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snappedsky · 2 years

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Fanatics 94.3

The Battalion and the Night Terrors make a quick pit stop in Japan.

*Links to previous and next chapters in reblog*

Final Awakening: Road Trip of Doom Part 3

The Night Terrors’ bus blasts across the Pacific Ocean, its thrusters powered by Gir and Mimi. After escaping an attack by a giant squid, they are nearing Japan.

“Why can’t we just park here?” Zim asks, pointing at a map on Dib’s phone as he drives.

“That beach is in the middle of Tokyo,” Dib argues, “we don’t wanna draw that much attention to ourselves. Look, this island here, Niijima- there’s a beach on its south end we can park. Go southeast.”

“Fine,” Zim groans.

They soon reach the location. Many people are relaxing on the beach, and stare at them as the van passes. Zim finds an empty corner and drives the van onto the sand.

“Okay,” he says as he unplugs the SIR units from the dashboard. “Short break while I drain the engine. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Cool,” Tenna chimes as everyone gets out.

The weather is lovely- a bright blue sky with no clouds. The ocean laps against the shore. Sea birds can be heard chirping in the distance.

“Japan,” Squee smiles, “this is so cool. I wish we could explore.”

“It will take a few minutes for the engine to dry out,” Zim explains as he lifts the hood of the van. “You have my permission to go look around.”

“Really?” he chirps with excitement.

“Just don’t go too far,” Shmee warns.

“Nny, you wanna come?” Squee asks as he grabs his bag.

“Nah, I’m good here,” Johnny replies as he contently lies down on a seat in the emptied van.

Gaz, Pepito, Squee, Devi, and Tenna all race off down the beach without hesitation. Zim, Tak, and Dib work on draining the engine while the Night Terrors lounge about nearby.

Gaz, Pepito, Squee, Devi, and Tenna slow to a walk as the beach gets more crowded. People are sunbathing or playing in the water to the right and to the left is a rocky climb leading up to a forest.

“I wish I brought my swimsuit,” Tenna remarks, “could’ve worked on my tan.”

“It’s too hot,” Devi pants, tugging at her shirt.

“Hey, look,” Pepito says, pointing up ahead. “There’s a path leading up to the trees. Wanna see where it goes?”

“We’re not supposed to go too far,” Squee warns hesitantly.

“We know how to get back,” Gaz points out, “you wanted to explore, so let’s explore.”

He gives in immediately and excitedly nods. The group leaves the beach and heads up the path into the trees.

It is a well-travelled path although no one else is around right now. The Battalion soak up the serenity and ambience.

“This is making me wanna paint landscapes,” Devi remarks.

However, the peace and quiet is rudely interrupted by a loud, obnoxious creaking.

“What’s that?” Gaz asks.

They look up as they spot a tree just to their right swaying. Then its trunk snaps and collapses towards them. They exclaim and leap out of the way.

“Everyone okay?” Pepito asks as he sits up.

“Yeah, I think so,” Tenna replies, rubbing her head.

“That was random,” Devi comments.

“Let’s hope so,” Squee mutters.

As everyone gets back on their feet, Pepito notices an envelope on the ground and picks it up. “What’s this?”

It’s been opened and is addressed to Gaz, from the Game Slave offices in Los Angeles. Gaz immediately lashes for it. “Give it back!”

“What is it?” he asks, handing it back.

She scowls as she slips it back into her jacket. “It’s…nothing.”

“Why are you carrying it around?” he presses, “it’s from Game Slave. What does that mean?”

She growls defiantly.

Squee glances at her before patting Pepito’s shoulder. “Let it go. She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” he grunts and looks up and down the path. “Where do we go now?”

“It’s…an acceptance letter.”

Everyone looks back at Gaz. She’s glaring at the ground and gripping her skirt, clearly uncomfortable. “About a month ago, I applied for an internship at Game Slave and…I was accepted. I start in September.”

“That’s awesome,” Pepito cheers, “why haven’t you told us?”

“Because I knew you’d all make a big deal about it,” she replies.

“That’s because it is a big deal.”

“I know. But…it’s still weird.”

“Alright, okay,” Pepito relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “No big deal. So you haven’t told anyone?”

“Just my dad and Maddie,” Gaz replies, “I was planning to tell you all on this trip, which is why I brought the letter. But, I’ll be gone for a while- a few months at least. And I didn’t want you all to freak out.”

“I’m leaving in September too,” Pepito points out.

“Yeah, but…Dib isn’t your brother.”

“That’s true,” Devi agrees, “he does have kind of a little sister complex.”

“Still,” Squee says, “you should tell the others when we get back. It’s huge news.” Gaz sighs. “Yeah.”

“Alright, let’s head back then,” Pepito declares, “if trees are starting to fall on our heads, then we probably shouldn’t be out much longer.”

They start to turn and head back down the trail when they hear the leaves rustling from behind. They turn back around to see someone emerging from the bushes just behind them.

It’s an old lady, barefoot and in a dirty white dress with stringy gray hair that hangs over her face. She motions to the fallen tree and says something to the Battalion in Japanese.

“Anyone know Japanese?” Pepito asks.

“Just a couple words I’ve picked up from games and anime,” Gaz replies.

“So do you know what she’s saying?”

“No.”

“Oh, hang on,” Squee says and digs around his bag before pulling out an ear piece. “I still got that universal translator Kio gave us when we went to Irk.”

He sticks it in his ear and the words the lady is saying get translated into English for him.

“Um, she’s asking if we’re hurt and if we need help,” he explains.

“How do we tell her we’re fine?” Pepito asks.

Tenna smiles at the lady and gives her a double thumbs up.

“You’re so hokey,” Devi comments.

The lady says something else.

“She’s asking if we’re lost tourists,” Squee says.

Tenna shakes her head and points down the path then makes a walking motion with her fingers.

“She says we should go with her,” he says then adds quietly, “she’s giving me a real bad feeling.”

Everyone quickly shakes their heads and start to back up down the path.

The old lady says something else, her head cocking stiffly. As her hair slips a little out of the way, the Battalion gets a peek at her face. Her eyes are very wide and her mouth looks painted on.

“She…” Squee croaks and swallows hard. “She says she’s hungry.”

“So toss her a granola bar and let’s get out of here,” Pepito orders.

“I don’t think that’s gonna cut it.”

Her head cocks again and she suddenly drops onto all fours. Then, with a horrible cracking, her elbows and knees bend backwards as she flips over onto her back. Her hair is pushed to the side as her scalp splits open into a sideways, fanged mouth. A serpentine tongue slithers around her lips as she hisses.

“Nope,” Squee squeaks and immediately races down the path.

“Wait for us!” Pepito cries and the others scramble after him.

They run down the path towards the beach as fast as they can. But they don’t get far before the monster leaps out of the trees ahead of them, cutting them off. They skid to a stop before diving into the bush to the right.

As they race around the trees, ducking around branches and jumping over the roots, they can hear the monster chasing after them, tearing through the leaves.

Tenna gets her foot caught under a root and she trips, hitting the ground face first. She groans and looks up to see the monster leaping towards her. But Pepito jumps in just in time to smack the creature back with his guitar.

She smashes through the branches and skids across the dirt before coming to a stop. As Devi helps Tenna to her feet, everyone watches the creature for a second.

She lifts herself back onto her hands and feet and shrieks angrily at the Battalion. They shudder fearfully and take off through the trees again.

Back on the beach, Zim closes the hood of the van and sighs contently. “There, all better.”

“Good,” Tak nods and looks around, “now where are the others?”

“Hopefully they didn’t go too far,” Dib remarks.

They glance around the beach but see no sign of their other friends.

“You don’t think they got into trouble, do you?” Nailbunny asks.

“That is exactly what I think,” Shmee grunts.

“Start the van!” They hear voices cry out and look up to the left to see Gaz, Pepito, Squee, Devi, and Tenna racing out of the trees and down the rocks. “Start the van! Start the van! Start the-!”

Pepito suddenly loses his balance and trips into Gaz and Squee. All three of them tumble down the rocks and hit the sand face first.

Devi and Tenna catch up to them and stop as they pick themselves up, rubbing their cheeks and spitting out sand. Then they hear the trees rustling and look up to see the monster emerging.

“What the-!” D-boy gasps.

“Everyone in the van!” Pepito exclaims as they race to the vehicle.

The Battalion and the Night Terrors scramble in the van, disturbing Johnny who was resting on a seat.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Same old, same old,” Squee pants.

Zim starts the engine and the van begins to lift up. But the creature leaps onto the hood. Everyone screams as it roars at the windshield.

“What is that?” Tak asks.

“They want a ride!” Gir chimes.

“I know what it is!” Dib replies excitedly as he stands up closer to the windshield. “I’ve read about it! It’s a Yamauba! Wow! I can’t believe I get to see a Japanese yokai in person!”

“Dib!” everyone snaps.

“Right, sorry,” he cheeps and sits down.

Zim jerks the van to the left, throwing the monster of the hood. It hits the sand below as the van takes off into the sky.

Everyone sighs with relief as the van slows down and levels out.

“What the hell did you guys do?” Sickness asks.

Squee shrugs. “Exist?”

“Yeah, like we even have to do anything,” Pepito adds.

“At least you’re all okay,” Shmee says.

“Yes,” Zim agrees, “we’re on our way once again and we should be in Korea in less than twenty minutes.”

Everyone sighs again and begins to relax. Squee nudges Gaz and nods towards Dib. She sighs and pulls the letter out of her coat.

“I uh…I got something I need to tell you guys.”

#invader zim #invader zim fanfiction #johnny the homicidal maniac #johnny the homicidal maniac fanfiction #iz jthm crossover #myocs #myart

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fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years

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Put Me In a Movie

Keanu Reeves x Reader (A/n-I just keep making things worse and worse for them. Are people even still reading this?)

Summary Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Warnings- Angst, just buckets of angst

Chapter 15- Insult to Injury

If she was there, then he'd fix things. If not, it was over.

That was the agreement that Keanu had made with himself. He wasn't even sure if the disrepair he'd caused could be fixed, but he knew he had to try. Ever since Y/n had left him in a cold, dim alley way, drenched in coke and rum, Keanu had been a mess. It hurt, way more that he had expected to. His chest felt tight and thick emotion made it burn, his vision went blurry and Keanu, from the minute Y/n had slammed the door on the shambles of their relationship, or whatever it was, felt the walls crumbling as they closed in. Even then, he was still confused on what he’d felt for her; lust, infatuation? Whatever it was, it had driven Keanu to bargain with himself; he’d give her the rest of the night to cool off, and first thing the next morning, he’d find his way to Y/n’s room, and if she was still there, then he’d accept it as fate and plead with her to let him make things right, but if she was gone, then he’d give up, for good.

So, there he was, at seven in the morning, not knowing what he’d say to make Y/n change her mind, but knowing that there was very little off limits. For a second, before he lifted his shaking fist, Keanu wondered how she was taking it, if she was still as upset as she was the previous night or if her rage had settled. Had she slept or laid wide awake in the mess of sheets like he had? Did she even resign to her bed, the one they’d grown used to sharing, like a real couple. They’d done so much like a real couple. She’d loved him, as if they were a real couple, and what had Keanu given her in return? Agony.

Did he even love her?

As fast as he’d asked himself the question, Keanu buried it, stuffing somewhere deep and far, so he wouldn’t have to think about it. If it hurt that bad enough without loving her, what would it feel like if he did? “Fuck,” he eventually sighed, realizing that he was thinking over, under and around the issue, and still hadn’t done what he’d taken the trek down the hall for. Just knock.

He was about to, raising it fist to give the creme oak a heavy tap, only stopping when a voice interrupted him as it came from the elevator, “Mr. Reeves?” It was Ester, the middle aged housekeeper he’d bribed to let him to Y/n’s room a few months ago. That morning felt so far gone, like the memories belonged to someone else; just as scared though impressively braver. The man he’d been then was almost in complete control of how he felt. But the man in front of Y/n’s door? He was jaded, a little broken, and very confused.

“Ester,” Keanu tried to summon up a smile, knowing his hollowed eyes and slightly disheveled form would sell him out whether he liked it or not, “How are you?”

“Good,” she nodded, wheeling her cart up the carpeted hall, cleaning products neatly mounted to the top and various items sticking out the bottom shelf, “Are you looking for Miss Y/l/n?”

“Uh, yeah,” he huffed nervously, rocking back and forth of the balls of his feet, anxiously stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, “Do you know if she’d in?”

A worried expression pitched at the woman’s features, tugging at her wrinkles and dimming her eyes, “She checked out this morning, I saw her with her bags at the front desk. She looked very upset,” the matronly woman frowned deeper, debating on whether or not she should say more, “Did something happen between you two? Little lovers spat? Because usually she’d be up to chatting if we met around the hotel, but this morning she was just in a hurry, and I’m pretty sure the poor dear was crying.”

Did everyone know?

“I…..” Keanu stumbled on his words, shuffling his feet and avoiding Ester’s gaze, which wasn’t hard considering she was very small, “It’s complicated, I don’t think you could even call us lovers anymore,” he chuckled dryly, trying desperately to ignore the sting that accompanied the admission, “That’s probably why she left,” that was definitely why she left, “She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Can I give you some advice?” Ester spoke up, moving around the cart, placing a warm hand on his arm, “I see the way you look at her, the way she looks at you, and that kind of love, it’s rare. And I know I don’t know what happened, but I do know that you love her, so don’t some little thing get in the way of what you two have.”

“It’s not that simple,” Keanu objected, already ready to give up, even if everything in him wanted him to try harder. He wanted it so badly, that he hadn’t even realized that what Ester had said, about him loving Y/n. “I said some things, done things, I don’t think it's as little as you’re thinking it is.”

At that, Ester smiled knowingly, shaking her head, before turning to return to the helm of her cleaning cart, “In the scheme of things, where real love is involved, isn’t everything small? And I know this isn’t one of your movies, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still have a happy ending.”

Taking her words to heart, Keanu barely nodded and thanked Ester, casting his head down as he walked back to his room, now even deeper in thought. It hadn’t occurred to him before. The fact that he might love Y/n. Well, it had, but he’d dismissed it. What was love anyway? Hearts and flowers? Dinner together after work or extravagant presents for every occasion? Maybe it was marriage and kids, the nine yards with the white picket fence and everything. Keanu used to want that, but after a while, as he’d grown older, he’d convinced himself that his time had passed. That a wife and a baby or two wasn’t in the cards for him.

Perhaps, he thought, finally reaching his room, pushing the door closed behind him before slumping into the nearest chair, the one in the foyer near his packed bags, perhaps, love was the little things. That made more sense when he looked at what he and Y/n had shared. It could have been in the way he liked having his head on her chest, or how much he enjoyed the way she’d scoot on top of him in the wee hours of the morning. The way her laugh was like a melody, played just for him and the way holding Y/n’s hand made him feel safe and appreciated. Maybe it was how they’d learnt each other’s coffee orders by heart and how he’d always offer her the first spoon of his ice cream and how she always ordered his favorite dessert when they were splitting one after dinner. Love was in the little things. The things Keanu had spent so long searching for before deciding to give up one day. He’d always wanted someone who he could be himself around, someone who wouldn’t ever get bored of him and who made him feel like he belonged.

Someone like Y/n.

And was when it hit him. As much as he denied it, he loved her.

The evening sun cast a cloudy, yellow glow, filtering through the glass wall facing the city, on Y/n’s large living room. Late noon into early evening was always one of Y/n’s favorite times to spend there, she adored the way the light would bounce of some surfaces, casting long shadows on others, as the slight, though ever present Los Angeles warmth contrasted the coolness of her A/c perfectly. It was usually around that time when she’d resign to the sofa with a book or to watch television, sometimes falling asleep until it was past dark. But that day, seventy two hours after landing at LAX and having her dad drive her home, Y/n just could not focus. Not on the pages bound in a hard cover splayed on her lap, not on her favorite soap playing on T.V and she couldn’t even fall asleep.

Everything just hurt so much.

From the minute she walked into the apartment, the first thing that Y/n could remember was the short time she’d spent there with Keanu. And then, with those memories, came a slew of others. He’d done so much, and though Y/n usually preferred to reserve herself, having seen what a mess her parents made, not wanting to fall in love until she was absolutely ready, she had. It had happened slowly and suddenly, paces changing like seasons, Keanu’s moods keeping her on her toes and her own insecurities getting in the way of letting her fully enjoy their time together.

Sitting on the sofa that evening, Y/n’s gaze fell from the television, falling tears creating little darkened spots and making the ink run on the pages of her most recent read. After a hitched breath, soft, shuddering sobs wracked her body and there was no amount of deep breaths that could remedy the physical ache that had started in her chest and spread through her body as she reluctantly remembered everything they’d shared in just a few months;

Slow dancing with her in a barely empty bar.

Sitting with her on the beach

Holding her hand.

Pretending he wanted to protect her

Looking at her like she was all that mattered.

It was his fault really. He’d made her love him, and then he’d taken that away.

How could he? In the end, Keanu had barely batted a lash, even after Y/n had spun out and tossed a drink at him, insulted him. He’d just taken it, made her feel like she was the fool for expecting more. And just like that, right there and then, she sat thinking back on how it had gone down, for probably the millionth time since it happened

“You’re not my girlfriend.”

“.....this isn’t working for me.”

Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was hers for trusting him in the first place, after he’d given her so many reasons not to. Maybe- a knocking on the front door broke Y/n’s thoughts. For a split second, she considered ignoring it, hoping whoever it was would give up quickly and just leave, but soon after, they were knocking again. “Coming!” With a heavy sigh, Y/n tossed her book to the other side of the sofa, trudging barefoot to the door, as she rubbed the tears away. Pulling one side of the door open, Y/n gasped at the person before her, ready to slam the door in his face.

Though, Keanu was faster, and just as she moved to push the door closed, he firmly held it back, “Y/n,” he pleaded, sounding softer than he ever had. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair a mess, really, he looked as bad as she felt, “Please, I just want to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Y/n actively avoided his gaze, shoving the door, though, Keanu was stronger, able to keep her from shutting him out completely.

“Then just listen, please,” even if he could see her trying to not meet his eyes, her anger still looming just beneath the exterior, Keanu also knew that he could get through to her, he just had to work for it, “I have a lot that I want to say to you. Can I please come in?”

“No,” every time she denied him, the lump in her throat grew and her eyes stung more and Y/n knew that all it would take was one look at his face to have her breaking down, “You need to leave.”

“I’m not,” desperate, Keanu longed to just squeeze himself through the space between the door and its frame, anything that would make her listen, just so she’d change her mind, “You close this door, then I’m staying right here. I’m not leaving, I’ll sit out here if I have to, but I’m not leaving.”

Exasperated, Y/n reluctantly relented and though a minute part of her was curious, it was against her better judgement when she finally let him in, not letting them get past the kitchen. Leaning against the counter and folding her arms across her chest, “I don’t know what you could possibly say that will change anything. Cause as far as I’m concerned, you said everything that you wanted back in Chicago,” there was venom in her tone and Y/n sniffled, anger and sorrow mixing like gasoline and an open flame.

“What I said that night,” Keanu blew an audible breath, knowing he deserved every shot she fired, “It was stupid and selfish. I shouldn’t have said any of it. But-”

“But you did,” chucking dryly, her eyes shone, tears ready to spill over on already reddened, stained cheeks, “You said it without even having to think about it. You essentially said that I was nothing more than a fling to you. There were so many signs that you didn't care the way I did, feel for me what I feel for you," a tired, pained huff broke past her bare lips and tears tangled in her thick, long lashes, "But I trusted you anyway, I kept on hoping you could change, that I could change you, but I'm done now," at the very last word, her voice dropped breaking the way her heart had.

Temporarily forgetting their current state of affairs, or possibly hoping some salvaged affection would would do some good for them, Keanu stepped forward, going to reach out, “Baby-”

“Don’t,” Y/n choked out a warning, stepping out of his reach, “Don’t fucking call me baby! Like you fucking care!” Running anxious hands through her loose tresses, Y/n hoped they’d somehow pull back the tears that were already falling, “Don’t you see what you've done to me?” Her face was blotchy and red, and for once, for the first time in a goddamned long time, Y/n wasn’t thinking of how great the good was, instead, all she could think of how absolutely terrible the bad was. How much Keanu hurt her after she’d let her heart bleed for him, after he’d called her ‘baby’ nearly a hundred times and made her believe that he could feel something more than lust for her. All she could think of, as they stood in her apartment, the evening bringing a solemn haze to the atmosphere, was how selfishly cruel he’d been in his so called romantic dealings, “You fucked me up you selfish, insensitive son of a bitch!” Her throat burned and Y/n didn’t care if the entire building heard her, “You made me love you, you acted like you cared. But you could never care, you don’t even care about yourself,” she spat bitterly, sniffling, “Cause if you did, you’d know that I was the best thing that’s happened to you in a really long time.”

She was right, and Keanu knew it, and for a second, his lips quivered, with the intention of playing it off the way he usually did. But something stopped him, reminding Keanu that he wrecked more than enough havoc to ruin Y/n for a century and that the purpose of his visit was to fix things, for real that time. To admit and repair. To tell Y/n that she was right and hope that she’d take him back, one last time. “You’re right,” he offered softly, sobering the mood, slumping his shoulders, “But that’s why I’m here, cause I understand now, Y/n it was never about-”

“No,” she objected, “You can’t just-”

“It was never about seeing where things went,” Keanu continued, hoping to combat her words with his own, “You were always the one. I always knew-”

Y/n tried to close her mind off to everything he was saying, everything she’d spent so long yearning to hear, “You can’t do this, not now-”

“It’s always been you, from the minute I met you, I knew,” tears gathered in his eyes as that day at the table read came back to him. How taken aback he’d been by her beauty, how intent he was to meet her in the parking lot to give her his number, praying to every god he believed in that she’d take a chance and call him. He’d fought it, for so long, for nights that he’d spent with her dancing through his dreams and days after their first coffee meeting, spent recalling her innocent touches. He’d never been touched like that, and the more Keanu got to know her, got to love her, he knew that Y/n was everything that he’d ever wanted and so much more. She was it for him. “Y/n, you’ve always been everything and I was just too afraid-”

“Just stop!” She pleaded, knowing that having him break her heart again might be the end of her. That was the thing about Keanu; he was capable of giving so much, but he was also exceptional at taking things away, of hurting her by turning the dagger he’d buried in her chest. “Please-”

“Please,” he ached to reach out, “Just give me one more chance-”

“Please, just leave,” she sobbed, “If you love me, then leave,” her hoarse voice was barely louder than a whisper, though Keanu heard every heartbreaking, gut wrenching syllable of it, “Because I can’t do this anymore.” For a minute, they just stood there, gazes glassy and equally tormented, though, when neither of them budged, Y/n yelled, a sob nearly stifling her plea, “Just get out!”

And in that very moment, Keanu swore that his heart literally broke, the ache in his chest breath stealing. Finally, he felt something minutely reminiscent of what he’d brought her over the past six months or so. He’d been killing her, but really, all he’d done was draw the makings of his own demise, because truthfully, Keanu knew that returning to a life void of Y/n wasn’t one he could thrive in. “Please don’t do this,” he begged, forbidding any dignity he’d reserved, “Please, Y/n I’m begging you to just-”

“Get out!” She screamed, starling them both, pointing at the door, “You’ve already made a fool of me Keanu, don’t stand here and do the same to yourself.”

Nodding, he ran his fingers through his untamed mane, acid on his tongue as he offered compliance, “Okay.” dragging his lower lip through his teeth, and stuffing one hand into his pocket, turning and heading for Y/n’s front door. Every step felt like a piece of his tired soul being chiseled away, and when he turned the knob, he could swear that the coldness of the metal was trying to freeze his lungs, “I hope you know,” he swallowed thickly, “That I’ll still love you. There’s not going to be anyone else, ever, not after you Y/n. And if you can ever find it in yourself to forgive me, if you ever decide you can still be with me after everything I’ve done, there wouldn’t be any question of how I feel about you. I’ll always be waiting.”

Keanu didn’t wait for a response, he wasn’t anticipating one anyways, and with his words, he left, easing the door closed behind himself. The minute was gone, Y/n fell to her knees, the hardwood cool beneath them. It felt like she was completely and utterly shattered, bits and pieces of her fragile being scattered across the floor, though most of it gone with him. Above everything else, seeing Keanu hurt like that had pained her the most and quicker than ever, the anger left, replaced by the severity of what she’d just done; pushed Keanu out of her life with a finality that Y/n wasn’t sure she could stand. The love she had for him was everything, and though it had ruined her, she’d take those ruins over a barren, listless life without the man she’d always longed to call her own. Her love for Keanu was everything, and without it, she had nothing.

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @paanchu786 @thesadvampire @fanficsrusz @fickensteinn @ladyreapermc @babygirltaina @septimaseverina @snatchedbylele @omg-imagine @21stcenturyyfoxx @magnificentclodpiebanana @allie1804-fan @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves

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alma-berry · 5 years

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Kit’s Secret Fire Message # 13

Masterlist 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

When the morning came, it was a sudden blow. The darkness seemed to cling to the stone walls until the very last second, absorbing the soft glow of the witchlight into an almost blinding black void. And then, like with a switch turned on, and it was gone.

Ty stared at his plate, still a bit groggy after a long night of research and frustrated speculations with Livvy. He felt no closer to understanding the meaning of Jem’s warnings, and the thought of Kit, endangered by this unknown threat, sent cold shivers down his spine. He forced his attention back into the current conversation before anyone noticed his uncharacteristic lack of interest.

“We can’t just wait for them to reappear, there has to be a logical pattern that we can find and trace.” Said Adam Townsend, the third centurion in their group. His thick brows furrowed in concentration as he loomed over the old London map that lay across the dining table.

“Only if you assume they have enough brains for logics or patterns, Adam. They’re demons, not masterminds serial killers.” Carl said with his mouth full of potatoes.

Ty averted his gaze from him, slightly nauseated.

“Don’t underestimate them. They’re minions. Even if they’re not highly intelligent, they could be-“

“Hi”

The voice that interrupted him was as familiar to Ty as his dreams. Kit.

He stood in the dining room’s entrance, leaning casually on the wooden door, surveying them with a guarded expression. He wore dark jeans, and the soft material of his grey shirt hung loosely on his frame, revealing bits of the fine golden skin of his collar bones. His eyes flickered towards Ty, and something about his posture seemed to soften by just a fraction. Ty could feel his own heartbeats, thumping loud in his ears, the sound nearly drowning Kit’s words.

“What are you talking about?”

Kit took a seat next to Adam, as far from Ty as the table offered. Ty felt a pang in his chest but quickly chased it away while Adam explained.

“We’re trying to figure out the meaning of the increased Moloch demon activity throughout London. We received plenty of reports but there seemed to be no apparent pattern, they’re not even killing anyone. Not as far we know, at least. It’s like they’re looking for something, but we don’t know what.”

Kit leaned back in his chair, and looked directly at Ty. It startled him, the stark contrast between his physical distance and the familiarity in his eyes. When he spoke, it was to Ty.

“Um.. did you try looking for missing children?”

Carl burst out laughing, cutting Ty’s train of thoughts. “Are you still high on demon poison, Herondale? Why would we look for missing kids?”

Kit tore his gaze away from Ty with apparent difficulty, and focused on Carl, a sweet, dangerous smile fixed on his lips.

“Because, dung face, it’s basic knowledge that human children sacrifices were made to the Moloch greater demon. Don’t you have WiFi at the Scholomance?”

Carl seemed to almost spit fire at him, “It’s pagan mundane crap, completely irrelevant. You’re not even part of this investigation-”

Ty concentrated at the faint hum of music from where his headphones lay. He examined his knowledge of the demon while Carl kept ranting at Kit. A distant memory trying to resurface to the front of his consciousness, a quote.. and suddenly, he remembered. He realized, with a just of surprise that Kit was, in fact, right.

“No,” he rose to his feet, cutting Carl in whatever rude comment he was about to make.

“It’s not just pagan, it’s biblical. ‘There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire’. Humans used to sacrifice children, babies, to what they called a god, the Moloch. They burned them, just like the demons. Kit is right.”

He looked at him, cobalt blue shimmering like a secret island in the middle of the sea. Once again, Ty felt that pull, planted deep inside his ribcage.. as if a rubber band was stretched between them, and the furthest he was from him, the harder it was to breath.

He pressed his hands hard on the table, forcing clarity onto his body, diverting his mind into the present, into this possible new lead. A lead that Kit figured out. Ty was equally impressed and annoyed that he didn’t figure it out himself.

“You should look through the missing persons reports for missing children, and try to compare their locations to those in which the demons appeared. Maybe that’s the pattern.” The two centurions gaped at Kit with astonishment.

The careful smile that clung to his lips tug at Ty’s heart. Kit almost seemed reluctant to acknowledge his own accomplishment, which made no sense and only made Ty feel furiously proud of him.

“Don’t feel bad, you couldn’t have noticed it.. it’s not like you watch mundane news or read the papers.” Kit gave a disturbed looking Adam a sympathetic smile.

“I read the papers!” Carl called, but Kit only laughed.

“Sure you do, dunghill. I bet you have The Guardian mailed to the Carpathian mountains daily”.

Ty pushed back his chair before Carl could respond.

“I need a computer, do you know where-“

“I have my laptop here”, Kit replied with a small voice, and something passed between them.

Ty nodded, and they left the dining room together, walking in silence towards Kit’s room.

Kit opened the door to his room and cursed himself wordlessly. He was supposed to keep a safe distance from Ty, to keep him safe. How was he to do that if they were alone in a room, together? The memory of Ty’s hand on his felt like a newly drawn rune, stinging his skin, and he shuddered from how much he longed for it.

“Are you cold?” Ty sounded concerned.

“No.. it’s just chilly.” He shrugged off the discomfort and reached for his duffle bag.

“Here”, he handed him the computer and shoved his hands hard into his pockets.

Ty sat down on Kit’s bed and opened the silvery device. The dimmed light of the screen made his long lashes cast soft shadows under them. Suddenly, his eyes widened and a blush painted his pale cheeks.

“What is it?” Kit asked in alarm.

Without uttering a word, Ty turned the thin screen towards him, and the familiar view of an endlessly blue sky reflecting on a glistening sheen of water greeted him. The beach on the foot of the Los Angeles institute.

“It’s your wallpaper.” Ty’s eyes searched Kit’s face. He didn’t know for what.. for answers? for the memory of a shared past? or was it for the knowledge that Kit still remembered the unspoken promises they made for each other, so long ago. And broken.

He nodded, unable to say what’s on his heart.

“Why?” Ty’s question was a mere whisper, but it enveloped so much emotion. Loss and hope were just hidden underneath it, touching the bare surface of his voice.

The words came out of Kit’s mouth before he could restrain them.

“Because it reminds me of home, of friends. Because it hurt, and I never want to forget it. Because you were standing just outside the frame.. and if I try hard, sometimes I can even see you in it.”

Ty’s lips shaped a surprised oh and his eyes found Kit’s, naked emotion on his sharp, beautiful face. Kit tried to steady himself, and failed miserably.

“But.. but you left. You said that- you said that you wished you had never known me, and left.”

Ty’s words burned a hole in Kit’s heart like branding iron. Raw pain and shame suffocated him to a point that his voice sounded like broken glass.

“Ty.. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. I told you, so many times, in so many letters.”

“So why-“

Kit wanted to scream, his own memories felt like acid coursing through his veins.

“Because you said I was nothing, Ty!” he was practically shouting, but it didn’t matter. He waited so long to rid himself of these words that he didn’t even care if someone overheard him. Only the sight of Ty’s earphones, the echo of his hushed whispers to the night’s sky and how he flinched involuntarily made him lower his voice.

“When you tried to raise Livvy, you said ‘there’s nothing if you aren’t there’, and I knew I could never matter to you. Not really. But then you sent me that letter, and it had those words, again. And I don’t know if you meant to tell me I’m still that nothing, or that I’m.. and when you didn’t came to see me last night I thought-“

Ty flew to his feet, a shattered look on his face, his hands clenching and unclenching on his side.. Kit realized he was crying. Ty was crying, because of him.

“No! Kit, I-“ as he stepped closer to him, Kit lifted his shaking hands, signaling him to stop. He couldn’t have him so near, he couldn’t. He already felt the buzzing electricity, charged and ready to explode.

Hurt clouded Ty’s eyes like dark shadows on a stormy sea, and Kit desperately wanted to fix it, but didn’t know how.

“You were never nothing to me, Kit. Never. you were my-“

A soft knock on the door made Ty leap backwards to Kit’s bed, and by the time it cracked open, his eyes were hidden deep under the black veil of his hair.

“Did you find anything?” Adams head peeked inside, making Kit sigh in frustration mingled with relief.

I was his what? He wanted to shove the centurion out of his room and make Ty complete his sentence.

Instead, he cleared his voice and said “I’d better leave you to it.”

He turned and left the room without looking back, his legs carried him towards the safety of the roof as the palms of his hands started to glow a bright, ominous white.

The study was a buzz of excitement. As it turned out, Kit theory was accurate.

There were numerous disappearances of young mundane children all over London, exactly where the demons were last reported to be seen.

A knot of fear tangled itself in Ty’s stomach. They still didn’t know if the children were simply missing, or gone.

The information they had gathered indicated that the sacrifice itself was the last stage of the ritual, which meant there was a good chance the children were still alive, if they could only reach them in time.

Ty and the others were discussing the possibility of mundane involvement, when muffled voices came from just outside the door.

“Come on, Bridget.. I know I’m late for dinner and that I’m not a sexually charismatic Lightwood but can you at least let me have some leftovers?”

Kit’s voice were drowned by a loud thump and a yell. “Ouch! Fine! I’ll get it myself!”

Two minutes later, Kit entered the study holding a plate of something that looked like mashed potatoes under a pile of sausages.

He was dressed in gear and traces of blood and ichor smeared the knuckles of his hands, but his smile was radiant.

“What happened?” Ty called and sprang to his feet on the sight of him.

“Just a couple of Dahak demons down at Lambeth Bridge, it was quick.”

Kit walked towards the table and sat right next to an annoyed looking Carl.

“Do you want one, Carl? You look like you could use a sausage right about no-”

“Why didn’t you tell m-, us? are you okay?” Ty demanded.

“I’m fine, really.. I didn’t want to interrupt your work. The walk back took longer than getting rid of them.” Kit waved his fork and speared a sausage, as if to indicate the poor demon’s fate.

Ty looked at him critically, searching for hidden injuries. He didn’t trust Kit’s perky attitude, not after how he left his room earlier today.

“Ty..” his voice was warm and reassuring, “I’m fine, I promise.”

Kit looked at Adam and asked, “So what did you find out?”

As they talked, Ty couldn’t help but notice that Kit still sat the farthest he could from him, though his body seemed to always turn itself towards him, and his gaze barely left him for long. He could feel it, like traces of fire licking his skin, like the spots imprinted on the back of your eyelids after you stared right into the sun.

He couldn’t understand Kit’s distance, none of it made sense to him. whenever Ty got close to him, Kit found a reason to move away, though it looked like it hurt him every time he did.

There was something drawing them closer, and Kit was fighting it with all his might. But Ty knew how magnets worked, all you had to do was flip one, and the reaction, the attraction, grew.

Something was keeping Kit away, and Ty had to understand if it was something he had done or said. Their earlier conversation still sat like a weight on his chest.

Did Kit actually believe Ty didn’t care about him? That he was nothing for him? Ty couldn’t wrap his mind around the amount of pain Kit must have felt all this time. The thought pierced him violently every time he got near it.

Kit was with his back to him, still talking to Adam, and Ty took advantage of that to study him.

His back was broad, the sharp daggers of his shoulder blades pointing out. The boy Ty remembered lingered on his features only slightly, in the arch of his neck, in the delicacy of cheek bones. Now, Kit was.. a man.

He turned half way and Ty caught a hint of a smile on his face. A warm sensation spread through his stomach, and he fought the urge to get up and stand near him, knowing without any logic explanation that he would soon find an excuse to move from his side.

When he looked at him again, Adam’s hand touched Kit’s arm casually as they laughed at an unknown joke.

And Ty’s insides were on fire.

Ty, who hid his feelings about Kit for so long, who hardly ever talked about the pain he felt after he left, was flabbergasted by the amount of emotion he couldn’t suppress.. and nothing helped. Not his toys or Livvy’s soothing words. He couldn’t contain them or knew what to make of them, and it frightened him.

He felt, he always felt so much. He loved his family, his Livvy. He loved his work and Irene, and he cared deeply for the few friends he had. But it was something he never gave a name to, a voice. He never said the word Love out loud, though he was wrapped in it his entire life.

It was his own walk of shame, his punishment, because Kit had loved him and Ty made him leave. Because he didn’t know how he had loved him, and not knowing or understanding drove him mad.

Every time he touched or kissed, every time he let his body take the reins over his mind, his heart was left locked away. Because if he didn’t know how to answer the love of the only person outside his family that he ever truly cared for, perhaps he shouldn’t try. He was already different from others in so many ways, but it never bothered him until now. Love wasn’t something he knew how to verbalize or explain, it was a hidden thing, a whisper in the darkest of nights, when he was on the verge of sleep, half conscious, and entirely alone.

But in front of the clear view of kit’s eyes, he felt, for the first time in his life, that some questions didn’t need to be answered.

Their eyes met, silver colliding into blue, and it was like Kit had picked the lock that kept Ty’s heart hidden away with a single bright smile.

147 notes · View notes

kryptaria · 5 years

Text

What Will They Reboot Next?

(Saw this on Facebook, couldn’t resist...)

One of these days, Crowley would learn to think before acting. That day, unfortunately, wasn’t yesterday, when he’d finally talked Aziraphale into getting himself a phone that wasn’t a Bakelite antique attached to a landline.

He’d just wanted a convenient way to text the angel (though he dreaded the conversation about emojis he was certain loomed in his future like the Second Apocalypse). He hadn’t expected this sort of chaos -- whatever this was.

“Explain this! Right this instant!” Aziraphale demanded, brandishing his new iPhone[1] with such vigour, not even Crowley’s demonically sharp eyes could see what was actually on the bloody screen.

It wasn’t an error message. There was an actual picture there; that much, Crowley could see. But a picture of what?

“Explain what?”

“This!” was Aziraphale’s unhelpful response, accompanied by a wave reminiscent of the angel brandishing his old flaming sword, which set off all sorts of post-apocalypse stress reactions in Crowley.

He lashed out, not to harm[2] the angel, but to catch him by one perfectly starched cuff. The wardrobe-based assault froze Aziraphale in mid-brandish, letting Crowley’s eyes[3] finally focus on the screen.

“Oh,” Crowley said, jerking his hand back, though the screen remained rock-steady and regrettably in-focus. He doubted Aziraphale had any idea who was in the photo on the left[4], but the right...

“‘Oh,’” Aziraphale quoted, the word punctuated with the faint rustle of unseen wings.

Crowley couldn’t hide his guilty flinch. “It’s not my fault!”

“Not your fault! Crowley --”

“Look, it was when you were doing inventory, all right?” Crowley protested. “Three weeks, it took you. What was I supposed to do?”

Aziraphale huffed. “You said you were going to celebrate averting the apocalypse!”

“I was!” Crowley shrugged, giving his best innocent[5] smile. “I went to Los Angeles. There’s this --”

“How does your going to Hollywood end with this?”

Crowley shrugged again, saying, “Look, you’re the one who started it all, with the whole Hamlet thing. I took a couple of acting classes[6], and next thing you know, a director got me mixed up with this ‘David Tennant’ fellow. Poor chap can’t act his way out of a paper bag, if you ask me, but he somehow made it into weekend seminars at the Royal Scottish Academy --”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and waved the mobile, making Crowley flinch again. “That’s not what I’m talking about -- although we will discuss that later,” he added ominously, bringing the whole flaming sword thing to mind again.[7]

After six thousand years of lying to Hell and, more recently, helping to avert the Apocalypse through sheer incompetence, Crowley knew when to shut up, and that moment was now. So he did.

“I’m talking about” -- Aziraphale scoffed, nose crinkling up in a positively adorable show of distaste -- “reboots.”

That nose-crinkle tore right through Crowley’s demonic defences. Despite six thousand years of vaguely-unswerving dedication to evil, he felt his mouth curl up in a sappy, slightly serpentine smile. “Reboots?”

“It says so right here.” The mobile screen flashed again, not that Crowley bothered looking. “They’re rebooting Batman.”

“Yeah?” Most of Crowley’s thoughts had melted into a puddle of goo, thanks to that nose-crinkle. The tiny corner of his infernal brain that was still working had just enough processing power to be impressed that Aziraphale hadn’t pronounced it in two words: bat man.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, Aziraphael crossed his arms, something he never did[8]. “You’re responsible for the concept of rebooting franchises every other year.”

“I wouldn’t! That’s all humans.”

Aziraphale lifted a brow sceptically. “You happen to go to Hollywood, and coincidentally there’s a Batman reboot, starring you?”

“Sure, if you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Crowley admitted, “but it’s not like they haven’t rebooted that particular franchise a hundred times already --”

“Five,” Aziraphale corrected primly.

Crowley blinked.

Aziraphale shrugged, glancing away. “I researched it.”

Crowley gave an unprecedented second blink. “You researched it?”

“I -- I have a whole back room full of comics,” Aziraphale said, still avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Pristine first editions, all of them. I couldn’t not look into them. Have you any idea how much those things can be worth?”

“So what you’re saying is, you can afford to pay for an around-the-world cruise?” Crowley hinted, hoping to escape further discussion of reboots.

Aziraphale sniffed. “As if I’d sell any of them. I don’t even leave the door unlocked for browsing without appointment.[9] Just think of all the people getting their grubby fingerprints on the covers, dog-earing the pages...”

Crowley grinned, safely back on familiar ground. “Yes, wouldn’t want to imagine that sort of thing happening in a used bookshop.”

Refusing to be diverted, Aziraphael said, “Reboots, Crowley. Specifically Batman reboots. I sense your demonic hand at work.”

“My demonic hands were nowhere near this reboot,” Crowley said, heroically resisting the temptation to suggest anything about any of his parts, demonic or otherwise. “I was trying to tell you, I was in Los Angeles for a nightclub, that’s all.”

“A nightclub.” Aziraphale scoffed. “My dear Crowley, we’re in Soho. What could Los Angeles possibly offer that you can’t find right here?”

“Oh, angel...” Crowley smiled, plucking the mobile from Aziraphale’s fingers so he could slither up close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

Aziraphale did that full-body wiggle he always did when Crowley got too close, as if he were making a show of being too polite to back away.[10] “Of course not. It always seemed a bit... trite. And full of Californians.”

“Well, yes. It being in California and all,” Crowley pointed out, pretending to dust some lint off Aziraphale’s lapels.

The casual touch got the angel to finally uncross his arms. His hands landed unerringly on Crowley’s hips, fitting perfectly in place like a key made for a lock. The touch was every bit as warm and inviting as the shelter of his wings had been the day of that very first storm.

And the bolt of lightning that shot through Crowley as their eyes met made that first storm seem like nothing more than a drizzle.

“What’s so special about Los Angeles?”

It took Crowley a moment to remember how to speak and even longer to remember what they’d been talking about. He definitely couldn’t remember when he’d wound his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. That sort of thing was happening more and more these days, not that they’d actually discussed it.

They probably should have done, but they were, after all, hereditary enemies. They just happened to be hereditary enemies who were on their own side now, not anybody else’s.

“This nightclub you found?” Aziraphale prompted.

“In Los Angeles. Right.”

Crowley nodded, wrenching his brain back from its dazed meandering. He was a demon, which meant he specialised in doing the wrong thing, but he’d once been an angel, and he’d recently done the right thing, with excellent results. Bracing himself, he decided to give the right thing another shot and, as humans put it, use his words.

After all, if you thought about it, they’d been on their own side for a lot longer than anyone realised. Six thousand years longer.

“Maybe... we could go together?” Crowley suggested, shifting from the casual accidental hug to deliberately running one hand up over Aziraphale’s nape.

The angel’s blue eyes went as wide as the infinite skies over the Garden of Eden.

A shiver passed through Crowley’s wings. He threaded his fingers into Aziraphale’s curls.

The sound Aziraphale made wasn’t one humans would have heard, if there had been any in the bookshop to witness this moment.[11]

A couple centuries’ of drama study had taught Crowley that this was, in fact, The Moment. He had to play it cool. Six thousand years of studying humanity meant he’d seen The Moment played out countless times. He had a whole repertoire of possible reactions and responses to choose from, even if this was the first time he himself had ever done any Seizing of The Moment.

But Aziraphale Seized first, moving his hands from Crowley’s hips to the small of his back, and suddenly there was no measurable distance between their corporeal forms at all.[12]

“Ngh,” was Crowley’s very un-cool response to his angel’s first real embrace.

Unruffled[13], Aziraphale said, “This nightclub you visited...”

What’s a nightclub? Crowley thought for a few eternal seconds before remembering. (Aziraphale’s hair was very soft. Had it always been that soft?) It took even longer for him to shuffle through his memories of every nightclub he’d ever visited[14] before he finally remembered the latest one.

It had all the usual features -- low lighting, dancing on tables, lines of humans desperate to make it past the bouncer -- but also enough alcohol to get even a couple of eternal beings plastered and a gorgeously tuned grand piano.

Besides, the only one allowed to play said grand piano could also be trusted not to snitch to either side if a certain angel and demon ended up in a dark corner booth. Together.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry,” Crowley said, tightening his arms before Aziraphale could think something had gone horribly wrong and pull away.

Smiling like an angel[15], Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s eyes and asked, “What’s this nightclub called?”

Bargaining like a demon[16], Crowley countered, “Do you believe I’m not lying about the whole reboots thing?”

“My dear Crowley...” Aziraphale tipped his head into Crowley’s palm and sighed. “Yes. I believe you.”

Warmed all the way through, Crowley said, “It’s called Lux. Want to go?”

Eyes sparkling with delight, Aziraphale said, “I’d love to. Just let me fetch a nicer tie.”

Thoughts of a wardrobe full of tartan and taupe filled Crowley’s thoughts, but he didn’t protest. It wasn’t as if the bouncers would get in their way, and once they were inside... well, he’d burn that bridge when he came to it. “You do that, angel,” he said, reluctantly stepping out of Aziraphale’s arms.

And as Aziraphale bustled off to find a new bow tie (leaving his mobile behind[17]), Crowley got out his own mobile and hastily composed an email to his agent. If all went well, he anticipated some scheduling conflicts in his future. That around-the-world cruise was waiting for them, after all.

...

[1] Aziraphale pronounced it “eye phone,” with a distinct pause, but Crowley was taking baby steps in introducing the angel to technology.

[2] Never to harm.

[3] He’d never quite got the hang of limiting his vision to only the mortal spectrum, which was the real reason he kept wearing his sunglasses. These days, no one would look twice at his eyes, except to compliment him on his contacts.

[4] Crowley had never suggested anything as absurd as sparkling vampires, though he was happy to take credit. He did, however, write a disclaimer -- in all caps -- that he was NOT responsible for Fifty Shades of anything. Hell’s response had been “That came from the Other Side,” though Crowley had never figured out precisely which angel to blame.

[5] Despite six thousand years of practice, he wasn’t very good at it.

[6] “A couple” meaning a couple hundred, but eventually he got the hang of it.

[7] There’s a reason the Almighty had posted Aziraphale to guard the Eastern Gate, and it wasn’t for his snazzy fashion sense. Under the mild-mannered bookseller was the sort of badass angel who made Crowley’s toes curl, though Crowley would never admit it.

[8] Aziraphale’s usually-upright posture had nothing to do with his angelic nature and everything to do with not straining the seams of his favourite jacket.

[9] The “Employees Only” sign on the door meant no one knew about the collection, which saved Aziraphale the trouble of scheduling any appointments.

[10] The fact that Aziraphale always ended up even closer to Crowley was a coincidence absolutely no one believed, especially not God.

[11] Only one entity witnessed it, and Her only reaction was to sigh and say, “Finally,” in a Voice that made no fewer than seven prophets across the world faint, overcome with Divine Vision.

[12] Other than their clothing, a thought that occurred to both corporeal entities and their incorporeal observer, with varying levels of frustration.

[13] Metaphorically and literally. Aziraphale had, in fact, taken a few hours to meticulously groom his wings after he’d finished inventory. He was just waiting for the right moment to show off to Crowley.

[14] His favourite would always be an underground club in Night Vale, with its singing crystal walls and eldritch DJ playing the screams of those lost in the Void, but he didn’t think Aziraphale would like it there.

[15] Actually, angelic smiles tended to be cold, shallow, and feral. Aziraphale was smiling like a human, which made all the difference in the world.

[16] Demons are terrible at bargaining by design. Humanity is perfectly capable of tempting itself without any outside help.

[17] A habit he’d already developed, despite having the mobile for less than a week.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ficlet #unbetaed #posting to AO3 later

160 notes · View notes

peggysousfan · 5 years

Text

NOIR AU

Hey guys! Its super late, but because it is Christmas Eve and I won’t be very active tomorrow, I wanted to hurry and finish this fic. Liek the others I did not come up with the idea or collage, I just came up with the story for them. The prompt is: Sousa is a down on his luck PI. Miss Violet hires him for protection, and when they get involved he thinks his luck has finally turned around. Little does he know he's up against the Carter crime family, and neither the beautiful and deadly daughter Peggy Carter nor Miss Violet are exactly what they seem.It is a long one, but I hope you enjoy!! :)

The city of Los Angeles was turning in for the night, some people continued to walk about the streets, while others turned towards home. Some being Private Investigator Daniel Sousa. Sousa has been down on his luck with his work; no one seems to need a detective who can't walk with one leg. After The war, he started working as a detective, but his colleges treated him poorly, so, he left. He created his own office and continued to investigate as a private investigator. Protecting those who need it and discovered the deep dark truth.

Earlier that week he received a phone call for a case; a case with an unexpected truth. A case of a not so widowed woman. Her husband and his family faked his death to be compensated for the little money they had so he could start a new life with his nurse from physical therapy. The wife was devastated, and she lashed out at him, scratching the hell out of his face. Although this case was a wild ride, he got the job done. And at the end of the day, he needed a drink; so he got one. He left the familiar bar and started to walk home.

As he began to walk in the street towards his apartment, hes stopped by a woman in scrubs. She taps his shoulder, more forcefully than she meant too, and he turns around. The woman before his takes his breath away. Her blond hair hangs loose around her face from a days long shift, while her blue eyes shine in the night.

"Excuse me. Are you PI Daniel Sousa?" She asks. He shakes out of his trance and speaks.

"Uh, yeah I am. And you are...?"

"Violet," She reaches out her hand and they both shake, "Violet Prescott. I'm afraid I need you help, Mr. Sousa."

"Help?"

"Yes. I was hoping to hire you. You are still a PI, right?" Daniel nods his head and she smiles, once again making him freeze. "Good. I need your help."

As they walk, side by side, down the street, they stop at a small diner. They enter through the doors and sit opposite of each other in a booth. A waitress comes by and they both order a coffee. When she delivers the mugs, Miss Prescott begins to speak.

"So I wanted to hire you for protection. Do you...do that?"

"Yes, I do. What's the case?"

"I-its uhm..." She looks around the diner, her eyes wide and cautious. "I think someone is watching me. Following me. I-I'm not sure who o-or why, but they are."

She takes a deep breath to compose herself, reaches into her handbag, and places several notes on the table. Each one is different; one has blood on it. Daniel's eyes enlarge and quickly take them in his hands.

"These have been appearing at my front door and mailbox for several weeks." She says, her voice wavering. "At first I though it was a...awful prank from the kids in the neighborhood. But then they become more serious and...threatening."

"And you have no idea who's sending you these? No enemies or old friends that you don't get along with? Have you been a witness to something you shouldn't have seen?"

"I-I-I" Violet stutters. "I'm nice to everyone. All of my friends and family can vogue for me." He nods his head as she continues. "I don't have any enemies at all or old friends who would ever do something like this."

"And witnessing something? A crime or...anything out of the ordinary?" She hesitates for a moment, but shakes her head. "Miss Prescott I cannot help you if you don't give me the full story. I need to know everything you do if I'm going to catch him."

She takes a deep breath, and relieves it as a sigh. Nothing could have prepared Daniel for what he was about to hear next. A load of cash and weapons for a criminal empire just occurred on the docks by the coast. Another gang showed up and the two fought over the cargo, one thing led to another, and someone was shot...and Miss Prescott was a witness. She couldn't go to the police, in fear of the people involved. One person saw her, but she ran and got away. She thinks that person is the one watching.

"Okay..." Daniel says, digesting the information. "Did you recognize anyone there? Maybe a face or a voice?" but she shakes her head.

"Nothing recognizable to me, but-" She stops mid sentence too look around the diner once more. "But the voices of the people who appeared last...they weren't from around here."

"What'd you mean?" Daniel leans in closer as she begins to lower her voice.

"They...they aren't American. Or at least their accents weren't. They were English."

"English?" He repeats, sitting back in his seat. He thinks on it but nothing comes to mind. "Okay...that's a start."

"Mr. Sousa can you help me? Please?" She begs.

"Of course." Violet smiles brightly at his response, and Daniel can't help the way his breath catches at this sight...

3 months later:

The morning is as boring and uneventful as it can be. Daniel Sousa sits in his office on this morning, writing up a report from his last case, and trying to hurriedly finish. His relationship with Violet has grown immensely, and he thinks he couldn't be happier. Although his happy thoughts are interrupted as the phone on his desk starts to ring. He answers the phone and gets a lead on what Violet witnessed. The dock man saw an odd cargo hold on the dock, said it was being guarded by some odd men in suits. Seeing as this is the only lead he's had in months, he takes it.

When he gets to the dock, its mostly empty, apart from three boats; and one of them has odd feel; so he crutches towards it. When he gets on board, no one is on deck. He walks towards a door and slowly goes though it. For several minutes it all seems empty; not one person in sight. Daniel smiles in delight at his luck, and observes the boxes on board. They aren't labeled, at least, not all of them. He lifts a lid on one and keeps a low whistle to himself. The amount of cash inside could make the president faint.

"What the hell?" Someone says from behind.

Daniel whips around and is attached by a man on guard. The two men use their fist at his each other, but Daniel has an advantage. He uppercuts the guards jaw, stunning him, then kicking him in the shin to get him on his back. The groans and then chokes ans Daniel holds his crutch to his throat.

"Not listen, and listen carefully, I need to know the name of the gangs that shipped and sold these boxes.

"You're crazy man. " He laughs

"Who hired you? Was it the Jones's or this English group I've been hearing about? huh?" Daniel presses slightly harder and the man grabs a hold of the crutch, smacking it for relief. He gets enough air to speak.

"You have no idea, do you?" He laughs, wiping away the blood from his nose. "This 'English gang' is a family; and a powerful one at that. Its not a family you want to mess with, crip. " Daniel's grip tightens on his crutch. "Even if you were a whole man...you wouldn't stand a chance."

And it is then that is then the realization hits him. The English 'gang' wasn't a gang at all; it was the Carter Crime Family. A family with an empire of power and influence throughout the entire criminal dynasty. They consist of a widowed man, Harrison, with his two children. A late son who died in the war; leaving behind his pregnant wife, and then there was Harrison's daughter, Margaret. From the rumors around she's as beautiful and dangerous as a rose, and her looks are nothing compared to her fighting skills. Daniel has seen her, once, but only from afar at a party at the end of the war. He was struck by her beauty, and could barley speak for the rest of the night. Although he has seen her, he has never witness her fighting skills; to him they were just that, rumors.

"Dammit," Daniel curses. He takes the pressure off the mans throat and whacks him on the side of his head; leaving him unconscious. Was he leaves the dock, he makes several calls. Apparently there was a party happening near the coast, so he go an invitation. He had to see if the Carter's were in town.

Carter Residence:

"Peggy, darling? Are you ready?" Someone knocks on the door.

"In a moment, father. I just need to change!" The young woman exclaims from her room.

As her father walks away, Peggy continues to look for an evening gown. She stands before her bedroom mirror, dress in hand, covering her body. She smiles to herself in delight at the design.

"You should wear that one." Says the man sitting on the bed. "It brings out your eyes."

Peggy smiles and turns to him, walking his way. He sits up straighter, his hands resting on her waist, as he pulls her down for a kiss. When they break apart, she starts to pull away, but he drags her closer again, causing her to gasp and push against him.

"Fred, stop," She laughs, sitting in his lap, "I have to get ready."

"Mm, party can wait a few hours. Don't you thinks so, Peg?" He kisses her neck and she internally groans and rolls her eyes, standing up.

"No. It can't, you know this." She starts to walk away, but he grabs her wrist.

"Margaret-"

"Peggy! We're going to be late!" She sighs and tells her father she will be ready soon. "You too Wells, We need to pop out soon."

Fred grumbles, but replies he will be out soon. As Harrison walks away, Wells pulls Peggy closer and kisses her again; keeping her close. When they break apart he kisses her cheek and then her hand, before leaving the room.

"Don't take too long, darling." he says, and then shuts the door. She smiles at him, and then snarls as the door is fully shut.

"Just one more night, Peggy," She tells herself, "One more night of publicity and meetings, then you're done. At least as long as you can pull through enough for it..."She shakes those gloomy thoughts away and puts on her evening dress. One more party and then she's done.

The Party:

The music is lively and bustling about the room. People are dancing all around the dance floor, others sitting at the bar waiting for drinks, and then there was the ones sitting at their tables or standing around and watching the others enjoy their night. When Daniel Sousa entered the room, he was not amused by the state of the party. How rich people could splurge all of this money on a waste of a party rather than helping those in need, always bothered him; but it was required for him to be here nonetheless.

He stands around the bar, watching the door and stairs, pretending to nurse his drink, looking for any sign of the Carter family. For over an hour he waits, lingering and observing. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, he saw her again. Daniel stops, frozen in place, as he sees her radiating beauty. His mouth falls open in awe at the daring evening dress she has on. He tries to look away, think about Violet, but its much more difficult than he thought. With all his strength he turn away, and then sees her father walking in, along side someone else.

Curious, Daniel watches as the man approaches Miss Carter, and the looks away as they meet for a kiss. Its hardly appropriate for such a public place, but then again, who will say anything to them. He looks up again and notices the man take her by the arm and they walk away together upstairs. For a moment, Daniel thinks he saw sadness...loneliness in her features; but just as quickly as it was shown, it disappeared from her face. Not trying to think too much about it, he leaves the party, satisfied in his confirmation; The Carter Crime family was in fact in Los Angeles.

As Daniel leaves and heads to his office, he isn't aware of what the Carter's are doing. They all sit around the meeting table with the Jones's and another group, discussing the problem at hand.

"Your man shot first, so no. The deal is off." Hugh Jones says.

"Now listen here, we can't end the deal when its on a contract." Harrison speaks. "You know that the one at fault is your foolish movers. If they wouldn't have damaged the cargo and tried to get away with keeping it...then we wouldn't have an problem. But here we are."

"He shouldn't have fired a shot. Anyone could have heard," Another party member speaks.

"Look, Duncan, everyone knows that the docks were empty. and Fred had every right to claim what is ours." Harrison explains, looking at the man in question. Peggy says nothing, instead looks at the ground shaking her head. Fred keeps his hand on her lap, holding her hand, as the meeting continues. She keeps her eye rolls and unfriendly words to herself.

"Listen here, Carter, If we get any publicity over this, it's on your hands."

"Whatever you say...Prescott." Fred chimes in.

"If you want the damn cargo so badly, you get to keep one box. That is, if you have the cash to pay for it."

"As a matter of fact, we do." Duncan hands over a suitcase. "2 million here and now, Harrison. You'll get the rest later."

He thinks this over, looking at Fred and his daughter, who both nod.

"Very well, you have yourself a deal." The men shake on it. "But here my words, Prescott. If any thought whatsoever crosses your mind of stealing what's mine. I'll bury you myself."

"Its a deal."

As the families and groups dismiss and enjoy the rest of their evening, Peggy slips away. She wants time to be alone and think things through; much like Daniel Sousa is currently doing. For hours he spends in his office, looking though reports and files; anything he can find on the Carters. They may be his next lead on catching the man who is threatening Violet.

The Next Morning:

"Good morning," Violet says, walking towards Daniel in the front yard.

"Morning, V." He smiles reaching for her. His hand sets on her waist as they meet for a gentle kiss. She looks up at him smiles. "Leaving for work already?"

"Yeah. I was just about to call you, when I saw your car pull up in my driveway." She leans in for another kiss, ruffling his already exhausted hair. "Are you okay? You look really tired."

Daniel chuckles and takes her hand. "Yeah, I'm fine, just tired."

"Rough night?"

"Yeah..." he looks down at the ground and then back at her. "I was thinking, maybe tonight, we could go to the movies, catch a picture. You know? Relax after the week we've had." She laughs at him and squeezes his hand.

"Will do." One more kiss before she walks to her own car. "Daniel!" She turns around, "I'll meet you at your office after my shift, is that okay?"

"Yeah, that sounds great." They smile at each other before parting ways.

Later that night:

Violet waits patiently in Daniel's office chair, waiting for him to clock out. When he appears at the door, hat on head and crutch in arm, he stops at the sight of her. Violet's blond hair was perfectly coiled, her dress was black with pink roses. To finish it off, was an elegant pearl necklace. Daniel stood there, stunned, making her laugh.

"Daniel, are you ready to go?" She snaps him out of his trance, making him smile sheepishly.

"Right, sorry. You just..." He trails off. "You look amazing."

"Thanks. You look quite swell yourself." The two share another smile before walking arm in arm towards the door, but stop suddenly when the phone rings.

"Just one second then we'll go." he promises.

Violet smiles and nods to the phone. He answers it and immediately is shell shocked. Margaret, 'Peggy' Carter was just caught and brought into custody. Now is his chance to get answers. He hangs up the phone and she already knows; no movie night tonight. He leaves the office and after calling in a few favors; Miss Carter was going to be interrogated by him first.

Daniel's Office:

As Daniel enters the office building, he sees Violet waiting in a chair. He tells her to sit on the other side of the glass while he interrogates Miss Carter, and Peggy does nothing but glare at Violet. When she and Daniel inter the interrogation room, he handcuffs her to the table and asks her about the weapons and money cargo from the docks. Although Peggy is in no mood.

"And where did you get this information? Hmm?" She asks, fighting the tears that well up in her eyes. "It wouldn't happen to be from a pretty blond woman named Violet Prescott would it?"

"What?" Daniel is shocked and stands from his seat. But Peggy isn't looking at him anymore, she's looking at the glass window.

"Is that the game your playing now, is it? Hiding behind the law by trying to sleep with it? That's low, Violet. Even for you."

"I don't know what you think you know or what you're talking about, but-"

"There are no 'buts' in this situation. Its as simple as a con woman playing your whore while she keeps her other...illegal affairs under your nose." Daniel starts to get angry at the word 'whore' , but the other information slips doubt in his mind. Before he can say anything, however, Violet enters the room.

"You're lying. Because that's what you all do."

"'You all'? Tell me, who is 'you all'? Hmm?" Peggy begins to smirk. "A-are you referring to the term criminals? Is that what you think I am? What my family is? Criminals?"

"Its not what I think, Miss. Carter. It's what I know." Daniel says in a deadly tone. All she can do is shake her head and keep the tears at bay.

"You think you know me. My family and what we do....but you're wrong." She looks up at Daniel, eyes glazed over and cheeks a bright red. "If you knew half of what I did you would know about the real criminals, the Prescott family and their undercover system." Peggy smirks as Daniel glances over at Violet; and Violet begins to gulp in nervousness."

"She's insane.." She mutters, and this draws Peggy's attention.

"I'm the insane one?" She laughs. "I'm not the one trying to get in a mans bed for a cover."

"That is not what is happening. Not that its any of your business!" Violet shouts. Daniel places a hand over her arm and says she should leave. Civilians shouldn't be in an interrogation room anyway.

"Civilian? Oh please, this woman is no normal law binding citizen. She's the complete opposite! The Prescott families Kingdom of illegal transportation or weaponry and stolen money. She and her family have been framing me and my family for years. Years! And for what? Hmm?! All because your precious daddy couldn't handle a small drink."

"You shut up!" Violet lunges for Peggy, but Daniel holds her back."

"Oh I'm sorry, darling. Did I hit a soft spot? Perhaps a little...sensitive matter." Peggy smirks as she continues to get angrier, trying to get past Daniel. "Or how about...the church house. And how that operation ended so poorly for you." And at this, Violet freezes, causing Peggy to laugh.

"Violet, What is going on!? What is she talking about!?!" Daniel yells, causing Peggy to laugh again.

"She didn't tell you? Oh well of course not." She turns her head towards Violet. "She would rather try and get protection from the law on the surface while she frames those that are already in a bad light. Wouldn't you, Miss Prescott?"

"You're the criminal. Not me! It's you and your family!" Peggy can't help but laugh in more hysteria, shaking her hands through the cuffs; banging them once on the table.

"My-" and she laughs more. "My family?! You don't have the first idea." She spews through her sudden tears.

"Oh really? You and you twisted family have been causing nothing but trouble in this town. You sent someone to stalk me and threaten to kill me for no reason!" Violet hollers. Peggy continues to laugh and smile through the tears.

"Sent someone to-" She looks away shaking her head. "You're mad. You're as mad as they come Violet." Daniel takes a step back, watching the two woman. "But you're also clever, I'll give you that." She leans her elbows on the table, glaring at the woman standing before her."Allow me to guess, alright? And stop me if I get this wrong." She licks her lips and thinks for a moment, pointing at the woman standing.

"What are you-" Daniel starts to speak, but is interrupted.

"You saw how poorly the deal went down between the Jones's and yours, so, you thought if you blamed us, you would be free." She starts to explain, " You went and found this...detective, or investigator, to take us down; although given his physical state you deemed him unfit for the job, thinking he would never solve it; so, you'd get away free."

"No. You're wrong. I-"

"You tricked him into thinking you were the victim...I suppose this....sending someone to kill you rouse was to keep him close. Have someone connected to the law to provide as a cover, when really, you've got more blood on your hands than my father!" Violet looks at Peggy, straight in the eye, and neither one backs down. "Unlike you...Miss Prescott, I don't want this life." She starts to tear up again at the thought of her life with her family and Fred. "I hate it with ever fiber of my being! But not you...mm, not you. You see, she enjoys living a life in the shadows." Peggy looks at Daniel as she says this. "She thoroughly enjoys it. Loves to play the game and get whatever it is when wants. The pearl necklace she's wearing? Its real. Made from the rarest of them all. And bought with laundered money... But of course, she would never tell you that, would she? Because she's a snake slithering her way into the world and leaving her venomous bite everywhere she goes."

Peggy looks back towards Violet, the woman who is now in full panic mode. Daniel sees this and is in shock. He takes a step away from her, hands starting to shake.

"No...i-its not true, right? Violet?! Is this true!?" He yells, but she doesn't answer him. Instead she tries to make a run for it, only to be caught in handcuffed to the doorknob. "And to think my luck was actually changing." He mumbles to himself. "Violet Prescott...you're under arrest."

Daniel takes her to a separate room for several minutes, leaving Peggy alone. She sighs in relief, but that sigh leads to a sob, and then another; until she is weeping and out of tears. She never wanted the life she was born into. Never once did she want to steal or hurt anyone; all she wanted was a normal life...and justice. She always enjoyed fighting, even as a little girl she played swords with her brother, but her family took advantage or her love and skill in fighting.

They forced her into the family business, and her relationship to the man Fred Wells. He came from a good family, one that would help the Carter's with power. Peggy like him well enough, but she never loved him. She tried the relationship, tried to be with him for her families sake...but she was never happy. And never thought she could be. It was always about the business, money, and power; never about her happiness. Her mother told her once to never be so selfish, but the Peggy, love wasn't selfish; it was happiness. And it was something she thought she would never get the chance to have.

Interrupting her cries and thoughts, Daniel enters the room. At first he's angry, but then he sees the state shes in.

"Miss Carter..?" He calls gently. He isn't sure what to do; the Carter's are infamous for their lack of emotions.

"Are you going to lock me away now?" She sniffles, "and throw away the key?" he's taken back by this and sits in front of her.

"No...I'm not going to do that." She looks up at him, eyes puffy and red. "Here." He hands her his handkerchief, and she takes it; giving him a small thank you. Boldly, he takes her hand in his, and after several moments, she relaxes. "I shouldn't be doing this, but..."

He lets go of her hand and reaches into his pocket, and shakes the keys in the air. She gasps as he undoes her hands, and she rubs then from irritation. Peggy looks up at him, cautious, but sees the hurt in his eyes and feels empathy.

"I'm sorry for what she did to you. It was wrong...and unfair." He nods his head in understanding, but speaks nonetheless.

"I get it...but I have just one question." Peggy looks at him, waiting. "How did you figure it out so quickly?About her using me because I'm-"

"An injured war hero?" She cuts him off, with an attempted smile. Daniel looks back at her in shock. "I know what people think about you, and others like you. They think you're incapable. Less of a man. But you're not." He smiles a small smile of his own, and offers his hand again; and she happily places hers in his. "I see you for what you are...a person. You fought for your country and returned missing something; but not your soul. That;'s the most important thing. People like Violet don't see that. They see a broken toy they can manipulate rather than the incredible person they truly are."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Of course I do." She smiles. "I'm not like my family, or others. I see people and things for who and what they are. You're not broken...you're anew."

The two smile at each other for several moments, but to them it feels like an eternity. After a while, he lets her go and send her on her way; but not before making an offer. She can help bring down the empires and criminal rings, bring real justice and put her skills to good use.

"I'll think about it, " She says, parting ways. Although they are parting ways, oddly, it feels like a new beginning; for both of them.

#peggysous #peggy carter #daniel sousa #violet agent carter #fred wells #agent carter #fanfic #not my au #au fanfic #peggysous > steggy

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jafndaegur · 5 years

Text

The Cowboy

A continuation of the Sneak Peek Chapters for @mrs-han‘s Christmas present: IRtL. uwu

Darkest | x

minor trigger warning: some racial slurring? racist name calling

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Smoke Bay, Port of Los Angeles, 1873

Underneath the shade of the gat, Jumin messed with the short fringes of his hair. The choppy brief length did not suit him. He gave a slight tug to the ends, hoping he could somehow make them longer. After more than a month at sea, he would have thought the cut to settle into at least tolerance. But in Jumin’s eyes, it was only a sign of their plight form their homeland – away from his retainers, from Jihyun, from his father. If nothing, the whole entire journey on dark tumultuous waves and sometimes unforgiving waters made the rage in his stomach dwell on the fact that he had been forced against his will.

The prince could not remember the last time he had held a full conversation between him and Hyun...or with anyone for that matter.

He stared out at the waves, watching glittering rays bounce off the surface like flickers of lighting. Near translucent at the at the top, and bluer as the depths folded in on themselves, Jumin certainly admired the ocean and its self-provided liberty despite the many days on end of seeing it. The rocking lull of its enormity helped him reel in his thoughts, train his breathing; the threads loosened to the beat of the sea. Footsteps creaked along the wooden deck floor, and the soldier sidled up next to him. For a while, Jumin kept his sights on the horizon where the blue met cerulean. Somewhere in the direction behind them, along the pale foam wake of the boat, laid the corpses of everyone he knew and cared for. There was nothing but cadaverous forms behind them – they had formed the bridge for his escape. He should have never left the library that day. If only he had escaped through the back room.

“There’s a dark line up ahead, on the horizon,” Hyun said, crossing his arms over his chest. “The navigators say it’s port.”

Jumin clenched his jaw.

“I hope your English’s well practiced, my prince,” the soldier egged on. “All of us are depending on you.”

“Do you take delight in provoking me?” He finally growled out.

“Not in particular – although it certainly is a perk.”

“Don’t forget your place, soldier.”

“Currently we don’t have a place.” Hyun’s fingers drummed on the pommel of his saber. “I hope you don’t forget that.”

Jumin relinquished and shook his head with a conceded sigh.

Hyun leaned up against the side rail of the boat. “I know, my prince, that this isn’t ideal, but I hope…well I hope we can make the best of the situation.”

“What’s to say whatever waiting here for us is any better?” Jumin raked his fingers through his loose strands of hair. “Back when the explorers visited, they spoke of civil unrest – just like within our own home. Who’s to say that this is better.”

“Optimistic as ever, highness.”

“I’m practical.”

“Practically a morale dead-weight,” Hyun huffed before gesturing to the deck. “The crew have been looking forward to landfall for as much as you’ve been dreading it. They went through hell to get you here, my prince. Could you not smile and alleviate their anxiety about this by bending your words a bit?”

“And give them false hope? I think not. That would only make things more difficult should we land and meet any obstacles.” Jumin lifted his brow. “At this point, optimism would be a distraction until we have garnered more information.”

Hyun growled and pushed himself away, his expression plainly descriptive of his distaste for the conversation. With a sharp throw of his rattail over his shoulder, the soldier stomped away to help prepare for docking. The closer they sailed to the mouth of the bay the more ships began to litter the water. Small wooden ones for fishing, larger hulking ones for cargo, and the ludicrously huge ones built entirely of metal that spat smoke and chugged through the waves like sea monsters.

Jumin felt his stomach pitch. He needed to turn their ship around. As he thought about giving the order, however, he paused and fisted his hands in the drab material of his dopo. They had traveled so far. The seas had not been kind to them. Staring out at the growing swell of land and past the jaw of the bay they’d been swallowed into – the prince knew he would not be turning back. Hyun had been right about one thing; his crew had worked tirelessly. Without relent. They scurried around like ants to make sure their impossible journey in their small ship barely fit for deep sea scooted along thousands of miles. In his heart of hearts, Jumin faced the bustling and unfamiliar land without fear. He just did not want to. Moving past the crew and down to his cabin, he folded his gangsapo – which he had laid out on his bed earlier – the only heavy coat he’d been able to bring and stowed it away in his traveling satchel. He drew on his gat and wondered if he should pack another pair of socks. Whatever they had left on the ship after embarking to find the Cowboy, more than likely he would never be able to see it again. He had packed a warm blanket, his coat, and a gilded pen gifted from his father. He was practical, he knew extra weight would only slow down their already extensive journey to Denver City. Inhaling deeply, he walked back up to the deck only to find a thins schooner pulling up beside them. A few men from that ship tossed ropes across so they could hop down from their ship to his. The crew had paused, and Hyun had slipped away since the earlier argument. That was probably a good thing.

One of the men had a thick curled mustache that he twirled between his fingers. “Which one of ya yellow skins is the leader? Lea-der.”

Jumin stepped forward without hesitation. He stared down at the man, already a few good measurements taller. He gave no sign of intimidation to the intruder.

“I guess that’d be you.” The man glanced up and down. “You’re sure pale for a yellow fella. Can you understand me?”

“Quite.” Jumin’s nose scrunched at the harsh smell of tobacco.

“You all look too posh for the rail way works. You got your docs?” the man asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ya gave quite a few fishermen a scare on your entry. People ‘round here ain’t overly fond of…foreign things.”

“Docs?” The prince was regretfully was not familiar with this phrase. “Yes, we would just like safe passage to the docks. We are here to meet a correspondent.”

“Correspondent?” The man snorted before grabbing Jumin’s forearm. “Sounds fishy. You part of the opium trade from the Western Passage?”

Jumin set his jaw and realized they had approached a problem he had not prepared for. Opium? Ha!

“Well?” the man demanded, watching as the prince’s crew inched towards them with a dangerous growing aura.

“Hyun, find our informant! Wherever they will take us, surely he will be able to find and help us. Men, back off.” Jumin’s gaze flickered calculatingly as he returned to English. “My name is Jumin, prince of the Joseon province. We have traveled far and would like to meet with our American correspondent to clear things up.”

“Well boys,” the man called out to his own crew with a gleefully maniac expression. “Looks like we got ourselves a yellow prince of the poppy trade.”

A nerve twinged at the corner of the prince’s mouth. “Round ‘em up. We’ll take ‘em back to holding to figure out what they’re doing here.”

Jumin was grateful that his crew gave up feigned outraged prattle so that it masked the faint splash into the bay.

– 0 –

Dragging himself up onto the beach, Hyun gasped for air. His clothes were sopping while the hems were laden with sand. The saber at his hip clattered and dragged. But he forced himself up to his feet and took off toward the town. Without his prince’s learned vocabular of English, he was limited to if he could find the Cowboy. He ducked in and out of alleys, between buildings. Afterall, how many cowboys could there possibly be? He himself wasn’t even sure of what a cowboy was. That annoyed him. His eyes scanned the long dusty road that gradually became cobblestone the future into the city. Surely this Leq or whoever was waiting closer to the wharf. The soldier didn’t know just how long ago the last bit of communications had been relayed between Lord Jihyun and he, but hopefully the American had to be waiting nearby. He had to be expecting them. Watching a carriage hobble by, Hyun shook out his sleeves and slunk out into the open. He kept his chin tucked down and eyes trained on the ground, his gat casting a shadow onto his face. He didn’t want to draw attention.

His eyes wandered off a bit when he noticed a pair of boots stuck out from the side of the road. Following the offensive feet, much to his disgust, he realized that passed out underneath a fencing post – that horses were presently tied to – a man laid underneath it, utterly drunk sleeping.

A stained, dark Cowboy hat covered and muffled his snores, but Hyun faintly wondered what sort of idiot would expose himself like this. Honestly. Some people truly held little dignity. Scoffing and shuffling out of the way, Hyun felt his heart drop into his stomach when he saw one of the horses tied to the post. Once would have thought it tacked with a normal blanket and saddle, but upon closer inspection, Hyun realized that the grey cloth and purple details were familiar for a reason. It was a gangsapo from his prince’s family. Being used as a saddle blanket. Staring at the man blacked out the ground, the soldier cringed. Surely his luck couldn’t be that misfortunate.

Please don’t let that be our idiot, he begged before kicking the man’s leg. “Hey, get up.”

The man growled something out and lifted his hat off his face, a bright flash of golden eyes peeking from narrowed long lashes.

Hyun tugged at the gangsapo. “Is this yours?”

The man said nothing but at least sat up.

“Cowboy?” Hyun tried, the words feeling awkward in his mouth. “Leq?”

The man glanced at him fully before recognition shot across his expression. He stood up quickly, rocking on his feet as he swayed unevenly. Long black hair, tanned skin, so far this man looked nothing like the others from earlier.

“Prince?” He coughed out in absolutely terrible Korean.

“Taken.” Hyun pointed back to the beach.

“Taken…” The Cowboy repeated the word over and over again, gazing groggily out in the direction the soldier had pointed toward. Genuine confusion laced his brow and he scratched at the beard. His glance darkened and he untied from the post the horse with the robe-blanket. The Cowboy easily swung up into the saddle and snapped at the reins, shouting something over his shoulder as he galloped off toward the wharf.

Hyun really tried to think of a good reason not to walk all the way back to the beachfront.

#mysme jumin han #tw: racial slurs #mysme #jumin han #mystic messenger #gift fanfic #jumin x oc

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morningfears · 6 years

Text

Monster

Rating: PG-13 (Language)

Request: "I don’t feel anything at all at this point...” + “Luke asks for a divorce. You don’t want it but you sign the papers to make him happy.”

Word Count: 1.5k

Part Two

What was once a lively, inviting home filled with music and laughter and love feels almost stifling as you stand in the corner of the living room, your chest heaving with every labored breath and your eyes burning with unshed tears. There is no music blaring from Luke’s basement studio, no laughter echoing through the halls, and no trace of love to be felt between the two of you. There is only an overwhelming tension, an anger and bitterness that has felt ever present in recent months, as you stand as far apart as the room will allow.

“I don’t want to do this tonight, Luke,” you finally sigh quietly after nearly an hour of screaming hurtful words and unfiltered thoughts at one another, “I can’t do this. I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, no trace of humor in the harsh sound, as he takes a step closer and runs his hand through his mess of curly hair, “walk away. That’s what you’re good at. You never stay and finish a fucking discussion.”

You don’t want to fall into another argument, don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of you, but you can’t help yourself. Luke has always brought out the fire in you, in both good times and bad, and this time is no different. So, instead of dragging yourself up the stairs to lie awake in the bed you’d started sleeping in alone nearly a month ago, you narrow your eyes at Luke and spit, “We don’t have fucking discussions, Luke. We have goddamn knock-down drag-out arguments! They’re full-blown fights. We don’t discuss things like normal people. If we did, maybe I’d fucking stay! I don’t want to yell at you. I don’t want to hear you yell at me. I want to stop fighting. Somehow, though, we don’t seem to be capable of doing that.”

“Fine. You want to talk, talk! Talk about how pissed off you are that I went out with the guys instead of staying cooped up in this fucking house with you. Talk about how upset you are that we’re leaving again. Talk about how you think I’m cheating on you because I spend so much time in the studio. Talk about all the stupid fucking shit that leads to these damn knock-down, drag-out arguments we have so often,” he all but shouts as he moves ever closer to where you stand, arms crossed and head down, by the couch.

When Luke stops only inches away from you, you lift your head and look him in the eye for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. “I don’t want to talk about how upset I am or how pissed off I am because I’m not, Luke. Honestly, I don’t feel anything at all this point. No anger, no sadness. I’m just tired. I’m going to bed,” you inform him quietly, your voice cracking near the end and giving away the shattered heart behind your words.

Luke is silent as you step around him, his eyes downcast and hands hanging by his sides in defeat. He’s just as tired as you are and it hurts.

It hurts to know that your relationship has devolved from silly late night discussions to angry late night arguments. It hurts to know that instead of the joy he promised to bring you, he’s now the source of your pain. And it hurts to know that he’s pushed you to the point of apathy. Because not too long ago, you were the one begging him to talk. You were the one begging him to go to couple’s therapy, to go on a vacation far away from Los Angeles and all the bullshit being in the city entailed; you were the one trying to piece your relationship back together.

But now? Now Luke isn’t so sure that you even want to keep trying, isn’t sure that you want him. He’s afraid that you’re giving up on him and he doesn’t think he can handle that. So, instead of giving you the opportunity to end things and leave him standing alone, he does the last thing he ever imagined he would do.

He says, “I think we should get a divorce.”

Luke watches, tears clinging to his lower lashes, as you pause in the middle of the staircase. He watches your hand clutch the banister so tightly that your knuckles turn white, watches your body go rigid and your head snap up. He instantly regrets the words, instantly wants to take them back and rush across the room to wrap you in his arms and promise that he’ll go see a therapist, promise that he’ll take you on vacation and get you both away so you can focus on each other for as long as it takes to fix this, but before he can do anything, you speak.

“Okay,” you mumble but Luke feels as if you’d shouted it from the rooftops, “if that’s what you think.”

And just like that, with six quiet words, Luke’s world comes crumbling down around him. He wants to shout, to ask what the hell you’re thinking, to ask why you’re just giving up, but he doesn’t. He knows that it’s his fault, that he’s pushed you to this point, so he nods. Even though you haven’t turned to look at him again, he nods and mumbles, “I’m going to Ashton’s. I, uh, I’ll come get clothes and stuff tomorrow.”

This time, you don’t even respond. He watches as you continue to ascend the stares before you disappear around the corner and his heart breaks. Luke’s tears fall freely as he grabs his jacket from the chair he’d tossed it onto hours earlier before he grabs his keys and leaves the home he’s shared with you for six years. He stands in the driveway for a moment, staring up at the bedroom window, and every fiber of his being is telling him to go back inside and tell you that he doesn’t mean it. But you’d given in so quickly and sounded so defeated that he’s certain this is what you want.

So he climbs into his car and heads for Ashton’s place, hoping against all hope that he’ll wake up to a message from you telling him that this is a mistake, that a divorce isn’t the answer. But he knows that he’s not going to. He knows that he’s driven you away and that this is all his fault. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to fix it.

And you’re not sure if there’s anything that can be done because the moment he leaves the house, front door shutting softly behind him, you fall apart.

Your sobs echo through the empty house as you lean heavily against the wall by the top of the stairs. You try to remain standing, try to at least make it to the empty spare room down the hall because you don’t know if you can stand the thought of sleeping in what was once your shared bed, but you don’t. You collapse into a sobbing heap right there and pull your knees tight to your chest. This isn’t how you wanted things to end, you didn’t want them to end at all, and the reality of the situation is crushing your chest and making it nearly impossible for you to breathe.

You feel as if you’re underwater, lungs burning with the effort it takes to breathe and eyes sightless from tears. It feels as if there are weights holding you in place and the worst of it feels as if it is sitting on your chest. You know that you’re on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, know that you should try to get up and grab your phone and call someone, but the only person you trust enough to help you through is the one who sent you spiraling.

And you try to stop the thoughts before they enter your mind but you can’t. You can’t stop yourself from thinking that it doesn’t even matter, anyway. That it doesn’t matter if you continue to spiral or if you lose yourself to the crushing weight collapsing your lungs. You tell yourself that it doesn’t matter if you stay right where you are, curled in on yourself and drowning in tears, but you know that it does.

Realistically, you know that life will go on, that you’ll survive and you’ll make it through. But it feels as if nothing will be alright ever again as you draw ragged breath after ragged breath and that’s the worst part. How your life went from picture perfect, with a beautiful husband and the whole world at your feet, to crumbling apart in a matter of months. You went from feeling as if you were on top of the world to feeling as if you couldn’t fall any lower and you want to laugh at life’s fucked up way of knocking you off your pedestal but all you can do is cry.

And that’s the worst part of it all.

Author’s Note: 🤷‍♀️ I was trying to go inspired by a song but it didn’t really work that way.

#luke hemmings imagines #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings fan fic #luke hemmings fanfiction #luke hemmings fanfic #5sos imagines #5sos imagine #5sos preference #5sos preferences #5sos blurbs #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer imagines #5 seconds of summer preferences #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer preference #5sos blurb #luke hemmings x reader #luke x reader #mine

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thebrowfixxus · 1 year

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askcares · 3 years

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lornahansonforbes · 3 years

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The late summer sun was slowly going down as we approached the corner of Melrose and North Robertson. Granted it was almost 8:00pm, but the sun was still blazing away as were the paparazzi and people milling about and waiting to go inside to have dinner meanwhile expecting a certain someone to make an appearance, but she slowed the car down for a millisecond and then kept going. I didn’t ask. She made a sharp left turn, an absolute fucking miracle, Sister Mary of The Perpetual Parking Spot must’ve been smiling down on us, she pulled up and backed in like a racer car driver. One, two, and the keys were being shoved into her vintage LV handbag.

“We’re here. Let’s go!,” she said cheerfully. Again I didn’t ask but the sign said, Ty’s Thai Tie Dye - An Indochina Conglomerate. I just looked at the sign again, “You’ll love it, trust me,” she said over the din of traffic.

We walked in and was greeted by a friendly hostess who appeared to be only like barely 5 feet tall.

“Two for dinner? You come now. Inside or outside table?” Our hostess grabbed two menus and shuttled us to an outside table without a confirmation. The slice of lemon meringue sky was wafting over us as we entered a small sort of possibly could have been an alleyway with beautiful plants everywhere and a trellis with Passion flowers just over head. My words can’t describe exactly how beautiful it was. The immense shades of green, the flowers and their beautiful aromas melded amazingly with the smells of garlic and cilantro emanating from a mysterious kitchen tucked away from the patrons.

Dressed in the classic little black dress and simple pumps, all Chanel, all understated and she was a vision. The extremely simple and understated gold jewelry brought it all together and yet oozed money from every pore with hair pulled loosely back in a black silk ribbon. She smirked gently as she began to seat herself and smoothed her dress down. I know I didn’t look out of place in “vintage” Black on Black Calvin Jeans. Yeah, I’ve had them for longer than I care to remember but dry cleaning is a good thing and my classic Brooks Brothers Oxford cream colored shirt. However my cordovan penny loafers had seen better days.

“You like something drink? Water? Flat? Fuzzy? Maybe soda? No? I bring you wine or something else?,” our hostess queried with a generous megawatt smile.

“Water, flat, slice of lemon and no ice for both of us. We’ll start with that,” she said looking at me with a twinkle in her sable eyes. Our hostess clicked her heels and walked away.

“The food here is incredible,” she said calmly.

I opened the menu and saw what made up of Indochina, plates by country. Mostly vegetarian but with plenty of dead animals for all the other food tourists and truly bougie wannabe We-Ho reject motherfuckers scratching their way to being not known for anything other than doing their worst James Dean high atop Griffith Observatory, but I did mention that they got chased out of the “nature’s reserve” by 5-0? Yes, those are grass stains on their jeans.

I pursued the menu as our hostess returned and glided the glasses of water and lemon on the table.

“You decided? What I bring you?”

I chose the vegetarian Pad Thai and some Vietnamese dish I couldn’t pronounce. We both also chose a lemongrass Larb with fried tofu salad. Our hostess disappeared into her Jasmine perfume and we lifted our glasses of water and clinked them together and quietly said, “Cheers, lovey.”

“I’m so delighted that we came here instead of trying to get in and see people fawn ever so patronizingly over her. It’s just the worst selfie moment you’ll ever see play out,” she said as she leaned back in her seat. I smirked at the image playing out like some silent movie with the Scott Joplin-esque ragtime jangling piano.

We had bits of conversation that really didn’t go anywhere other than “Well, did hear?” and “Some idiot who asserted that…” But nothing of substance and nothing really was said and the next thing I knew she pulled up in front of my flat.

“Darling, I’m sure we’ve had a wonderful evening but I feel bad that my husband is all over us these past few weeks. I’m just so sick and tired of seeing his gold Audi here and there every time we go out. Why can’t we agree to disagree with the fact that I’m who I am and you are you and we aren’t able to carry on like this anymore. I know I should break it to you gently but just rip the fucking Bandaid off, it’s over. Don’t speak. Let’s go our separate ways with our splendiferous memories and as the cliché states, when you do speak of me, be kind,” she blurted out without looking at me.

It took me a moment and then I crawled out the Jaguar Vandam Plas. I barely closed the passenger door and she glided away and I saw her turn right and disappear.

The full moon was reminiscent of Klieg lights at some old school Hollywood premiere and I saw the curtains move ever so slightly out of the corner of my eye. It was the Grand Dame, Marieke, my tuxedo cat meowing silently behind the window.

We locked eyes and she stood up, stretching her full length and her white underbelly up against the window pane. I fumbled for my house keys, still near comatose, I took those first tentative steps towards my house and then I got in my car. I pounded the steering wheel with tears in my eyes. “You ungrateful little bitch,” I screamed so loudly I felt my ears ringing worse than tinnitus at Rush concert.

The night was gorgeous as I drove cursing her very name. I couldn’t believe that not that long ago our tongues were lashing about like in a porn as we tore our clothes off, she’s moist, my turgidity…and fade to black.

Here I was on Pfeiffer Beach, Big Sur, hours away from the cesspool that is Los Angeles. I heard voices in the distance. I turned to see anything about but it wasn’t the ghosts of Burton and Taylor.

I don’t remember much after that but now the sun was rising over this beach was a backdrop for “The Sandpiper.”

The sounds of the waves were crashing just over there, the wind was gently nudging me as it was cold it was reassuring to me. Nothing left. My clothes were rumpled beyond and the sand in my toes. My ass was damp. No sugar free Chai latte beckoning me into a new day. Stumbling around I made it back to car only to see CHP stopped by and that bright orange ticket was neatly tucked under the windshield wipers. Fuck.

The radio blared as I turned the key, a voice said, “Now, I’m strong enough. Now, I’m strong enough to accept change. Yes my darling, if you want to live in another place, I can understand it. It’s gonna hurt for a little while, but I can understand it, but before you walk out that door, touch me in the morning.”

It was that classic 120 beats per minute but this voice and her rendition of the Diana Ross anthem, her anger and hurt were front and center. Just like me, we were both in a world of hurt at that time but she wasn’t feeling it and neither was I. She and I we’re pissed. Okay a little poetic license here and there but fuck you. I was transfixed on that song and she like I wanted to be Kathy Bates swinging that sledgehammer but we were going to leave that thing, that thing, right there to suffer and none of that dirty little bird bullshit either. I was going to be Mike Tyson if Bette Davis pops up screaming something about having a dirty little affair with a married woman. Hold up for one second, bitch! I’ll piss on your grave long before I say Kaddish.

I picked up phone, tapped Shazam, Marlena Shaw. Thanks, Miss Shaw. Touch me in the morning and you’ll lose that entire arm. Trust. I then tapped my phone one more time and my playlist abruptly cut in.

I merged into traffic on Route 1 South heading back home leaving Pfeiffer Beach in the rear view mirror. I’m a man on mission. Happy endings? Not on my dime. Better beginnings is more like it and I’ll take back me. I will not yield. The Grand Dame awaits and she will always love me for all my mistakes, my foibles, my insecurities and I have everything I need for the time being, my 15 year old cat, Marieke, and I couldn’t be happier even after the hurt.

#i-wrotethisforme #thewritershandbook #wnq writers #vomitingwords #love

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victoriagloverstuff · 6 years

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"Stage 13" | Literary Hub

The following is from Simon Rich's collection, Hits and Misses. Inspired by Rich's experiences in Hollywood as a former Saturday Night Live writer, the collection chronicles the absurdity of fame and the humanity of failure in the entertainment industry. Simon Rich has written for Saturday Night Live and The Simpsons. His other collections include Spoiled Brats and Ant Farm.

Yoni was haunted by his student loan debt. He felt its weight whenever he purchased a granola bar or fed quarters into a washing machine. As of this morning, he owed $97, 201.83. And the worst part was, he’d spent it all on nothing.

Since graduating from film school seven years ago, Yoni’s filmmaking career had gone from promising to catastrophic. He’d managed to direct a few dog food commercials, but the best he could say about them was that, from a legal standpoint, the animals had not been abused. His non-dog work was similarly bleak: Hardee’s training videos, infomercials designed to trick the elderly, and workout DVDs for exercise programs that were at best a scam and at worst medically dangerous.

Yoni knew his best hope was to move back into his parents’ house in Queens. His mother had befriended the owner of a successful mulch business, and according to her frequent emails, there was a job “with his name on it.” Yoni wasn’t sure what his role at the mulch business would be. Making it, selling it, spreading it? But anything was better than staying in Los Angeles, chasing a dream he knew was dead. He was thirty-four years old. If things were going to happen for him, they would’ve happened by now.

Yoni was browsing some cheap flights back east when his cracked iPhone buzzed in his pocket. He squinted at the unknown number. He knew he should ignore the call; it was almost certainly a debt collection agency. But the 323 area code gave him pause. Whoever was calling him was calling from Hollywood itself. His phone rang a third time, then a fourth, then a fifth. It was about to go to voicemail when Yoni cursed at himself under his breath and answered.

Article continues after advertisement

“I’m glad you could make it,” said Nikki Coleman, an elegantly dressed executive of indeterminate age. “Was parking all right?”

Yoni nodded enthusiastically, even though he’d come by Lyft. It was the first time he’d ever been invited to a major movie studio. He had no idea how Paragon had gotten his number and was almost positive they had contacted him as the result of some administrative error. Still, he was determined to make a good impression.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Nikki said as her handsome assistant handed Yoni an impressively cold bottle of Fiji water. “The reason I called is because we’ve been watching your work for some time, and we’re considering hiring you for a major project.”

Several seconds passed in silence.

“Like, a directing thing?” Yoni asked.

Article continues after advertisement

“Yes,” Nikki said patiently. “A directing thing.”

Yoni shook his head in disbelief. “What made you think of me?”

“He knew he should ignore the call; it was almost certainly a debt collection agency. But the 323 area code gave him pause. Whoever was calling him was calling from Hollywood itself.”

Nikki smiled as broadly as she could, given her many facial surgeries. “We’ve had some problems on set,” she said. “I won’t go into specifics right now. But we need someone with experience working with unconventional talent.”

Yoni nodded. If there was one skill he had, it was dealing with temperamental stars. He’d once directed a workout tape starring a bodybuilder who was addicted, in his own words, to “rage.”

“Who is it?” he whispered. It was his first taste of industry gossip, and he was excited. “Is it Bale?”

Nikki nodded subtly at her assistant, who held up a giant stack of paper.

“Before I can tell you about the project,” Nikki said, “I need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

Yoni flipped through the baffling pile of pages. “What does this all mean, exactly?”

“It’s just standard boilerplate,” Nikki assured him. “All it says is that you’ll keep everything you hear and see today a secret, no matter how shocking or horrific.”

“Huh,” Yoni said. He thought about his options and then neatly signed the contract. “So . . . what happens now?”

Nikki’s eyes narrowed. “You meet her.”

Yoni sat in the passenger seat of Nikki’s golf cart as she sped them through the lot. He recognized some of the sets from movies—the police station from a car chase franchise, the haunted graveyard from a recent thriller. Gradually, though, as they drove through the studio, the sets grew less familiar.

They passed a dated mock-up of a subway station, covered in 1980s-style graffiti, then a decrepit Wild West set. It was another ten minutes before the cart came to a stop.

“Here we are,” Nikki said. “Stage 13.”

Yoni climbed out of the golf cart and followed Nikki over to a barren concrete structure. The other soundstages they’d passed, Yoni noticed, had golden plaques affixed to their front doors, commemorating the films that had been shot there. Stage 13, in contrast, was eerily unmarked. The grass outside had been neglected, and the crumbling wooden door creaked open as they neared it, as if pushed by some knowing, spectral force.

“So,” Yoni asked cautiously, “what’s the deal here?”

Nikki dispassionately summarized the building’s history. The stage was built in 1914 to produce silent one-reelers. It thrived for a couple of years, producing racist but profitable hits, like Hong Kong Harry. Sometime in the twenties, though, it began to acquire a “negative reputation.” A 1926 ice-skating musical was shut down in the middle of production due to a catastrophic freezer explosion. Since then, the stage had been the site of numerous violent accidents: fallen lights, snapped riggings, mysterious electrical fires. After World War II, the stage fell into disuse. It was revived in the 1950s for a Christmas movie, but the film was abandoned when the director went insane and demanded to be given a lobotomy.

“And this is where I would be working?” Yoni asked.

“Yes,” Nikki said.

Yoni nodded. It was at times like these that he wished he belonged to some kind of union.

“After you,” Nikki said.

Yoni took a deep breath and stepped into the darkened soundstage. He was searching in vain for a light switch when a sparkling figure burst into view overhead, as bright as an antique camera flash. By the time Yoni regained his vision, the glittering presence was floating down toward him from the ceiling. She was slightly translucent, with sunken eyes and fiery red hair.

“What’s that?” Yoni asked.

“That’s Clara,” Nikki said. “She’s a ghost.”

Yoni had some follow-up questions, but before he could ask them, Nikki bolted for the exit, slamming the heavy door behind her.

Yoni turned reluctantly toward Clara. At some point she had floated down to eye level. He could feel her cold breath on his face.

“Hi,” he said uneasily. “My name’s Yoni.”

Her bloodred lips curled into a smile. “The new director,” she said.

“Yep!” Yoni said, smiling brightly to conceal his mounting terror. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He held out his hand, and she shook it to the best of her ability, her translucent fingers passing through his flesh.

“Cool!” Yoni said. “Cool, cool.” He could see Clara better now. She didn’t look like a traditional Hollywood actress.

But her face was certainly captivating: sunken eyes, long black lashes, ghoulishly white skin. Yoni couldn’t tell how much of her aesthetic was a personal style choice and how much a result of her being dead. In either case, it worked; Yoni couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Since 1922,” she said. “I was over for a screen test. It was my seventh audition in three days, and I was pretty hopped up on reds. Guess I took too many. Anyway, I passed out and cracked my head over there.”

She pointed at a faded red stain on the concrete.

Yoni winced. “Did it hurt?”

Clara shook her head. “I fell right asleep. And when I woke up, there’s this tall, golden man staring down at me. And he tells me it’s time to leave this world behind. ‘Sweet child,’ he says. ‘You’ve been struggling so long. Striving and suffering. It’s made us angels weep. But be not afraid. Soon you will be in the warm embrace of God, and all your pain will cease to be. Come, my darling child, and bask in the light of heaven.’ So I stand up and look into his big golden eyes. And I say, ‘Bullshit. I’m not leaving this town until I’m a fucking star.’ So he smiles down at me and says, ‘Be at peace, my child. Fame and success are but man-made idols. And once thou art in heaven, thou shalt learn there’s no such thing as worldly glory, for in God’s eyes, all creatures are made equal.’ And I say, ‘If I wanted to be equal, I would have stayed in Galveston, Texas. I have a screen test in two hours to play the ingénue in a one-reeler, and if you make me miss it, I swear I’m going to kill you.’ And he reaches out and takes my hand and starts to lift me up off the ground, to heaven or wherever. So I take out my hairpin and I stab him as hard as I can in his wing. Just stab him and stab him and stab him. And he can’t feel pain because he’s an angel, but eventually he’s like, ‘Stop. That’s annoying.’ And I say, ‘I’m gonna stab you all the way up to heaven unless you let me go!’ And he says, ‘You’re crazy, Pamela.’ And I say, “My name’s Clara Ginger now. I changed it to look better on marquees. Tell God and everyone to stop calling me Pamela. I’m not Pamela anymore. It’s Clara Ginger, damn it!’ And I keep stabbing him in the wing and the face. And eventually he loses his cool and drops the whole goody-two-shoes bit and says, ‘You’re one crazy bitch.’ So I look him in his golden eyes and say, ‘You can eat my ass.’” She chuckled proudly at the memory. “Anyway. Since then I’ve been here.”

Clara walked Yoni through her present circumstances. She couldn’t leave the soundstage (“standard ghost rules”), but she had a lot of power within its crumbling walls. “I can move stuff with my mind and fly around and shit. Comes in handy when people piss me off. But after a while, believe me, it gets old.”

The worst part, she said, was that God probably thought he was “winning.”

“I bet he’s looking down on me right now,” she said. “Laughing on top of some dumb cloud.” She put her hands on her hips and launched into a God impression. “Oooooooh, I’m God. I don’t think Clara’s ever gonna be in pictures . . .”

Yoni glanced nervously toward the sky as Clara continued her impression of the Lord. Her God voice had started off as only subtly gay, but as she spoke, it grew more aggressively flamboyant.

“Oooh, I’m God, sitting around with my tutti-frutti angels . . .”

“Clara.”

“ . . . getting fucked in the butt all the time . . .”

“Whoa.”

Clara flicked her wrist. “Relax. There’s nothing he can do.”

“It seems like there’s a lot he can do,” Yoni cautioned. “I mean, he turned you into a ghost.”

“Big whoop. I’m still gonna be a star.”

“How?”

“You’re the director,” she said. “You figure it out.”

“We’ve tried everything to get rid of her,” Nikki explained as Yoni climbed back into the golf cart. “Mediums, exorcists, sage spells. Nothing works. She just gets mad and starts killing people.”

Yoni nodded. “She seems pretty determined to make it as an actress.”

“We’ve consulted with several ghost experts,” Nikki said. “Clara won’t go to heaven until she’s accomplished what she sees as her ‘unfinished business on this earth.’ ”

“I’m sure I can find something to direct her in,” Yoni said. “I mean, makeup will be a challenge, but I’ll figure it out.”

“It’s not that simple,” Nikki said. “We can’t reveal Clara’s existence to the world.”

Yoni nodded. “Mankind would panic if they learned that ghosts were real.”

“There’s that,” Nikki acknowledged. “But mainly, it’s a liability issue. By concealing Clara’s existence all these years, Paragon Studios has enabled countless deaths. According to our lawyers, the class action potential is significant.”

“How can you keep Clara a secret and make her a movie star at the same time?”

Nikki parked her golf cart in front of an unmarked storage unit. “I’ll show you.”

A musty smell hit Yoni’s nose as he followed her into the cramped storage locker. He was starting to feel claustrophobic when the fluorescents flickered on overhead. Instantaneously, his anxiety gave way to childlike wonder. He was surrounded by ancient film equipment dating back to the silent era.

“You’d be working with this crap,” Nikki said, gesturing at a hand-crank camera, plated with silver and gold.

Yoni laughed with geeky amazement. “Holy shit! Is that a Bell and Howell?”

Nikki shrugged.

“I think this is what Chaplin used!” Yoni said, patting the old machine with reverence. “I can’t believe this thing still works!”

“It doesn’t,” Nikki said. “There isn’t even a lens.” She jabbed her finger through the hollow cylinder. “See?”

“So how am I going to shoot with it?” Yoni asked.

“You’re not.”

Yoni’s posture slumped as the situation dawned on him. “So you don’t actually want me to direct anything. You just want me to pretend to direct something. So you can trick a ghost.”

Nikki nodded. “Is that a problem?”

“I mean, it’s a little disappointing.” He looked up at her with hope in his eyes. “Unless you think this project might lead to something! Like, if I did a good job, do you think you might consider me for other jobs? Like, directing real movies, without ghosts?”

“We see this as more of a one-off gig,” she said.

Yoni gave a disappointed nod.

“Look,” Nikki said. “It’s easy work. All you have to do is point the camera at Clara for a few hours. We’ll hire some nonunion crew to run around and look busy. She’ll sashay around, you’ll spin the crank, and then a week later I’ll come in with a fake copy of Variety. ‘Clara Ginger is a star.’ She’ll see the headline, fly up to heaven, and that’ll be that.”

“What would I tell her she’s starring in?”

Nikki handed him a script, and he read the title out loud. “Mr. Ching Chong and the Orphan Girl?”

Nikki nodded. “It’s the one-reeler Clara was auditioning for the day she died. Fun fact: it was considered racist even for its time.”

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Yoni said. “I mean, it doesn’t seem very creatively fulfilling. Also, I’m concerned that Clara would find out I was tricking her and then murder me.”

“If you get her to leave,” Nikki said, “we’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars.”

Yoni picked up the camera and tested out the crank.

Yoni stood outside the soundstage, waiting for his crew to finish signing their confidentiality agreements. Nikki had briefed them about Clara, but they still were understandably afraid. Yoni cleared his throat and launched into a pep talk.

“Okay!” he said. “So we’re about to go inside, to encounter the ghost we’re attempting to trick. It’s going to be weird, but we’re gonna get through it. Does anyone have any questions?”

A handsome, out-of-work actor named Charles raised his hand. Yoni recognized him vaguely from a local commercial for yard furniture.

“Is this makeup really necessary?” he asked.

Yoni nodded at Charles sympathetically. “Unfortunately, the part of Mr. Ching Chong calls for full yellow-face makeup. If you don’t wear it, Clara will get suspicious.”

Charles shut his eyes. “This is rock-bottom for me,” he said to no one in particular. “Playing a racist caricature to trick a ghost.”

Yoni could tell the day would be an uphill battle. But what was the alternative? He pictured himself declaring bankruptcy and flying back to Queens to join the mulch trade. He could see his parents standing on the porch, his mother sobbing with relief, his father savoring his vindication.

“So it didn’t work out in Lala Land,” he could hear him saying. “Well, at least you’re finally back on Planet Earth.”

Yoni knew his film career was over. But with a hundred grand, he could at least avoid that nightmarish homecoming. He could pay off his debt, flee LA forever, and start a new life somewhere else, doing anything but this.

He opened the door and led the crew into the darkened soundstage. A few men screamed as Clara floated into view. In general, though, they managed to remain professional-looking.

“Who are all these guys?” Clara asked suspiciously.

Yoni bounded toward her and held up a copy of the script. “Congratulations!” he said. “You got the part!”

“Which part?”

Yoni grinned. “The lead!”

“Bullshit,” Clara spat, her pupils burning like a pair of embers. “This is some kind of trick, and I’m going to murder everybody!”

Yoni swallowed. He could hear one of the crew members behind him vomit with fear.

“It’s no trick!” Yoni assured her. He pulled out his Bell and Howell. “See?”

Clara’s jaw was clenched with rage. But when she saw the gleaming camera, her expression softened. She inched toward the machine and peered into the lens-less aperture, her lips slowly parting. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and hopeful.

“I’m really the lead?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yeah!” Yoni said. “Big-time!”

A tear rolled down Clara’s pale cheek. Within seconds, though, she’d suppressed any trace of vulnerability.

“Well then, shit, what are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s get to work.”

The plot of Mr. Ching Chong and the Orphan Girl wasn’t particularly complicated. An orphan girl visits the shop of Mr. Ching Chong to pawn her beloved silver locket. Mr. Ching Chong tries to cheat her, but she hypnotizes him with the locket and gets him to jump out the window. The rest of the nine-page scenario called for Clara to face the camera and cycle through a series of popular 1920s dance crazes, none of which had any relation to the story.

Yoni explained to Clara that they were going to shoot the movie in one take. It all took place on a single set, so continuity wouldn’t be an issue. Furthermore, since the film was silent, there was no need to learn or practice any lines.

“We can start right now,” he said cheerfully. “And we’ll be finished in under ten minutes.”

Clara looked worried. “Shouldn’t we rehearse a little first?” she asked. “Or at least block it?”

If this were a real film, Yoni would pull his star aside to reassure her. But given the circumstances, he didn’t see the need.

“Don’t worry,” he said to Clara. “You’re gonna nail it.”

He checked to make sure that the camera was pointed in the right direction. Then he spun the crank around and called out, “Action!”

“Charles shut his eyes. “This is rock-bottom for me,” he said to no one in particular. “Playing a racist caricature to trick a ghost.””

Clara pointed at the locket and held her hands together in a pleading gesture.

“Great acting!” Yoni said. “Let’s move on to the hypnotizing part.”

Clara swung the locket back and forth. Charles dutifully jumped out the window.

“Great!” Yoni said. “Let’s wrap it up.”

Clara turned to the camera and energetically cycled through her dances: the Mexican Tamale, the Irish Jig, and the Jewish Shuffle.

“Wow,” Yoni said involuntarily. “Okay! Great work, Clara. That’s a wrap.”

Clara looked around the room as the crew members silently dispersed. “Really?” she asked. “That’s it?”

Yoni gave her two thumbs-up. “That’s it!”

Clara looked down at her feet.

“What’s wrong?” Yoni asked.

She gestured at the crew. “They hated it.”

Yoni forced a laugh. “What are you talking about?” he said. “They loved it! Right, guys?”

The crew members nodded fearfully.

“Don’t fuck with me!” Clara shouted at Yoni. “It fucking died and you know it!”

Yoni fell backward as she flew up to the ceiling and slipped into the shadows. The air was so cold he could see his own breath. At this rate, he knew, Clara wasn’t going anywhere.

Yoni spent the lunch break trying to teach his crew to feign praise more believably. But no matter how loudly they applauded, Yoni knew it wouldn’t persuade Clara. She was a performer. And anyone who’s ever been onstage can tell when they’ve lost the crowd. It was something you could physically feel—the knot in your lungs, the sweat on your neck, the gnawing panic in your gut.

There was only one way to convince Clara that her film was working.

Somehow he would have to make it work.

He opened his battered laptop. His desktop was crawling with Final Draft and QuickTime files, each icon a gravestone commemorating some failed project. There were the feature scripts he’d labored on in screenwriting class, including the earnest war epic his professor had called a “decent first attempt at comedy.” There was the self-financed short he’d paid to submit to the Sundance Contest, a cruel scam with no affiliation whatsoever with the Sundance Film Festival. There were hundreds of storyboards, pitches, and treatments for movies that never were produced and never would be. And now here he was, writing a fake starring vehicle for a ghost. His only solace was that it was the last project he would ever work on, the last time he would ever have to type out those two conniving words that built up your hopes only to dash them:

Open on . . .

“Clara?” Yoni called. “You in here?”

Clara descended reluctantly from the ceiling. Her little jaw was locked and cocked in a way that reminded Yoni of a baby lion. He could tell from her streaked mascara she’d been crying.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go well yesterday.”

Clara shrugged. “It was just a little hiccup,” she said. “Just another hurdle to jump over.” She gazed off into the distance. “I remember when I entered my first dance contest. Miss Bathing Beauty, 1917. My act bombed in rehearsal. But that didn’t stop me.”

Yoni nodded. “You rehearsed.”

Clara shook her head. “I screwed one of the judges. His name was Lou Dunlap. He owned a sauerkraut company, and his beard smelled like rotten cabbage. But I didn’t care. I did things to him that would shock the devil. Things that would make the devil say, ‘Whoa, that’s enough. You don’t have to take it that far. Slow down. That’s crazy. Stop.’ But I’ll tell you what: it won me Miss Bathing Beauty. And the whole thing was worth it to prove them wrong.”

“Prove who wrong?”

“Everyone,” she said. “My teachers, my cousins, the nuns. They all used to laugh when they caught me practicing my walks in the mirror. Said I’d never amount to nothing. Well, look at me now. They’re sitting on some dumb, fat cloud with God. And I’m in Los Angeles, living my dreams.” She blinked away some tears. “You know what I mean?”

Yoni nodded, thinking of the people who had doubted him over the years: his mother, his father, his professors, his classmates, contest judges, YouTube commentators, that busboy he’d caught smirking at his laptop that one time when he was working on a screenplay at Chipotle, his guidance counselor, his college adviser, his unemployment officer, his therapist, the Barnes & Noble cashier who had sold him his copy of Save the Cat!, and sometimes, if he was being honest, himself.

“There were hundreds of storyboards, pitches, and treatments for movies that never were produced and never would be. And now here he was, writing a fake starring vehicle for a ghost.”

He took out a packet of pages.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I took a new pass at the script,” he said.

Clara squinted at the first page. “What kind of name is John for a Chinaman?”

“The shopkeeper’s no longer Chinese.”

“Then what kind of foreigner is he?”

“He’s not a foreigner,” Yoni said. “The script is no longer racist.”

She telekinetically flung the script into a trash can.

“Can I at least pitch it to you?” he asked.

Clara sighed. “Fine.”

“Okay,” Yoni said. “So you know how the previous draft was a hateful attack against Chinese people?”

Clara nodded.

“Well, this version is more about two people coming together to achieve their dream.”

“What’s their dream?”

Yoni looked into her eyes. “To prove everyone wrong.”

Yoni supervised the crew as they re-dressed the pawnshop set, transforming it into a cobbler’s empty storefront. Charles, looking more confident without his yellow-face makeup, took his mark behind the cash register.

“Okay?” Yoni asked. “Is everybody ready?”

The crew shrugged.

“Clara?”

Clara shot an anxious glance at the crew, then turned to her director and nodded.

“Great!” Yoni said. “Action on rehearsal! Clara, you enter the shoe shop. And remember, you have a limp.”

Clara entered the set, heavily dragging her left foot.

“That’s great,” Yoni said. “Okay, Charles, remember, your shoe shop is really struggling. You’re sorting through your bills. How are you going to pay off all your debts? Big sigh. But then you look up and you see her. And you recognize her! She’s that famous ballerina whose leg got run over by a trolley!”

Charles pointed at Clara in a show of enthusiasm.

“Good!” Yoni said. “You say that you’re a fan. You praise a move you saw her do onstage. A special pirouette.”

Charles did a clumsy spin.

“Nice,” Yoni said. “Okay now, Clara, you don’t want to talk about your dancing days. It’s too sad to think about your accident and all your thwarted dreams.”

Clara turned her back to Charles and huffily headed for the door.

“Perfect,” Yoni said. “It’s still raining outside, but you don’t care. You’re getting out of this shop . . .”

Clara reached for the door handle.

“Okay!” Yoni shouted. “Now, Charles, you have an idea! You grab one of your shoes and beg her to try it on! Clara, you don’t want to listen. You think he’s crazy. You try to get away. But, Charles, you won’t let her—you grab her foot! You stick the shoe on her foot!”

The crew members watched as Charles followed the instructions, grasping at Clara’s calf as she kicked at him with a realistic blend of fear and outrage.

“You finally get the shoe on!” Yoni continued. “Clara, you’re furious. You want to run away. But as you flee for the door, you notice something—your limp is gone! The shoe fixed it!”

Clara swiveled around and walked gracefully toward Charles, looking convincingly amazed.

“Yes!” Yoni said. “You can walk again! Just like in the old days! But can you dance? Is it possible? There’s only one way to find out. You try the move he remembered—your special pirouette!”

Clara took a deep breath and twirled across the shop, her arms arced high over her head, her feet gliding through the sawdust. Charles stretched out his hands, and she landed in his arms, laughing with delight. Then her eyes filled with tears and she began sobbing, overcome with relief at the shocking resurrection of her dreams.

“Okay!” Yoni said. “Cut on rehearsal!”

He glanced at the crew. Instead of dispersing, they remained where they stood, their eyes on Clara.

Yoni turned to his star, and the two of them shared a subtle, victorious smile.

Nikki blinked slowly. “What do you mean ‘new version’?”

“We’ve totally revamped the picture,” Yoni reported.

“And I really think it’s got a chance of working.”

Nikki nodded. “You think it will get Clara to stop haunting us.”

“I actually meant, like, I think it works creatively. Like, as a piece of art.”

Nikki’s forehead twitched. “What?”

“You should see Clara in this thing,” Yoni said. “She’s a star.”

“She’s a ghost.”

“The public doesn’t have to know that! We can shoot her from low angles, to hide the fact she’s floating.”

“Yoni—”

“Just let me pitch it to you.”

He fanned out his palms. “Okay,” he said. “Open on . . .”

He quickly walked her through it—the characters, the story, the scoring, tone, and shooting style. He’d never been great at presenting his ideas, but as he spoke, his confidence grew. By the time he finished, he realized he was standing up, his arms raised in triumph.

“And that’s the final shot!” he said. “They spin out of frame as we fade—no, cut! We cut to black.”

He smiled hopefully at Nikki. At some point her forehead had stopped twitching.

“It wouldn’t cost much,” Yoni pleaded. “All we’d have to do, really, is put a working lens into the camera. What do you think?”

“I think,” she said, “that you guys might be onto something.”

Yoni grinned. “Really?”

Nikki stood up abruptly at her desk. “I want you to mock up a preliminary shooting schedule,” she said. “It’ll give me a better sense of what kind of budget we’ll need.”

“Of course!” Yoni said. “Absolutely!”

“Email it to me by nine a.m. tomorrow,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ll meet with marketing and distribution.” She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. “Congratulations, Yoni. You pulled it off.”

Yoni waited until the door was closed, then pumped his fist in triumph.

Yoni knew he should go straight home and get to work. But halfway to the studio gates, he stopped and turned around. He couldn’t leave without telling Clara the good news.

He opened the door to Stage 13 and startled at the sight of her. She was standing in the center of a golden shaft of light, an oddly placid smile on her face.

“Clara?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

Nikki stepped out from the shadows. There was panic in her eyes, but she managed to quickly suppress it. “I was just telling Clara the good news,” she said brightly.

Yoni noticed that Clara was holding a copy of Variety. He winced as he read the front-page headline.

CLARA GINGER SHINES IN MR. CHING CHONG AND THE ORPHAN GIRL!

The newspaper was obviously fake: the pages were printed on computer paper. But somehow the prop had managed to trick Clara.

“Isn’t it amazing, Yoni?” she said as she elevated slowly toward the ceiling. “I had no idea the studio even released it!”

“Of course we released it,” Nikki said, smiling up at the levitating spirit. “How could we not? It isn’t often you see such a star-making performance.”

“You can’t leave!” Yoni shouted. “What about our new version of the movie?”

Clara smiled down at Yoni as her body continued to ascend. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Standard ghost rules. My unfinished business on this earth is finished. I’m finally a star and now my soul is free.”

Yoni watched as a halo began to form around her head.

The circle was almost complete when he shouted up at her. “Clara, wait!”

Clara opened her eyes and smiled down beatifically. “What’s up?”

“There’s something you need to know.”

Nikki turned to Yoni in wide-eyed disbelief. “Yoni!” she hissed. “Are you fucking crazy? Stop!”

“That magazine is fake,” Yoni continued.

Clara sunk down a couple of inches. “Excuse me?”

Yoni heard a door slam shut. At some point Nikki had fled the soundstage, leaving him alone with the ghost.

He cleared his throat and kept going.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The whole thing was a trick.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “Prove it!”

Yoni held up the lens-less camera, took a deep breath, and stuck his finger through the hollow aperture. Clara began to cry. “Why?” she asked.

“I was desperate,” Yoni admitted. “And they offered me all this money, and I thought it was my chance to get out of here. But, listen, I don’t want to get out of here anymore. I want to stay right here and finish our movie and make you a star. What do you say?”

Clara thought for a beat and then descended to the floor.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Yoni asked.

Clara nodded. “I’m staying.”

Yoni grinned until he saw her eyes. The tears were gone, and in their place was fire.

Yoni coughed as he wandered through the rubble. The set hadn’t fared well in the blaze. All that remained of the cobbler’s shop were a few scraps of warped, ashy leather. The light fixtures had shattered, and the concrete floor was scorched beyond repair.

“Clara?” Yoni called out. “Come on, I know you’re up there.”

Clara lowered slowly from the ceiling. “Hey,” she said. “Hey,” he said.

“I can’t believe it was all bullshit,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Yoni said.

“The script, the sets, the camera.”

“I know.”

She shook her head and sighed. She was still holding the fake copy of Variety; the pages were singed and crumbling.

“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” she said. “How did you get the crew to react that time?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we rehearsed that new scene. And the crew was all nodding—”

“That wasn’t fake,” Yoni said.

Clara rolled her eyes.

“I swear,” Yoni said. “They were on board.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Clara, you were there,” Yoni said. “You remember. You felt it. We had them.”

She smiled softly. “I guess we kind of did there for a moment.”

Yoni surveyed the debris. “I really am sorry, Clara.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I guess I’m sorry too.”

Yoni laughed. “For what?”

Clara pointed over Yoni’s shoulder. He turned around and saw a tall golden man smiling down on him.

“Clara?” Yoni asked. “Did you murder me?”

“Oh yeah,” Clara said. “Big-time.”

“Be not afraid,” the angel said to Yoni. “Your pain is finally coming to an end.”

He held out his golden palm.

Clara rolled her eyes as Yoni slowly reached for it. He was about to make contact when he suddenly withdrew his hand.

“If it’s cool with you,” he told the angel, “I think I’d rather stay.”

“What?” said the angel.

“I’d rather stay,” Yoni repeated, his voice a little louder. He turned to Clara and saw that she was beaming.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the angel. “Let’s just talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Yoni said. “I came to this town to make movies, and I’m not going to leave until I pull it off.”

The angel turned angrily to Clara. “What did you do to him, Pamela?”

Yoni stepped between them. “Her name isn’t Pamela,” he said. “It’s Clara Ginger.”

The angel threw up his hands in frustration.

“How are you morons going to make a movie? You have no camera, no crew, and you live in a pile of ashes! You can’t even move shit with your hands! You’re a couple of fucking ghosts!”

“That’s just a little hiccup,” Clara said.

Yoni nodded. “Just another hurdle for us to jump over.”

“You’re both crazy,” said the angel.

“Fuck you,” Yoni said. “Eat my ass.”

The angel cursed under his breath and flew back up to heaven.

“Nice work,” Clara said. “I thought he’d never leave.”

She slapped Yoni on the back and, to both of their surprise, made contact.

“Whoa,” she said. “That’s new.”

She tentatively held out her palm. Yoni took her hand and gave it an exploratory squeeze. Their fingers clasped, and Yoni realized, with shock, that he was rising slowly with her off the ground.

“You’re okay,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Just don’t look down.”

Yoni and Clara floated upward toward the ceiling. Outside, the California sun was rising, flooding the gutted studio with light.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Clara said. “Pitch me something.”

Yoni let go of her hand and eagerly fanned out his palms. He looked like a bird taking flight.

“Okay,” he said. “Open on . . .”

__________________________________

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hayaisreal · 8 years

Text

saya

xci

Sasha Akiyama.

Los Angeles, California.

February 10th, 2017:

“Let me get this straight… you were sucking his-” I clear my throat, turning from the mirror to glare in Jeff Azoff’s direction. He holds his hands upwards, palm forward - a surrender - and I face my reflection once again. I angle my mascara wand towards my eye, the color tar-like black, coating my lower lashes, mouth agape. He continues speaking, sitting on our bed behind me. He’s already dressed, slacks and a button up. I’m still in my pajama bottoms and a ratted sweatshirt of Harry’s. It had a big advertisement for Randy’s Donuts stamped across the front. “Luckily, Harry has a fairly low deductible. The Rover’s already in the shop. Took care of it while you were sleeping this morning and Harry has other cars. The only thing is there is… well… speculation.” I finish with the small, curved brush, twisting the mascara bottle closed before discarding the pink tube on the counter with a clatter.

“Speculation?” I echo, pouting my lips, reaching for the next tube at my bathroom sink, one of lipstick. “What do you mean?”

“Perez Hilton was first to break news of the accident, but TMZ seemed to pick up on some key… details… details we left out of our press release. Details we left out of our version of the story.” I finish my makeup, standing up straighter and facing Jeff, wearing a frown.

“M’not Harry, Jeff. Just get right to the fucking point with me. What details are you talking about?” My eyebrow arches up my forehead, swimming towards my hairline.

“The sexual details, Sash. TMZ somehow figured out what you were doing right before the accident.” Jeff sighs and I can see his chest expand under its force, as if the information proved a literal weight lifted off his shoulders.

“Well, yeah. What the fuck do you expect? We have a sex tape, for Christ’s sake, and that isn’t even the only one either,” I grouse, shoving past him and marching towards my closet. I can hear his careful footsteps following after me. I loosen the tie of my pajama pants and they fall as I walk, sliding towards my ankles.

“Sash! Clothes!” Jeff shouts and I roll my eyes, reaching for the skirt I had already laid out, folder over a hanger.

“Calm down, Azoff. They’re just legs. You know, this nifty invention we homo sapiens learned to walk on. Maybe ask Glenne and she’ll let you see hers sometime,” I counter, grinning despite myself.

Jeff crosses his arms in front of him, refusing to look anywhere in my direction. I’m still beaming when I button and zipper up my skirt. “Yeah, yeah, Sasha. Very funny.”

I turn my back to Jeff, slipping Harry’s hoodie off my head. “Okay, well what am I supposed to do? Damage control? Besides, s’not like they have any solid proof, unless someone got pictures of Harry’s prick in m’mouth. Unless you want to count the ones from last year, I doubt there’s any others out there.” I tie my shirt, vintage silk, in a knot under my sternum and glance back at Jeff again. “I get it. You’re Harry’s manager. You worry about him, his image. You get paid to do that. But I’m his fiancée, and if the people at Modest! hadn’t already told you, I’m a proper terror to deal with from a practical standpoint, Azoff. I don’t follow rules, I generally do and say as I please, without thinking about consequences, and I plan to stay that way. Very American in that respect. You were born here… you should know. So it’s better you learn to live with me now before you’re in too deep.”

I’m tying the laces of my combat boots when Harry enters, all tight black jeans and Hawaiian print shirt, like something straight out of a cartoon. I grin at him from my place on the floor as he passes, thumbing my cheek, before reaching for a buttery leather jacket, one he doesn’t nearly wear enough, slipping it over broad shoulders. “Y’ready, poppet?”

“Almost. But have you heard Jeff’s interesting anecdote about what the fine folks of TMZ had to say about our little vehicular fence-slaughter incident?” I stand, reaching for the hangers on the nearest rack. I shuffle through different fabric before selecting a faux fur coat, shuffling into it, same as Harry. “They’re onto us.”

“M’not surprised,” Harry shrugs. “We were the only two people in the car. An accident happens on a fairly secluded road sometime at night. We’d both been drinking, though not enough to commit us of any wrongdoing. Tabloids love to try and connect dots with exposé style exclusives. Happens all the time.”

Jeff groans. “Yeah, except they’re fucking right, Harry! Casablanca starts shooting in three weeks! You can’t fuck this up!” We’re silent, all three of us, standing together in the closet, one that suddenly feels all too small for this many bodies. I’d never heard Jeff raise his voice before, unless he’d been drinking, and I don’t quite like the severity of his sobriety. I feel like a child, caught guilty in front of my mom. He’s not mad at us, I think, just disappointed. My stomach lurches and I gulp, loudly enough for Harry to hear the sound.

“I’m sorry, alright?” I snap, reaching for my purse. “I promise you, no prick sucking in any vehicles tonight. Safety first…” I nod, glancing down at the toes of my scuffed up boots. “Besides, tonight’s about Glenne. S’her birthday party. I’m not gonna fuck it up…” I can feel Jeff’s gaze on me before I extend my hand, all fingers clamped tightly into a fist but one. “Pinkie promise?”

Jeff takes my pinkie in his. This seems to placate him enough for the time being.

“You swear?” He asks again. His tone seems to have returned to a normal decibel level, the desperation evaporating from him into thin air.

“I said pinkie promise, Azoff. I respect a pinkie promise. I’m not a fucking animal.” Jeff untangles our interlocked fingers. My forearm falls limply to my side.

Harry moves until he’s behind me, grip firmly locked against my hip, squeezing once, reassurance. “Besides, we’re all riding in the car together. There wouldn’t be any prick sucking in vehicles of any kid, Jeff, unless you’re into that sort of thing.” I can hear the smirk in his monotone when he releases me to grab his wallet.

“Oh fuck off, Styles. You too, Akiyama,” Jeff swats at the air before turning, first to leave the closet.

“Gladly, but I thought you said that wasn’t allowed?” I retort, calling after him. Harry chuckles, kissing my head.

“Fucking children, the both of you,” I can hear Jeff grumble from somewhere in our bedroom. “Hurry up! We’re gonna be late! I’m gonna go wait in the car!” The door to our apartment opens and closes with a definitive slam after the manager. I follow Harry back towards the bathroom, taking one last appraisal at my appearance.

“You know… I miss our friends…” my face shifts downwards, features twisting with unease as I turn to him. He steps closer, irises locked on me. “And don’t say Jeff’s our friend. I know that. I just mean… I miss real friends. The London ones. And I’m tired of all these fucking club parties too,” I lean against the counter. “It’s very LA. And I like LA, don’t get me wrong, you know it’s like a second home to me… but… remember Paris?” And fuck, that’s low of me, but how could he forget? The entire point of us being there was a detox, to escape the chaos waiting for us here. But now that we were back, it’s like we never left, the craziness starting right back up again now that the floodgates had been opened. “I don’t want to get pissed every night in some different fucking club with photographers hounding our arses and fans hyperventilating over you from behind VIP ropes, Harry. I know tonight’s for Glenne but I… I want everything to feel normal again.”

Harry emits a deep breath, one that whistles past teeth. He leans against the counter, already tugging at his messy, overgrown curls, strands sticking upwards in all directions. “We’ve never exactly had normal, love.”

“Yes! We have!” I argue. “Do you not remember? Us and the dogs and-”

“You mean when I came back from Dunkirk?” Harry’s brows furrow. “And you were so depressed you couldn’t even get out of bed?”

“Don’t,” I release warningly. My eyes close. I can feel my nails digging into my palm unceremoniously. “I just want things to feel like they did before London. When we got engaged.”

Harry huffs again and I blink back at him. “I understand, but these are all obligations, Says. The stuff we said we’d have to do as soon as we got back from Paris. That was a vacation. Temporary, remember? We agreed? This is real life.”

“But do you know what it’s like?” I mutter, pacing. “To be around hardcore drinking like that? And drugs? Everyone in Hollywood is on cocaine, Harry, you know it, and if I have to be around that one more fucking time-”

“S’that what this is about?” His voice drops into a near whisper. “You’re worried?”

I don’t know how to respond. I hate looking weak, feeling small, but I do, still fighting against the same demons I let control me years before. He still doesn’t know the details, I realize, only the necessities, what Lily had to tell him. The rest was just… excess. Though ultimately, my drug dependency wasn’t quite a secret anymore. He holds his arms open, waiting. “Pet. C’mon. Come here.” I sigh, but obey his command anyway, shuffling into his embrace. He cards through strands of my blonde waves, staring down at me. “You don’t like being around that anymore?”

I lean my chin against his chest. “You don’t know how fucking hard it is… to control myself when I’m around that, Harry. I want to go fucking crazy again so badly.” I bite my tongue, shaking my head. He can’t know how fucked up I still am about everything, I think. How badly I have to fight the urge to drink or snort myself into an early grave. It’s the only way I know how to make bad thoughts stop. I never learned better. “It’ll always be a part of me, you know?” I murmur, running the pads of my fingers against the hemline of his collar. “And I don’t blame anyone or anything except myself for that. It’s just… I think I’ve grown past that part in my life. It’s just not who I am or who I want to be anymore.”

He places a chaste kiss to my forehead, nodding. “I’ve grown past it too, pet. I understand. I don’t want that to be who you are anymore either, and m’so proud of you and how far you’ve come, okay? Don’t ever forget that.” His mouth moves lower, pressing a succession of kisses to my temple and hairline. “Tonight’s for Glenne. After this… No more clubs. No more partying.”

I nod my approval. “Only with the old gang, okay? They’re good influences. Except Liam; he isn’t, but I’ll do anything for Liam, even if that means compromising my sobriety-”

“Sakura.”

“-for a good time,” I finish, smiling slightly. “But seriously. Thank you, Haz. We better go though before Jeff gets so mad he implodes. Or shit’s himself.”

Harry grins. “Does that make me a shit friend if I kind of hope he does shit himself?”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles free. “No, not at all,” I manage, snickering. “A true friend, I’d say.”

Glenne’s party is the same scene I’d witnessed a countless amount of times before I even knew Harry, a Hollywood club, nearly a wild, tangible beast in its own right, its bassline its pulse, its patrons its organs. Living, breathing, filled with its own life, one far more harmful, far more hypnotic than it appears at first glance. I stay close to Harry’s side as we shove through dancing bodies, trailing after Jeff in the direction of the VIP section. We order two pints at the bar before we get there, a quick detour against slippery, sticky wood, though one awfully short lived. We find the party shortly after, filled with Harry’s work counterparts and acquaintances, people I barely know or haven’t met before, unless his management team counted. I feel out of place, more so than usual, and take to a corner seat at the booth, watching the scene unfold before me.

It’s uneventful, at least initially, and I sip my beer, legs crossed, reclining against the leather. I’m not sure how much time passes once I reach the bottom of my glass. I stand, eyes immediately searching for Harry out of habit, and my heart races once I spot him. He’s made his way out of VIP, away from Jeff and Glenne and their entire horde of socialite friends, and instead, I find him standing across from a familiar, dark haired model, Kendall Jenner laughing at something Harry, my fucking fiancé, says. He isn’t that funny, I think. At least, not funny enough to be laughing like that. I’m surprised I haven’t dropped the pint glass. Or smashed it willingly. I would’ve, I decide, if I had had more to drink. I’m too fucking sober to be dealing with this.

I shove past bodies, same as I had on my way in, and Harry sees me as I pass, barreling down the crowd. “Sasha!” He roars, reaching for my wrist, but I dodge his grip, frowning. “Sasha!” He yells again. Even Kendall fucking Jenner waves. I fight back the urge to wince.

“I’m going outside for a smoke!” I shout over the roar of music. He knows I’m upset. I can read it on him that he can read it on me, his concern legible on the lines of his face.

“Sash-”

“Be right back!” I cry, handing him my pint glass and moving further towards a door by the bar, some side exit to a closed off alley. Secluded. No photographers. The bartenders are too busy to notice me as I slip past them, outside, into cold, frigid night air. I’m not sure how I’ll get back into the club, but I figure I don’t really care too much either way. Worst case scenario, I’ll call an uber. Harry’ll be too busy with Kendall Jenner to even notice my absence.

I lean against the brick wall of the club and riffle through my bag, pulling free an altoids tin. Inside are a combination of hand rolled menthols and joints, perfected under skilled thumbs. I grab a joint and light up, the smoke’s effect instantly calming. I breathe out deeply after an inhale, shivering, especially once I realize how little I’m actually wearing. I take a deeper hit, hoping the marijuana can compensate for the arctic chill somehow.

I lose track of time again until I hear a loud bleat, a text notification, probably from Harry. I pull my mobile free with a sigh but frown when I read the contact name. Yuki. We never texted each other. What the fuck?

I enter my passcode hastily.

‘Mom’s sick. You need to come home.’

“What?” I mumble aloud, fingers shaking. I hear the door I came through open behind me, music from the club filtering out, and I barely even process anything until I hear Harry’s voice in my ear.

“Love, are you okay? M’sorry I was talking to Kendall, just sort of ran into her and-”

“Harry, shut up, okay? I don’t fucking care. My mom’s sick,” I gulp, shaking my head and holding up the phone. “Yuki just texted me. My mom’s sick. I need to go home.”

#saya 1.0 story XCI

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