Washington D.C. 01/03/2067 05:35

I.. feel nothing. Everything is empty. Alone. Until i feel Ace wiggle his head into my hand. “Hey buddy” I say, and he whines back. Sitting on a park bench at the Washington monument, I stare out into the dark, absent mindedly petting Ace’s head. Snow is falling softly, and the lights give a soft glow to everything. It all seems calm. Like that aren’t evils beyond our own comprehension lurking in the shadows.

She promised. She couldn’t even look at me after. Just untied me and let me walk out with her back turned.

Should have killed her. No. That was my mother, how could I think such a thing?

How could she do such a thing? “Good looking dog.” Breaks me out of my reprieve. I slowly turn to look over my shoulder. First thing I see is a German Shepard, looking at us curiously. I looked down at Ace to see he’s been posed in alert this whole time and I didn’t notice. Huh. I’m losing my touch. I slowly look back to the owner of the voice and am taken back. “Rex” leaves my mouth. Rex stands there, looking handsome as ever. Buttoned black coat, gloves and scarf. A small smile on his lips. Eyes boring into me. “You’re following me.” Isn’t a question. He looks at me contemplating something. He doesn’t deny it, instead he asks, “May I join you?” But is already moving. I go back to staring ahead. Could he have been who hijacked my phone? Did mother send him to watch me? God I’m an idiot. I purse my lips, and glance at him. I noticed his ears were red from the cold and dumbly ask, “aren’t your ears cold?” This earns me that chuckle that makes my toes curl. That chuckle earns him a growl from Ace. The German Shepard cocks his head. “I think I’ll be ok.” He says looking at me, while I avoid his gaze to turn back to the dark snow-covered grounds. “Are you? ok I mean?” The question startled me. I couldn’t remember the time someone asked me that, in a genuine manor. “Do I look ok?” softy flowed out of my mouth and become one with the wind. “No.” Is his answer, sounding resigned. “Why are you following me, Rex?” “Who says I’m following you?” He cheekily responds causing me to look at him, see the mischief in his eyes. I’m too tired for games and just stare at him. His eyes soften. They seem sad for some reason. “I’m not following you. I work in the area and take my dog for a walk through here sometimes.” “Never seen you here before.” “Likewise. Maybe we just never noticed each other.” “Unlikely.” He cocks his head at me and raises his eyebrows. “Why are you so paranoid? Life works in mysterious ways.” “People work in mysterious ways, life has nothing to do with it,” I counter back unable to keep the bite out of my voice. “Well, this time life was fortunate enough to put us in each other’s path again.” “I thought you said I wouldn’t find you.” I say confused. I’m confused by a lot lately. “You didn’t. I found you.” He says with a smile. I take note that I am comforted by that when I know I shouldn’t be. His smile is disarming. Regardless of what I know. Regardless of what I have been trained. Although the only person I trusted tortured me for hours on end just yesterday…. I want to trust him. I refuse. I just stare at him. I think he can see the defeat in my eyes… or on my face. I’m black and blue in certain spots. His thumb comes up to trace over my bruised cheek. I am unable to stop myself from closing my eyes and leaning into the touch. It’s the kindest touch I’ve felt in a very. Very. Long time. “Who did that to you?” My mother goes unsaid. I just keep looking at him. Tears begin to pool in my eyes but remain unshed. I will not cry here. Not now. Not with him. He does not get to see me weak. And he looks like he understands. Because his next words take my breath away. “You are so beautiful.” Is whispered into the snow fallen air. “How” sounds broken coming from me. “Your strength.” He wipes the tear that manages to fall. I take a deep breath. Imprint the look of his kind eyes into my heart. I pat the German Shepard on the head, collect Ace, stand up and begin to walk away. “Good looking dog.” I call back. His chuckle echoes through my soul. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Time Jump

Paris, France 05/20/2067 14:30

“Go left down that hallway.” Mothers voice in my ear. I turn. “Then take the next left. Second door on the left.” When I knock, I must look innocent. A soft red sundress covers my body, my hair flows down around me, white platform heels make my legs look longer. I look like any other young girl, roaming the hotel rooms of Paris, ready to explore. When New Mark answers the door, all he sees is the barrel of a silencer. I close the door, put the gun in my bag and keep walking. “Good. Head to the stairs and take the service exit at the bottom. A car will be waiting.” The line goes dead. This is how it’s been for the past month or so. I feel exhausted. My body shows no marks of the… lessons I had been learning for all of January, but I still feel it in my bones. I spent all of February trying to get my strength back. March and April was filled with training scenarios given to me by mother. I never went pack the the Washington monument park. Mother barely looks at me anymore, and only talks to me to reprimand me or during a “reservation.” Almost every other day since we arrived in Paris, I’ve been meeting marks. We are staying with a man they call The Count. Though, while in a pub one night I saw his picture giving his real name. And the date of his death too. Dooku was his name, died in a battle with some nasty folk the bartender told me. And honorable man. Though, I begged to differ. He’s not a kind man by any means. But he ignores my existence rather than belittles it every two seconds like my mother. His other guest has caught my attention as well. Maul was imposing. Lethal and strong. Quick and sharp. His Tattoos cover him entirely. Incredibly handsome. Incredible vicious. He has been at this way longer than I have. And while he doesn’t talk to me, I feel his stare on me as I walk the halls of the manor like a ghost. His eyes hold a danger I do not want any part of. His eyes Golden Amber eyes remind me of another set of amber eyes. Only Maul’s eyes hold no soft warm. Only all-consuming heat that would burn you rather then warm your soul. He’s the one driving the car as I get it. “Buckle up.” His voice is low. I would find it sexy, but my heart whispers it’s not the voice I want to hear. When did I become so infatuated with a stranger? We speed out of there and join the traffic. Maul is quiet, and focused. Black slacks and a black button up, with red cuff links. I try not to look at him. We drive for an hour and all I do is stare out the window, before I’m dropped off at a corner with a little cafe. I’m free for the day now. But before I can slide out of the sleek car, Maul places a hand on my thigh. I look up with confusion on my face. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, princess.” He smirks. I decide I do not like the way princess sounds coming from him. I wink at him anyway, say nothing and get out of the car. Hot tea sounds nice enough to settle the nerves in my stomach. I make my way to the cafe and stand in line thinking. I haven’t felt safe since a certain park bench I walked away from. But he had to have been following me. Something about it is off. I clear my head of the thoughts, give my order and sit at a little table outside with my tea. My eyes are closed, face towards the sun with my head on my hands, elbows on the white tablecloth. “Are you enjoying your tea, princess?” I freeze. No. Fucking. Way. Alarms are going off in my head. He’s following me.

I turn around to look at the table behind me and there he is. Blue shirt sleeve button, white slacks. Shades on. He looks so relaxed. I can only imagine what my face looks like as we drink each other in. “So you ARE following me.” I state. “Life works in mysterious ways princess.” He smirks at me. “I happen to be in town for work at the embassy. And this cafe is a favorite of mine. They even know my order by heart.” His eyes don’t reveal a lie, but something is still off. I can’t place it. I know nothing anymore. I’m Jon fucking snow. The though makes me frown. He sits up in his chair, cross his arms and leans forward. “May I join you?” “Yes.” I don’t realize I answer until he’s already sitting down in the chair across from me. “So tell me, vacation or work?” He asks leaning forward with a small smile on his face. I lean forward as well. Mimicking his posture. We’re inches apart. “Vacation.” I smile lightly back. “Tell me all about it, princess.” Is his reply in a husky tone that makes me almost shudder. Almost. His smile seems to grow. So I just start talking. I talk about all the museums I’ve seen or plan to, the monuments the architecture. We bond particularly over food. I don’t tell him about my mother, or Maul. I don’t tell him that his presence brings the first feeling of safe I have felt since snow covered park benches. He tells me about his job. He tells me he works for a diplomat and his wife who is also a diplomat, here at the embassy for some event commemorating some republic treaty I care nothing about. But he describes them as kind people, almost like family. I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. Slowly our hands make their way closer, until we’re playing with each other’s fingertips. “Can I see you again?” He asks. “When?” “Tonight” I can’t say no to the fire in his eyes.

Paris, France. 05/20/2067 23:45

I’ve been in the club for hours and still, Rex hadn’t showed. He was supposed to be here at 8:30. That’s 20:30. Three hours ago. I got stood up. I was angry. Hurt. Alone. So I did what I did that first night that started this horrible infatuation and I danced. I let my body move and just let everything go while I did it. I barely registered hands grabbing my hips, but I did register the teeth grazing my neck. I felt chills and shuddered. Out the corner of my eye, I caught the tattooed head of Maul. The hands moving my hips don’t let me freeze. I swallow back the uneasy feeling he gives me and just let it happen. We dance, and dance and dance. I felt more of his body then I ever expected to. He felt more of mine than I ever wanted him to. He grabs my hand and starts making his way through the crowd. I follow him. I miss the eyes that are on us the entire time. “What are we doing,” I say as Maul leads me through the dark corridor towards the bathrooms. He doesn’t answer. Next thing I know I’m shoved into a wall, and he crashes his lips into mine. Caging my body against the wall with his. You could call it a knee jerk reaction. My knee slams up in his balls and I run. Out the hallway, through the crowd and out the door into the cool late spring night. That was NOT how my first kiss was supposed to go. No matter what honey trap training I went through, I never become physical with mark. With anybody. I stand there, for a second. Just a second to catch my breath, I tell myself.

That’s when I hear it. “Princess.” Tears brim my eyes as I look up to the sky. I slowly shake my head, before I see Rex’s concerned face over mine. His hands cup my face and I lean into his touch. But then I find my bearings and step back. I glare at him. He looks disappointed. “You stood me up.” “I saw you found a way to occupy your time.” Rage fills me to the brim. “How dare you judge me for enjoy my night, after you didn’t care enough to show up.” I accuse, finger jabbing into his unfairly firm chest. “Something came up at work, princess. And I’m not judging. Just looks like you were enjoying yourself until you suddenly weren’t. That man didn’t look exactly trustworthy.” His voice is firm, calculated. Was that a hint of disappointment too? “As opposed to what? You? I don’t even know you! At least I know him! “ my voice is getting louder by the second. His voice jumps in volume too when he responds with, “Know him? Do you? Are you sure? Because he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who has your best interest at heart!” “So?! Does anybody? That’s the way the world works Rex, get used to it!” And he just stands there. Stunned for a moment before his shoulders drop in defeat. Shaking his head lightly, he looks down at the ground before looking up at him with his hands on his hips. “I do.” Is whispered from him.

“What?” I cry, confused.

“I have your best interest at heart. I want you to feel happy. I want you to feel safe.

I give him an incredulous look. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense,” leaves my mouth. He huffs with a smile before cupping my face in his hands again. “Life doesn’t make sense, princess. That’s just the way the world works.” He pauses, lips twitching and eyes narrowing. “Can I take you somewhere? We can get a bite to eat. Just talk.” I have no energy in me left to argue. Food does sound nice. It’s been a long time since anyone has even remotely expressed, they wanted my safe. That they cared enough to even suggest such a thing. “Okay.” “Okay.” We make our way down the cobblestone, with his arm wrapped around me. I pretend I don’t realize I am leaning him to him.

Paris, France 05/21/2067 01:01

“Yes?” A voice answers, a king drawl that seeps sophistication and annoyance. “We have a problem.” Is growled into the speaker of the phone. Molten gold eyes watch as two figures slowly make their way down the street. The phone

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creativeashproductions · 4 years ago

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Elysium // Luke Patterson

Summary: The boys of Julie and the Phantoms need a hail Mary to dethrone Downslide from opening for Panic! At the Disco. While Willie is done to help his blue eyed crush and his friends there’s one issue: Willie can’t drive the bus. Moving a bench is one thing but driving an entire tour bus? There’s only one person who can and Willie’s not sure where she is after year of no communication

Warnings: Swearing, angst, talk of death (it’s a ghost show, why is this a warning??), mention of assault, violence, and fluff.

Words: 11.5k

A/N: This is why I haven’t posted much in the last week. I’ve been writing this massive fic that I refused to turn into a series. My god, 11k words. I don’t think I’ll be doing this again. Enjoy and comment if you figured out who Rudy is!

Masterlist

There wasn’t much in the afterlife that you enjoyed after time spent in the limbo between the living and dead. Listening to songs before they were released lost its appeal just as much as dancing on stage with the ballet companies around the world, of being an unseen extra in shows and films being filmed.

Then you found a purpose a couple, well it could be more than a couple, years ago when you found a lost soul. William Young, Willie to his friends, had been sitting on the curb staring at the pavement entirely still as he had for two days.

The time from the last breath you took to walking the streets of Los Angeles was a blur in all honesty. The years bled together as you stayed stationary in a world that kept on spinning and changing, growing up. You had watched your friends hit new milestones you could only daydream about. Friends that graduated college and built new lives on the ashes of memories that included you.

Today’s walk was an attempt to escape your friends’ greying versions standing in front of a once vibrant sculpture. It happened every single year, but this one hurt the most. Listening to your friends recall stories of all the adventures you did together.

From being drunken idiots jumping off cliffs into that one lake the summer of freshman year. Or making a bonfire on the school’s roof with all the entryways blocked, rather stupid with the exits being blocked as well. Sneaking into concerts and stealing that one car that came close to sending you to boarding school.

The rebellion that still lived in you had mellowed in the five individuals with the adult responsibilities of family and work. Martha had removed all piercings but her lobes while Chase quit dying his hair colour. Jordan now had three children and a bought house.

Seeing the group no longer young had made your feet swiftly move from the memorial for a walk. The only thing that stopped you in your tracks was tripping over something in front of you.

“Ouch.” You hissed rolling onto your back with a moan of pain that faded with the sniffles.

Curled into his knees, sitting on the curb was a teenage boy about your age. Long hair curtaining his profile you found your eyes grasping the cracked helmet that spoke for itself abandoned by his side.

“Your kinda a hazard there.” You simply spoke sitting down next to the distraught teenager, “Heads up, I suck at comforting people.”

At his silence, you spoke once more, “I’m digging the tie-dye. Did you do it yourself?”

“This is some kind of stupid coma dream right?” The boy’s voice was husky from crying and disuse, “I’m probably in some kind of hospital with a tube down my throat.”

“I’d say yes, but it would be a blatant lie.” You spoke twirling a loose thread on your jeans while the stranger gazed at a spot on the street.

His dark brown eyes bloodshot as he remembered the car honking mere seconds before he heard the sound of a thud. He recalled struggling to breathe with his broken ribs and his screams being illustrated with bloodstains.

He remembered thinking how he had just bought that board a week ago with his allowance.

“Am I really dead?”

“Yes. We’re are a couple ghosts in a lively city.” You informed him with one handheld in the space between your ethereal forms. The teen hesitantly placed his hand in yours with a firm shake.

“William but call me Willie.” He softly told you, catching sight of the patch on your jean jacket—one of many from both when your grandma owned it and then when you did.

“I’m Y/N. Let’s blow this disappointment. I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know.” Brushing off the invisible dust on your jeans, you held your hand out to him, “We’re about to make the afterlife our bitch.”

A stark contrast to his former hesitance he immediately grasped your hand to tug himself off the curb. The forlorn skater didn’t question the board in your hand or how he could possibly even touch his own board. He didn’t wonder how it wasn’t in pieces like it had been when he first got hit.

That rebellion that ended your life flared again in the presence of your best friend with crashing Justin Bieber’s house. Of rearranging items in classrooms to freak teachers out and sitting in the cars turning the radio on and off. Haunting the living until the friendship fractured under the influence of a powerful ghost.

Caleb Covington had bewitched the skater with promises and extravagant gifts until Willie had taken the offer.

“He’s not like you said he was! I think you should give him a chance!” Willie cried following you around the place you had taken to be home.

“Willie he’s a bad guy! He butters you up until you give him what you want! That’s when you see his true colours. All he wants is your soul to power his magic and spread his reach!”

“I got to talk to my sister!”

“Your sister is five years old! It’s not Covington that gave you the opportunity. She won’t remember the experience as anything other than an invisible friend!”

“There are so many people at the Club that we can talk to. Aren’t you tired of the same routine and people we see?”

Willie’s pleading brought your full attention to the skater avoiding your gaze, “William Young…you took his offer.”

Willie tore his gaze from the art on the wall to find yours blatantly glaring at him with a bucket of random colour in your hand.

“The Club is going to France to tour around the country for a while. I’m dead, so I might as well make the best of it. Besides who gets to skate through the Louvre!” Willie beamed, watching as a small smile, found its way on your face at his excitement, “I’m sure Caleb would let you come to the Club tonight!”

“Willie, you are my best friend, but I’ve already seen the Club. It’s not my style, and I want nothing to do with it.”

That interaction was one of the very few speckled through the years when Caleb discovered who you were. No matter his offers, you never took the deal and when he saw how close you and Willie where he kept the skater busy. The Club didn’t appear in Los Angeles for a long time until Willie’s distance seemed too great to bridge.

“So, you need a way for the slot to be empty?” Willie asked the trio of ghosts all spread around the area.

Unfortunately for Luke, the only person they could get help from was from the very guy that placed them in a predicament. While Alex was the one spearheading the conversation with the long-haired skater Luke was glowering in his direction.

“The Orpheum was the thing we never got to do. We spent hours practising and performing with one goal-“

“Play the Orpheum and get distance from our parents. Well, at the time that streetdog and becoming legendary was my main focus.” Reggie recounted the feeling of suffocating in a house filled with fighting. A home he wished still stood, now dead all he wanted was to see his parents.

“We almost did it too.” Luke pouted relaxing his glare at the skater who openly sent apologetic gazes at Alex’s bandmates.

“So, we need to get rid of the opening band.” Willie nodded to himself, thinking about ways before he caught sight of the abject horror on the band. The skater’s eyebrows raised, “I know I deeply fractured the trust, but I’m not suggesting murder.”

“Okay. Good.” Reggie whistled relaxing his tense posture while Luke grumbled under his breath an insult that in turn got Alex’s arm into the guitarist’s ribs.

“Your best bet would be getting the bus out of LA. The band will probably celebrate the upcoming gig.”

“Could you make the bus disappear?” Alex hesitantly questioned shifting in his now vintage sneakers. The blonde-haired drummer flushed slightly under the endearing smile from the skater. The feelings create a confliction within Alex under Willie’s issue, leading them straight into a madman’s hands.

“I can move a bench, turn sirens on, but a bus is outside my paygrade.” Willie openly admitted showing his hands deep in his pockets, “The only person other than Caleb that has enough power-“

“-is he just as evil?” Luke demanded crossing his arms to glare at the male that had unfortunately caught the interest of Alex.

However, Luke couldn’t blame Alex for falling for this guy because well, Luke saw the teenage ghost’s appeal. Willie was attractive, but he wasn’t the type of person Luke would fall for. Plus he had initially made Alex incredibly happy, and Luke would never blame Alex for that.

“She is as different from Caleb as one can be. She uh…she taught me everything about being a ghost. Actually, found me where I died.” Willie cleared his throat as the guilt and sadness reared its head from deep within him. The guilt of leaving his little sister to grow up without him and the sorrow of not growing up with the girl.

It wasn’t often Willie allowed himself to remember the little girl, barely five when he died, who was always dancing. His little sister adored the colour purple and anything shiny and more than once Willie had let her dress him up. Willie’s greatest regret is that he’d never have that interaction with her. God, she’d be around his age now and in high school.

“Okay, so where is she?” Reggie clapped his hands, bringing the skater out of his thoughts and back into the present.

Luke saw the hesitation in Willie, “There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“Kinda?” Willie trailed off bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I haven’t seen her in years now. Last time I saw her we fought about the whole joining Caleb thing? I’m not even sure if she’s still in LA.”

“Of fucking course,” Luke grunted shoving both hands in his hair taking a few steps away from the other ghosts.

First, he dies, then he gets caught up in some bullshit revenge plot, then makes a deal with the devil without realizing it, and now their one chance is going up in flames. Luke Patterson was livid with the universe and the shitty hand he had been dealt, but at least he had his friends with him.

“It can’t hurt to look for her?” Reggie innocently offered with a shake of his shoulders, “It’s not like we have any other option.”

“Did we ever even have options?” Luke hissed, causing Willie and Alex each to flinch with the different guilt they carried.

Alex was guilty of going to Willie for help when getting back at Bobby was the biggest thing. Willie was guilty of ignoring his instincts on keeping Alex as far from Caleb as he could be he just wanted to impress the drummer. It’s not like Willie had many options for dating, and well, Alex was the first to get his entire focus.

“Dude. Stop. No one saw it coming.” Reggie bumped his hip against the annoyed guitarist, “Let’s find this ghost and get our shot at playing.”

The quartet of dead guys didn’t have high hopes of finding the girl in question, but it seemed the universe took pity on Luke Patterson. Just two hours into their search on the edges of the city limits an individual was walking.

The person’s stature leaned against a smashed concrete wall of the skeleton of where a building once was. The only thing the group could make out was a faded jean jacket with splotches of colour. Her ankles crossed as her back leaned against the cement, oozed laid back confidence. Coming closer, Luke noticed the sunglasses perched on top of her head and the lips painted dark.

“What do you need Willie? I heard you were looking for me.” The husky voice drew Luke in the most. The lead guitarist of Julie and the Phantoms enamoured with the girl.

“How’d-“Willie’s question was cut off as you simply tapped your right index finger against your temple.

“How do you think you managed to get here?” You inquired pushing off the cement to stride over to the group. To Willie’s surprise, he was tugged into your embrace before swiftly pushed away, “Come on. We should head in before someone catches us.”

In the dark as much as the other three ghosts, Willie dutifully followed you past the pieces of cement littered around the area. Gasps of surprise sounded as the once empty space became filled with buildings. It was not as extravagant as the hotel the Club worked out of, but it was hidden from the living and dead eyes.

“Where did this come from?” Reggie gasped astounded by the people once hidden from his view, moving around the area.

“This is Elysium. Don’t judge the name I lost the right in a poker game with Susie and Rudy. I’m Y/N.” You informed the group leading them to the gate where two people stood stoically guarding it, “Rudy was hellbent on calling it Valhalla.”

“This is Luke, Reggie and Alex.” Willie gestured to the awed trio of musicians only lingering on the blonde. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the attraction between the skater and the blonde; finding a date in the afterlife was a lot harder than the living.

Nodding a greeting to the two ghosts, you lead the group to a building painted a pretty turquoise blue colour. The sign above the double doors a stark white with calligraphy writing simply stating Elysium Management. It was a building set up like an administrative office of three stories, and you led the group right up to the top floor.

“Just a heads up…Rudy is a little suspicious of people.” You admitted standing outside a door with a nameplate the only descriptor, “He’ll come off a little gruff and rude, but when you get passed that he doesn’t shut up.”

“I can hear you through the door dumbass.” The words were called out from the office door opening.

The man standing in the entry wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His honey-brown eyes lit up with a teasing look before it shuttered at the sight of four strangers behind you. Rudy had valid reasons to not fully trust people after the shitshow in his hometown when he was alive.

“And you’ve brought strangers.” Rudy deadpanned with a sigh concluding his sentence as he stepped back into the office. It appeared like the world repositioned itself on the young man’s shoulders once more.

“I should be done within the hour. We can go over everything.” You informed your business partner and friend. Receiving only a nod from Rudy, you closed the door to his office, cutting off the view from your guests.

“He’s..uh.”

“Standoffish? Rudy keeps his past to himself, all he’s ever revealed is that he’s from a town a few hours away.” You spoke, opening the door to your own office decorated differently from Rudy’s more sterile black and white aesthetic.

Your office had splashes of colour with vintage posters of both music and film framed on the walls—a plush couch in the corner with a basket of blankets next to it. Instead of sitting behind the dark desk, you chose the couch instead. As you settled in the corner, you flicked one finger bringing an extra seat over.

The motion shocking the three boys accompanying Willie who had seen the abilities himself.

“Okay so why did you want to search for me?” You questioned the skater leaning back in the seat.

“When did this all happen?” Willie countered gesturing to the office in a building settled in the middle of a ghost town. A literal ghost town.

“There’s an empty lot in LA that used to house an abandoned apartment building that Rudy and I both called home. Of course, it was torn down, and we kinda knew that there’s wasn’t a place that didn’t have the threat of being annihilated at some point.” The memories of those unknown days trickled into your mind among the more positive ones, “We wanted a home. A place to call our own.”

“A week or so later a skittish pixie of a brunette crashed into us full speed. Susie had a certain ability that Caleb desired to have under his thumb. There are so many ghosts he had manipulated into selling him their soul. Rudy and I both wanted to stop Caleb from having that chance for everyone.” You continued, “Can I show you?”

The moon shone through the light clouds as a duo wandered LA’s streets in different mental states. The only home you had known had been unceremoniously ripped down with no future plans in place. Your entire life had been in that apartment in a building you had once thought only you inhabited. You had been unaware that on a separate floor, Rudy had been dwelling.

The two teens in starkly different clothing grew close with each other through the whole being the dead thing they shared. The mission was to find another place too, use but the feeling of home being ripped away tore at their hearts. The apartment was a place Caleb Covington hadn’t been aware of.

Your thoughts threatened to turn darker as a force knocked you onto your bac—aA short brunette groaning in pain to the left of you. The girl was Gwen, who would become very important to both Rudy and you.

I’ve always been a little different than most people. I can move things short distances, but I developed a specific talent. I can get inside people’s minds to plant, remove or alter memories or simply talk and read their thoughts.

The sound of your voice in their heads freaked them out more than they would like to admit. The intrusive tickle of something in their brains unsettling as you made a more present entry so they could feel it.

“What?”

“This is why I can’t be anywhere near Caleb. The whole reason he gives people stamps and takes their souls is because of me.” You fully admitted clasping your fingers in your lap, “He couldn’t cope with the fear of another ghost leaving so added a stipulation to joining his Club.”

“How did you come to create Elysium?” Alex inquired leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. Luke and Reggie followed his posture as the anticipation built.

“Everyone deserves a safe place. A place as far away from Caleb as possible and we do so for free. No fee is required, and ghosts are free to come and go as they please. They are welcome as long as their unfinished business keeps them in this plane.”

It sounded like a sweet deal to the group of teens, but they had other commitments, “You can tell us more, but we need your help.”

The pleading in the messy-haired brunette tore at your heartstrings like the one time Willie brought you to his house. It had been shortly before your friendship fractured, a few years ago. He had brought you to a suburb for low-income families and straight to the backyard where a twelve-year-old year danced.

The dead skater boy and the rebel sat in the patio chair on the tiny porch nestled in the postmark sized backyard. A quintet of pre-pubescent girls danced on the lawn to some bubblegum pop song. The Young girl was submissive to a more confident girl even when the venue was the Young girl’s home.

“The girl to the left is my little sister Kayla. She’s twelve now, it’s been seven years since I died.” Willie’s brown eyes saddened at the dancer who had a spark of maturity in her eyes, “I check in every once in a while. These are Kayla’s friends. The bossy girl is Carrie, and while the band is a group, she is the unofficial leader of the band Carrie’s Constellations.”

“She looks happy.”

“Kayla’s always been bubbly in personality, but she had questionable friends.” Willie outright admitted keeping his eyes pinned to the girl that had grown up in a blink of an eye. Her dark hair concealed by the gaudy purple wig; the colour assigned to the teenager.

“It’s nice that she still enjoys dance.” Willie finished reaching out to grab your hand in his and just like that Willie transitioned back into carefree, “I found this really cool skatepark I think you’d like.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.” Alex winced as the three musicians flinched as a sudden purple spark of colour lit up their midsections.

Like a tentacle, your mind reached into the quiet raven-haired boy with the leather jacket. Beyond the imagery of docile golden retrievers and steaming plates of food, you found the regret and fear in the boy. Stepping into a recent memory, you watched their experience at the Hollywood Ghost Club.

“You’ve met Caleb.” You sighed roughly pushing your index finger between your brows feeling the familiar ache.

“It was a stupid decision,” Luke spoke up, tearing his focus from the mysterious girl that ultimately had the power in her hands. The entire plan was weighing on the decision you would give, “Either we join his house band, or we don’t exist.”

“Hm.” You spoke as the kaleidoscope of colours in Luke’s eyes glittered under the sterile lights of the room. It was difficult to look away from the enthralling teenage ghost, but the emotion wafting off Willie was concerning.

“They died before they could perform at the Orpheum. We’re banking that getting the opening slot with giving them the push into crossing over.” The long-haired skater leaned closer, “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I can’t do much.”

“So, you want to pull ’09 incident again?” You completely ignored the trio on the couch staring directly at the sheepish skater with raised eyebrows, “Only this time without the train?”

“Train?” Alex whispered, looking between the two long-time friends with interest and then next thing he knew Alex was in the backseat of a van crushed between Reggie and Luke equally confused.

Chicago, Illinois 2009

William Young and Y/N Y/L/N were complete hellions in the ghost world, creating havoc that fascinated the living population. The recent event being the highjacking of a van filled with drunk teenage boys. These boys had been the sole reason a young girl was recovering in a hospital with life-threatening injuries. The scene changed to a hospital room with Willie and Y/N watching a girl with massive bruising laid.

It had hit both Willie and Y/N hard catching the tail end of the new report, Willie thinking of how that could have been his sister. Even if Kayla was only five years old, having a sister set things more in perspective. For you it was a flashback to when you were alive and thus led you to the ICU room for the girl.

Slipping into her unconscious mind was easy but while the injured teen appeared peaceful to the hospital staff, she was anything but. The poor girl’s mind replayed the traumatic incident over and over like a movie; keeping in the shadows, you gently repainted the portrait with lighter and brighter images.

For Willie, he watched as you wavered on your ghostly feet and smoothed out the features of the girl. The heart monitor subtly changing as the injured girl relaxed, and suddenly your interference heightened her chances of survival.

“I got it.” You spoke to Willie with a heated glare on your features and when the ghostly musician trio blinked they were back in the van.

Your hands gripped the van’s steering wheel with Willie turned in the passenger seat to watch a group of living boys scream. To the living eyes in the van, no one was in the front seats but whispered words spoke into their minds.

You’re going to go straight to the police and tell them what you did. You’ll hand over the photographic evidence and demand the worst punishment. You’ll leave the girl alone, or we’ll come back to finish our job. You will pay for the hospital bills if the family agrees.

The boys trembled with the putrid scent of urine permeating the enclosed vehicle. The distant sound of a train echoed in the distance as the van stopped on the tracks. No matter how much the living boys moved the doors refused to open, and the windows remained unbreakable.

“WE promise!” The ringleader cried, slamming his shoulder against the door with the train’s bright lights illuminating the van.

“Let us go!” The other screamed, slamming his bruising hands on the window.

Alex was flinching at each slam of fists on the glass, leaving smears of blood. Knuckles broke from the window. At the very last second, your foot slammed the gas pedal taking the van millimetres from the train screeching on the tracks.

You and Willie stared at the stationary train lit up from the van’s headlights with the rhythmic flashes of the red and blue police lights. The van’s seat arrangement was different with the ringleader in the driver’s seat.

The three ghost musicians standing unseen behind the duo but in the real world out of the dreamlike memory you knew.

Elysium, Present Day

“Holy fucking shit.” Alex cussed out of breath, leaning back on the couch with shaking limbs and fear in his bloodless veins.

Luke’s eyes blinked owlishly at the boy that he had once thought could never do something as terrifying and torturous. He was afraid to even ask the outcome of the life-threatening incident you did on the assailants.

“That is the reason for the train.” You barely glanced at the shaken trio to stare at who had once been your partner in crime, “Willie, I have responsibilities here. We just opened a new division for the children we house here.”

“It would take a few hours.” Willie pleaded, positioning his hands into a pleading position turning on his charm. The puppy eyes you had always struggled to say no to as if you weren’t the type of person easily capable of staying strong.

“We’ll do anything.” Luke pleaded just as much recalling the countless times he had charmed himself out of situations, “Please help us.”

“I’ll have to make arrangements with Rudy and Susie, but I might be able to pull some strings. I’m really sorry Willie, but I’m gonna need to erase your knowledge of this place. There are too many people depending on this setup.”

Outside the Orpheum

Outside the legendary venue, three out of four band members for Julie and the Phantoms walked up to the marquee. Hopefully, the letters for Downslide would be changed into their band name just under the main act. Everything was riding on Willie and Y/N’s capabilities. Trusting the skater was challenging to do and more so someone they didn’t fully know.

“Look, don’t worry, guys. Willie said he’d get us on that marquee.” Alex soothed his friends on each side of him. All three wearing concerned expressions at the place that hopefully was their last stop before crossing over.

“This is gonna work, right?” Reggie questioned with his hand confidently sliding into the pockets of his black jeans. The relaxed posture a juxtaposition to the anxiety and nerves on his flushed face.

“It has to.” Luke’s lips pursed into a pout with his words tinged with a dialect different from his best friends. The faint souvenir from the place he spent a few years growing up before moving to LA.

Luke’s words were highlighted by the groans of pain as that flash of purple courtesy of Caleb’s death stamp appeared. All three hunched over clutched their chests breathing through the pain; Luke was the first to unfurl his form.

“Whoa!” You gasped flashing underneath the marquee beside Willie. Rushing to give Luke support without even a second thought.

When the aftershock faded, the guitarist stood straight up with a thankful smile that boarded on adoration.

“Are you guys, okay?” Willie asked, keeping back with the swell of guilt that happened, seeing the familiar symptoms of post-shock. He had felt them a time or two in the time he had sold his soul to his unfortunate boss.

“Yeah, it’s nothing we haven’t felt before,” Alex replied, rubbing his hand over the baby blue shirt he had chosen today. His blue eyes doing their best to avoid looking into the puppy-like ones of the skater, “How’d it go?”

“Well, when that opening band wakes up, they’re gonna find their bus 200 miles outside of Vegas.” Willie proudly announcing turning on his heel to show off the Downslide jacket he took from the lead singer. His fist extending to bump yours instinctively before he did so with Luke.

“With no chance of getting back in time.” You snickered in response living on the adrenaline and nostalgia of the rebellion. With Elysium, you had turned around your life, “Meaning-“

“-there’s probably a promoter upstairs right about now freakin’ out.”

“Nah. This is Hollywood, man.” Willie scoffed with a wave of his hand matching the one you supplied, “I’m sure he’s being very professional.”

As Willie finished his sentence up in the promotor’s office out of earshot of the ghosts stood a very pissed adult. His finger-wagging his finger with teeth clenched, his flushed skin a juxtaposition to the cheery blue Hawaiian style shirt. Frank Wolfe couldn’t believe how stupid his once opening band was.

“What do you mean the bus drove itself into the middle of the desert?” Frank questioned progressively growing more and more frustrated. His assistant Tasha casting concerned looks to her typically collected boss, “BUSES DON’T DRIVE THEMSELVES!”

Tasha flinched at the sudden loud growl of the sentence but more so as Wolfe starting slamming the phone into the cradle. Her fingers halting on her keyboard, going over the list of frequent acts. Unfortunately, the five acts had other commitments causing Tasha to fear tonight. The blonde lady was worried Wolfe could have a breakdown once more.

While Willie snickered to his own words, your eyes, not your mind, could read that Alex wanted to talk to the skater. With only a teasing jab of your elbow in Willie’s ribs you shuffled around the drummer to join Reggie and Luke away from the ‘will they won’t they’ couple.

“So, can you do me a favour?” Luke hesitantly questioned you with his inquisitive eyes a greener colour in the sunlight. His attractive eyes took your full attention with a simple tilt of your head, “Julie’s family means a lot to us, and could you keep an eye on them?”

“And Carlos,” Reggie interjected rocking on his polished pleather boots he had spent ages on finding for his rocker aesthetic back in the ’90s.

“-Julie’s little brother.” Luke supplied at the confusion painted clearly on your pretty features. His green eyes scoured your face as he always did that flushed both his and your faces red.

“Yeah, of course, I can.” You firmly told the two dead boys each standing tense in front of you.

You could easily see the love they held for the living family that had come to mean so much in such a short amount of time. Since first meeting them you had always gotten the feeling that their living years weren’t the best. For Alex, it was living in the ’90s as a young gay teenager during a terrifying time for the LGBTQ+ community. Reggie flinched at the raised voices, and Luke had longingly stared after the happy families milling around the Elysium.

“Did you ever find out what your unfinished business was?” Reggie inquired fixing a strand of his dark hair that had fallen onto his blemish-free skin. Your smile faltered at his question; nonetheless, you answered.

“I did.” The two words carried a sense of pain with them. Your eyes unfocused recalling the euphoric feeling of seeing the breathtaking white light of the peace exuding from the beyond and the agony of denying crossing over.

“How-“

“Hey! Y/N!” Willie called out to the young denim wearing ghost with his beaming grin, “Don’t go stealing buses without me!”

Luke swore he could see your laughter in the air, just as endearing as the smoky quality your voice carried.

“Don’t go glitter bombing criminals.” You returned as your best friend dropped his board to skate off to wherever he was needed. It was bittersweet to reconnect with him knowing that it could be the last time.

When Caleb found out, not an if but a when Willie had a hand in helping his desired band it was high chance Willie would be gone. Caleb was all too powerful, and when he was betrayed, it never ended well.

“I need to get back to Elysium. Susie’s arrival is tonight. Good luck with tonight.” Your words were accompanied by a hug for each of the boys. The one with Luke lingering the most, “I wish you could play for the kids.”

“Yeah. Me too.” The brunette, messy-haired boy’s words carried a hidden desire simply to be in your space more. The teenage ghost helps those in limbo while wearing a jean jacket with patches from many decades. The jacket creating an unknown time you had lived.

“Goodbye, boys.” You told the trio before you poofed away from the busy streets of Hollywood where the band had come full circle in death.

“Are you guys, okay?” Reggie inquired his best friends, forgoing his casual personality for the layers underneath. His blue-green eyes filled with only concern.

Alex and Luke shared a lingering look, “Yeah. We’re okay.”

The dining hall was filled with long tables and chairs populated by the ghostly forms of everyone currently living at Elysium. It was reminiscent of a British book turned film series of youth with magic abilities. The series had been a favourite of a former resident.

“Incredible.” Susie breathed staring at the joyful people having a place to call home. Making the limbo between life and death more bearable.

“We’ve done well. You smiled, wrapping an arm around her waist, “It’s so nice to have you back.”

Elysium was so much more than you could ever hope for. It kept growing and growing with more ghosts. Since the founding of the haven, new developments continuously happened with one resident’s unique ability.

Harvey had joined the haven a year into the founding bringing the ability to gift the residents with the capacity to eat. During his life, Harvey had been a renowned chef and the dream to make food it carried into his death. As long as Harvey cooked the food with his volunteer staff ghosts were able to eat it.

“Harvey has outdone himself again,” Rudy announced his arrival at your side with his arms crossed, displaying his corded muscles. The constellation of moles on his face standing on his pale creamy skin.

“Rudy!” Susie squealed, throwing herself into his arms with the same glee that came each time. Susie and Rudy since their first meeting had a special bond as chosen siblings who bonded over heartache.

Rudy had died, leaving his best friend and his strawberry blonde girlfriend in the living world back in their dark hometown. It was just one tidbit he had revealed throughout your friendship. The only physical connection to his living friends was the three picture on his desk of a group of people.

The first picture had a lean version of Rudy with his arms thrown over a Hispanic boy with a crooked jaw and glimmering brown eyes. The Hispanic boy had his arm around a pretty brunette girl with deep dimples and wavy brown hair. The two boys wore a sports uniform of some kind holding lacrosse sticks.

The second picture had Rudy and the Hispanic teen again but with a beautiful petite strawberry blonde. Along with them was a brunette with blunt chin-length hair and hardened features besides a shorter blonde male with blue eyes.

The last picture was of Rudy with the same Hispanic boy wearing graduation caps and gowns with two beaming adults. The male adult wore a tan shirt adorned with a star on his left pec and dark brown pants. He had to be Rudy’s father with similar features. The woman was of Hispanic descent with laugh lines, and thick dark curly hair pulled into a half do; obviously the Hispanic teen’s mother.

The pain in Rudy’s face each time he saw the pictures closed off a desire to ask him about the people.

“Hello, Susie.” Rudy chuckled, wrapping his arms around her small stature, “How was Europe?”

“Why don’t you ask the five newcomers I found before Caleb?” Susie teased gesturing to the ragtag of new ghosts immersed in conversations.

“Family?”

“A boarding school had a fire. Those five were in the fire when it happened and the only victims out of seven that didn’t cross over.” Susie’s tone faded into a melancholy tone with her small arms wrapping around her middle. Faded brown eyes staring at the younger of the five seeing herself in them.

“That’s terrible.” You whispered, staring at the table with one finger picking the patch of a band from the ’70s, “I can’t imagine how scary that could have been.”

“Yeah.” Susie softly spoke, pushing a strand of her hair off her temple just as equally sad for the way that death had no qualms of how it took.

The youngest ghost in Elysium had been a three-year-old toddler who passed over quickly when he was found by the deceased mother. The two had been separated at death and luckily shared the same unfinished business of finding each other.

“Miss Reynold’s has twelve spirits that finished their business.” Rudy softly informed his two partners. Soft smiles formed on their faces at the happy news of Elysium’s goal being accomplished again.

“May they find everlasting peace and serenity.” Your words intertwined with Susie in perfect sync of the motto coined after the first crossover, “I suppose the Serenity will begin planning?”

“Have the Serenity ever not performed their duty?” Rudy raised one dark eyebrow with a rhetorical question. E/c and faded brown met recalling the countless times Elysium had hosted a celebration for those who found their unfinished business.

“That is-whoa.” You gasped stumbling at the scream echoing in your mind accessorized with the vintage sound of a band.

Calloused hands grasped your shaking form from collapsing onto the ground from a proverbial psionic shove. Agony slammed your brain flickering into an old fashioned club filled with people in both colour or black and white attire. You caught sight of baby pink, deep royal blue and bright red suits. The pained screams of a skater in a dark room overtaking the music in the Club.

“No.” You whispered clenching your hands on your head, feeling the dread building in the pit of your stomach.

The joyful voices in the hall muted while your body flickered with the deep instinct to leave the haven for the one place that utterly terrified you. It was the familiar touch of Susie and Rudy that kept you from finding the one person that meant the world. Willie’s soul was on the cutting board, and Caleb obsession with performing was the only reason Willie still existed.

“Willie.” You whimpered tears rolling down your flushed cheeks, feeling the panic in the skater’s mind.

“Susie help me.” Rudy stonily spoke ushering the distraught girl from the busy hall into an empty room.

Your shaking body finding purchase on the plush sofa with Susie holding one hand in hers and Rudy brushing the sweaty hair from your forehead. It wasn’t often your psionic abilities left you in such a state, but the distance proved difficult.

“Shit.” Rudy grumbled frowning, “This is bad. Y/N, we need to get you to Willie. You’re flickering, and the distance isn’t helping.”

“You want to take one of Elysium’s strongest ghosts straight into Caleb’s domain? You know how much he wants her in his Club.” Susie hissed to the co-founder of the haven they had to take extraordinary measures to protect, “It won’t work! You’re throwing her to the dogs!”

“Susanne I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t necessary. Besides, we always have a plan.” Rudy retorted narrowing his whiskey eyes at the younger girl, “I’ll take her to get Willie, but you need to stay here to make sure everything runs smooth.”

“Are you sure you can-“Susie cut herself off with a nod as Rudy displayed the reason he could do it, “Okay, yep, you can do it.”

Rudy came back into her vision in his signature position with one eyebrow raised, and his arms crossed. The reason why Elysium worked so well was Rudy’s ability to erase an object from the view of anyone. He could make himself invisible to anyone and in practice, developed it to hide items and location. With his ability, Elysium was permanently hidden to anyone outside of his power. Illusions were his unique ability.

“You aren’t the first person to doubt my capability.” Rudy informed the other ghost reaching one hand out. With his fingers caressing your temple, he snapped his fingers, transporting you and him away from Elysium.

The empty room of Elysium’s dining hall was exchanged for the business streets of Los Angeles, bringing an improvement in your body. Pushing away from Rudy, your eyes frantically scoured the unfamiliar area for any hint of Willie.

“He’s close.” You exclaimed closing your e/c eyes to focus solely on your sixth sense kicking in. Rudy’s gasp snapped your eyes open to see his eyes pinned on your feet where a glowing neon purple smoke wisped.

“What is that?” Rudy demanded crouching to touch it, but it was like nothing was there. His whiskey brown eyes meeting your confused gaze.

“I have no clue, but I feel like I have to follow it.” Robotically your feet started walking following the smoke through the streets.

Rudy was silent as you came upon a park swallowed by the darkness of the night with the moon barely showing through the clouds. The odd purple smoke the only offering of light so far from the path with street lights.

“Of course we have to go through a park.” Rudy grumbled, “Nothing good ever happens in wooded areas at night.”

Lifting your eyes from the smoke, you looked at a deeply unsettled Rudy lost in the past only he knew. His mind recalling traipsing through the forest with his asthmatic best friend in the middle of the night. The last night before the unknown took over his life. Oddly enough dying and returning as a ghost was the most normal with everything that happened with his friends alive.

“You can go ba-“

“We’re not splitting up,” Rudy growled plainly scowling at your hesitant features. Rudy’s slammed the door closed on his past life.

Sensing unease Rudy’s calloused hand reached over to slide into yours in platonic support. You continued your mission, unaware that three certain ghosts in breathtaking suits were searching for you.

Alex, Reggie, and Luke, affected by the purple jolts, failed to find the one place where their plan B could work. What Julie hadn’t known was that the guys had a plan just in case the Orpheum wasn’t their unfinished business. The three would go to Elysium to accept their fate and ensure Julie believed they crossed over.

With no Elysium in sight, the boys returned to the Molina garage hoping that one thing would go their way: Julie would go straight to bed.

The glow purple smoke trailed through the city park into an older part of Los Angeles before it stopped. Where the smoke stopped was a vast empty space surrounded by trees.

“Well, that’s a little anticlimactic.” You grumbled crossing your arms, “Willie’s somewhere here. Do you think Caleb has an underground lair?”

Rudy cast an unamused expression at you, “From past experience. No, that’s not likely. He probably has an apartment downtown. An underground network of caves in the woods is more shapeshifter style but still not true.”

“One: You’re rambling. Two: What the hell kind of life did you have?” You questioned furrowing your eyebrows at his rather odd piece of information.

“An old one.” Rudy spoke, staring ahead, “Besides, I think we should check out whatever building is hidden from our sight.”

“Hid-“Your mouth halted when Rudy roughly gripped your shoulders to twist you to face the empty space.

“Close your eyes. Trust your senses.” Rudy spoke softly, “Or pay attention to the slab of concrete in the middle of an empty space with well-kempt grass.”

Your palm slammed your forehead with a resounding thump in the night with distance lights from surrounding buildings. Rudy squeezed your shoulders as he stepped to the side once more in turn, closing his eyes.

“Walk in my mind.” Rudy stated for the first time in your friendship, allowing you to look in his mind. Your hesitance was met with another squeeze of comfort in his calloused grip.

Your tired eyes closed as your mind timidly stepped into the rather breathtaking mind of Rudy, who felt guilt the most. While Susie’s mind was like a summer day spent at a lake with brightness and gorgeous field of flowers, Rudy’s mind was different.

It was dark in Rudy’s mind but not as if evil, but as if he had been touched by the darkness and painted permanently. There’s was the odd whisper of childlike laughter intermingled with the full adult laugh of a woman; the laughter overshadowed with the sound of funeral music. You felt the lose near that memory. Rudy’s mind was painful to be in and drowning in the feelings he had.

Your breath caught seeing a door you assumed was of his childhood room with a name you couldn’t pronounce for the life of you.

“My parents named me after my mom’s dad.” Rudy spoke through his mind with a soft smile on his face, “I couldn’t say it, so I called myself Mischief. I stopped using it when my mom died, and I went by a shortened version of my last name.”

Your eyes watched as the door disappeared, and the reason you were in his mind came back to the forefront. Your eyes watched the image forming of a vintage hotel rippling in the air before it solidified. The size reminded you of a castle, and it felt like you were storming it.

Without any more mental interaction, you stepped out of Rudy’s mind back into the real world. The very same hotel in plain sight to both Rudy and your surprised elation.

“Honestly didn’t think that would work.” Rudy breathlessly laughed, staring at the hotel once hidden to them. A dark comparison to Elysium.

“How do we play this, Rudy?” You inquired looking over at him, “This is very different from stealing cars and scaring teens.”

“Easy. We blend in.” Rudy responded, holding one hand out to grasp yours in which you noticed your attire had changed, “Perks of illusion? I can alter our own perception of ourselves.”

“Oh, wow. That looks expensive.” You replied, staring at the diamond bracelet on your wrist matching the necklace you wore.

Rudy’s attire had changed from his normal button-up with the sleeves rolled to be layered under a charcoal grey vest and jacket. Sleek matching pants to his coat and the dark black-tie matching the elegant black dress you wore. He had taken pity on your footwear to fit your ability to walk and for the fancy place.

He even had diamond cufflinks that matched you, but the wedding rings on your fingers took you aback. Your widened eyes staring at him.

“Tonight we’re Mr and Mrs Martin,” Rudy spoke choking on the last name he gave as it was the upscale name toppled from his lips.

“Okay. This is a test of our abilities.”

“This is if our plan A of being invisible doesn’t work. The one thing we know for sure is that Caleb has never seen either one of us.” Rudy soothed your nerves with a half-smile,” Let’s get Willie out.”

Your arm slipped into the crook of his to walk to the front door, “I feel like a spy. I feel like that Naomi Roma-“

“It’s Natasha Romanoff. Have you ever seen one of the marvel movies?” Rudy demanded walking up the entrance with a pained smile, “You’re like my best friend and when he wouldn’t watch Star Wars! Never caught one of my references!”

“Okay! Sorry, we can watch the movies when this over.” You grumbled as your heels clicked in the foyer of the hotel. The inside made you feel like you were sent back in time to the roaring ’20s.

“Oh damn, this is nice,” Rudy whispered, staring at the chandelier in the extravagant lobby of the last place you wanted to be.

While on the outside the two ghosts appeared cool, calm and collected they were anything but. Both a wreck inside from the perilous errand they had done that could very well be the ending of Elysium. Rudy nudged you to begin finding Willie with your mind, but you didn’t need to.

That same glowing mist was on the ground pulling you in the direction of a dark hall away from the route to the Club. Rudy kept his eye out, a characteristic carried into the afterlife from his time with the FBI, as you followed the mist. The hall continued to get more and more dark as the walk continued.

Finally at the end was a blood-red door.

“I swear to god if he kills his Club members, I’ll lose it.” You hissed to your arm candy, “What if he’s really H. H. Holmes disguised as a former magician? His door is blood red!”

“Have you been using your serial killer colouring book again?” Rudy demanded stuttering his steps to place his whiskey brown eyes on you. The sheepish expression on your face was enough of a response to gain the look of disbelief could have sent you into hysterics had the time not been too serious.

With a grin belying the situation, you twisted your wrist to open the door to hopefully where Willie was being held.

“What a cliché. He’s keeping Willie in the basement?”

“Will you shut up!” Rudy hissed right back with a clenched jaw entering the somewhat unfinished basement. It was cold even to your dead standards where the cold didn’t bother that much.

At the bottom in front of a desk with only a small lamp as illumination sat a vacant-eyed Willie painstakingly detailing a fabric. The lush purple velvet fabric was bougie, to say the least, and rather outlandish for the skater.

“Willie.” You softly coaxed the teen to glance up from the fabric you found to be something Caleb would wear. Willie’s brown eyes barely met yours before they returned to the sewing needle in his hand and the tiny beads in the bowl.

“Caleb is actually forcing him to be his personal seamstress?” Rudy scoffed,d stepping right up by your side to look at the work.

Both trying unsuccessfully to coaxed Willie out of the stupor he was engaged in the sudden poofing wasn’t heard.

“Mrs. Young taught both Willie and Kayla how to sew. She’s quite the seamstress, reminds me of my old one.” Caleb wistfully responded with a smarmy smile on his face, “Well if it isn’t little Y/N and whoever she brought. Nice threads.”

“Let him go.”

Caleb’s index finger caressed the corner of his mouth so gently to ensure the stage makeup didn’t budge. His clear ocean blue eyes turning thunderstorm navy as his lips parted in such a bone-chilling sinister grin.

“Let him go? He tried to take my new house band from me. He thinks that those boys not crossing over is his punishment. I think that adorable but so very wrong.” Caleb shrugged, dragging his finger down the bicep of his puppet.

“What can we do to- “

“You see after he’s done fixing the tuxedo jacket I’m going to tie him up on the table and slowly strip away his soul piece by piece. No, Willie won’t get the quick and easy zap erasing him. I’ll personally see it’s the most painful thing he experiences and I’ll do so happily.”

“Willie! Wake up!” Rudy shouted, shaking the skater’s shoulder frantically with his focus never entirely leaving the mad man. The whiskey brown eyes panicking at the odd displaced feeling of reliving his living life.

“That won’t work.” Caleb chuckled crossing his arms, “It’s rather amusing you think you can beat me. I’m Caleb Covington! I’m persuasive enough for hundred of memberships to financially benefit the Club.”

“And I’m Y/N Y/L/N bitch.” You snarled viciously throwing your mind into the nefarious narcissistic mind of the washed-up magician.

Caleb Convington had started to bore his audience with the same tricks at every previous show. The lack of interest depleting the attendance numbers and severely hurting the financials. So Caleb decided to broaden his talent by copying the likes of Harry Houdini.

He had a knack for both the dramatics and swindling his audience to be tricked by the illusions he created. The heightened popularity increased Caleb’s thirst for status and fame, so he overestimated himself.

Surrounded by adoring fans and journalists, Caleb had his assistant lock him in a safe with no key, to the audience’s knowledge, and push the safe into the river. Unfortunately from the infamous magician and escape artist the safe warped due to the material it as made out of. Caleb Covington died drowning in a safe at the bottom of the river.

You flinched feeling the emotion at the time Caleb had died and the feeling of disappointment at not leaving a legacy. Your continued your trek in the struggling mind of a man who viewed himself as invincible. You caught glimpses of a young Caleb with his family and the moments of tragedy that shaped him.

You saw his first taste of power in death and the content since the first time he erased a ghost from existence. It sickened you more as you reached the point where Willie came into Caleb’s path.

I’m unique, Caleb. Unlike you with the illusions and empty promises, I have real power that you could only dream of. Hearing your thoughts and planting my own words is just the tip of the iceberg.

Caleb screamed in response holding his aching head as you cruelly ripped every memory of Willie from his mind. The screams echoed not only in the basement but through the hotel the Club worked out of.

“Stop!” Caleb pleaded, shaking his head back and forth. The anguish was un-fazing to both the lucid people in the room. Rudy too busy trying to wake your best friend from the trance he had been placed in.

“I can alter memories. Remove them and even plant memories of my own design. You may take from people, but I give to people. I refused to give you anything.” You circled the man seeing double from outside and inside his mind.

I’m everything you wish you could be.

Your last action in his mind was searing a burn that flashed across his entire body from a nerve stroked. With the heat equivalent to magma in his veins, you burrowed to where Caleb controlled the souls. With a smear of your fingers, Willie’s soul was released from Caleb clutches.

“C’mon. Get Willie.” You told Rudy sending Caleb into an empty trance as if he was no more than a wax figure. Rudy eased the skater up from the desk while you exchanged Caleb to sit on the chair holding the needle, “We need to leave. I’ll get rid of any speck of Willie in memories.”

“I didn’t even get to punch the guy.” Rudy pouted, dragging his feet up the stairs away from the magician.

“That’s a good thing. I’m sure Caleb would be more pissed about his nose being damaged than losing Willie.” You scoffed helping the man urge Willie to walk up the stairs and then down the hallway to the entrance.

As you walked you brushed the minds of every individual in the building, all members in attendance, you gently removed all traces of Willie. By the time you reached the edge of the park, you had relaxed.

“We should get him to Alex, they didn’t crossover. I can still feel their imprint.”

“He’d be safer at Elysium to lay low.” Rudy replied, keeping on eye on the skater and on anyone he could see.

With only a nod, you ushered the ghost to teleport both the skater and himself back to the safe walls of Elysium. As he did so, you reached out with your mind to the blonde-haired sweet male in adoration with your best friend.

Clicking his place was easy enough for your draining power after the taxing bond with Willie’s absent presence. Instead of walking as you would generally choose you poofed on the cement pad in the backyard of a home. The surrounding skirt of the backyard encased with plants and flowers.

“Hello?” You called out in the darkness. The soft, mumbled words had your feet moving in the direction.

Standing in a circle mesmerized at the purple tattoos lifting off their skin was the boys of Julie and the Phantoms. The teenage beautiful Puerto Rican girl stood across from Luke with Reggie and Alex on each side.

“Alex?” You called out to the boy wearing a baby pink vintage tuxedo that complimented his skin and hair exquisitely. The outfit definitely screamed that Caleb had something to do with it, especially with the missing fanny pack.

“Y/N?” Luke gasped turning to see you in incredibly fancy attire matching his gorgeous blue suit modified to having no sleeves. The anticipation of eating at you to find Reggie rocking a red suit with butterflies on the fabric.

“I’m sorry you didn’t crossover.” Your words soothed the sad teenagers that had accepted their fate only to have no control again. An introduction was brought between you and Julie when the living girl elbowed Alex.

“Not that we mind but what are you doing here? How did you get here, and why are you dressed up?” Luke inquired, pushing his hands into his suit pockets, engrossed with your gorgeous appearance.

“Well when you crash a fancy Club with a narcissistic founder…any means to blend in is necessary.” You responded, “As for your second question.”

Your finger tapped your temple before continuing to speak, “I’m here because Alex deserves to know. You all do.”

The boy in baby pink frantically stepped forward, “What happened?”

“Maybe it’s best, I just show you?” Your brows furrowed to your own question accompanied by your lower lip being bitten by your teeth. The red lipstick not budging as it was an illusion as well.

“Hu-“Reggie grunted as he spiralled with his two dead bandmates into the scene that had sent you on your determined mission.

The rough action of being drawn into your memories as jarring as the first time and just as scary. The maniacal magician pacing the dark basement simply to heighten his dramatic speech. Alex’s heart clenched at the vacant look in the skater’s eyes with the faintest tinge of purple in the gorgeous brown.

“I feel like I got carsick.” Reggie moaned leaning over to clutch his midsection once you released the ghostly trio. Reggie would often gain a look of disbelief and horror from the blonde drummer, but his entire brain was centred on Willie.

“Rudy took Willie back to Elysium where he’ll be safe. If you want, you can join us.” The words were offered to both the dead and living currently in the room.

Opting out, Julie retired to her bedroom to calm down from the rush of performing at the Orpheum of all places. Besides she felt like going to Elysium was best for the three boys, and maybe they would move there. Julie would miss them, but she knew they’d always come back.

Susie was quick to hug you tightly as you stepped through the gates with the dead members of Julie’s band. The boys changed out of the tuxedos they had dropped off at a donation centre, Reggie had wanted to burn them. After living on the streets for a short while, Luke understood the need for clothing, so the clothing was taken to shelters.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. Rudy told me you overexerted yourself again.” Susie spoke with a deeply furrowed brow oblivious to the puppy dog look from the bassist in red flannel.

“If I didn’t, Willie would be gone.”

“You’re pale yet flushed cheeks. I can see you have a fever. You need to rest.”

“I need to soothe Willie out of the trance that psychotic prick put him in.” You scoffed shaking Susie’s hand off your shoulder to sidestep her, “I’ll rest when he’s fine.”

“I-“

“At least gab something from the cafeteria for energy.” Susie’s brown eyes dimmed at your typical brush off. The same routine of overusing your powers and not recharging correctly, “He’s in Cottage A!”

The boys were on your heels as you power-walked through the streets of the ghost city with one location in mind. The living streets with homes of all style and colours appeared passed the bakery, the school and the clothing stores.

“You can eat?” Reggie whispered as a little ghost girl licked an ice cream cone walked by.

“Harvey adored cooking for people when he living, so he continued in death. Harvey can make food for ghosts, and so can his staff if they work in his kitchen. His pastry chef provides baked goods to Flora’s Bakery and makes the best ice cream.”

“Oh my god.” Reggie practically squealed wholly flabbergasted by the almost perfect place you created, “How do you pay for things?”

“We don’t. What Harvey doesn’t grow in his garden, he can make ingredients out of thin air. We all have some kind of job we do. Everyone has a role in fulfilling to keep Elysium running.” You simply spoke keeping your eyes on the cottage with the robin’s egg blue door.

As if he knew Rudy flung the door open elated to see you standing there. Both of you still wearing the illusioned attire. IN milliseconds he wiped the illusion away, returning you back into your street clothes.

“How is he?”

“No change.” Rudy replied, following your steps in the living room. The skater was staring blankly at the wall.

“Willie!” Alex cried, rushing over to kneel beside the boy that had so swiftly stolen his heart without him realizing. The emotion in his word didn’t get a microscopic flinch from the formerly so-called enemy.

“Everyone be quiet.” You demanded forcibly staring each person in the room down for a mere second. With the desired silence continued, you ignored the headache forming in your head to step into the skater’s mind.

William Young was screaming to be released by the prison of his own mind Caleb had forced him into. He had felt the restriction on his soul lifted and the mist of purple leaving his brain, but he was still stuck.

He could barely breathe with the weight on his chest. Willie didn’t like feeling stuck in one place as he was a wanderer at heart. It was a reason why he had joined the Hollywood Ghost Club with the promise of travel.

Willie come back

In his mind, the sound of your voice firstly grounded the young man as a mirage of your form flickered. Your eyes screamed worry while the smile was one of relief.

Caleb can’t hurt you anymore. Come home.

The spectators watching see your flinching wavering expression and the tensing of Willie’s facial muscles. Everyone sat on the edge of their seat as the two pairs eyes opened in synch of the yells of hurt.

What they didn’t expect was your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and you to collapse onto the floor.

“Y/N!” Willie cried, stumbling off the couch onto the cold floor where your body lay prone, “Wake up!”

It seemed everyone forgot the little detail of being dead.

“She’s fine.” Rudy remarked, shaking your arm with such gentle care matching the four guys’ care in the room.

Your eyelids fluttered open under the bright lights of the unused cottage still waiting for an owner.

“Susie was right.” You grumbled allowing Willie to help you sit up against the blue velvet couch. Your mussed hair adorable in the eyes of the guitarist utterly enamoured with everything about you.

“She usually is.” Rudy mused, thinking of the many times she had proven everyone wrong, “She punched me for not bringing you home.”

“Gotta love her.” You snorted turning to face the four ghosts awkwardly gazing around the room. It was barren of personality with the lack of inhabitants. The yearning quickly found in the boys’ eyes, “You know this isn’t the only cottage in need of people.”

“What do-“

“You’re welcome to live here. I know you three live in that studio, but here you can have a real bed. You can eat and having your own place. You can come and go as you please.” You offered without looking, Rudy.

“I don’-“

“If you don’t want to live here, it’s okay, but the option is always there. Willie, we make plans for a skatepark-“

“Oh, you had me from the start.” Willie beamed tugging you into his arms, “I missed this. I missed you.”

“Me too.” You murmured into his warm embrace equally relaxed at knowing he was safe again. Your eyes clashing with the soft blue had Ideas songwriting already filled with lyrics of a pretty girl wearing a jean jacket with patches.

The lyrics turned into songs both in the studio and the cottage that Luke, Reggie and Alex accepted in Elysium. It had been a spirited discussion with Julie on moving to Elysium, but the boys were always there when she wasn’t in school. Often Elysium hosted a concert for the residents with the visitation of Julie.

Your reciprocated attraction with the messy-haired hazel-eyed guitarist flourished into a serious relationship. Luke took on the role of teaching how to play the guitar and songwriting. Alex took of mediation while Reggie worked with Harvey.

Willie quickly took on designing the skatepark he taught at while also taking a position at the ghost school.

“Morning.” The soft whisper roused your sleep into the golden glow of the morning light and chirping birds.

The growling aspect of his voice coming from only just waking up. The sight of Luke’s bleary eyes was heartwarming.

A year into moving into Elysium, Luke had asked if you’d like to move in as he was the only one in the original house. Alex had moved into the little cottage with Willie three months into the relationship while Reggie was going back and forth between Susie’s room and his own place.

“Morning.” You hummed leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

“You know I thought my life ended when I died. That I could never find someone and have a family. That I couldn’t share my music with the world. I was wrong.” Luke murmured as he cupped your cheek in his hand, “The band is growing more and more each day. I found the love of my life, and we have a family with everyone. I haven’t felt like I had had home for so long, but I get it now. You’re my home. I love you.”

Your cheeks warmed up at the adoration Luke displayed in his expressive hazel green gaze just as it had since day one. The awe fell from his lips before you pressed a kiss to his lips, only one of the many in the eons to come.

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#luke patterson imagines #luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms imagines #luke patterson x y/n #julie and the phantoms #luke patterson #alex mercer x willie #jatp fanfic #jatp luke #charlie gillespie imagines #sunset curve #jatp au #caitsy and ash productions

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starlessskies94 · 3 years ago

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Consequence (Joel Miller x OC)

Summary: What if Joel survived his injuries from the Abby and Fireflies attack but ends up with really bad amnesia. He can’t remember his wife, Ellie, or the Outbreak; only before. How will his family bring back the man they once knew?Pairing: Joel Miller x OC Note: An update? Could It be? After all this time?...Yes. It is I! I come with a thousand apologies for taking so long to update. I didn't plan for it be so long but with Covid and going back to work during Covid and family stuff, I just haven't had the time but I'm back my lovelies and I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint :)

Chapter Seven

Tommy woke up late for the first time in weeks; he didn’t often sleep in but given his late night chasing lost cattle through the town after they’d somehow managed to escape the paddocks; he figured he more than deserved it. Maria had woken him when she made to leave and insisted he stay put while she made a start on the morning checks. She kissed him goodbye and they promised to meet later for lunch together.

The morning air was crisp and fresh as he stepped down onto the path, his jacket zipped tight to fight off the dwindling cold. The snow had long since melted and there were clear telltale signs of Spring fast approaching in Jackson.

And while the cold wasn’t as biting as it had been, there was still the odd chill that needed to be shielded from with a layer or two.

It wouldn’t be long before they were preparing for a new harvest to grow throughout the year. The sacks of seeds and planting equipment appearing all over town as families began to prep the soil and start their planting as the wildflowers poked their heads through the ground to bask in the warming sunlight.

Tommy made his way through the streets heading straight for his brother’s house. It was still hard to believe that it had been a whole two months since Joel’s attack.

Two whole months since his sister in law had lost her husband; his niece, her father. And unfortunately for all of them; it didn’t seem like Joel was making any progress to getting his memories back. He tried to help of course but his brother, being the stubborn grump that he was, had only pushed his younger brother away, insisting he was capable of handling the trauma alone.

He hated seeing his brother struggling, especially when it seemed that some details were coming through. It was little things but it was better than nothing. The only problem was, it was things Joel seemed to dismiss without a second thought.

Tommy honestly believed if Joel focused on them, they’d help process bigger things. Though it certainly hadn’t helped matters that the older Miller had stopped going to his weekly check ups to help his mind improve. The head of the infirmary had voiced her concerns to Tommy a few days earlier. His constant dismissal and disregard for their importance to his slow recovery; not just frustrating the Doctor but also Tommy himself.

He just hoped he could talk some sense into his big brother.

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He knocked but no answer greeted him as he stepped inside the house. It was quiet but clean. Each room meticulously organised and tidied to within an itch of its life. He figured this was what Joel must have been filling his days with over the past few weeks. The sound of muffled hammering caught his attention, leading him up the stairs to Joel’s workshop room. The door slightly ajar. Tommy had barely entered the room before Joel acknowledged him.

“What do you want, Tommy?” Joel grunted without even bothering to turn around. Tommy just shrugged silently, his hands awkwardly stuffing into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Well good morning to you too, just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“As good as I can be I guess.” He muttered as he continued to work, never taking his eyes off the wood in his hands. It felt nice seeing his brother once again taking an interest in an old hobby that he had enjoyed before his injury. It felt like maybe they were finally heading in the right direction. But Tommy had to hold off, he didn’t want to push anymore than was necessary. He knew Joel well enough to know that if you pushed too far; Joel would only push back twice as hard. “Right, sorry... whatcha making?” Joel hobbled back a little from the table, giving Tommy a better view of the work in question. The long neck and the four legs beginning to take shape made his heart skip. The older man had always had a talent; that was for certain. The horses he made were always magnificent. The wolves and the deer along with any other animal the people of Jackson had asked for; were always made with utmost care. And it seemed this work of art was no different.

“I think I meant for it to be a giraffe before... everything. Figured I might as well finish it. Hell if I know who it was supposed to be for.”

“Ellie.” Tommy whispered.

“What?”

Tommy took a second for his brain to catch up with his words as he quickly cleared his throat and tried not to fidget too much. “It’s just...uh.. that it’s her birthday in a couple of months and she always liked giraffes, maybe it was meant for her?” He offered nervously. Joel just hummed casually. With a quick dismissive shake of his head and a sigh; he moved the half carved giraffe onto a nearby shelf along with his other unfinished projects. Turning to face his brother, his arm reaching out to grab his cane to steady his balance.

“Yeah, maybe...maybe Ada asked me to make it for her to give to Ellie as a gift.” He wondered out loud, stopping Tommy in his tracks.

“You talked to her?” He asked almost a little too quickly. Causing Joel to frown slightly in response at his brother’s unexplained eagerness.

“Who Ada? Briefly, why? Am I supposed to know her or something?”

“You guys were...friends I guess…” Tommy replied weakly. He knew he had to be cautious here, baby steps. They were moving into uncharted territory when it came to Ada and Ellie. Joel had only just started to accept the life they had lived in Boston as smugglers and that was before he had even had the courage to bring up the Fireflies. He needed to steer clear of things deeper than that for now and ease into the conversation he wanted to have. But his patience was starting to run thin. “Look, the reason I came by is because I was talking to Elizabeth and she said you’ve stopped going to your check ups.”

“Oh not this again Tommy!” Joel snapped, his brother rolling his eyes in frustration as Joel hobbled away from his work space and further towards the door. But Tommy was quick to stop him, stepping in the threshold and blocking Joel’s exit.

“Look I know I don’t understand what you’re going through but-”

“You’re damn right you don’t!” He yelled. "You have no idea what it’s like Tommy; to lose years of your life in an instant. Forget everything you’ve done and the people you used to care about. I don’t see how bitching about how shitty this is to the damn Doctor is going to help!”

“But you’re starting to remember things Joel! That’s a big fucking deal!”

“How?! All I’m remembering is crap no one cares about! How are horse’s names gonna help me? Or how I take my coffee in the morning? I couldn’t even remember holding my little girl in my arms after she was shot! Oh but thank the lord I could remember what colour shirt I was wearing when it happened!!”

With every word Joel got closer, his nostrils flaring in anger as blood continued to boil. But Tommy never backed down, squaring up to his big brother wasn’t unusual and certainly wasn’t the first time they’d been at odds on how to handle something. Joel’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

“It’s been two months Tommy...two months of this and it ain’t getting better any time soon. This ain’t your problem so just back off!” He hissed between gritted teeth.

“You can’t just push me away Joel, I want to help. I’m trying but you’re just being so damn stubborn.”

“Then leave, I didn’t ask you to babysit me. And I sure as hell don’t need you sticking around outta guilt.” The words stopped Tommy dead.

“What?”

“I might not remember what happened but I know enough from what you told me about Boston...You survived because of me. All those years I took care of us. Just like when we were kids. So what? You feel like you owe me? You gotta take your turn to take care of me now? You can keep it baby brother because I don’t want it. And I didn’t ask for it.” The words spit venom with every ounce of bitterness Joel had in him. And Tommy felt his lip snarl in response. The ungrateful bastard; he thought coldly, after everything he’d done to keep his brother alive on the way back to Jackson after the Fireflies had almost beaten him to death and this was what he had to say in response.

“How do I know the people who did this weren’t after you. I mean they did a pretty good number on you too right? Big brother to the rescue to save your sorry ass; yet again! You think I want to live like this?! Huh?! Trapped in a life of a man I don’t even know. A house full of memories I can’t even goddamn remember!”

That was it, Tommy was done. Joel was frustrated and angry, he knew that. He understood that. Of course he did. But to blame him for this?! How the hell was that fair? His hands shook in pure anger, chest heaving as he held back his punches as much as he could. He stumbled away from the door. His trembling hand reaching up and running through his beard in a poor attempt to calm himself.

“You know what screw you! Screw you Joel! You wanna give up, you wanna feel sorry for yourself? Fine! I’m done. You give up on your family-”

“Family?! What damn family? There’s no one left Tommy! Sarah is gone!”

“She ain’t the only one you got!” Tommy cut off without thinking. Joel’s face dropping at his brother's outburst. The younger man’s eyes widened in shock as he realised what he’d said. But it was too late to take it back now. And Tommy knew that. They both did. Perhaps now was the time to tell the truth.

“You want to know who your family is Joel? Take a look in your damn attic.”

Tommy uttered the words into the thick silence left between the two men. Before turning on his heel to leave, never giving Joel a chance to answer. Leaving the man to stew in his confession. He just hoped that somehow...Ada could forgive him for this.

#joel miller #last of us joel #the last of us part 2 #The last of us part ii #ellie williams #joel and ellie #joel x oc #joel x reader #fanfiction #StarlessSkies writes

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misssophiachase · 4 years ago

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You Make My Heart Smile

So, happy (belated) birthday, Tina @tnapki Your edits make me smile (pardon the pun) and I wanted to thank you for that and everything you bring to the fandom.

I based it on your GORGEOUS EDIT

I also made it about food cause it’s SO you. On AO3 HERE

Also thanks to the gorgeous Kait @an-awesome-wavve for being amazing and my part brainstorm, part beta, part researcher and part undercover partner in crime.

Renowned Chef Klaus Mikaelson has a bad reputation until he meets food blogger Caroline Forbes and has no idea how to handle her or the unfamiliar feelings she evokes, especially that annoying ability to make him smile.

3 May - Alinea - 1723 N. Halsted St, Chicago IL - 3pm

“I’m not going to do some stupid interview, you know I have other, more important things to do, right?”

Klaus Mikaelson didn’t do interviews. He didn’t need to because his accomplishments spoke for themselves. He hadn’t slogged away in kitchens since he was twelve and worked his way through culinary school and some of the best restaurants to waste his time.

Being a world-renowned chef owning not one, but four, three-Michelin-starred restaurants across the globe meant he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

But yet here she was running his life.

Still.

“Like yell at me? I mean, you’ve been doing that since we were little so I guess it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before. ”

“I knew I should have never mixed business and family,” he snapped. “You always throw our childhood back in my face as an excuse to insult my life choices.”

“Because it’s too easy not to,” she pouted, flicking a stray, blonde lock over her shoulder. “And, while I am unfortunately related to your sorry ass, I am also your publicist and this interview is good for your career.”

“I don’t need publicity.”

“Correction, you do need publicity,” she argued, her fork now attacking the very veal he’d cooked with more fervour than needed.

“Easy on the product, little sister,” Klaus growled, his protectiveness for his art on full display.

“Oh, silly me I thought it was already dead,” she shot back, tartly. “And before you interrupted, I was going to say that, yes maybe you shouldn’t need publicity given your career achievements, but that was before you dropped an entree on the food critic’s lap from the Chicago Tribune, fired your sous chef in front of the entire restaurant and insulted Gordon Ramsey on national television.”

“Ramsey is a sell out, I stand by my comments,” he muttered. “The critic had it coming and, now you mention it, so too did that sorry excuse for a sous chef.”

“You realise people call you the angry chef, right?”

“Better than the naked chef I suppose.” He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Klaus wasn’t in the business for gimmicks or to secure his own cooking program. He took his food seriously and there was nothing wrong with that.

“At least people like Jamie Oliver,” she replied, arching her eyebrows knowingly. “Anyway, there’s no point in arguing because she’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just schedule an interview without my permission?”

1717 N. Halsted St, 3:10pm

“What’s with the expression of impending doom, Care Bear?” He asked, lugging his camera equipment as they walked up the block toward Alinea.

“What have I told you about calling me that?”

“Not to do it but it’s too fun not to, Care Bear.” Given his general maturity level, Caroline decided it was a losing battle and she had more important things on her mind.

“Anyway, it’s not doom,” she muttered. “It’s just the overwhelming desire not to do this interview but given I don’t want to get fired and also pay my rent, there’s no other option.”

“Is someone afraid of the angry chef?”

“Oh, puh-lease, I’m not afraid. Although, I might not be able to bite my tongue if he decides to insult me like he did Gordon Ramsey.”

Caroline wasn’t one to judge but his indiscretions were well-known and well-documented. Although, chefs with egos weren’t an entirely new phenomenon to the industry or to Caroline given interviewing them was her job.

“You and I both know Ramsey deserved that dressing down, if anything Mikaelson earned my respect that day.” Caroline couldn’t argue with that.

Although this one was another kind of beast.

The effortlessly attractive kind.

For Caroline, this was an unsettling prospect. Until she reminded herself why she was here in the first place.

Caroline loved food. Sometimes, she thought, more than life itself.

So, when she became a food blogger after graduating with a journalism degree from Northwestern, it wasn’t a surprise. She was currently the senior blogger at popular food blog Delicious.

“You love food and writing about it,” Was Enzo reading her mind? “How about instead of focusing on the negative, remember that this will be your biggest interview yet. Think about all of the exposure this will garner.”

The upper echelons of Delicious had decided that an interview with Klaus Mikaelson would be a big scoop. Caroline was all for interviewing chefs about their food and the passion behind it but she knew her editor wanted something less about his craft and more about his bad boy reputation.

“Yes, but I want to write about food, not produce tabloid fodder.”

“Just think, once you do this then maybe you’ll have enough of a following to start your own blog and write what you want and not what someone tells you to do.”

“Mmmm, you do have a point.”

“Of course I do because Enzo knows everything. Also, take me with you because you’d be lost without me, sweetcheeks.”

“Third person, huh? That ego of yours knows no bounds, Lorenzo.”

“You know it, Care Bear,” he joked, flashing his most dazzling smile. “Well, looks like we’re here.”

“Looks like it,” she murmured, noting the intimidating sign overhead and wondering what she’d gotten herself into. “Here goes nothing.”

3:15pm

“Caroline Forbes?”

“You must be Rebekah and this is my photographer Lorenzo St John.”

Klaus, who’d been throwing a temper tantrum not one minute ago, found himself looking up into the blue eyes of one Caroline Forbes. Suddenly, all of the white noise of the moment fell away and it was just the two of them in the room together and the blonde in question was looking at him expectantly.

It was paralysing.

But good paralysing he decided.

“Nik?” Rebekah questioned. Now they were both looking at him. Had he zoned out and not realised it? Well, if so, this was all kinds of embarrassing. “Caroline is the senior blogger for Delicious and she’s here for that interview, you know the one we talked about earlier?”

Yeah, ten minutes earlier, he thought to himself doing everything he could not to bite back in front of the new arrival.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr Mikaelson, I have to say I’m a big fan of your…”

“Look, it’s not going to be possible, I have to prep for dinner service,” he lied, although regretted it immediately when he noticed her expression. Klaus wasn’t used to being nice, it wasn’t in his DNA and usually it didn’t bother him.

Until now.

Klaus decided to blame it on the foreign feelings she was causing. As soon as he got some distance between them it would be fine, especially that vanilla scent he couldn’t ignore given it was infiltrating his first line of defence.

Klaus liked women, in fact he slept with many when his busy schedule permitted, but that was sex and nothing else. Just the way he liked it, easy and unemotional.

“Why don’t we multitask then? I’m happy to help. ” Her voice was light and melodic. Klaus was hoping it wasn’t going to sound so enticing. He also wasn’t expecting that response. “I worked in a restaurant kitchen for years, I can do dishes, polish cutlery and peel a mean potato and an onion, well almost without crying.”

Why was he buoyed by that ridiculous statement and increasingly trying not to flash her a goofy smile?

Klaus didn’t smile. He just didn’t. Ever.

This wasn’t how he saw his day going at all. He was going to kill Rebekah. Before he could reply, the current subject of his ire spoke.

“That sounds like a fantastic idea,” she grinned. “How about Lorenzo and I make ourselves scarce then?”

“It’s actually Enzo, darling, you sound a bit too much like my mother and my oppressive boss Care Bear here.”

Klaus hadn’t even realised there was someone else in the room up until this point but it was clear Caroline wasn’t too impressed by his nickname or the oppressive part. Maybe they had more in common than he thought?

Care Bear. Klaus thought it was adorable. Then he could feel it, that idiotic urge to smile again.

Before he could object again, Rebekah had made a quick exit with the photographer and she was just standing there. Klaus could feel the awkward tension between them and knowing he’d caused it wasn’t helping matters. But he didn’t know any other way to act.

Then the words he’d struggled with just tumbled out.

“How do you feel about fish?”

Not the most suave topic or question but this was his ‘uncomfort’ zone.

“Depends on the context.”

“The context?”

“I mean, if you think I can clean, fillet and debone a fish, you’ve obviously overestimated my cooking talents.”

Klaus had to practically eat the smile that was threatening to appear. Again.

“Everyone has to start somewhere and get their hands a bit dirty, otherwise what’s the point?” He advised. “But, if you don’t want to then…”

“Oh, I never back away from a challenge, chef,” she promised.

Again, the pesky smile was hovering just beneath the surface.

Leading her towards the kitchen, Klaus told himself that preparing a fish was definitely going to keep his emotions at bay and also block out that perfume which was throwing him off balance.

4:45pm

“Why do I feel like this was a ploy to distract me from my interview?” Caroline asked, dipping the fish into egg wash and then flour as instructed by her cooking mentor for the day..

This was not how she saw her day going. It was surreal to say the least. This guy was supposed to be an ogre but Caroline was realising he was something else entirely.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shot back. “But you filleted that fish like a professional, maybe you’ve missed your true calling?”

“I suppose I had a semi-good teacher,” she admitted wryly.

“Wow, tell me what you really think, Forbes.”

Caroline was trying not to to get too caught up in the moment but Klaus Mikaelson had challenged every judgment she’d ever harboured about the temperamental chef. He’d been unusually kind and patient.

The one thing she’d noticed was that his overall demeanour didn’t match his expression.

He didn’t smile.

Not once.

A few times, Caroline could swear it was close or maybe she was just imagining it?

“So, why do you like food?” It was a question she wasn’t expecting. Especially seeing as she was the interviewer and him her subject.

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be asking you?” He was silent for a moment, almost like he was contemplating it. “But I get the impression you don’t like that question much?”

“I’d much prefer to hear your story first, call it a warm-up.” Clearly he was nervous and Caroline was happy to oblige if it helped.

“My grandmother,” she smiled knowingly, visions of her nana filling her head. “When I was younger I’d go to her house most weekends and we’d cook together. She could make anything and everything. She died last year and it’s been tough without her but at least I still have those memories.”

Caroline didn’t mean to get personal, especially with the so-called “angry chef” but for some reason she felt nothing but comfort in his presence, even if he didn’t smile.

“What was her specialty?”

“Banana cream cheesecake,” she smiled, the taste of it rushing back in all its delicious glory.

“Hard to beat,” he murmured. “Have you ever eaten a Bananas Foster? My restaurant in New Orleans does a modern version over flame. According to my maitre’d there’ve apparently been a few proposals over dessert.”

“Over your dessert?”

“Someone sounds dubious. Let’s just say it’s fireworks but without the danger. Well, unless the tablecloth is accidentally set on fire but the fire department down there are pretty good first responders I understand.”

“I just didn’t take you for the romantic dessert type.”

“I suppose there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me then.”

“So, why do you like food then?”

“Well, of course I like food, I wouldn’t be a chef otherwise,” he shared, moving swiftly in behind her and taking the fillets from her hand and placing them in the hot pan, Caroline was trying not to react to his touch or that welcoming and heady mixture of sandalwood, spices and soap . “But one interview isn’t going to even begin to answer that question.”

He had a point and Caroline knew it. How could you sum up what food meant to you in one interview?

“So, what exactly are you trying to say? I do have a deadline to meet.”

“How about we schedule a follow-up interview tomorrow morning? Dinner service is imminent and if you stay I’m going to have to ask you to do more than fillet a fish. My pastry chef Lucien is also very needy, requires constant gratification, and you don’t want to be on the receiving end of that.”

“Not gonna lie I’m intrigued and by that I’m talking about Lucien. Did you insult his choux pastry or something?”

“Not if I want my patrons to eat dessert this century. But, if you insist on staying, there’s a whole pile of onions there with your name on it and we can call it even.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He raised his left eyebrow by way of response. Caroline was trying to ignore just how good he looked, even if there was no smile forthcoming.

“Fine,” she conceded. “Tomorrow morning but that’s it otherwise my editor might fire me.”

“Great, let’s make it 10:30, you can poach an egg, right? And I also expect extra crispy bacon.”

Caroline knew she was possibly in trouble and not because he was tasking her with cooking. Enzo would also parrot that particular concern but she couldn’t help herself.

Today was probably the best day she’d had in a long time and she didn’t want it to end. She told herself that she’d return tomorrow and get her interview, that’s all she wanted from him, right?

4 May - Alinea - 1723 N. Halsted St, Chicago IL - 11am

Klaus Mikaelson was in uncharted territory.

That’s what scared him the most.

Caroline Forbes was seated across from him at his best, window table in jeans and a cream sweater, her plate empty and a very full but satisfied look on her face. Klaus decided to add that to his favourite expressions file. It was fast filling up and he’d only known her for 20 hours.

He wasn’t this guy.

At all.

But she’d consumed his thoughts since their first meeting and all night through dinner service and beyond. He’d barely slept, but it wasn’t a bad thing. He’d been looking forward to seeing her as soon as she left.

The only problem? Not smiling because it was that difficult when she was in his presence. He had his reasons of course.

“So, why do you love food? And no arguments given I poached a mean egg and also let you have a reprieve yesterday.”

“The bacon could use some work, just saying.”

“Well, you’re more than welcome to cook itself yourself, Mikaelson. Are you always such a critic? Last time I checked that was my job. Also enough with the distractions. So?”

“My mum,” he admitted quietly, even if it took a minute or so to verbalise. For some reason her opening up about her grandmother had filled him with courage. He didn’t do feelings or talk about them for that matter. “She cooked with me practically from birth until she got too sick last year.”

Those last words wobbled, it was unfortunate as it was expected. He’d struggled for a long time and losing his mother had been difficult.

“What was her specialty?” Klaus recognised the question he’d asked himself yesterday, but the fact her hand squeezed his at the same time filled him with the confidence and warmth he needed.

“Rosemary braised lamb shanks, it was her favourite protein. I’ve tried to pay homage on all my menus since.”

‘So, that explains the Saddle of Elysian Fields Farm Lamb with Babaganoush, Romano Beans and Harissa Jus on your menu then?”

“You’ve done your homework clearly?”

“That and the fact it’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, and I have to say it’s really nice.”

Klaus didn’t even realise he’d let it slip but suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t want to hide it, not with her.

“She used to tell me to smile all the time because I was too serious, you could say it’s something I’ve battled with ever since she passed.”

“All the more reason to smile, even just to introduce those dimples to the general public. Has anyone ever told you they should come with a warning?”

“No, but more than happy to discuss further.”

“If only, but I have to get going.” Klaus felt almost deflated that she was leaving as quickly as she’d arrived. Maybe he’d shared too much. “Deadlines and all that. But if you could just consult the email I sent confirming the details of our interview that would be great.”

Klaus felt disillusioned, he’d opened himself up to someone and she was running away. She was out the door before he could even move from his seat. Checking his emails was the last thing he felt like doing, but his hand went to work on his cell checking it anyway and dreadfully waiting for its contents.

“As of three minutes ago, I no longer working for Delicious. It wanted a story I wasn’t prepared to write. I like your smile and dimples too much and I also want a Bananas Foster.”

His chest constricted as he read each word and his grin was unmistakable. It didn’t take long for him to reply.

“You make my heart smile.”

Tabloids would report months later that famed food blogger Caroline Forbes married famed chef Klaus Mikaelson in rural England after proposing over a dessert of Bananas Foster in New Orleans.

#you make my heart smile #happy birthday #tnapki #klaroline fanfiction #misssophiachase

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basicjetsetter · 4 years ago

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Part II

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death, Depression, Triggering Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt

▹ Words: 3k

▹ A/N: ATTENTION! This is an emotionally heavy part. Please DO NOT READ if you know you will be affected. For those struggling with depression, I see you, I care for you, and I love you. You’re not alone and you are undeniably worthy of love.

-Five Years and Twenty Nine Days Later-

You don’t want to get up.

Your phone’s alarm clock is rounding on its tenth circuit, if your counting is correct… and there’s a good chance you blanked out for fifteen minutes while watching a strip of sunlight lethargically inch down your blanket to the foot of the bed, so your number may be off by six or seven.

It’s not that you’re tired or anything, or maybe you are and that’s beside the point. It’s just that your bed is far too comfortable for your own good and you know today is Saturday, the busiest day at Hal’s Diner, and it just so happens you’re scheduled for an 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. brunch rush. If you had a choice, you’d stay in bed.

But you don’t. And you’re running twenty minutes late… for the fourth time in two weeks.

I’ve got you.

Shut the fuck up.

You wearily snarl, snatching your pillow out from under your head and slamming it against your face, uselessly stuffing it over your ears as if that would somehow miraculously block out the words.

Usually, the voice stayed quiet. After three years of the repeated promise drifting around your brain like a lost ship at sea, you had finally figured out how to anchor it to the deepest, darkest, most unchartered recess of your mind. Every now and then, though, they’d find a way to rattle the chains, just to remind you of their eternal presence, but it never lasted long. You didn’t acknowledge them anymore. They no longer fooled you.

But, twenty-nine days ago, something reinvigorated the voice, giving them a renewed sense of purpose and a reason to break free.

Twenty-nine days ago, on the exact anniversary of their disappearance, everyone came back.

Out of the blue, in the middle of the day, all of the people Earth mourned for five years reappeared to a very, very stunned world. Celebration rocked the streets of New York and all over the globe. Lovers lost returned. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Babies. Friends. They all came back. And the voice in your head broke free of its chains, rampantly bouncing around your mind as if they were on pure steroids, ready to charge forward and find the one your Destined Words belonged to.

Everything reverted back to normal.

Except, besides your newly released Destined Words, nothing changed for you.

You weren’t there when… when your best friend rematerialized in your previous apartment. You moved to a smaller, modestly priced place six blocks away. It was great for what little money you had, and your landlords, a lovely couple that always leaves you a present outside your door for Christmas and birthdays, were generous enough to accommodate for your lack of funds.

You just couldn’t keep your parents’ apartment. Not when you knew they weren’t coming back.

No one ever speaks about the casualties of the ones lost that day, the ones who perished from the effects of the blip. For a long time, you just couldn’t cope with the fact that a swerving hit from a rogue truck whose driver turned to dust was all it took to take your parents away. But you had to move on.

Ever since that day five years ago, you’ve been on your own.

You’re sure your friend tried looking for you by now, continually calling up a retired cellphone number, searching through deleted social media accounts, maybe even asking your old high school for your whereabouts to no avail. Even though you’re not far from home, she’d never find you.

You don’t want to be found. You like being alone.

With a great, gusty sigh, you roll out of bed, grab some clothes and undergarments, then pad to the bathroom, ignoring the chiming circuit of your alarm clock. It can wait. You go through the motions: washing up, putting your hair in its regular bun, brushing your teeth, and staring at your unaged face in the spotted mirror.

It’s not vanity, though it’s common knowledge that your features will be impervious to aging for a long while. You literally haven’t aged a single day since the blip.

It was an intriguing phenomenon after the first two years. Everyone your age who had heard their Destined Words but had yet to meet their Soulmate just stopped aging, and when the younger generation hit the age of eighteen, they stopped aging as well. For some, like you, the effect was felt rather than seen. Ever since the string inside you snapped, you knew that cosmic time would stand still until you connected with your other soul. You’re not holding your breath for that anytime soon.

As you step out of the steam-filled bathroom, your alarm blares out its last chime before switching to the Vmm Vmm Vmm of an incoming call.

You pick up on the sixth ring. “Good morning, Hal.”

“This is the fourth—”

“The fourth time. I know, I know. I’m on my way.”

Hal grunts into the receiver, “Don’t get smart with me, little lady. Just because you’re my best server doesn’t mean I won’t fire you.”

That’s precisely what that means, and he knows you know it. You blow out a sigh, “I’m seriously almost out the door. Like two steps.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, a hint of a grin in his quizzical noise. “Well, hightail it, would’ya? The joint’s packed already and I need all hands on deck, so scoot.”

“Scooting,” you confirm, snagging your bag off of your sofa and grabbing your keys. “Who’s with me today?” Please don’t say Wendy. Please don’t say Wendy.

“Chris and Wendy.”

You groan as you shut the door behind you. “Come on, Hal. She’s dead weight in the morning. I might as well be working with a zombie in an apron.”

Hal grumps, “At least the zombie gets here on time.”

“Have you had coffee yet? You’re not you when you’re decaffeinated.” It’s true. Even with your truancy, Hal wouldn’t hold it over your head more than twice. He’s usually as chipper as a dog in a dog park at this time, bustling and joking up a storm.

He takes a loud sip, then says, “We’re slammed, is all, and I’m missing my best hand.” Two disgruntled heys ring in the background and Hal immediately issues apologies. “Just get here, will ya?”

Before you can remind him again that you are on your way, he disconnects the call.

You’re wondering if it’s too late to go back to bed.

The little, infamous family diner is only seven blocks south of your apartment building, a nice walk when the weather’s good and a pain in the ass when it’s not. You used to enjoy the quiet mornings and the stillness that came with it, but ever since things went back to normal, you can’t survive the walk without a pair of headphones jammed in your ears and your music’s volume turned all the way up. Everyone’s just so… loud.

Thankfully, today, the walk is a straight shot and you’re in the doors within fifteen minutes.

It’s like stepping into a den full of ravenous animals. Worse, it’s like stepping into a den full of ravenous animals and being stuck with the task of serving them.

“Look who’s finally decided to show up,” Wendy chides, stifling a yawn as she shuffles to a table and places down three menus. She’s twenty-two years old and likes setting your teeth on edge.

You deadpan, “Did the cat drag you in from the front door or the back?”

“Knock it off, you two,” warns Chris, walking by with two arms balancing four plates of the Sunrise Breakfast Special. He looks at you, then jerks his chin back to the kitchen. “Boss is about to blow his top.”

Nodding, you make your way to the back, giving a small wave to some regulars. Out of breath and sweat running down his reddened neck, Hal is moving like a man caught in a whirlwind, flipping eggs and pancakes and sausages and hash browns and bacon while checking orders and filling plates. As soon as he hears the kitchen door close and sees you, he visibly sags in relief.

“Don’t bother clocking in. Just put your apron on and get out there.”

You nod. Set down your things. Put on your apron. Arrange a plastic smile.

Go through the motions.

It’s all the same thing every single day. Wake up, work, school, sleep. Repeat. Unlike the other constants, school is something you’re temporarily trying out. It wasn’t your original plan, the whole four years to a bachelor’s degree, then some more years for a master’s. You gave that up long ago. Right now, you’re just taking a free weekend art class at a community college. Oddly enough, it’s something you’re beginning to look forward to on Saturdays and Sundays.

Work, while you’re great at what you do, is never a highlight.

Hal was right. The diner is slammed, and you’re swept up in the current of rude, demanding customers, snide remarks from Wendy, cheerful shrugs from Chris, and barking orders from Hal for six whole hours. You work through your two fifteen-minute breaks. No one reminds you. You slip on spilled hash browns. No one helps you. You bring back a plate three times to satisfy a customer who kept finding fault with their eggs. No one thanks you.

Everything is back to normal.

I’ve got you.

“Fuck off,” you snap, slapping a hand to your mouth when you see the elderly woman you’re serving knit her brows in revulsion. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m-I’m sorry, I was—”

She stands and marches out of the diner before you could explain, snatching her ten-dollar tip off the table.

“… talking to myself,” you finish under your breath.

She’s the last of the brunch rush, leaving only the regular afternoon crowd and a few stragglers. The clock near the cash register reads 2:13 p.m.

You brush off the disappointment of a lost tip and head to the kitchen to grab your things and leave, Chris and Wendy following you. Hal’s two other workers, the ones here till closing, cover the floor well. Not like they had much to do.

Hal is whistling a jaunty tune when you walk in, stopping to salute you, Chris, and Wendy with an exhausted grin. “Nice work out there, you guys. See you tomorrow.”

Wendy is out the door the instant she clocks out.

Chris catches your arm as you grab your bag from your small locker. “Hey, um, I sort of heard your little outburst, and I was wondering if you were okay.”

You nod, gently shrugging his hand off. “Yeah, it’s just a tip. I made enough.”

“No, not that,” he shakes his head, clearing his throat and pushing a hand through his choppy beach-blond hair. He ineptly bends his head down a little, getting close enough for a private conversation you do not want to have. “It’s just… you’ve done that before and I just want to make sure everything’s alright with you.”

You can’t put the plastic smile back on, he’s seen it too many times to know it’s not real, so you half-heartedly grin. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, anytime. Hey, so, me and a couple friends are hanging out tonight. There’s gonna be a music festival in Cunningham Park. Wanna hang?”

Chris tries this every week. At first, you thought it was his bashful attempt at asking you out, but he’s a happily taken man with a big heart and a lot of friends. Every customer he meets, boom, they’re friends and soon loyal customers of Hal’s. It’s a gift. You just wish he caught your not-so-subtle hints of evasion.

Tonight, though, you had the perfect excuse. “Can’t. I got class.”

He tilts his head in confusion. “On a Saturday night?”

“Yeah. It’s a free course. Get it where I can take it, you know,” you awkwardly laugh, hoping Chris wasn’t offended as you take a couple of steps back towards the exit.

His smile doesn’t falter. “Maybe next time, then.”

Not likely. “Sure, yeah. See you later.”

You duck out before he says goodbye, dashing out the front door and speed-walking home.

I’ve got you.

You stop dead in the middle of a sidewalk.

Where did that come from? It’s never said it three times in a row before. Does… does that mean something?

Your breath quickens at the thought, and you spin around, scanning the vacant street. You’re the only one occupying the sidewalk, you and a curious squirrel sniffing at the crisp air. There’s not a person in sight. When you’re certain you’re in the clear, pivoting a glance around one more time for good measure, you pick up the pace, practically running the rest of the way home.

Once you’re in your apartment and the door shuts, you desperately whisper to your mind, “Don’t say it anymore. I don’t want them, okay? I don’t want a Soulmate.”

Nothing.

“I know you hear me,” you bite out aloud, forcefully shoving back the urge to yell. “Stop saying the words.”

Still nothing.

Silence rings hollow in your mind like the voice is waiting for your temper to cool down. Like it knew it upset you and felt chastened enough to back off and take a time out in a corner.

You stand immobile in the middle of your cramped sitting area. Tense. Waiting. Waiting longer than you care to admit. The urge to fight deserts you as quick as it comes, but you’re still standing there with your fists balled up, feeling more and more defeated as the minutes drain away.

The voice isn’t going to leave you alone. You know that. It’s here to serve one purpose, and the only thing holding it up is you. You’re meant to meet whoever those words belong to… but then what? They magically fix you? They love you back to normal? Five years ago, you may have believed they can do that. But, the problem is, you’ve gone through enough life-altering events in the last five years to last you a lifetime, and this one person, this person destined to pair with your soul, won’t be your wave-of-a-wand solution.

You just want it to stop.

I’ve got you.

A lone tear slides down your cheek as you trek to your bed and climb in fully clothed.

For a long time, you simply stare up at the ceiling as the tears leak out the corners of your eyes. You make no noise, and your chest doesn’t jerk up and down with sobs. The tears gather, and then they fall. Gather and fall. Gather and fall until there are no tears left. You continue staring at the ceiling.

You think back to the days when those godforsaken words and the future they foretold brought you happiness. What a wonderful promise, pairing with someone who will always be there for you in some capacity and will instantly love you. You can’t recall any Soulmate story not working out. Maybe they just never speak about it. Why mar the fantasy?

The sun dipped below the horizon a while ago, and now the moon shines bright in the night sky. You missed your art class.

Your body is as stiff as a board when you sit up. There’s a tight pounding in your forehead, either from crying or lack of food, but you aren’t bothered enough to deal with it. Instead, you move to the only window in your room and pull back the curtains to gaze at the stars. Not many are out yet, but they glitter like gems around the moon, and the night sky nears a lovely shade of midnight blue.

The sight is so pretty; you find yourself grabbing a couple of paint bottles, brushes, and a small canvass, then heading out of your apartment, walking up six flights of stairs to reach the roof.

It’s quiet when you get up there, save for the noise of zooming cars below. The first time you came up on the roof, just out of curiosity, you loved how solitary it felt, loved the view overlooking the building-strewn skyline and the overall height of the complex. It became a nice place to visit when you wanted to be by yourself.

You walk over to the edge of the building, sitting your supplies down on the ledge, then look up at the sky for the best angle to capture the moon and the stars.

The sky is vast. So endless. So open. So free. You stop scoping out for the perfect angle and just admire the shining moon when your eyes land on it. It’s waning, only a sliver of its surface visible as it prepares to transition into a New Moon. Then you gaze at the stars as they dimly twinkle back at you… like they can see right through you.

Like they can see your sadness.

You step closer to the ledge, each step laden with the weight of smothered grief. You lost everyone. Your parents. Manda. She’d never recognize the person you’ve become.

You step onto the ledge, not looking down but up, trying to memorize the image.

You lost your Soulmate. That broken string in your chest never felt the same, even after everyone came back. Maybe you were too far gone for any connection.

You turn around. You’d thought you’d feel numb, but acceptance fills you. It’s okay to let go.

You lower your eyes, slowly lean back, and let gravity take over.

Air sails past your ears in a rush as you fall, and you can’t really focus on anything except your erratic heartbeat. You don’t struggle as your body wants. You just fall and wait.

And then, in a sudden flash of red and blue, you’re propelling sideways and swinging upwards, a strong arm pressing you against a hard chest.

“I’ve got you.”

As soon as he said the words, you knew who they belonged to, as if you knew this entire time. Even with the mask covering his face, you knew. But it still doesn’t stop you from incredulously saying, “Peter?”

His masked face snaps to yours. A small part of you tries to pin his surprise on you correctly guessing his identity, but something bigger assures you the reason for his alarm is a match to your own.

He knows you’re his Soulmate.

...

Part III

#peter parker #peter parker au #peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x #peter parker soulmate au #soulmate au #spider-man x reader #spider-man x black!reader #marvel fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker angst #slow burn #black!reader

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hadtochangemyurlquick · 4 years ago

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it’s work in progress wednesday so here’s a little goodfoe one shot that i can’t decide if i like and is mostly just me exploring leah and shelby’s relationship. also there’s some religion in there that i’m sure i fucked up.

Shelby doesn’t remember the dream, but she wakes to Toni’s arm thrown over her, reaching for Shelby’s phone as she attempts to hit the snooze alarm.

She spends most of the morning feeling queasy, a little nauseous, as Toni spends most of the morning exchanging grunts with her and muddling through coffee. It’s half past nine when Toni is awake enough, presses her arms around Shelby, kisses her neck. Toni’s arms have always, instinctively, made Shelby relax, like her body knows it’s safe.

Her skin feels like its falling off in awful flakes and she can barely breathe when she pushes Toni away.

“Um—”

“Would you give me some space? Jesus Christ, I can’t have a minute to myself?”

“Uh—” Toni reaches out a hand and Shelby finds herself in a corner, rock and a hard place, burning up.

“Don’t touch me!”

Toni flinches, “I just—”

Shelby pushes past her, eight steps to the bathroom in this tiny damned apartment, and upchucks in the toilet.

“Show me your ways, Lord, teach me your paths. Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long.”

She is only spitting up bile now, Toni is calling her name. The door is locked.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

She’s trapped, she’s trapped, she’s trapped. She made the wrong choice, everything is falling apart, her skin is flaking off.

"But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come.”

Shelby leans against the wall, closes her eyes as she feels her stomach gracefully settle, now empty. The bitter taste along her mouth lingers, and she doesn’t realize she’s praying.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.” And ever. And ever. And ever.

She is trapped here, and it’s ruined.

The pounding at the door has stopped, Shelby gets to her feet.

Toni almost falls through the door when Shelby opens it, her eyes are wide and red rimmed.

“I’m going out,” Shelby tells her. “Don’t follow me.”

“Shelby wait—”

The apartment is so small Toni doesn’t have time to finish her sentence before Shelby makes a jailbreak, she’s wearing house shoes, and it’s freezing outside but what should she expect it’s Minnesota?

God, what in the world is she doing in a tiny ass town in rural Minnesota?

Her skin is baked, she’s so hot, it’s flaking off, joining that mushy gray slush on the ground that Toni told her will stick around through March.

“Hey girl hey! You’re on speakerphone with Dot in the car, because I am driving because that is all you fuckin do in LA,” Fatin answered on the first ring.

“My skin is flaking off,” Shelby says. And then, to specify, “I can’t breathe and I’m dying and it’s too hot and I think my fingers are turning blue.”

“Hey, breathe with me okay, it’s going to be—”

Shelby hangs up.

The entire world is falling apart, she’s trapped and she’s nothing, and she’s going to die and die alone for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and

“Hey,” Leah picks up on the fifth ring.

“Leah,” Shelby sobs, the name a prayer, a lifeline. “It’s ruined, everything is ruined, I’m trapped and my skin is flaking off and I’m dying and I can’t breathe and—and—and—and—”

Someone sobbing interrupts her and she’s relieved to realize it’s not Leah.

“Are you around anything sharp?” Leah asks.

Shelby blinks, she looks around, “No.”

“What about a body of water?”

“No.”

“Any motor ways?”

“Maybe a five minute walk?”

“Okay, are you sitting?”

Shelby nods, realizes Leah can’t see that, “Yes.”

“You need to stand up,” Shelby stands. “Stand in the opposite direction of the road, and start walking.” Shelby starts walking. “Your skin isn’t falling off, you aren’t dying, you’re breathing, nothing is ruined, you aren’t trapped.”

“My skin isn’t falling off, I’m not dying, I’m breathing, nothing is ruined, I’m not trapped.”

“Stop running,” Leah tells her and Shelby hadn’t realized she had started. “Nothing is chasing you.”

“Nothing is chasing me.”

She doesn’t believe the words but she and Leah have played this game before, the only way to win is by playing the game again, some different day.

“Did I wake you up? The time difference—I always forget.”

“No,” Leah says. “I haven’t slept since I got the restraining order.”

Shelby nods. “I want that man in prison for you, Leah.”

“I know you do.” And every time someone says something like that to her it always sounds like Leah comes a little closer to believing the sentiment herself.

Shelby is still walking, she might walk until her feet hurt, or her bad ankle feels like it wants to fall off.

“Was it a nightmare?” Leah asks.

“You know I still pray,” Shelby says. “I prayed so often for so long it’s like—it’s instinct, it’s like my brain just goes there when I’m struggling like a reflex. Only sometimes I’ll be praying and repeating the words and I don’t even believe them. And I’m just sitting there in my prayer wondering where the hell I go from here. Maybe I do go to hell.”

Leah hums.

“I don’t think I’m okay, Leah,” Shelby confides. “I still felt safer than I ever have on that damn island.”

“I hate my therapist, I hate that it’s working, that I don’t obsess over things in the same way, that I can feel myself changing and I’m afraid of this new person. At least I knew who I was on the island.”

“That’s not who you are,” Shelby argues. “This is who you are. This person, who I’m talking to right now.”

Leah is quiet for a long time, she always is. She always plans her words a million years in advance, especially during these calls.

“Do you really feel trapped?”

Shelby wants to cry again, “No.”

“What do you feel?”

“Like I’m on the edge of a cliff and I don’t know which side is solid ground.”

“Was it a nightmare?” Leah asks again, because neither let the other get away with anything for very long.

“I think so.”

“You’re not gonna die if you fall off the cliff,” Leah tells her. Shelby swallows hard. “I’m telling the truth.”

“You promise?”

“Train wrecks unite,” Leah tells her. “Now call Toni.”

She hangs up, and Shelby opens her phone to a million missed calls from everyone. She blocks them all and calls Toni.

“Hey,” Her voice is breathless. “Where are you?”

Shelby looks around, “I don’t—” her voice breaks, she tries to muffle a sob, “Toni, I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, hey that’s okay. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Toni keeps talking to her as Shelby hears her leave the apartment, start the pickup they bought from Martha’s mom for cheap, drive down that old highway with the potholes from the winter the city refuses to acknowledge. There’s some breaking of branches, before Toni is behind her. Toni comes up slow but Shelby falls into her, terrified.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s shaking in Toni’s arms and Toni just tightens up on her,

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done—

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the worst person on the planet,” Shelby whispers, “just for loving you. Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating God, just because I’m happy. Sometimes I feel like there is no God and I’ve been cheated, and whoever I am just crumbles into nothing. I don’t know if I am anyone anymore, I don’t know why you’re with me.”

—on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

“I feel like the whole world is spinning on one axis, and I’m spinning on the other,” Shelby finishes.

Toni finally pulls away, hands still on Shelby’s biceps, Shelby still shaking under them.

“I’m with you because I love you,” Toni says. “What else is there?”

And there’s nothing else, is there?

When it all was stripped away, their hygiene and the fluoride in their water supply, their history and their secrets and their family and their responsibilities to everything but basic survival—all that was left was love. Love for each other, and their lives back home, and for the dead, and the world, and a hundred other things they hadn’t loved since they were little. Like the way the sky looks just before sunset, or the way it smells after it rains, and chocolate chip cookies their mom made for them after they got home from school. Like old people struggling to carry their grocery bags, or the kids with cancer when those ads came on the TV to donate, or the homeless man that always smiled at them.

That was all that was left, that love. And the love for each other.

There is no intrinsic reason why Shelby should love Dot and Fatin, or Rachel or Leah. There is no reason why she should love Nora and Martha. There is no reason why she should love her parents, her siblings. There is no reason why she should love Becca Gilroy.

There is no reason why she should love Toni Shalifoe.

But there is a reason, isn’t there? She loves Toni because she loves her.

Maybe Leah was right, that falling off a cliff won’t kill her. That’s faith isn’t it? Trust, blindly, openly, love because you love.

“I can’t walk home,” Shelby says. “My ankle it—”

“I’ve got you,” Toni says.

She does.

#tell me what you kids think #goodfoe #shoni #goodfoe fanfic #gus writes #the wilds fanfic #the wilds #toni shalifoe #shelby goodkind #leah rilke #work in progress wednesday #maybe i'll do a rec today too?#haven't decided

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helahades · 5 years ago

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The Goddess and the Grocer

(Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Sappy and hopelessly romantic, the part time art student, part time grocery bagger, and full time fantasy creator Steve Rogers lives in his head, with you as his muse. Making puzzles out of your groceries, and portraits of your every curve and edge, he fears and craves every interaction, while living with you as a lover in his mind.

A/N: Well. I have struggled with motivation for the longest. Something hit me though, and by something I mean other supportive writers and great friends. Hugest shoutout to @threeminutesoflife for being a darling and @imanuglywombat for making TWO beautiful mood boards I stare at more than Steve stares at the Peggy compass.

Warnings: creepy, obsessive Steve. ideation of creepy thoughts. food focused talk. mention of overeating. dub-con concepts. two mentions of alcohol consumption.

New blog, new me! I’ll take this moment to say I’m taking requests, and I love feedback even more than Steve loves you! hope you enjoy

Word Count: about 3k

Now rain slicked, the sheen of oil and water twists the reflections of the tonights red, red, green—-“can I make the turn, no too late” on yellow—now red traffic lights into a twisted rainbow on the city streets.

Down those streets, and across a barren parking lot, parents, lovers, businesspeople and more squeak and clack and slap their rainy shoes on the old speckled tile at the entrance (that Steve had just mopped) as they do every week.

At the Potts Grocery Store, nothing ever changes. And never in the night.

It isn’t just night though, it’s dead night. The odd time after things have slowed for sleep, after the rush in between when people bumble in (promising themselves promises they won’t keep about doing the shopping sooner next month), after the ten minute period within which Dr. Banner wordlessly picks up the same array of bland teas.

The night has crawled beyond all the events that happen as they do, and entered the dead night.

Maybe Steve is too poetic—like his dad says he is—too tied up in fate, and hope in life’s mystique, but he holds hope for what happens where the night is dead.

When the night dies, and most are asleep, with it, facades die too. The only people to come in the dead of night, are drunks, doctors, various night shifters, and… you.

He hasn’t yet questioned your reason for showing up so late. Hasn’t really, technically, spoken to you at all, really.

Some part of Steve thinks, maybe if he startles you, says something that clangs too loud or awkward, all your pieces will blow away, like some agitated dandelion, and he will never know you again, if he ever even knew you at all.

No, Steve’s job isn’t to startle you, or to take up your space. It’s to try and meet your eyes as you hand him the reusable bags. It’s to try and figure out what meal you’re planning from what he’s bagging, and what he already knows lies unused in your kitchen. It’s to put the bags in your cart if you’ll let him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. It’s getting late, where are you?

Somewhere between cold fluorescent and neutral warm desk lamps, the lights of the grocery store seem to exist both to chase shadows on tired shoppers' faces, and to mock him, like a candle finally blown out by a stood up date.

Had he done something wrong the last time? If he had, that couldn’t be helped. You were wearing those shorts and looked like you had just gotten ready for bed and you had your hair pulled back, but just a little fell into your face anyway.

And your scent. It always wraps around him like the saccharine spice of pastries when he swings open the bakery door for his morning shift.

The moment you breezed by him after checkout was almost too much to bear. He caught the fresh damp scent of your tied up and deep conditioned hair. You smelled like fresh linens and a life he can only imagine having when he’s chasing orgasms alone and twisting up his sheets.

He could have devoured you.

But he didn’t.

Not even when your shoulder accidentally grazed him while you were rushing out in a frenzy.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” came your frantic whisper.

He dreams of making you that delicate again. He thinks he could shape your unsure apologies in his hands like clay, or spread you thin on a canvas when you whisper so soft. But he didn’t do those things at all.

Steve being Steve, he tried to make his large frame slouch, your aura wrapping him up into a double life Clark Kent shyness, despite your gentleness.

He didn’t say a word.

A wordless, mirthless stretch of his lips. An “It’s okay, walk all over me” grin. You regarded him with a flicker of an odd glance, and then you were out the door.

As he finishes up with the last shopper in his lane, his worn Converse squeak as he leans his frame against the bagging station at checkout.

Last class, last week, his art teacher dropped a big assignment. Stuffy and sadistic, the man seemed to only eat the pain of lovers kept from expression, so of course, he relished in the moment he told the class to try a new medium, with a subject they hadn’t previously captured.

He seemed to look directly at Steve as he delivered the blow.

Steve's problem certainly isn’t creativity. It isn’t talent or lack of effort. He surely is adaptable, he rarely tells on his love!

For the still life project, he captured the tree that blocks your kitchen window. Heavy strokes in his sketchbook.

He even painted the park in blooms on a paper towel—yes a paper towel—when you justified to a cashier one day that all the crackers and deli meats were for a picnic.

So he has a muse. But he’s not a fool. Sometimes he spends so much time trying not to look like a fool, and paints so much around you instead of you, that it’s a self portrait of his own obsession.

Your face. Your curves. The many separated sections where he tried to master the texture of your hair. All those traces of you live in his sketchbook. Only twice has he turned in a portrait of you.

Being told he can’t have you makes Steve feel like he’s been too obvious. You’re his little secret. And he is no fool. He’ll have to be more careful. So here he is.

The canvas is as bare as the walls of his studio apartment.

Three jobs and a potted plant from his mom just aren’t enough to decorate life. He wishes he could capture sleep in a picture frame and hang it on the wall. When he got too tired and caffeine stopped working, he thinks he’d pick up those frames and absorb the sleep in the way he can absorb nostalgia when looking at a real picture.

Then, he thinks, that’s the sort of thing art majors say when they haven’t slept in three weeks.

The canvas is still bare. It isn’t like Steve. He always knows where to go, what he feels, what he wants.

His teacher told him to try something different. Had the nerve to clap Steve on the back after class and say something about stretching creative wings and finding a new muse.

He thinks the guy should have punched him in the face instead.

There’s nothing stuck about Steve. He knows what he wants and how to get there.

He also knows that schooling ruins the intent of art, he knows how to put love into colors, that art teachers know the least about expression out of everyone on earth, and that he works two night jobs a week to barely afford to be taught by that man anyway.

Life is full of oddities.

Some of life’s oddities are right there in your cart as you approach. Steve notices the rain has frizzed your hair, the lovely heart shaped curve of your lips as they stretch into a smile, and the way you yawn before you say hello to the cashier.

He makes a mental note that your hair might have a warmer tinge when illuminated by the sun. You’re already his sun. His stars too. Maybe even his whole universe.

You’re always warm in his paintings. Anything to separate you from the dreadful scheme of this commercial death trap.

What’s for dinner this week?

Your groceries thump onto the counter in practiced succession. Perishables together at the front, and non perishables as neatly as possible following behind.

So thoughtful, my sweet darling.

Your produce today mostly consists of fruit. It reminds Steve of how practiced he is with a knife. How he’d slice up your apples just right for you. He has the practiced skills of an artist. He’d take care of you.

Bucky likes to tell him that cooking is the art and baking is the science. That’s meant to mean that it’s no surprise that Buckys got a perfect little life with a perfect little baker who smiles like the sun and only trusts Bucky in her kitchen.

...And it’s no surprise that Steve’s artsy streak has led him here. Thinking about folding mandarin slices between your perfect lips and letting the flavor explode across your tongue.

He thinks about kissing you. How you would taste tangy and sweet as you try not so hard to push him off so he gets back to cooking and doesn’t burn the house down.

The house. A house with you. A home.

He sees you’re wearing a sundress, and tries not to pity you for the irony. In the closet of some cookie cutter three bedroom, you might ask him how you look in it. He would beg you to wear it just for him a little longer, but ultimately, he would have been able to warn you about the rain.

You wouldn’t have listened though, my stubborn angel.

He thinks about your thighs beneath your dress, and the heat between them.

Sometimes, his dreams betray him, and he steps through the threshold to your shared home, not an artist, but a “Honey, I'm home” suit wearing prisoner.

He fears the simple life, but with you, he believes simplicity could be enough. Maybe he would be rich enough to buy you a million sundresses.

But without his art, he’d be powerless to show you how rich you look, bathed in color, divine from his perspective.

Without his art, he has no outlet for imagination. The only thing that gets him off these days is imagining what you look like under your clothes, and how it might sound if you spoke his name.

When you buy lotion, or a candle, he makes a mental note of the scent, and uses it to color his experience later. You like warm sugary scents, or natural outdoorsy ones, with no in between.

As you small talk with the cashier, your card slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the unswept floor. Finishing a thought, you delay in retrieving it, but by the time you’re leaning down, Steve’s already handing it back.

Eyes flitting up to meet the baggage boy standing up at full height, you melt into an easier smile.

You notice first that his eyes are incredibly blue behind the dark window frames, and second that his hands are incredibly warm as he hands your card back.

Frazzled, and just a bit smitten, you smile kindly.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, regarding him fully, perhaps for the first time, and pausing only to let your eyes drift to the knitted cotton polo stretched across his broad chest—no, to the name tag resting on it…

“Steve,” you finish with a smile that makes it ring like an exclamation point. To hear you finally pronounce his name… it’s like church bells. But they’re muted because now he can only consider your eyes locked on his.

He’s never wanted to escape somewhere and go home with someone so badly. And would it be so wrong?

He could slice up fruit for you. He could bring sausages and deli meats and blocks of cheeses whole from the market where they slipped him things free. He’d slice them up nice and wrap them in cloth and surprise you with an old fashioned wicker basket picnic in the mountains.

He’d let you eat yourself round. And after you were full, he’d still offer to feed you grapes, to pour you more wine.

Steve never understood why the rich ate bread with olive oil, but God he wanted to be rich enough to give you that. All the things that sound ridiculous to people who work to live. He wanted to work so hard you’d never work again.

He wanted to kiss you dizzy, bunch up the fabric of your dress on your hip and tell you he loves you while you’re wine drunk. He’d carry you back to the car and surprise you with wildflowers in a bunch.

Later, he’d paint you nude with them in your hair, and he’d feed you more grapes.

He would tuck you in and wrap you up for later when you woke up missing him. Maybe he wouldn’t leave at all. Maybe you would want to spend the whole day with him too.

He’s got a twinkle of charm in his eye and just a bit of sadness that looks every bit like the starving artist people believe him to be. Bucky hasn’t stopped bringing him the leftover rolls at closing since he found out Steve spends more money on paint than meals.

And is it so wrong? As Steve looks into your eyes, he musters all that charm his mom said he was born with. He blinks brighter the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re welcome,” comes Steve’s gentle, but sure reply.

You pause at that, because really it’s nothing... But people always seem to say “Don’t worry about it!”, “It’s nothing”, or maybe nothing at all.

You pause at how the reaction seemed genuine, in a world of practiced replies, and on a day that you’re feeling shitty because the rain ruined your hair and happiness.

You smile at him again, grateful for a pocket of truthful kindness, and turn back to the cashier, effectively ending the interaction.

Steve’s mind is spinning in ways he just can’t bring himself to understand. So he bags your groceries. You forgot the reusable bags, he doesn’t pause to wonder why.

Click. Click. Click. Beep!

Tomatoes. He bags them with the apples. Double bags for good measure.

Beep.

Spaghetti. The good kind that most people overlook in favor of a more common brand. New bag.

Beep.

Frozen garlic bread. He adores you. You’ve got garlic and basil and more herbs than you’ll ever need at home. You’d probably make the spaghetti noodles and parmesan yourself if you could. But you love five minutes at 400 garlic bread.

He imagines your pretty little kitchen, with all its various knick knacks, smelling like garlic and tomato sauce. He can’t help thinking you’d be impressed with his chopping skills too. Just how his mom taught him.

He imagines cooking with you in the dead of night, instead of being here. He imagines you bending over with your legs straight and your back curved and the oven mitts on to get garlic bread out of the oven. You put the tray on the cold burners Steve’s not using.

Maybe he would ask you to try the sauce, he’d hold the spoon to your lips after blowing off for you. Your eyes always flutter closed to process the taste of things, and sometimes he swears he could read your mind.

Then they would open. Wide. The same way they did when you tasted the new product double chocolate brownie sample last Tuesday. You would tell him how perfect it is and praise how he finally isn’t shy about using garlic anymore. Turning off the burners, he’d pull you into his arms, he’d kiss you til you saw stars…

Walking you backwards, still entangled in the breathless kiss, he wouldn’t stop until you bumped the padded kitchen bench. Then he’d fall to his knees.

“Steve, honey”—

You’d cut yourself off with a breathy moan because he’d already be under your skirt.

Kissing up your thighs, flattening his tongue against you, kissing you gently, before sucking your clit, while working it with the tip of his tongue, he’d show you again, like always, how passionate of a lover he is.

You’d moan like heaven, because you are.

You’d lean back, propping yourself up on an arm and pushing the other hand through his golden hair. You just can’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue that’s still worshipping you.

He won’t use his fingers. It wouldn’t be proper, he’s just been cooking. So instead, he uses those hands to pull your thighs up onto his shoulders.

Still swirling his tongue around your clit, Steve is drawing you closer, your body seeming to know it’s own ways to pull him to you too.

It’s electric. You can’t stop and you’d never want to. He’d make love to you every single—

That’s not where he is though. He grabs the paper bags he’s bagged up with your ingredients and some other oddities, and he places them in the cart you’ve pushed forward.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re going home alone. He tries not to think about how he’ll be sleeping alone, and in cold colors. Tries to skip forward to later when he has all the time in the world to imagine the way things should be.

A quiet goodnight and you’re on your way. You’re careful not to graze him as you walk away, and he’s careful not to be obvious watching.

The cashier leaves the station, and Steve puts his head down as he passes, before looking up in your direction as he always does.

Except… when he looks up to see your sundress swishing, it isn’t. And you’re turned back looking at him with this funny little look.

You smile. A twinkle of embarrassment, nervous to have been caught looking. He tries not to chuckle for all the irony.

He watches you as you watch him just a bit longer, before your sundress swishes out the door, and the light of your halo fades into the distance, consumed by the rain.

By the time his shift is up, the rain has stopped and the sky is colored like a bruise. The sun knocks at a threshold unseen, just slightly feathering light through the sky.

Steve is dead tired, but he won’t sleep a wink. Once he arrives at his apartment, he begins the project.

A mixed medium piece. Acrylic paint, charcoal shadowed details. It’s a wicker basket, full of apples, grapes, and wildflowers.

Later, as the sun rises, and the painting is half done, he flops into bed, finishing up a stale roll from the bakery, and dreams about waking up to you.

He pretends there’s no job to be at in three and a half hours, but instead, that it’s a quiet Sunday, and he’s waking up to you in his arms...

Soft and ethereal.

Thank you for reading!

Whether or not this is your type of writing, or you liked it at all, I just want to tag some authors who generally inspire me and helped in some way to motivate me posting my first piece: @threeminutesoflife @imanuglywombat @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18 @heavenbarnes @tropicalcap @allaboardthereadingrailroad @thotty-tatertot @sapphirescrolls

#dark!steve #steve #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers #steve x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #steve au #steve rogers au #civillian!steve #artist!steve

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matildaofoz · 4 years ago

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The Harvest Pt.1 (Warlock!Michael x Reader)

A/N: Happy Halloween, Witches and Warlocks! Here it is, part 1 of The Harvest, the one night of the year were predator and prey come to revel under the Blue Moon.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Cursing and the promise of more to come in Pt. 2

Tag List: @prophecy-is-inevitable @jimmlangdon @drasangel @leatherduncan @sexwon131 @rocketgirl2410 @9layerdevilfoodcake @vulgarprayer @michaellangdonstanaccount @michaellandgons-sunshine @iwillboilyourteeth @michael-langdon-owns-my-soul

I hope I tagged all of you who showed interest, if not - I’M SORRY! Forgive me (and shoot me amessage so I can add you for Pt.2)

Fair Maiden,

you are hereby cordially invited to attend the annual celebration and Warlock tradition that is The Harvest.

Upon the last night of October, you will partake in the ancient tradition as a guest of honor, taking place at the Langdon Estate.

All further necessary arrangements will be divulged to your person at an appropriate time.

We look forward to welcoming you and remain until such time

Sincerely,

Ambrose Holt,

High Warlock

The hand holding the parchment sank into your lap after you finished reading its contents out loud to your mother and stepfather. Confusion and a hint of fear flitted over your features and you began to worry your lip as your eyes skimmed over the contents again in an effort to make sense of them.

“That damned Son of a Whore, Ambrose Holt!” your stepfather cursed, beginning to pace the length of the drawing room.

“John Henry Moore, hold your tongue!” your mother hissed, taken aback by his foul language. Her eyes followed him around the room as she scooted closer to you on the chaise longue to take a look at the letter herself.

“It's all my fault! I never should have taken the two of you back here with me. I was foolish to think that something like this wouldn't happen,” he seethed, running his hands through his dark hair. He stemmed himself off the fireplace mantel, his mind racing at the significance of the letter.

“We'll tell them she won't attend, it's simple,” your mother retorted, placing one hand atop your own still clutching the piece of paper. The look on her face told you that she wanted to believe her own words more than anything.

“Darling, that won't be an option. Once you are invited you have to attend, you do not decline a High Warlock's Summon. This is a direct attack on me in the most barbaric way and I’ve dragged you both into my mess.” A humourless chuckle rumbled from his chest at the admission. Your mother’s hand squeezed yours tightly, lips drawn thin as she watched her husband. This was beyond a nightmare. He needed to come up with a plan, a way to halt the events that had been set in motion but begun a long time before he met you and your mother.

“I need to pay a visit to an old friend,” he muttered under his breath suddenly as he pushed himself off the mantelpiece and rushed for the door.

“Where are you going?” your mother threw after him but he was already out in the hallway.

“I’m going to see Behold Chablis. Don’t wait up for me!” he shouted before the front door slammed shut and the two of you were left in silence.

“It will be alright, Angel. Don’t you worry,” your mother said. She forced a smile and you weren’t sure if her words were meant solely for your own reassurance.

You remained silent, looking down at the letter, an uneasiness settling in the pit of your stomach. If your stepfather sought the council of another warlock when he had sworn of his brotherhood for over a decade, it was a bad omen of things to come. Your eyes traced the elegant penmanship on the page. The Harvest. Whatever it was, it made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.

The letter had arrived that afternoon while you were busy tending to the garden with your mother. John Henry had taken custody of the letter, delivered by a private courier and paled as he saw the High Warlock Council's sigil etched on the envelope beneath your name.

Before your mother's marriage to the Warlock, you had believed the supernatural to be but flights of fancy, parables adorning the pages of children's fairy tales as a way to keep them from misbehaving, whispered his hushed voices over a candle under the guise of a full moon to scare each other. All that changed with John Henry's entry into your life at the age of 12. While he was himself a Warlock, a fact he kept hidden from everyone around him except for you and your mother, he had come to condemn his kind several years before. He felt his brethren had strayed from the righteous path of magick, meant to guide, heal and better the lives of those through who's veins it flowed in favour of a darker, more sinister purpose. At the centre of it, he believed the Langdon's were to blame. They had corrupted those around them, slithering their way even into the High Council itself and changing the fabric of the ancient brotherhood.

He told you what he thought you would need to know when you were old enough to at least partially understand, for your own protection should such a time arise. You were not of his blood but you were his daughter and he had sworn that he would protect both your mother and you. The arrival of the letter had made it clear that the time had come and he wasn't sure he would be able to make good on his promise to you after all.

He did not come back that night and after you mother had retreated to their bedroom, you too went up to your room to ready yourself for bed. However much you willed it, sleep did not come easy. In the darkness of your room, dimly illuminated by the moonlight pouring in from the windows, your eyes were drawn to your writing desk were you had placed the letter. The words kept running throughout your head and the more you thought about them, the less you felt you understood them. With a huff you turned onto your side, squeezing your eyes shut tightly in an effort to stop the thoughts running a mile a minute. It must be past midnight by now and you were no closer to falling asleep. The last day of October was just over a week away and even though you couldn't possibly know what the night held in store for you, you'd be damned if you showed up unprepared. You may not be magically-inclined but you were well-versed in the art of reading. John Henry's library was just down the hall, the myriad of manuscripts and tomes softly calling your name in the dead of night.

“Oh, curse all this!” you muttered under your breath, throwing the blankets off your body and tiptoeing across the room to the door, evading the creaking floorboards that would alert your mother. She was a terribly light sleeper. The air around you was frigid, your nightgown doing nothing to keep out the chill that crept up your legs and over your bare arms. You edged along the wall to your desk, placing the knitted shawl hung over the chair around your shoulders.

Quietly, you inched across the hallway, stopping for a moment to look at your parents closed bedroom door. Silence. Taking it as your cue, you flitted to the door on the far end of the corridor, hoping to God that he hadn't locked it. Gingerly, you pushed down on the handle so it wouldn't squeak. The door swung ajar. Unlocked. With a small satisfied grin, you pushed through the opening and closed it behind you silently. A relived sigh escaped your lips as your eyes struggled to adjust to the dark room, any moonlight blocked out by thick curtains. You had only been in John Henry's study a couple of times, to stand at the threshold as you told him that dinner was ready or to venture in to bring him a cup of tea while he poured over manuscripts behind the large mahogany desk. While he did believe wholeheartedly that a lady should be educated beyond learning to play the piano and housekeeping, he had made it clear that the books in his study were off limits.

“There is nothing in my study that a young lady such as yourself need concern yourself with. The less you know, the better,” his words rang in your ears. You wagered he would be eating his own words right about now, considering the events of the afternoon. You scoffed, as you inched your way across the plush carpet under your bare feet, to where you believed his desk was. Your eyes were beginning to make out the silhouettes of the furniture and soon enough your hip bumped into hard wood. You winched at the the small pain and your hands began to feel out for the box of matches you knew he kept on the desk somewhere. He could easily light the candles or the fireplace in his room with a snap of his fingers because he had shown you. However, he preferred not to, saying it made him feel more like any other man who was not gifted with his supernatural inclination.

“Ha!” you exclaimed as your right hand came upon the match box, your left coming up over your mouth to stifle the sound. Several seconds went by with you as still as a statue as you waited to hear your parents bedroom door creak open. When no sound bar the pounding of your heart reached your ears, you let out a breath, cursing yourself. You couldn't risk being found out when you hadn't even begun to gather any information. Without wasting any more precious time, you swiftly took out a match and light it on the rough side of the box. The flame came to life before your eyes and all you could see was the bright light for several blinding seconds. Your eyes roamed over the desk now bathed in the small flame and you found the candle holder. You took off the glass cover and held the match to the wick, lighting the candle and placed the cover back over the now burning candle to keep it from being blown out. Hooking your finger into the holder, you ventured over to the wall of books, suddenly discouraged from your task at the sheer volume of knowledge stacked into the ceiling-heigh bookcases tat adorned the wall. This was going to be much more tedious than you had anticipated. Your eyes began skimming over the spines, half of what was on them not making any sense to you.

The Seven Wonders, The Musings of one Augustus Bromhold, Lupercalia throughout the Ages, The Warlock's Pocket Guide to Necromancy. You continued along the shelves, some of the books so old that in the dim light you couldn't make out the writing and some didn't seem to have any on the spines at all.

A Complete History of Warlock Traditions

At the title, your mind went back to the letter. The Harvest had been described as an annual tradition so surely, in a book entitled 'A Complete History of Warlock Traditions' it must be mentioned. You peeled the tome from the confines of the shelf and went to sit in the armchair stood next to the cold fireplace in the corner. You placed the candle on the small side table and and opened the book at the back, hoping to reveal the glossary. Having found what you were looking for, you flipped back to the page and began to read, teeth softly gnawing at your lower lip.

The Blood Harvest, an archaic ritual celebration held on the 31st of October was outlawed by the High Warlock Council on 4th April, 1763. Still referred to by outliers of the Warlock Brotherhood simply as The Harvest, in an effort to conceal the brutal nature of the dark rite of passage ritual, it is rarely observed to this day. The High Council has prosecuted the outlawed celebration and of those who oppose the rule of law and remain faithful to the ritual to this day.

Celebrated annually before its outlaw, the ritual invoked the divine duality. Warlocks and human women, dressed to represent The Horned God and Triple Goddess respectively, partook in the ritual sacrifice on All Hallow's Eve to appease the supernatural beings that stalk the living on the night of the undead. Often cited to bestow great powers on the Warlocks who successfully complete the ritual rite of passage with one of the women selected, it is now widely regarded as nothing more than bloodshed, sacrificing those unfortunate and unknowing females to a slow and painful death at either the hands of the Warlocks if they so choose or the creatures invoked as formidable foes to the young men as a way to prove their supremacy over the dark forces and step into adulthood.

A cold shudder ran down your spine as your eyes read over the passage, letting the book sink into your lap. How was it possible that a High Warlock invited to you to an outlawed tradition by the High Council itself 100 years ago no less? Unless, it was no longer outlawed...John Henry's knee-jerk reaction to the letter no longer seemed so cloak-and-dagger.

A sudden creaking of floorboards on the other side of the door made your pulse thrum in your neck. Had your stepfather returned or perhaps you had been too loud and your mother had heard? You would've heard either the front door or the bedroom door open but then your mind was still swooning from your discovery. Gingerly, you placed the book on the side table next to the candle and inched to the door. Your breath caught in your lungs as you listened, on ear pressed to the cool wood. You could hear someone, something on the other side. The sounds of scratching against the wood made you shrink back, one hand coming to rest over your chest, your heart beating erratically. Your other hand reached for the door handle and you collected your wits about you before you pushed down the handle and yanked it open. You were greeted by a mass of fur and dark eyes that shot up to your face, equally as surprised as you were.

“Oh heaven's, Rosie!” you hissed, trying to calm yourself down at the sight of the family dog that must've heard you wandering around and decided to see for herself what you were up to in the dead of night. She tilted her head slightly at the mention of her name, looking past you and into the study that was off limits to her, her nose sniffing at the foreign scent of the room. If it wasn't for your incessant insistence that the St. Bernard was despite her outward appearance, nothing more than an overgrown lap dog,your parents would have kept her outside almost exclusively. With a lazy curiosity, she stepped over the threshold past your legs to inspect the new-found territory. You quickly walked past her to place the book back in its place on the shelf and took the candle holder in your hand, before turning around to see that Rosie had plopped herself down on the carpet in the middle of the room, watching you through her friendly heavy eyes.

“Rosie, you know you are not allowed in here. Well, technically neither and am I so where does that leave us? Come on, let's not leave any trace of us being here,” you berated her half-heartedly, grabbing her by he collar in the hopes that she would grace you with compliance. She looked up at you with an expression of indifference, seeing as your late-night musing must've roused her from her slumber downstairs as she came back up on all fours with a huff to trot out the room in front of you, waiting at the threshold.

“I don't know about you, but I could use some fresh air, what do you say?” you whispered in her direction, her presence calming your frazzled nerves somewhat. With one final glance around the study, you exited, making sure to shut the door as quietly as possible, leaving no trace of your trespassing. Should your mother, wake you could put the blame on Rosie for rousing you to go outside. You'd make sure to bring the candle back up with you, when you came back later. With a nod of your head, you silently bade her to follow you down the stairs and out the front door.

The midnight air was as welcome to your burning skin as it was chilling, serving to ground you and you pulled the shawl tighter around your shoulders with one hand, the candle in the other dimly illuminating the air around you. You watched the lit wick flicker slightly, growing and wavering in intensity, shielded only by the glass from the wind. Ever since this afternoon, your world had begun to tilt on its axis, threatening to plunge you into the unknown, to blow out that candle and yet there was no glass cover to keep you from being engulfed by the darkness that surrounded you. Rosie began to make her rounds around the front of the house and you became lost in your thoughts of what would happen but a week from now. John Henry had tried to shield you, believing it was safe to finally return to his birthplace with you in tow. Now it seemed, all those years of shielding you from his past would come to haunt your present.

Rosie's low growl beside you pulled you out of you reverie and your eyes snapped into the direction she faced, teeth bared and snarling. You struggled to see the source of her sudden defence through the candlelight blinding you of your surroundings and the dense mist that settled over the ground at night. Beyond the stone walls along the gravel road, you could make out a cloaked dark form and for a moment you thought it was John Henry who had come back from his visit to his old warlock friend. Yet the tall figure stopped about 100 yards away in the middle of the road, an ominous feeling creeping up your legs and spine at the sight. Your house was nestled in the countryside, the next estate and their occupants miles away. You stood, frozen to the spot as you waited for the figure to move. Around them, the fog grew thicker, spreading outward like pipe smoke blown against a glass pane, and engulfing both you and Rosie, who began to growl beside you.

Michael watched as you left the house, your nightgown billowing in the frigid night breeze, revealing glimpses of the smooth skin of your legs. When Ambrose Holt had told him of the letter sent to John Henry's stepdaughter, he knew he needed to see for himself what would ultimately be the downfall of that heretic Warlock who had come too close to undoing all of what his family, his father had set out to achieve. To restore the warlock bloodlines to their former glory and to retake what he and many others considered to be their birthright. It was foolish to think that mere humans could achieve what his kind had over millennia, he scoffed at their hubris in the face of such mundaneness. John Henry had forsaken his kind and had tried to smother their power, their supremacy. He should've remained in his self-imposed exile, Michael mused as his eyes took you in, still unaware of his gaze on you, smiling at the way the breeze plucked small strands of your hair out the loose braid you wore to bed, the way it flushed your cheeks a rosy red. You would make the perfect Goddess to his Horned God.

He could whisk you away right now when you offered yourself so freely, unattended in the middle of the night, your pet of a dog wouldn't stand in the way one bit. Patience, he chastised himself as he walked closer along the road with calculated slow steps, his black cloak swishing around him, his hood drawn down into his face. He had waited this long to take revenge on John Henry, he could wait a week more, even though you made it hard for him when your eyes finally spotted him, raking over him at the sounds of that wretched beast beside you. Underneath the hood, he grinned, satisfied by your reaction. He could smell your fear even from here, so deliciously terrified at the site of him, frozen on the spot. He had you precisely where we wanted you. With a barely cognisant flick of his wrist at his side, the fog grew ticker around him and his invisible fingers reached through it to graze along the backs of your legs and up your spine. Oh, he was going to enjoy this years Harvest more than ever when the prize was you and all you embodied.

You felt the fog move against the base of your neck, distinctly like fingers on your skin. The candle in your hand began to flicker and blew out, leaving your in darkness, only the pale moonlight as your guide. Your eyes grew wide as you were plunged into darkness and before them, the cloaked stranger disappeared into thin air, swallowed by the mist. Rosie's growls stopped and she shook off her guard, back to her usual self. You met her gaze, you heart still pounding furiously before you hastened back to the house, nearly tripping on your way up the stone steps. Rosie trotted after you, nudging you up the stairs. Even though she didn't seem half as bothered as you, she rarely moved this quickly. You pushed open the front door, Rosie slipping inside past your feet. You threw the door closed behind you, your back pressing into the wood as you struggled to catch your breath. For a moment, you stood in darkness and silence before heading up to your room, not caring if your mother would wake at the ruckus you made. You prayed that John Henry would be back by the morning with answers. The candle holder out of his room stood forgotten on the hallway table.

#michael langdon x you #michael langdon x reader #warlock!michael #michael langdon #ahs apocalypse #ahs imagines #spooktober

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visceryl · 4 years ago

Text

Age of Corruption - D&D

Here’s a little short story based on a Dungeons and Dragons campaign our group runs. I absolutely adore this group with all of my being. Liam belongs to @angrynar. Elijah belongs to @kas-voton. Safin belongs to @noceurro. Benny belongs to @zuulosdovah. Fennorin belongs to me. Sar belongs to someone off of tumblr!

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“Excuse me?”

Fennorin’s voice rang out in cold shock as white wisps of hair coated red from battle hung down in his face. His chest heaved, the fists locked around his longsword trembling with effort.

He watched the lanky boy of sickly pale skin hover over a drow. Liam sported a grin sharp and wicked enough to make a heart jump twice in shock, then recoil of fear. A spell buzzed upon his fingertips, the will of the weave tainted black with necrotic misuse. It raised the drow’s veins to the surface of his skin, crowding them with boiling agony.

The captive yelled out in his mother tongue. A rough, deep language that turned to the sad wails of a creature mourning its emintent fate. The open cavern of the Underdark did little to dampen the echoes of his begs.

“He deserves to die!” Liam barked back. “They all deserve to die!”

Even Elijah shifted nervously behind the servitor. A fresh ooze of blood filled the spaces between his fingers as they pressed between the loops of his armor where a blade had embedded in flesh.

“No, Liam!”

The servitor of Corellon staggered forward a step, his foot dragging over bones that littered the floor. Skulls, ribs, fibias, tibias. From wicked beasts that hunted the unofficial layer escaped from hell to surface dwelling races dragged to the belly of its depths. He stumbled, letting his sword crumble from his hands.

Steel on stone pierced the tension with a resounding clatter.

“This isn’t you! This isn’t what Kainan would have wanted!”

Liam’s lips curled upon the holy worshipper’s approach. He hated him. He hated the elf that made his insides boil simply by being around him. He hated the way Fennorin always put himself in the way of his nature, parading himself around like a saint when he’d done no better a time or two.

He wasn’t holy. He put Kainan in the ground and would do the same for anyone here, but not Liam. Death didn’t have to be the final line. He knew how to bring them back even if it wasn’t the same. His fingers curled tighter into the drow’s hair, wrenching his head back to look upwards into his own hellish gaze.

“You’re wrong. I’ve always been this.”

“I know that’s not true. I don’t care what’s in your blood, Liam. You will always be my family, and I will not let you do this alone. We will get you through this together, whatever those fanatics say, they’re wrong!”

Fennorin was close now. Close enough to reach out for the mage.

For a moment, Liam’s grip on the drow sagged, letting his head turn back to the floor. He leveled his gaze on Fennorin, jaw clenched so tight it jumped with strain. No one said anything. No one even moved.

The battle had nearly wiped everyone out. Elijah, hanging at sanity’s edge as he waited for any chance to step in if needed. Safin on the ground with Benny’s head in her lap as she eases the bleeding from a nasty wound. Sar pulling on his ears and cursing Allustan for dragging him into a mission he was too faint of heart for. They were all so tired.

Liam skimmed his gaze over them with wavering resolve. He’s wrong. He lies. He just wants to get you to turn yourself over so he can finish you. The voice lingered maliciously in the back of his head. Hostile and full of blinding rage. His fingers twitched in the drow’s hair, the spell held at ready surging wildly once more.

“Please,” Fennorin begged, his voice softer. The pale skinned elf reached a bloody hand out for his friend to take.

Not this time.

Jet black fogged over Liam’s eyes and the drow dropped discarded to the floor. His own hand leapt up, latching to the servitor’s and the spell released. It shattered through the elf’s defenses.

A scream lit up the silent cavern as visions of hell warped and tore at Fennorin’s mind. Liam held fast. His dark energy challenged the divine glow rooted at his friend’s core, watching veins of black crawl up Fennorin’s arm, corrupting.

The elf’s footing quickly caved and a skull splintered beneath him as his knees crashed to the ground. Blood began to soak through his trousers around the area, but the pain went unrecognized up against Liam’s influence.

Elijah fumbled for his blade in a panic. Fingers slipped slick over the pommel before pausing in hesitation. Could he truly raise his sword up against his friend? No. For all the fear coiling tight in his stomach, he knew the blade would never pierce Liam’s skin. But he held it aloft, leveling the mage threateningly.

“Let him go, Liam! You don’t want to do this!”

Black eyes flicked mindlessly to the large boy. “Except I do.”

He released Fennorin with a shove far beyond his own strength. Like a god swiping down on an ant, the elf was sent crashing back into Elijah, narrowly avoiding the sharp end of the raised blade.

It was immediately dropped for strong arms to coil around Fennorin. Elijah staggered back, brandishing the weight as the elf struggled to find his footing. He could feel the heavy breaths rattling in Fennorin’s chest, the shivers of mental exhaustion trembling in every muscle.

Liam didn’t wait to level another spell at them. His fingertips curved into wicked claws, his teeth elongated and carnivorously sharp. Rivulets of blood clung to his lower lip and whitened teeth from shredding through the inside of his own cheeks. The spell cracked like a whip, a jet of ebon darkness striking the both.

Kill them. You don’t need them.

He watched as Elijah’s grasp on Fennorin loosened. A gasp parted the brunette’s lips, his body arching in a twist of anguish. Both were back on their knees in an instant. Fennorin’s weight rocked onto his forearms as they brandished upon the cold ground. An awful choking strangled in his lungs, strings of blood pooling his mouth and dribbling down his chin.

“That’s enough,” Safin finally declared. She eased Benny from her lap, her palm facing outwards to Liam as a small wooden splinter began to enlarge at the center.

“Don’t.”

Fennorin’s voice scraped out raw, his shoulders shaking. He rose from his curled position like a ghoul from the ground, pallid features turning up to Liam. “It’s not him, Safin. Please don’t hurt him.”

Safin’s gaze flicked between the two wearily. There was the slightest hint of hesitation as if a consideration of ending it had been taken. But she trusted their healer. Fennorin wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn and sometimes blinded by his own faith, but he always got them through everything.

She grimaced and lowered her hand.

Liam’s lips parted in a toothy grin that spanned ear to ear and while her’s lowered, his raised. Another flare of magic readied to smite down the servitor. He stepped past Elijah who lay unseeing, invisible nightmares plaguing his waking mind.

His footsteps stopped in front of Fennorin, an air of disgust wrinkling his nose. The mage knelt down to level them both, the hand flaring with mana coming to rest gentle upon the elf’s cheek. “You should have let her,” he whispered. “This is me now, Fen. Accept it.”

The hand scalded at Fennorin’s cheek. He forced his gaze to remain on Liam’s, his own hand fumbling within his robes to latch onto something solid hung at his neck.

“I can’t accept that.”

Liam’s features contorted into an angry snarl. His hand burned hotter on the elf’s cheek, near branding him with necrotic energy. “Why not!?”

Tears surfaced in Fennorin’s eyes like he’d already accepted he could very well die here trying to save Liam’s soul. A sob strangled in his chest. He tore the silver chain from around his neck and feebly lofted his holy symbol up.

It was met with the psychotic laughter of a devil.

“That won’t work on me, Fennorin. I’m still very much alive.”

“That’s not what it’s for,” Fennorin presses. The salt of tears mixes with the taste of metal heavy on his tongue. His cheek leaned towards Liam’s touch and he managed to grab hold of his other hand, forcing the holy symbol of Corellon into his grasp. “Whatever is in your head, it’s not your god, Liam. Real gods don’t ask their followers to change who they are for them. You have not been abandoned.”

Liam curled his fingers around the symbol carved of pure silver, threatening to bend it in his iron grip. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Something twisted in Liam’s chest as he stared down his friend. How did he answer with such certainty even facing death itself? How did he just sit there and take it? He was the Spawn of Bhaal. A visage of true evil to spread death and destruction in the wake of his angered and forgotten god while Fennorin was a visage of true good. A healer to uphold the light even in crippling darkness. They couldn’t have been further opposites. Why did he care?

“I’m not lying, Liam. The dark gods are cruel. They’re devils disguised as holy beings, and all we can do is endure them, but I promise you, the real gods would never abandon you. You’re no elf. You’re no healer or student of the arts. But Corellon loves you. He loves you because I love you and every night I pray to him to save you! I pray for him to protect you from the devil infested blood running through your veins because blood is not a defining quality! It is a building block of life that gives you the sentience to be your own person. And the person you are is one of my best friends. For that… you will never be abandoned. Corellon will protect you even long after I’m dead.”

“Shut up!”

Liam’s voice raised in an angry roar, his hand lifting from Fennorin’s cheek only to connect again in a vicious slap that tore claws across his cheek.

The elf yelped out, his head snapping to the side as skin split beneath the force. It almost burned as much as the magic had. “I will always love you,” he repeated, the words forced through tears.

Another slap.

Then a fist. It sailed into Fennorin’s gut.

Liam couldn’t think. The anger that boiled inside him shifted gears to someone else. That voice. The lingering catalyst to his demise. A noise tore from his chest, sounding of a wounded animal in the night.

His body shuddered before giving out. He collapsed against Fennorin as the black faded, returning the whites of his eyes and the subtle stormy blue of irises. The holy symbol remained clutched in his grasp as sobs overtook him. He pressed himself closer to the warm glow of the servitor who’s fresh wounds left him complacent against the boy.

“I’m sorry,” he finally gasped. “I’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”

Fennorin swallowed the rock lodged in his throat, releasing a breath that shook his entire being. Arms worked around Liam with an exhausted squeeze, swathing him in an embrace. He pushed his face down to the mage’s shoulder.

The magic holding Elijah released as Liam lost himself in clinging to his friend.

“I forgive you.” The words that tumbled from the elf wrenched another sob free from Liam and fingers twisted into robes. Desperate. “We’re going to fix this. I’m not going to abandon you. Ever.”

The two held each other fiercely, Fennorin soothingly stroking Liam’s hair until finally the sobs faded and breaths evened out. Sleep took the mage like a silent lover in the night, coaxed by the warmth of his friend.

#D&D #dungeons and dragons #dnd #writing #short story #liam ravenloft #elijah smenk #fennorin #safin #sar #benny morow #age of worms

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jabbajambler · 4 years ago

Text

Human

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x f!OC

Word Count: 2,076

*GIF by @chewbacca*

Orange walls of rock surrounded us, closing in and weighing on my chest like an anvil. The setting sun was bright, but barely lit our path through the small ravine. Small lizards filled the area, alerted by the sound of our boots squishing in the mud.

The child's pod floated a few feet behind us, following us closely during the journey. Mando had connected the carrier to his vambrace. I had forgotten how high-tech Mandalorian armor could be.

"So, what do you think it is?" I looked up at the Mandalorian who stared straight ahead, acting as though he couldn't hear me.

"No clue." He finally answered.

I nodded, feeling the brooding silence build around once again. In all honesty, I did feel bad about knocking him out and holding him hostage on his own ship, but I didn't have a choice. I wanted to prove myself and as usual, I took it too far.

The ravine grew silent. All of the lizards and insects began to scatter, hiding within the walls or flying far away. I could feel a disturbance, a pair of eyes watching us from somewhere in the cliffs of the rock.

We stopped walking as everything began to still around us. The breeze, the chirping of the bugs, everything. Instead, an eerie quietness took its place.

Mando carefully scanned the area, his hand hovering over his blaster. I, too, tried to figure out what could be hiding, silently removing my blaster from its holster. I could sense it, a subtle movement within the crevices of the tarnished rock. I moved my blaster in its direction, but I was too late.

An orange alien jumped down from the walls, surprising the both of us. It swung an axe towards my head, the swift movement causing me to drop my weapon. Thankfully Mando had managed to jump back and shove the pod away from the action and swiftly grab ahold of his blaster.

The alien swung at me again when I stood back up, but I was able to dodge its attack. I quickly extended my staff, blocking the sharp axe's harsh swings. Oh, the things I would be able to do if I could just press the other button.

I was pushed back into the rocky wall, using my weapon to push it away as the alien forced the blade towards my neck. I glanced over at the Mandalorian with pleading eyes. He had no reason to save me. He could have left me for dead and continued with his mission like nothing happened.

But he didn't.

He snuck behind the alien and kicked in the backs of his legs, forcing the alien to drop to his knees in front of me. I shrunk the extensions of the staff back into its hilt, using the small piece to slam against the creature's face.

I could feel my chest heave as I tried to catch my breath. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me just yet." He spoke while raising his blaster.

Two more aliens dropped down, both holding similar axes to the first one. Mando nodded towards one, both of us silently agreeing to split up the battle.

I ducked as the alien swung for my head, a scowl forming on my face. Greef always told me that I needed to stop looking so angry because my face would get stuck that way. I think it may be a bit too late for that.

I sent a firm punch to its face, causing it to stumble back. Mando was dodging the alien's swings and grabbed his rifle from his back, using it to block the axe. He spun and jabbed the butt of the gun against the alien, sending an electric shock through its body as it hit the ground.

I looked over to find an alien running towards the child, a feeling of protectiveness flooding my senses. "MANDO!" I shouted, pointing towards the alien that was heading for the child.

Raising the rifle, Mando pulled the trigger and the alien disintegrated into nothing. That was certainly one impressive weapon.

Our heavy breathing became the only sound in the ravine as we tried to recoup from the action. Everything returned to normal so quickly, it was almost as though nothing had even happened.

Except for the remaining alien bodies.

Mando reattached his rifle to his back, watching as I searched the mud for my gun. I managed to find the gross blaster, my nose wrinkling at its repulsive appearance as I set it back in my holster.

"Well, wasn't that exciting?" I tucked the stray strands of brown hair behind my ears, a tired smile slowly forming on my face.

"Thrilling." He spoke in a monotonous tone, glancing around one last time before we continued on the journey.

The sky was painted in pastels once more as we settled down to camp. It was a little bit of beauty in a day of so much horror. Like a rainbow after a storm. The entire planet was painfully beautiful art that changed with every glance.

Mando's little cauterizer was the only sound on the desert planet. He worked to seal a cut he received during the battle with the orange aliens. I hadn't even seen that he was injured.

"I could help-" I started, interrupted by Mando scoffing.

"You'd probably try to kill me with it." He shook his head, focusing again on the task at hand.

I sighed and sat back, admiring the sky as the moon ascended into the sky. "You're not necessarily wrong, I guess."

I glanced over at him, the corners of my lips morphing into a small frown. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, that I didn't actually want to kill him. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to actually say it out loud.

The child had somehow managed to crawl from its pod, now standing next to the Mandalorian with an outstretched arm.

I smiled. Its efforts floated through the growing bond we were forming.

Mando quickly picked the kid up and placed it back in its little home. He sat back down with a huff and began to work on fixing his broken chest plate, wincing when he moved his cut arm.

I rolled my eyes. The man was unbelievably stubborn, I doubt he would let me help even if his life were on the line.

I sat up as the child once again escaped it's orb, reaching for Mando's arm with his big eyes narrowed. Mando groaned and grabbed the little creature, setting it in the pod and closing it shut.

He sat back down and went to grab his tool, but ended up grabbing a handful of sand instead. He looked around, patting the sand as he searched for it, gradually becoming more irritated and confused.

"Looking for something?" I grinned and held up the tool he was desperately searching for.

His head snapped to meet my gaze, quickly trying to grab it from my hand. I pulled my hand back, holding it out of his reach.

"Let me help." I spoke softly. "I promise not to kill you. It's no fun if it isn't a fair fight.."

He sighed and looked down at his wounded arm. It still looked fresh and was prone to infection if it wasn't closed soon. Reluctantly, he nodded.

I moved closer to him, cautiously taking hold of his arm. Using a small pocket knife, I cut the fabric of his sleeve a bit wider so it wouldn't get caught in the wound.

The tool sparked as I turned it on, the sparks reflecting in the dark glass of his helmet resembled stars. I could have easily gotten lost in the flicker of its light.

I was careful while cauterizing the wound, barely touching the hot metal against the cut. My fingers brushed against the bare skin around it, but it was enough for him to tense and go stiff. I had almost forgotten how strange the contact must be to him.

"Relax... I said I won't kill you... yet." I looked up at him through my eyelashes, feeling a little smirk quirk at the corners of my mouth.

He shook his head and looked away, taking a deep breath as he allowed himself to relax next to me.

I closed my eyes while my mind went blank, focusing on the pain in his arm. My mind began wandering and I could feel a struggle, pain that was not from a measly cut but from loss. This wasn't my mind... it was his.

I tore my hands from his arm, my body shaking as I recovered. He turned and looked down at the barely visible cut. At this point, it was practically just a scar.

"What did you do?" He lifted his head and I could instantly feel his eyes lock with mine. I imagined they were brown, like mine, but maybe lighter.

"What do you mean?" I tilted my head and tried to act clueless. "I helped you with the cut, just like I said I would."

I tossed the tool on the ground, tearing my gaze from his. His eyes were nowhere to be seen, but they seared my skin with its burning stare. That made it even more difficult to lie.

"Sealing a wound doesn't make it disappear."

"I think the blood loss is going straight to your head. Are you feeling alright?" I raised an eyebrow and tapped my finger against his helmet.

He stared at me. I could only assume he was trying to figure out what I've done. His confused thoughts were overwhelming. I could suddenly hear his questions, each one putting him more on edge.

"Stop staring at me... It's weird." I crossed my arms, trying to get out of his head if only for a few moments. "Do you know what Greef would say if he caught you looking at me that long?"

He quickly regained his senses, listening to my words instead of his own thoughts. He let out a single airy chuckle. "He would have my head on a stake."

"Damn right he would." I could no longer hold back the smile that snuck on my face. I quickly wiped it away, or at least concealing it with my arms. "So, uh... Why'd you join the Guild, Mando?"

"I'm a Mandalorian... We are born to be bounty hunters and mercenaries. I didn't really have a choice."

"I know... Don't Mandalorians usually work independently? I've never met a Mandalorian who has an employer." I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His posture had relaxed, leaning towards the little lantern he had set up.

He paused. "And just how many Mandalorians have you met?"

"Quite a few, actually. There is a covert on Nevarro. Don't you know?"

I laughed off my slip up. Mandalorians had become sparse since the fall of Mandalore, everyone knew that. Still, I didn't want to lie. He just didn't have to know the whole truth yet.

"Yes... " I could feel his confusion grow once again. "Why did you join the Guild?"

I sighed and laid back in the soft sand. It was warm, but the cool breeze of the night would soon arrive and destroy the comfort I currently embraced. I rolled on my side and gazed into the helm.

"Sometimes it's nice to know someone has your back... I haven't had that for a while. I didn't think I needed it. Still, I like having a place to call home. I almost have a family... People to protect me, people I can trust."

"You seem perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." He chuckled.

"I am." I answered quickly and confidently. "But I ran around with a bad crowd. They outnumbered me and I needed backup... I'm sure you understand." I sent him a wink before yawning, folding my hands beneath my head. "Wake me when you're tired. If you try anything while I'm sleeping, I-"

"I know. You'll kill me." Mando mimicked me, poking at his chest plate with the soldering iron.

I could feel myself drift to sleep, no longer willing to force the smile off my face. Maybe we didn't completely trust each other, after all, I did kidnap him, but we had each other's backs. We both wanted the same thing and that was to get the hell off of this planet and pretend this never happened.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x oc #mandalorian #mandalorian x oc #din djarin #din djarin x oc #dyn jarren #jedi #oc #star wars #babyyoda #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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nasrinahmadi · 4 years ago

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nasrin ahmadi. the wildcard. page 93.

name: nasrin aafreen ahmadi

age: twenty-three

education: nasrin studied abroad in the united kingdom for her undergraduate career and now has returned back to the states, studying at her father's alma mater. nasrin is doing her graduate studies in anthropology and music, conducting research work on ethnomusicology in the mughal empire.

part one

Born in the peak of monsoon season to an ambassador and an English professor, Nasrin Ahmadi was already gasping for air. Her parents consulted doctors through embassies and backchannels in Delhi, searching for a solution. Within a few weeks, the hole in her heart was remedied, and she had secured her position as the youngest sibling—the one who has to be protected.

In the beginning, Nasrin was happy, a gleeful young girl who swerved through crowds of people with a mischievous smile. Her days were filled with love and affection from her parents and the ever so common idea that blood meant loyalty—and that Nasrin owed her loyalty to no one else but her family. That is, until one sunset in the courtyard right outside the ambassadors house, in the middle of a diplomatic event with other United States prominent figures—six year old Nasrin was snatched.

She was missing for six days, twenty two hours, and seventeen minutes. Nasrin’s mother would remind her of this every time she tried to leave the house the next two years. The worst days of her life. Nasrin’s father, on the other hand, went on a tirade and fired his entire security staff for gross incompetence. The only daughter of a United States diplomat stationed in India, taken right from under their noses.

Nasrin remembers very little about her kidnapping. The years of sanctioned therapy had determined it to be a consequence of trauma. Nasrin, on the other hand, believes it was because whoever kidnapped her was alarmingly gentle and sedated her into a sleeping beauty slumber until they got what they wanted. Call it Stockholm syndrome, or call it childhood naivety, but she always had a sinking suspicion of knowing her kidnapper. The cold case was drawn to a close after two years of searching for the culprit, who demanded a few documents from her father, then dropped her in the middle of the crowded city to fend for herself.

When her father’s term as ambassador came to a close, Nasrin and her family shipped back to a small town in New England, covered with tall trees and the sound of silence, a sharp contrast from the life she had lived thus far in Delhi. She and her brother, Amal, five years apart, were enrolled into a prestigious boarding school and shipped off with high hopes and dreams. At eight years old, Nasrin remembers pressing her face against the window of the chauffeured car, calling after her parents and begging them to reconsider. You’ll be safer there, I promise, her mother said, cupping her face and wiping away her tears.

part two

The last four years, the doe eyed girl still had a knack for misadventure, but she kept her head down and did her work, eager to please her mother and father as Amal began to struggle with his coursework. Nasrin fueled her feelings into the piano, if only to be fawned over the three times she went home when there would inevitably be a party of alcoholic lawyers, stoned diplomats, and coked up politicians. Classical music provided balance in an otherwise unbalanced life with no home base.

At twelve years old, Nasrin began to watch her loved ones fall apart, screaming to have them hold on, only to see them let go. Her father’s temper had taken a turn for the worse, and in a fit of drunken rage, her mother was pushed down the stairs and suffered two broken legs. Still, adamant to go home, Nasrin’s mother cooed over her on the phone, you’ll be safer there. When she returned for the summer, her mother was gone—without a trace. Once a professor at a prestigious liberal arts college in the area, now no one. Nasrin and Amal screamed at their father for an explanation, to which he only shook his head and sipped on his whiskey: you can’t find someone who no longer wants to be found.

When Amal and Nasrin returned back to boarding school for the fall, Amal entered his senior year and applied to the slew of colleges his father required of him in order to become the next Ahmadi ambassador, but something had shifted for both of the Ahmadi siblings. Nasrin began to act out in uncharacteristic ways—her progress reports noted in a cautious manner: straight A student, but seldom shows up to class, only to cause chaos when she does. Nasrin forged her father’s diplomatic signature countless times, and Amal her accomplice, pretending to answer as him when the school called in concern. Despite never being close, Amal had taken his sister under his wing, and vowed to protect her from whatever force followed their father, that took their mother from them.

That is, until that night. When Nasrin turned fifteen, she started dating far out of her age range to be comfortable (call it her daddy issues), and found a new sense of reckless abandon in the extravagant parties of the rich and famous at the school. She was now someone rising—someone to be feared. Her brother had returned to campus for his winter break at Harvard, and the two had somehow come across the same party. Nasrin’s personality increased ten fold at these gatherings, not aided by any substance, sworn off of those given her fathers addictive personality. She hooked up with boys who were taken, just to relish in the distress of their girlfriends when they discovered. And now, many justified her behavior through assuming she was under the influence—troubled, in a way. But Nasrin was sober, she was addicted to wrecking havoc and destroying lives.

But that night, Amal stumbled right into Nasrin. She stared into his eyes and saw something familiar—the look in her fathers whenever he drank. Except, by the time Nasrin had found him, he was too far gone. Amal had fallen victim to the opioid epidemic, the one that did not discriminate by age, race, or class. But she still tried to fight for him—protect him, as he had once her. But her father’s words echoed in her mind: you can’t find someone who no longer wants to be found. Amal dropped out of Harvard his third year after years of partying with rich socialites and blocked Nasrin on every conceivable platform. His last message was a handwritten letter, delivered to the door of her boarding room–I’m sorry.

part three

It was at sixteen years old that Nasrin understood the meaning of you come into this world alone, you go out of this world alone. And when she fully embraced this sentiment, she became numb to the pain she caused others. She learned to rely on herself as the greatest defense. Her smiles no longer reached her eyes in a way both unnerving and charming.

The last few years, Nasrin has been hellbent on finding her mother and her brother, refusing to acknowledge that they had dropped off the face of the planet with no explanation. As she had been told many times about her own kidnapping, they were both cold cases—it’s better to assume, no matter how hard it is, that they’re dead. But something in her trusty, reliable gut, was convinced both circumstances were due to her father. Knowing his only claim to fame now was gaining empathy from his supporters as he ran for senate, Nasrin kept him on a tight leash—having one more member of his family go missing went from tragic to suspicious. She stole from him whenever she could, inserted chaos with a sense of elegance, but followed his dreams on face value. Now, by attending Harcourt Institute, his alma mater. It’s here she comes across the Harcourt Literary Society, and Nasrin believes it may be the key to truly putting an end to her father, once and for all.

the moment on the page

Nasrin is gasping for air. She’s small—weak, frail, a child. In an unfamiliar home, lying on a worn down couch. She lifts herself around and tries to observe as much as she can, though her head continues to pound. An elegant clock, tall ceilings, a plate of her favorite cookies in front of her.

The six year old reaches for the cookies, unassuming, and scarfs one down. Once she swallows, she feels the figure behind her before she sees them. Her head snaps around just as her right arm is injected gently once again. The hands guide her back to lying down on the couch, and right before her eyes close, her senses are heightened.

The man was tall, with large shoulders and kind eyes. Her hand was on his in an attempt to stop him from injecting her. It was rough and smooth at the same time, as if one part was sandpaper, and the other was silk. And the smell, it was overwhelming, a cologne, an aftershave, something she knew, someone she knew—and then darkness.

#harcourt:intro

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mermaidxatxheart · 5 years ago

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Bucky the Ninja Hunter {1/?}

Alright you guys. I’m on the struggle bus big time. So, I’ve decided to post this story in (hopefully) three parts, as sort of a beginning, middle, and end. This is for @captain-s-rogers and her Psych challenge. I love this show and couldn’t resist the temptation to write for it, especially since I basically speak in psych quotes. My prompt will be the first bold below. I’ve also incorporated other quotes, simply because I couldn’t help myself. Anything I’ve directly taken from the show will be in bold so there’s no confusion. I’ve had fun coming up with this idea and writing this. (To those that have sent me requests, I am still working on them. I’m trying to juggle all my works at once, so just bear with me. I promise I’ll get them out.)

Pairing: No real pairing, just Sam and Bucky being idiotic best friends.

Word Count: 2846

Warnings: swearing, murder, stupidity, ninja movie references (mostly in the future)

Prompt: “How can you just eat when there’s a dead guy lying there?” “What, is that rude? Am I supposed to share?”

Part One

The office is quiet, no music plays, just the sound of a magazine page turning occasionally. The afternoon light filters in through a big bay window, illuminating two standard desks across from each other. A kitchenette is towards the back, mostly a sink, upper cabinets, counter and a fridge. There’s a lobby space for people waiting, able to be closed off by a door.

The big paper ball sails through the air and bounces off the plastic neon orange ring. Bucky scoffs at his best friend’s terrible shot while he, himself, flips through some food magazine. His stomach is rumbling, their take out can’t be delivered fast enough.

“Oh, you think you can do better?” Sam taunts. He should know better by now.

“Of course, I can.” He flips a page about barbecue, trying to ignore his hunger pains.

“Put your money where your mouth is.” Sam challenges.

“No.” Bucky replies, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk.

“Because you can’t do it.”

“Sam, I could easily make the shot. That’s why I can’t take your money.” Bucky says with a shake of his head.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? What are you? Five?” He pushes himself up anyway, determined to show his best friend wrong. He takes the big ball and lines himself up to take the shot. He knows Sam will do something to try and distract him, so he steels his nerves.

Just as he shoots the ball, Sam drops a thick book on the floor with a loud bang! The ball sails cleanly through the hoop and Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“Alright.” Sam changes tactics. “Sudden death. Trivia challenge. Science-”

“Philipp Lenard.” Bucky replies confidently.

“Damn. How do you always do that?” Sam grumbles.

“It’s a gift.”

There’s a knock at the front door and Bucky pumps his fist. “Thank god, I’m starving.” He pulls open the door and accepts the Chinese food.

“Finally.” Sam sighs happily. They both dig into their food and Bucky tilts his head, something piquing his interest.

“You know, it’s been a while since we’ve worked on a case together.” He says thoughtfully.

“Yeah. Wonder when the police are gonna hit rock bottom to need you.” Sam smirks.

Bucky reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his confiscated police radio. “How about now?”

“Does Strange know you have another one of those?”

“Probably not. Wanna go? This one sounds interesting.”

“We just got our food.” Sam complains.

“Dude, they’re in to go containers. We can eat them on the go.”

“Just once, Bucky, I wanna be able to sit and eat.” Sam sighs.

“Next time.” Bucky promises with a lie.

***

The front of the apartment has been cordoned off with police tape, a crowd gathering out front. Two of Bucky’s favorite beat cops are on duty, keeping the crowd from entering: Clint Barton and Scott Lang.

“Hey, Bucky.” Clint says, shaking his hand.

“Hey, buddy. What’s good? Mind if we go up and offer our help?” He says easily.

“I dunno. Strange is in a bad mood.” Scott chimes in.

“Oh, it’s cool. He won’t even know we were there.” Bucky says, already heading for the door.

“Well, I guess they could use the extra help.” Scott says with a half shrug.

“Good man.”

***

Inside the apartment is a mess. Papers strewn about everywhere, books stacked precariously in corners; and that’s just in the entryway. Bucky and Sam edge their way around the mess, Bucky taking note of every little thing he sees. He never knows what’s going to be important later.

They move through what appears to be a living room, but the only piece of furniture visible is a faded leather couch. Artifacts and knickknacks are covering every visible surface that are plastered with papers.

Crime scene unit guys are trying to examine for evidence but there’s so much junk in the way, they’re having a hard time of it. They move into the office where the body is laying on the floor, ready to be moved to the morgue.

Ligature marks around his neck, purplish bruises just under his jaw, catch Bucky’s eye. They’re where you would expect a hangman’s noose to land, but there’s red irritation marks below them, covering the man’s throat.

Bucky tilts his head, realizing that they form the shape of a hand. He wasn’t hanged, he was strangled. Sam nudges his arm to get him to move out of the way of a crime scene guy and Bucky spots an open planner on the desk.

Dates are marked out and planned. Dinner, dentist, several dates blocked out for a trip abroad. He’s just returned the week before.

“Can we get out of here? You know how I feel about dead bodies.” Sam mutters.

“Relax.” Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a bite of his food.

Sam glares at him. “How can you just eat when there’s a dead guy lying there?” He gestures.

Bucky looks down, confused. “What, is that rude? Am I supposed to share?”

“Oh, what are you two doing here?” A man grumbles loudly behind them.

Bucky turns to see the lead homicide detective, Stephen Strange. He breaks into a wide grin at the man who’s scowl gets even bigger. “Detective.” He nods. And then he sees his junior detective behind him. “Y/N, I’ve missed you.” He says cheekily and you roll your eyes at him. One of the officers hands Strange a clipboard with notes on it.

Strange reads over the notes as Bucky looks around, seeing little indents in the wall, all the same size, all equally spaced. Strange bumps past him, probably trying to show his dominance, but it’s just rude. So, Bucky doesn’t feel bad about swiping the pages surreptitiously as he passes. Strange doesn’t even notice.

The indents are 15cm apart equally, there are 18 sets of them scattered throughout the apartment all exactly the same. That number triggers something in Bucky’s memory, but he’ll have to break into Sam’s apartment later to be sure.

There’s only a brief mention on the paper about the irritation marks, they don’t put much importance on it.

“What have we got, Detective?” Someone asks and Bucky turns to see Chief Tony Stark.

“Dead guy is Peter Quill. The apartment is his, Y/N is gonna look into his background when we get back to the station. Looks like a suicide, Chief. You can see the rope burns around his neck, rope was still around the rafter.” Strange says, pointing to the ceiling. He glances down at the clipboard to check the notes only to find them gone. He glances up and yanks them out of Bucky’s hand.

“I’m sensing that this isn’t a suicide.” Bucky counters. His eyes wander to the artifacts around the room, most are Chinese and Japanese in origin, and most are replicas. The trip he just returned from being to both China and Japan, the marks on the wall. He has an idea.

“Oh, are you?” Strange asks sarcastically.

“Yes.” He turns to Stark. “If I can draw a picture of the killer right now, would that be enough to get us on this case and keep it open?” He asks.

“Absolutely.” Stark answers.

“Come on, Chief.” Strange grumbles.

Bucky grabs the clipboard out of his hands and starts to draw while Strange argues his suicide angle. Doors locked from the inside, would be impossible to lift such a big guy into the rafters by himself, yada yada yada.

“Time’s up, Barnes. Whaddaya got?” Stark asks, crossing his arms.

“Okay, it’s not pretty, I didn’t have time to work out all the shading, if I had my prismacolor pencils, I could have done a much better job. Sam, you know what I’m talking about.”

Sam nods empathetically.

“Barnes!” Stark snaps.

“Our killer is this guy.” He turns the clipboard around to reveal a ninja, only spot of the face visible are the eyes. “This guy right here.” They all look confused and Bucky can’t understand why, everything lines up. “What? Fear not the weapon, but the hand that wields it.”

Strange chuckles happily as he takes back the clipboard and Stark points to the door for them to leave. Sam is glaring at him as they start to exit the crime scene.

“Oh, one more thing.” Bucky starts, turning back around. “He was strangled before being strung up.” He says before dramatically leaving the building.

***

Sam slams the door behind them and crosses to his desk. Bucky sits down, getting comfortable.

“What’s the matter?” Bucky sighs, watching his best friend storm around the office.

“You almost closed down our agency with that little act of yours, Bucky.” He snaps.

Bucky sits up, offended. “Me? You’re the one spending all your extra time at your little side project.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, hand covering his heart. “You mean my real job? Soon to be my only job?”

“Sam, don’t be a gooey chocolate chip cookie. I’m gonna be right. Everything lines up. He traveled to Asia, all that art and stuff is Asian. Practically ties him to ninjas already.” Bucky sits back in his chair. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I have to finish my route. You’re on your own for the rest of the day.” Sam says, grabbing his briefcase and heading for the door.

“You can’t go now. What if the Chief calls?” Bucky implores.

“He won’t. Not after that stunt.” Sam rolls his eyes and then he’s out the door.

Bucky waits a solid five minutes, testing to see if his best friend comes back inside. He doesn’t. So, Bucky is on the move. He grabs his lock pick set and mounts his motorcycle, heading for Sam’s apartment.

Sam’s apartment is easier to get into than he thought, although Bucky personally believes he should have his own key. Sam doesn’t trust him, but clearly trusts everyone else by leaving a key in a fake rock outside his second floor apartment.

He gets inside and starts searching for the box he knows Sam has. He finds it in his study. Why Sam even has a study, Bucky doesn’t know.

He pulls off the lid and inside are a dozen different sizes and shapes of throwing stars. He pulls out his tape measure and measures the distances between the points on all the different sizes. One of them matches exactly to the measurement taken from the apartment.

Knew it.

Now how to tell Strange that?

“Barnes, how do you keep getting into my apartment? And why are you here?” Sam sighs from behind him.

“Sam, please. A secret key in a rock is far less effective on a second floor balcony. And I needed your throwing stars.”

Sam scoffs. “They’re called hira shuriken. And they’re not a weapon of ninjas. They’re used by the samurai.”

“Huh. So Hollywood is wrong. Who would have thought?” Bucky tilts his head and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Anyone who’s paid attention. They get most everything wrong.”

“Okay, mister know it all. Can samurais move like ninjas?”

“I don’t see why not. They’re both incredibly skilled.” Sam shrugs.

“Great. I need to get down to the station.” Bucky takes one last look at the star before turning back to his best friend.

“And quit breaking into my place.” Sam adds.

“If you would give me a key, I wouldn’t have to.”

***

“Strange, I just got the background report on Quill. It’s pretty interesting, but I don’t think you’re gonna like what it means for us.” You say, leaving a voicemail for your senior detective. “I’ll tell you all the details when I see you next.” You say, hanging up.

You aren’t interested in making that phone call to tell Bucky he might have been right. There’ll be no living with him after this. Sure, he’s a laugh to have around, and it’s always amusing to watch him get under Strange’s skin. That man is so uptight, it’s always funny to see him riled up. And yeah, sure, Bucky flirts with you, always having this way of making you feel so special. But you aren’t sure you can trust any of it. He’s always such a prankster, everything is a joke to him. So, you take it all with a grain of salt. But he’s not so bad, kind of charming even.

The door to the bullpen flies open and Bucky comes stumbling in, his eyes unfocused as he waves his arms around so he doesn’t walk into anything. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from walking into several officers, a chair, your desk and swiping all your papers on the floor.

“Barnes!” You complain.

“Y/N? Y/N! Thank god!” He calls loudly and you roll your eyes.

What was that about him being charming? That’s a lie.

You start picking up your papers. “What do you want, Bucky?”

“I’m having a vision! I see something from the crime scene, I need paper!” He reaches out, his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling and before he can do any more damage to your desk, you thrust a notepad and pencil in his hand.

He starts scribbling on the paper as you get your file in order again. You debate the merit of tripping him while he can’t see, but that would probably border on cruel.

You move your file out of his disastrous reach and he slumps against the column near your desk with an anguished moan. He drops the notepad on your desk and you pick it up, looking at the impressive recreation of a throwing star.

“What is this?” You ask, showing him.

“I’m seeing them thrown around that apartment. That’s what made those puncture marks in the walls.” He says, pushing himself back up.

You feel your pulse rising, getting excited before you slump. “Doesn’t matter.” You hand him back the notepad, sitting back down in your chair.

“What do you mean is doesn’t matter? There was someone else in that apartment.” He insists.

“So far, it’s been ruled a suicide. We have the murder weapon-the rope he hung himself with.” You shake your head. “We know he traveled to China and Japan a lot. He could have gotten one of those hira shuriken in one of his trips and made those holes himself. There’s no proof that there was anyone else in that apartment.” You shrug. “Sorry, Bucky.”

He stares at you and you remember why you don’t mind him hanging around so much. He cares about these cases. Maybe he cares mostly about being right, or he just can’t hear the word no, but right now he looks so offended.

“What about the handprint on his neck?” He asks.

“The coroner hasn’t turned in his report yet. We’re still waiting. Ultimately, he’ll make the decision if it’s suicide or homicide.”

“Alright. I hate waiting, but I guess I can wait. How long do you think? Like, twenty minutes?”

“Bucky, it takes almost a day. They have to wait for a tox screen, that takes almost eighteen hours itself.”

“What? That’s outrageous.”

“Just go home. If anything turns up, I’m sure we’ll call you.” You say, patting him on the shoulder. His big broad shoulders slump as he nods.

“Sure.” He turns to leave, the wind out of his sails a little.

A small part of you wants to believe him. He has a nose for these sorts of things, and he always has such conviction. But you just know that one time you’re gonna let your guard down and believe him and it’s gonna blow up in your face.

Better to wait for the facts.

Bucky

The industrial lights flicker overhead, the grimy mint green tiles making the dim hallway feel cold and unwelcoming.

But then, death is never welcomed.

Bucky finds the correct door and pushes it open. The overwhelming, nose burning smell of antiseptic hits him and he wrinkles his nose. The least the medical examiner could do is light some candles, maybe spray some febreeze.

“Mr. Barnes. What can I do for you this fine day?” He asks from his office doorway.

“That body they just brought in today,” Bucky starts.

“Ah, the suicide.” He nods and moves over to the coolers, pulling out the right one.

“I’m sensing there’s more to it. I don’t think it’s a suicide.”

“Oh? I’m listening.”

“I’m feeling a hand around his neck. Would there be any way to see that if there aren’t any marks on the skin?” Bucky asks.

“Oh absolutely. Hit the lights.” He instructs, turning around to get something from his office.

Bucky flips the switch and it gets pitch black in the room. But then a blueish glow is coming from behind him. He turns around as the doc shines the light over the neck of the body.

“Oh boy, you’re right.” He looks up at Bucky. “Here, hold this.” He thrusts the light wand into his hands and rushes to get his camera. He snaps several photos while directing Bucky where to angle the light.

“Holy shit. I would have missed that.” He mutters, looking up at Bucky. “That’s some gift you have, kid.” He says, clapping Bucky on the arm.

“So, it’s officially a murder?” Bucky asks.

“Officially a murder.” He agrees.

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