#cannon typical

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 11

Crowley needs some help from a "Bespoke Tailoring" type of seamstress since he lost most of his powers to a keen manager with an accountability kick. In this chapter Crowley and Madame take a trip to the bank for a little grifting to give Crowley a new start.

Walking down the alley behind “Whicker Street Intimate Massage and Correction” Crowley carried his hand crank and hope that the Bentley would cooperate.  Opening the car door for Madame and handing her into the recently cleaned passenger’s seat, he slipped into the driver’s side.  With a prayer to… well a prayer, anyways, he put the key in the ignition, made sure the parking brake was on, put the car in neutral and let out the choke.

“I��ll just step up front to give her a crank start,” he told Madame who was looking around the immaculate interior appreciatively.

With the bonnet up both to start the car and to obscure Madame’s view, he explained to the Bentley, “Look, I need it to seem like I’m driving, but you’ll be driving, ok?” he fitted the hand crank and gave it only a physical crank, not all the crank he was capable of.  The Bentley turned over, and he took that for assent. “Just follow Madame’s directions, please?” he murmured to the car.

Slipping back into the driver’s seat, Crowley took a deep breath and lightly placed his hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel.

The Bentley kept running.

“Where to, Madame?” Crowley said with a grin.

Navigating through London by Madame’s directions and the whims of his own car meant that Crowley was reliant on the car’s good will towards his benefactor.  Fortunately, they seemed to have taken to each other immediately.  

“Oh! Travel sweets!” Madame exclaimed, as Crowley swiveled his eyes to the silver dish that had miraculously appeared.  Just another reason to believe the Bentley carried her own type of glamor as she smoothly slipped into a legal parking place right in front of a venerable banking institution just as another car pulled out.

Crowley strolled stiffly around the car, which was positively basking in the admiring glances of passersby, to help Madame out of the passenger’s seat.  Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, Crowley affected a pleasant and carefree countenance, as Madame pointed out the highlights of the bank’s architecture and told him why this was the best bank in London for him to open an account.

Stepping into the marble entry hall, their heels clicked and echoed in the grand room, designed, Crowley knew, to awe and impress.  Madame sailed in like she owned the place and walked right up to a sharply turned out young man at a teller’s counter.

“Ah, Jeffrey, I have a deposit for the foundation today,” she opened her valaise and passed over several thick envelopes.  Crowley admired the architecture, hands in pockets, freshly minted documents in the new wallet resting in his inner breast pocket, looking pleasantly bored of his “aunt’s” business.

“I brought my dear friend’s nephew, Anthony, here today to open a bank account!  I told him this is the only place to bank in London, I don’t care where he’s got his other accounts.  And I insist  he get a safety deposit box.  I just don’t trust those roommates of his!” she stage whispered.  Crowley rolled his eyes and acted amused, but acquiescent. 

“Whatever she says, of course,” he drawled.

Jeffrey said, “Certainly, I’d be happy to assist you today.  You brought your documents?” 

Madame pulled another sheaf of paperwork from her valaise and handed it to Jeffrey.

“I didn’t want to spend too much time on this errand, today, so I took the liberty of helping Anthony fill out the paperwork at home.”

Jeffrey took the paperwork and flipped through it, only asking to see the pertinent identifying documents referenced in the account applications.  

In less time than it usually took Crowley to inveigle a good scam with miracles, he was handed a cheque book, bankcard, and a safety deposit box key, after a quick trip to the vault to lock up his important documents, minus the drivers’ license, accompanied all the way by his “aunt’s” remonstrances and advice.

They swept out again, Crowley handed Madame back into the Bentley and started the car up with a murmured, “You look really lovely today, wonderful job!” to the Bentley’s open engine, which purred for the rest of the afternoon. 

Several blocks after they’d pulled away from the bank, Crowley asked Madame the burning question, “So is Jeffrey in on the grift or not?”

“There’s no grift, you do indeed have a bank account,” Madame said serenely, 

“Fine, document fraud.  Fake documents, real account.  But does he know the IDs are forgeries?” Crowley persisted.

“Let’s just say that Jeffrey is paying forward a similar service I did for him,” Madame replied, then directed them on a few other errands best done by a high class woman and her nephew before finally turning them towards Whickber street.  “I have to get changed before the after-work crowd comes in,” Madame said as the Bentley neatly parked itself beside Madame’s business.  

Laying a hand lightly on Crowley's forearm, Madame turned to him, “Anthony, I expect you to stay with us until you have secure lodgings again,” her tone was no nonsense and he speculated that none of her personas brooked disagreement with her decrees.  Not bothering to hide his appreciation, Crowley let his mouth drop open in surprise.  Madame expected him to be savvy enough to recognize his continued luck at being in her good graces, (plus, he rather thought she'd decided to make a project of him, he got that from time to time) he said, smooth as the sharp youth she expected, “I would welcome the opportunity to reside at your fine establishment.  Of course, I would help out around the place.  I am pretty handy,” he tried to radiate keen.  Really, he couldn't have found better lodgings.  Living in a brothel would go down a treat in his reports, especially if he was ‘helping’ it along.

Looking satisfied with his response, Madame patted his cheek, “Excellent!” and he thought she approved his act as well as his acquiesce.

Ever the attentive ‘nephew’, Crowley repeated the civility of handing Madame out of the low slung Bentley.  Anything less would have been unutterably rude to both his benefactors, the lady and the car, and he certainly wasn't going to get in the way of such a perfect moment.  With Madame’s hand nestled back in the crook of his arm, he walked her to the back door and waited while she unlocked it.

Standing in the open doorway, Madame turned back,

“What will you do with your evening, Anthony?” He raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry, sure that she had a suggestion.  

“If you would continue to take my advice, I would recommend a quiet one,” 

“Oh, I’ll pop over the road to the bookshop.  See if I can’t pick up some reading material for an evening in,” he said casually, coming towards her proffered cheek.

“Delightful!  Give my regards to Mr Fell,” Madame said, slipping a key into his pocket as he kissed her cheek.  

And a pickpocket! Would this woman’s skills never cease?

Hand tapping on the key, he nodded to her, hauled out a casual smile, and strolled out of the alley directly to A.Z.Fell and Co.

[sincerelybubbles]

Here's a dialogue prompt for Emily please! Try this out pls. Love you Kam sm sm. "So why are you here?" "To make a fool of myself." ok ty lysm

even though i watched u type this, the wording makes me giggle every time i look at it.

emily prentiss x tech analyst!reader <3

warnings: fem!reader, cannon typical violence, very brief allusions to sexual assault (nothing happens!), angst and fluff! mutual pining.

word count: 5.4k

Emily is the loveliest thing you've ever seen and you can't imagine how she could ever possibly like you back. She enjoys the game, though, and teasing you is her favorite hobby.

-

It’s a sunny day. Warmth trickles down with the scattered light through the leaves. Patterns trace your arms, throwing your skin into a collage of different shapes and shades. Leaning back on your elbows, you watch people mill about the park. You look back down at your arm after a few more minutes, this time focused on the small watch resting there. With a sigh, you stand up and dust off your pants before picking up the small blanket you laid out and tucking it into your bag. 

You walk back to work, enjoying the sounds of the people around you. You lingered too long at the park during your break and are hoping that nobody notices your slightly late return. Maybe the team will be in a meeting, gruesome pictures you never quite learned to stomach plastered on the board, entirely oblivious to your tardiness. 

Unlikely, but a welcome thought soothing your anxiety as you push the door open and scan your badge at the security desk. 

“Welcome back,” the security guard says, smiling at you over his paperback. He’s an old greying man and you vaguely recognize him. You think he’s new and send him a warm smile in return. 

“Thanks,” you glance at his name badge, “Martin!”

You walk past him and step into the elevator. “Wait!” A voice calls and you reach forward to hit the hold button instinctively before you register the voice as Emily’s. 

She jogs into the elevator with you, smiling gratefully. “Thanks, I’m already running a little behind.” She lifts a container and shakes it a little. The label is from the Italian bistro across the street, about a ten-minute walk away and always nearly triple that in wait time. 

“Brave of you to go there during your lunch,” you joke, returning her smile and pressing the button for your floor. 

You hope she can’t see how your hands shake as you reach forward.

“I know, I just love their Pasta Brado. Have you tried it?”

“Can’t say I have. I’m boring, I usually go for the parm.”

“You’re not boring,” she says so earnestly that you can’t help but blush. You cough as an excuse to raise your hand to your face and hopefully hide it some. “You do have to try it, though. Here,” she offers you the plastic box. 

“Oh, I couldn’t. And I already ate.” You ignore the way your chest hurts a little at how enthusiastic she is. The worst part? She doesn’t even know how endearing her simple kindness, her casual enthusiasm, is to you. 

“Tomorrow, then. We can go together.” The elevator doors open as she says it and she steps out with an affirmative nod to solidify it. “Don’t try to bail out on me either, I know where to find you.”

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you say, feeling lame as you step out behind her. “I would love to.” She’s too far to hear you, though, already heading to Spencer’s desk and jumping right into his conversation with Morgan. 

Someone says your last name and you turn on your heel to see Hotch and cringe slightly. “I was trying to find you.” It’s a kinder way of him reminding you that you’re nearly ten minutes late back from your lunch. 

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine. Do you have the reports finished from last week's trip to Huston?”

“Yes, sir, they’re at my desk. One moment.”

-

You and Emily don’t go to the bistro the next day because she and the team are sent to a small town in Kansas that night. 

“I’ll owe you lunch,” she says, hand on the back of your desk chair and brushing your shoulder as the team rushes to the jet. 

“Don’t worry about it!” You reassure her.

“I’m taking you to lunch,” she calls over her shoulder, pretend-glaring, “you will try that Brado!”

And then she’s gone, leaving you giddy and breathless. 

You know she’s just being friendly – she treats Spencer, Morgan, and JJ all the same as you – but her efforts to spend one-on-one time with you outside of work still have you feeling like a schoolgirl passed a note from her crush in class. 

You try to remind your heart to stop singing because Emily probably isn’t even gay and definitely isn’t interested. Instead, Garcia scares the shit out of you when she interrupts your inner monologue. 

“Lunch with Emily? Things are getting serious in your work marriage.” You hadn’t seen her walk into the room and jump at her voice, hand jumping to your mouth to suppress a yelp. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“It’s okay, didn’t see you.”

“Your loss, I look fantastic today.”

“As always,” you smile up at her, nose wrinkling and genuine fondness filling your senses. 

“Careful, wouldn’t want a workplace affair,” she jokes, leaning against your desk and picking up the stress ball you keep handy. 

“Stop,” you moan in good nature. “Nobody else calls us work wives.”

“That’s just because they don’t have my brilliance and excellent observational skills.”

“Nor do they have the same privy to my more personal thoughts,” you say, glancing up at her before returning to your paperwork. With the team leaving so quickly to tend to a missing child's case, you’re not getting home in time to cook dinner but are hoping to leave early enough to grab food instead of resorting to your freezer stash. 

“I would hope not. You know I can’t be replaced, baby.”

“Does Morgan know you talk to all your work besties like this?”

“I most certainly do not. You’re a regular bestie, not a work bestie.” A wink and then her expression sobers. “I do have an actual reason for visiting your humble cubical, though.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to need extra hands for this case. It’s time-sensitive, as usual, and seems like it will be particularly tricky.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say, dropping your pen and standing to follow her. 

Your position at the bureau is kind of a catch-all. Most of your time is spent logging data, building reports, and doing general research for the team. Occasionally, though, you jump in to help Garcia with real-time research. Nothing as high-stakes as her direct assignments, more background work. Calling offices to talk to managers, combing through more meticulous data, generic census material to rule out obvious dead ends. 

It’s stressful work that technically isn’t what you’re paid for but you never complain. Your team saves lives, consistently putting themselves in the line of danger. If you have to spend a few hours a month helping Garcia call a suspect's manager at McDonald's to see if he still works there, it’s literally the least you can do. 

“Yes, so, it looks like our unsub…”

You drown out Garcia’s brief about information you already have sitting in front of you and begin vetting possible suspects from the large pool her system created.

It’s going to be a long night. You think about future Brado to cheer you up. 

-

“Reid, Prentiss take the back,” Hotch’s voice fills your ears. You imagine the pair nodding and splitting off from the group. 

This is your least favorite part of helping the team with active investigations – listening in on the calls. It’s rare that you and Garcia join the line when they’re approaching the unsub but, with you helping her, it isn’t a risk to distract Garcia and a much quicker method of getting any new information the team needs. It’s a new system you’ve only tried thrice, unsure how having microphones on 24/7 will work, and it grants you and the team more fluid communication.

Still, adrenaline floods your veins as you listen to their coms, the sounds of Garcia typing a constant behind their voices, imagining every way this could go wrong. 

You suspect the girl is still alive, the uncle doesn’t seem to have any reason to kill her just yet, but your fear for her grows with every minute. 

“Clear!”

Your eyes fall to the receipts flooding your screen. Ammo. A new rifle and pistol. The team knows but the evidence of this unsubs ability to hurt any of your friends, your family, isn’t helping your nerves. 

“I think he’s going to the roof!” Morgan’s voice, clear in the comms. 

You click out of the documents. Two swift motions on the screen. The firm press of the button. 

“Morgan, you’re on foot. Prentiss, follow him. Everyone else in vans, go!”

“Garcia, map out possible escape routes from the roof,” you instruct. 

She nods, screens shifting immediately. She puts on her own headset with one hand and clicks on the call and starts to bark information to Hotch. 

“Got her!” Reid’s voice sounds and you deflate a little. He mutes as he begins to console the small girl. 

You know you can take off your headset now, leave the call, and go to your paperwork. There isn’t much more you can do to help – you’re sure that’s what you’re supposed to do – but you stay on anyway, listening. 

“Right on Elmore!” Morgan calls. You find the street on Garcia’s screen, eyes tracing the path you think they’re taking. 

“We’ll try to cut him off,” Rossi says and you can hear tires in the background of the call. The click of a steering wheel cutting to the side too quickly. Someone’s labored breathing – probably Morgan’s as he dead sprints. 

“Stop! Put your hands up!” Emily shouts. The firmness in her voice makes you sit up straighter in your chair. 

You hear something that sounds vaguely like, “bitch,” before a loud pop drowns anything else out. 

“Emily!” Morgan’s voice, more pops. 

Gunfire. That’s gunfire, your brain recognizes. 

Your blood has gone cold.

“We need a medic!” Morgan shouts. Hotch’s line blinks red, going dead as he calls the ambulance. “Emily, Emily.”

Rustling. Cars. Sirens. Morgan’s line goes dead after you hear a car door slam shut. Then Reid’s and Rossi’s. Emily’s is the last to stay green, blinking.

You and Garcia stare at each other as you listen to Emily be loaded into an ambulance. Listen to Morgan tell the team, voice far away and barely tangible, that the unsub only managed to fire out one shot before he downed him. 

Neither of you can hear where she was shot or how badly injured she is before Emily’s line goes red as well.

-

“Emily?” You call softly, rapping your knuckles softly on the frame of the cracked hospital door. 

Your name, faint, answers you and you take that as permission to nudge the door open. The room looked dark from the hallway but Emily has the small lamp embedded on the wall switched on, throwing her face into harsh shadow. 

“Hey, you,” you say, walking in, arms full. “I brought things.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, trying to sit herself up further and wincing as the motion pulls on her stitches in her abdomen. 

“Wait, let me help you,” you say, setting your things down and reaching out a hand. 

You wait for her nod before touching her, letting her grasp your arm and looping your other arm around the back of her waist to take most of her weight yourself. 

“Thanks,” she mumbles. You can tell she hates feeling useless, hates needing help for something as simple as sitting up, so you drop the subject with a nod and kind smile. 

You turn around to the small rolling tray where you put your things down, pulling two black containers out from a plastic bag. You feel silly and very awkward as you turn around to show them to her. 

“I know it’s probably not quite what you meant but,” you set the containers down on her bed and pop one open. 

“The Pasta Brado! Oh man, I was going to treat you.” She’s pouting through a smile, attempting to put on an upset facade and failing miserably. 

It’s so cute that you struggle with what to say next. 

“Thank you, really. You can pull up that chair, if you’re hungry now.”

You grab the chair she’s motioned to and drag it to sit next to her. “I’m hungry if you are. It might be a little cold, though, it’s kind of a far walk.”

“You walked here?” Emily asks, tone appalled and face comically shocked. 

“Yeah, my car broke down last week. I’ve been walking to work – it’s actually really nice out right now – and I couldn’t find a cab from the bistro.” You busy yourself with the food while you talk, opening the second container, setting it on her legs, and unwrapping the plastic cutlery for her. 

“Jesus! You didn’t need to come and see me if you don’t have a car. You didn’t need to come at all, actually. I really appreciate it,” she amends, seeing how your bashful smile freezes on your face, reaching forward as if to touch your face and brushing your shoulder instead. “It’s really sweet of you but you didn’t need to walk all that way. Isn’t it like a twenty-minute walk from here?”

Over thirty, but you nod anyway, knowing it won’t help your case to correct her. “It’s not a big deal. You were shot in the stomach, of course I wanted to see you.”

“Ah, so you wouldn't want to see me otherwise,” she teases, nodding and pushing her pasta around with her fork. She doesn’t even try to conceal her grin. 

“Ha ha, very funny,” you mumble. You take a bite of your food and your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

“I knew you would love it,” she beams, watching your expression as you taste the food. You you she meant to say it in a gloating way but you swear you can hear a sort of fondness behind the words. Something in you warms at her ability to know you so well. 

You tell yourself you’re overreacting about both thoughts. 

“You were right – Emily this is unfairly good.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, taking her own bite and letting out an exaggerated moan, complete with an eye roll. You giggle and she smiles at you. “Thank you, this is exactly what I needed.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, holding her eye contact. 

She's been in the hospital for three days, transferred back to Virginia last night; her hair is unwashed and unbrushed, and she’s wearing no makeup and a hospital gown. 

She’s still the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen. 

-

Your car is fixed by the time Emily is released from the hospital two days later and you offer to take her home. 

“Hi Sergio,” you greet the cat brushing against your legs as Emily disengages the alarm. 

You set her things down by the door before turning to offer her your arm. Emily doesn’t pretend that she doesn’t need the help when it’s just you two, something you’re grateful for after watching her struggle with the team around, and lets you guide her to her bedroom. 

You set about making her comfortable, turning down her sheets and propping the pillows up so she can sit. 

“I’ve got it,” she laughs, playfully pushing away your hands. 

You laugh along with her, raising your hands and backing away. “I’m going to go put the rest of your stuff away and get you a drink.”

“Perfect, I’ll take an old-fashioned. Don’t forget the cherry.”

You roll your eyes at her, scoffing and leaving her room. 

You throw her clothes and go-bag in her laundry room before making her a glass of water and another glass of juice. Once you’re sure she’s settled in her bed with her book, you return to the kitchen to make her a few dinners, ignoring her protests. 

-

Emily is back in the field much sooner than you would have liked. 

“I was cleared by the doctors,” she tells you, coat slung over her arm as she digs through her bag for her badge. 

You smile at Martin, sending him a mock exasperated look, before she finds her ID and shows it to him. 

“It still seems too soon, Em,” you persist, reaching forward to push the elevator button and turning so you can lean back to watch her face. 

“Em?” Emily asks, the hint of a smile pulling up the left corner of her mouth. 

You sort of feel like you could die in that moment, just from the heat that simple gesture surges through you. 

“It just sort of slipped out, sorry,” you say, thoroughly embarrassed. 

The elevator dings and the doors open, throwing you off balance for a second. This doesn’t help your already flared nerves as you stumble back and drop your bag. You reach down to gather it and the files scattered across the floor. 

You’re kneeling to stuff everything in your bag when Emily crosses your line of sight again, wide smile on her face – teeth fully on display and nose scrunched, you are in desperate need of help – holding out your notepad.

“I think the nickname’s sweet. I kind of like the idea of having a name only one person, only you, calls me.”

All of the air has left this godforsaken elevator, the heat must be on, you stare dumbly at her as she reaches forward to grab your bag and put the rest of your papers inside of it for you. 

And then, realizing you look like an absolute idiot, you snap back into your body and cough slightly. The doors ding and open again, you grab your bag from her and stand slowly. Smiling at her, still crouched on the floor and looking, amused, up at you through her eyelashes, you say, “Okay. Thanks, then, Emmy.”

You walk away after that brief flash of confidence, telling yourself you’re just imagining how you swear her face flushed bright at your comment. 

And if Morgan mentions a few minutes that Emily seems flusters, well, who can blame you for floating on that high for a few days?

Except she doesn’t let it go. 

She corners you on your break in the kitchenette. Literally. She catches you when you’re examining the coffee pot that has been making concerning gurgles for the past few days and leans on the counter behind you, effectively blocking your exit. 

Not that you really want to leave. 

She’s wearing a red tank top and dark jeans, her hair is loose around her shoulders, eyes steadily trained on your face as you work. 

“Hello,” you say, quiet in a way you’re not normally. 

“Hi.”

“What’re you doing?” You ask after a few more moments of her silently staring at you while you pretend to know what you’re doing with a screwdriver. 

“Enjoying the view.”

You drop your screwdriver and relish in the sound of her laugh. 

-

You’d love to say that you had some suave answer to return her charm but you think you spent it all that morning with your boldness. 

You’re not shy but confidence doesn’t run in your blood either. You’d say you’re pretty normal – average. You don’t find much wrong with that, you know you have other qualities that build you up into an interesting person. You love your friends and coworkers deeply, for one. And have an intense trust in them and their abilities. 

That trust is always tested in your day-to-day at work but never more than now as you feel the car around you make turns at highway speeds. You think you’re on some sort of back road but it’s hard to tell from the trunk given the obvious lack of windows. 

You’re calmer than you thought you would be if kidnapped. 

Groaning after one particularly rough turn that has you jostling against the sides of the trunk, you allow your head to thump back and stare at the inside of the dark car. Light breaks through the cracks of the hinges of the trunk and you wonder if water trickles through when it rains. 

You’ve been in here too long to consider if you’re focused on the wrong things. You’re scared shitless, of course, but the adrenaline faded about an hour into your drive and now you’re just bored. 

Imagine that – bored as fuck in the trunk of a stranger's car, wrists burning from the rope and jaw sore from where it’s been forced open too long by the fabric tied around the back of your head. 

You’re just allowing yourself to reimagine your morning with Emily when the car stops and the engine cuts. 

You snap back into the present, energy flooding your system again as your brain flicks into overdrive. You might spend your days paper-pushing behind a desk, but you passed your physical. You’re smart, you’ve heard the stories of how these victims survive captivity. 

When the trunk pops open, you squeeze your eyes shut to prevent pain from the sudden lack of light. You don’t want to be blinded and the action has the added benefit of pleasing your captor. He put a hood over your hood when he grabbed you, muttering in your ear in tense tones that you would do best to not even try to see him. 

Say what you will, you usually do a pretty good job at following directions. This one is easy and happens to be number one on your list right now – keep him happy so he keeps you alive. 

“Good girl,” a gruff voice says before a calloused hand gropes the back of your neck to yank you forward. Scratchy fabric envelops your head and your hot breath bounces back against you, trapped against the fabric of the hood. 

You stand when his hands start to grab your waist, pulling yourself to your knees and allowing yourself to be lifted from the trunk.

You want to run but know now’s not the time. 

“Look at how well-behaved you are!” His breath is wet against your neck. He stands too close, hands clawing under the hem of your shirt to cling to your skin. 

He walks you forward like that, chest pressed against your back and breath slithering down the collar of your shirt to hang uncomfortably over your collarbones. 

It’s becoming increasingly more obvious what this sicko wants from you and your stomach is twisting at the thought. You urge the team to hurry up, knowing your absence would have been missed ages ago. They have to be looking for you by now. And, with how sloppy this dude seems to be, he must have left a plethora of clues waiting to be found. 

You have to repeat this to yourself as you hear a door lock click. 

“Took you long enough. This is the girl? She’s kind of … well,” the second man kisses his teeth with a sharp sound. You’re pushed forward again. “Whatever floats your boat man.” The door shuts and locks behind you. The second man's voice fades as he talks, disinterested. 

You wonder if it’s wrong to feel slightly insulted right now. 

“This way, doll.”

You listen. It’s saving your life to be complicit in his directions, so you listen. Still, you’re shoved harshly to the floor once you get to where he wants you, knees striking what feels like cement. Before you can recover, your cheek stings and your head is whipping to the side from a sudden slap. 

Then, there’s a kick to your ribs. You fall onto your side, too winded to even cry out, lips falling open in a silent scream. A boot in your belly. Your ribs again, your hip and back. 

“Why?” You manage to sob out. “Why, why?”

You don’t get an answer.

-

You’re not overly religious but you thank whatever heavens or universe exists that he leaves you alone once he’s done kicking the shit out of you. Your ribs are bruised but the worst you expected hasn’t happened. 

The boredom returns as you lay with throbbing ribs. At least one is broken and every breath hurts. You can’t imagine sitting up and, luckily, with your hands tied behind your back, it’s not really an option anyway. 

It must be near an hour later when you’re fading out of consciousness – a purposeful choice on your part to save your energy – when you hear the front door burst down. 

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Morgan. You nearly weep but think better when your stuttered gasp makes your side throb. “What the fuck?” You hear shouted in reply. “Robb, what the fuck man.”

There isn’t much of a resistance from the living room. The second man is shouting at what you can only assume is the first – your initial kidnapper – but there’s nothing else other than that. 

“Clear!” You hear Hotch call. Spencer replies and then you hear the door nearest you open. 

His voice calls out your name. You deflate against the floor. A second, you know he’s scanning the room with his gun before holstering it. “Clear! I need a medic!”

Hands, gentle, against your face, removing the hood. Swifter after that, removing your gag, and then hand binds. 

“Hey, Spence,” you say, trying to smile up at him. 

“Shh, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” He starts to support your weight behind your shoulders and the pain that brings is too intense to prevent your yelp. 

“Oh my god, is she okay?” You hear Emily ask seconds before you see her. She looks concerned, hair now in a tight ponytail and FBI vest strapped over her chest. She whispers your name once and then a second time, reaching forward to gently brush your hair out of your eyes. 

“Hey, pretty,” you say, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can catch them.

“Hi beautiful,” she answers, reply just as soft as your own. Earnest. 

It makes your heart ache and, for the first time since being yanked off the road walking to grab lunch, you start to cry. 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, beautiful, it’s okay. You’re okay.” She repeats this as you’re lifted by the paramedics and cry harder. 

She repeats it when they stitch up where kicks burst the skin over your cheekbone open, repeats it as she trails a hand down your arm in gentle patterns while they examine your ribs and confirm that you’ve broken two, maybe three. 

She tries with you in the ambulance. 

You can’t help but think about being on the phone when you heard Emily be shot weeks earlier. You squeeze your eye shut as they insert the IV, beyond grateful that she’s there to hold your hand while they do it. The tear that falls down your cheek has nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the thought that you couldn’t have been there for her in the same way. 

An odd thought, you realize, but it’s the one you’re stuck with as you drift away when the pain medicine enters your system. 

-

You’re sent home three days later. You insist on spending the night alone, afraid to admit you’re scared because, honestly, nothing much happened to you. 

Oh, of course, everyone tries to convince you otherwise but you know they’ve all had it worse. You were gone from the bureau for about eight hours and spent most of it bored. 

So you force yourself to spend the night alone. You don’t need help moving around or doing things for yourself so you convince yourself you don’t need help. 

You’re cooking dinner when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands with a dish towel and take your time walking to the door to look through the peephole. You don’t know who took you yet, you haven’t asked and nobody has said, but you can imagine seeing him through the door. Waiting for you, waiting to kill you this time. 

Okay, yeah, maybe Spencer was right when he talked about PTSD and usual levels of anxiety, but you’re so tired of him being so right all of the time that you really want to prove him right.

There is no man standing on the other side of the door, though. Instead, you see Emily, holding a plate wrapped in tin foil and looking serene in your apartment hallway. 

You open the door quickly, unlatching it and turning off your alarm with a few clicks. “Emily?”

“Ah, man, I was getting used to Emmy,” she jokes, stepping inside with a smile in your direction and kicking off her shoes. 

You can’t think of an answer so you just smile at her, hoping she’ll take the lead. You’re tired and she must see it because she offers the plate in her hands to you once the door is closed and the alarm is reengaged. 

“Rossi sent me with it with explicit instructions to not let you share it.”

You giggle and take the plate. “I’ll have to tell him thank you. It’s kind of out of your way to come all this way, though, isn’t it?”

“Not out of my way at all,” she says, words dripping with meaning as she holds your eyes. “I would have come even if Rossi didn’t have food for you.”

“So why are you here?”

“To make a fool of myself,” she says, casually, like that’s something people say every day, “probably. You’ve just gotten back from the hospital and I know you said you wanted to be alone, but,” she swallows and her words are becoming more rushed as she speaks, “I said the same thing and you still stayed.”

“Emily?” You ask, setting the plate down on your hallway table and clearing your throat. “Ah, Emmy?” You amend when she cuts you a look. Your attempt to diffuse the tension doesn’t work and she steps closer so you’re toe to toe.

“That doesn’t really answer your question, though. You’re sweet enough that you would let it go, but,” she shrugs, reaching forward to gently loop her fingers around your wrists. “Stop me if this is awful timing. Please,” she says, leaning forward and staring into your eyes. 

You feel like you’re suffocating, but if this is death, you’ll greet it gladly in the irises of Emily Prentiss. You’re caught in the trap of the moment, heart hardly breathing, all aches and sores forgotten because Emily is leaning closer, breath fanning across your face. You feel intoxicated, ensnared. 

Everything that has ever been exists here, now, in this moment. Every breath used to blow out birthday candles and blow away eyelashes – breaths with purpose, with wishes, with intent – exists between the two of you as she leans closer and closer. Closer, still, and how can so much distance exist between you two when you’ve been standing so closely?

“Just, stop me, if you want,” she whispers against your lips, eyes falling shut. 

Time yawns again, freezing. Your eyes open, hers closed, beats of seconds pausing. Hesitating for you to hold this moment in your hands. You’re grateful to appreciate it because she really is so lovely. Her bangs are pushed back from her face with a headband – imagine that! Emily owns headbands! – and you can see every detail of her face. Her elegant nose, her slim eyebrows, her narrow, prominent, lips.

And then your heart finally catches up, beats loudly, cracks whatever fragile plane of glass holding the moment so perfectly still, and her lips are meeting yours. 

You gasp into her mouth, hands breaking out of her hold to grab her face. You’re afraid that she’s going to pull away before this kiss can be fully real. Before you can actually taste her – lemon cake and rain and warmth. Before you can memorize the feel of her lips pressed against your own before you can drag her closer and slip your hands into her hair. 

But she doesn’t pull away. She meets your enthusiasm with a sigh and then enthusiasm tenfold. You can feel relief in the kiss, feel how she relaxes into you. She takes a step forward and you take one back half the amount to account for it. 

A tilt of your head and it’s better, impossibly. She’s firm, sturdy, beautiful. Confident. Lovely, lovely, lovely. 

And then she reaches forward to hold you to her, hands brushing your ribs to wrap around your back and you can’t hold in the gasp of pain that causes you to stiffen. You want to take it back, want to ignore the pain, want to keep her near, but she won’t allow it.

“Oh, I’m so so sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry.” You smush the apologies against her lips, removing one hand from her hand to guide her arms around your shoulders where they won’t hurt. “Okay! Okay,” she giggles, leaning back with several short kisses that do nothing to satiate you. “I need to know you’re okay.”

She can obviously tell she hasn’t hurt you too bad by your reaction, but the sweet caution in her voice has you melting further. 

“I’m perfect.”

[afterartist]

⚠️⚠️WARNING: BLOOD AND GORE/ BODY HORROR!! ⚠️⚠️

Yeah I lied again-

There is angst

BUTTTT- it comes with an AU redesign so you can’t be mad at me >:3

Almond!! Aka: my take on Backrooms Sans

Been playing some backrooms games recently and had the uncontrollable urge to redesign Almond because I genuinely wasn’t happy with the first design :/

There’s been quite a lot of differences, to both lore and character design

For example how Almond ended up in the backrooms (teleporting as the game got uninstalled on the players computer)

The AU also has an actual name now!! Un(der)install

Yes spelled like that with brackets and all

(Also, for ease of clarification, I’ve decided Almond uses It/It’s pronouns, but it didn’t discover that about itself until it got stuck in the backrooms, so any misgendering on the UT cast’s part is unintentional as they genuinely do not know :D ))(if you don’t agree with Neo pronouns you can get off my page btw, go stub your toe asshole)

And finally, I couldn’t resist the urge to draw Almond in the mirror meme

I’m so cringe /pos

Don’t ask me how it found a mirror in the backrooms idfk

Link to original design if you’re curious!!

[elgorblo]

[mother-ofthe-universedraws]

More Simon! And fun facts about the little guy.

CW! For the fork stabbing thing

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Portrayal of Betrayal

Author's Note: Y'all gave me Black Templar Brain wars >:|. So I made yet another Space marine oc. Give a shout if y'all wanna use him. Also, tag me so I can read and reblog your stuff if you do. This is a long chapter. over 2k.

Summary: Ramiel has a Bad Time, almost dies, and wakes up. Traitors are to die.

Warnings: Black Templar Shenanigans, major character death, abusive relationship, abuse of power, cannon typical violence, Black Templars TM , let me know if I need to add more.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams, @sleepyfan-blog,

Tagged Again: @sleepyfan-blog and @whorety-k

Ramiel, like many of his general of Primaris marines is highly honored, and more than a little nervous when he is informed of his assignment, he is to become a member of the Honorable Black Templar Chapter, as a proud son of Dorn, he and his battle brothers ask their Utramarine First Born Cousins what their Chapter brothers are like and listen as they are described as dutiful, loyal, proud, stubborn, and fierce warriors. One of the other Ultramarines also murmurs something about certain unsavory traits about them, and gets a glare from the first Ultramarine that had the other quiet down.

As he and the other Primaris Marines meet and settle in with their First-Born Battle Brothers of the Black Templars, at first, the elder brothers don't seem to know what to make of them, some are hostile, some are curious, and all of them are carefully watched and monitored. Ramiel has great pride that Cedric- a brother who he's been helped by, and worked with before, got chosen as an Apprentice to one of the most Important and Eldest of the Apothecary First Born Battle Brothers of the entire Black Templar legion.

Ramiel hopes that he will gain a mentor, and does his best to do his tasks, whether it is missions, or chores to help maintain their ships and other things. As months go by Ramiel’s hearts are heavily burdened as so many of his fellow Primaris Marines have fallen, in battle, due to missions that were... well, he's not one to argue against a person in authority over him. He's been beaten enough, and remembers the lessons that were given to him by the Mechanicum, and the Black Templar elder brothers are eager to maintain discipline and punish them, justly, for their wrongdoings and sins.

He's glad that he's able to get patched up by one of his fellow Primaris Apothecary brothers, at least some of the time, sometimes they are not allowed to help patch them up after a flogging or other sort of punishment, left to heal with their own regenerative powers, and rations are one of the longer-term methods of punishment they are given. So he's surprised, honored and a little hopeful and honestly, more than a little shocked, and he hopes that the God Emperor will forgive him, afraid, when one of the harsher, and much stricter Black Templar Chaplains has decided to take Ramiel on as an apprentice.

He's worried and nervous, he's not been trained as a Chaplain and he accepts the Mentorship, before nervously telling him that he's just a battle brother. Honorable Veteran Black Templar Chaplain Mephisteil Petras has chosen him in particular. The First-Born Space Marine informs him that as his mentor, he'd be teaching him how to do the tasks and duties of a Chaplain. Ramiel bows his head and accepts the honor and new duties to be assigned to him. Following after Chaplain Mephisteil two steps back and to the left as requested by his new mentor.

It's hard, learning the duties of a Chaplain, and one of the first duties that he's ordered to do is to help with the punishment of several Primaris Black Templars, to go over their sins and help them purge themselves of their shame with use of whip and words. Traitorously his lips tremble, and he's grateful that no one can see it, and he hides his flinch by heading over to grab the punishment whip. The words lodge hot, hard and heavy in his throat, which has become dry and it feels like his eyes are burning.

He has a couple of false starts before Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras snaps at him to "Stand up straight like a real Marine."

He snaps to attention and snaps a salute. "Yes Sir!"

"Now," The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras says, "Recite their sins and punishments abom- boy."

"Yes Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras," Ramiel says, thankful that his voice doesn't crack or croak. He takes in a deep breath and reads the three Primaris brothers the scroll that contained what they had done, and the punishments that they were going to be receiving and after that there is silence.

"Abmon- Boy! Get the whip." The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras demands of him.

He nods to his mentor, the Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras and grabs the whip, "Have them count out the strokes of the whip."

"Yes sir," Ramiel replies as his throat seems to constrict and it feels like it's become harder and harder to breath.

He snaps the whip a couple of times, the crack and sound of it has them all flinching minutely, but not enough that The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras does not notice and snarls at them for it. Ramiel would also be getting a flogging after this for being so slow to obey his superior officer and mentor. Ramiel mentally apologizes to his fellow Primaris brothers as he starts to whip them, the words he's been taught to tell them as the whistling sound of the whip, the sound of their flesh, and their voices counting the whip marks.

Slowly, yet all at once he as to continue to whips them at the proper pace, to slow and he will get more time added to his flogging, to fast and he will hurt them more than he should, and his punishment for not properly doling out punishment will be worse. Slowly, and all at once he has finished whipping his fellow Primaris Marines. His nerves are screaming at him. He wants to apologize for harming them, yet he locks the words behind his teeth. The punishment he gets for that, and he only did it just the once when he was ordered to Punish Cedric had been... well...

He was blessed with the regenerative powers of a Primaris Marine, which is significantly faster and he's much hardier than a First Born, much to the scowl he got from his mentor The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras. He can't even try to go find them later to apologize, for his mentor The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras has eyes on him at all times, and the punishment he got for trying to apologize after the fact, and trying to do so out of sight and eyes (not that it worked) of their First-Born brothers had also been a test of his body's healing capabilities.

Ramiel hoped that, with time, and showing his dutiful, diligence and obedience, that hopefully The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras and the other Chaplains, and other First Born Space Marines of the Black Templar Chapter would slowly start to trust them. He has seen how warm, affectionate and caring they can be towards their fellow first born space marines. But there must be something wrong with him, and his fellow Primaris Marines that they are treated so coldly and harshly. But he holds out hope that someday, somehow, some way, they will be able to have that easy trust and affection, or barring that, be good enough that they were no longer given such harsh, and swift punishments for even the smallest of infractions.

Infractions that usually their First-Born brothers do not get punishments for, or if they do, not as harshly as the Primaris Marines do. Perhaps, it is because they are so much younger and new than their elder brothers? That they want to instill good habits and proper behaviors? Oh, he so dearly hopes that's the case. His mentor The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, among a larger number of First-Born Space Marines have started to get more agitated recently over the years. He's noticed that, and while he's sent a message or two to his fellow Primaris Marines, has no idea how to bring it up or address it with The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, without offending or upsetting the other sooner.

He gets a vox call from The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, "Sir? Apprentice Chaplain Ramiel speaking."

"Abomin- Boy, come to me, I need to speak with you about something," The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras snarls at him.

He flinches, "yes sir, I'm headed to your coordinates."

Ramiel wonders what has put his elder brother and mentor into such a foul mood, and dreads what the potential answer could be. Even as he braces himself for likely more rounds of justified punishment for infractions, he did not know he had done until The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras informs him of them. He sends a message to Cedric, who's awake and on the same ship as him. Just as a warning about the mood that The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras is in.

He is sure and swift in his movements as he heads towards where The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras and several the more... irascible and mistrusting of the first-born black Templars are.

"I have arrived, The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras," He says snapping a salute.

"Abomination," The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras and his hearts sink to his chest and his throat feels like its closing, "For the crime of existence I, The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, have decided that you shall cease living."

"Bu- Mentor, H-Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras," He stutters out moving backwards a little, "I-I'm a loyal Black Templar of the Chapter... I'm not an abom-"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off as he dodge the blow he recieved from The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, who charged him. As a Primaris Marine, they are fast, stronger, and have a higher mental processing speed. He continues to dodge and weave, not attacking back as more of the First-born Space Marines go after him. He knows that they will hit him, and they do, he is only one and they are half a dozen strong.

"Foul Abomination, thy existance will be purged and our chapter restored!" The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras roars at him.

Ramiel continues to dodge and tries to speak with him- with the other First Born Black Templar Battle brothers that are slowly trying to encircle and cut off his mode of retreat. They and The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras are starting to get past his guard and one of the systems pings a warning and sends a distress signal off to the nearest Apothecaries that he was wounded. He was starting to get far more badly wounded.

"What did I do wrong mentor? I have only ever tried to heed your words, Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, and be a good, obedient mentee," He hears a familiar voice cry out and he turns to see Cedric staring at him and the group of First-Born Marines in shock, a medic's kit in hand.

Ramiel notices The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, his mentor swerve to try and strike out at Cedric. With a burst of speed he runs and blocks the blow- unfortunately where it lands, the chainsaw sword strikes him a lethal blow as Cedric desperately grabs him Ramiel manages to murmur something to Cedric as blood spills from his lips.

"I'm sorry, sir, whatever it was that I did to deserve this, please don't take it out on my brothers." He apologizes as blood bubbles from his lips. It feels nice, paradoxically to be in the arms of one his brothers, it’s been so long since he’d been held, even if Cedric is trying to keep him upright.

He closes his eyes, as his vision grows dark, and feels blood flowing rapidly out of his wounds. He wakes up with a pained gasp and blinks. Treacherous tears are blinding his eyes as he blinks rapidly. He is alive. Ramiel, somehow, survived what had felt like a killing blow. He jolts as he tries to get up to find Cedric or The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, and the other First-Born Marines to Attack him, upon his command, of course. He pulls of his helmet and buries his face in his hands as he shakes and allows himself to feel, just for a moment or two before he scrubs is face clean of salted water and puts on his helmet as he gingerly gets up.

He looks around, a frown forming on his face, he doesn't recognize the flora and fauna of this place. As he looks up to the night sky, the stars aren't something he recognizes either with jolt of unease. He has many questions that he has no answers for. And he will need to find a way back to... back to his brothers. He ignores the way that had his body flinching and curling in on himself. Coward. He hisses at himself, he's an apprentice chaplain, honored to have been chosen by The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras.

He needs to find out where he is and how he got here and how to get back to The Sigismund. He finds a stream of fresh water, that is flowing fast enough, and after a cautious test, is clean enough to drink from and he does so gladly. The water is bitingly cold, which helps further ground him in the here and now as he ruthlessly squashes the thoughts and questions that run amok in his mind. He puts his helmet back on and continues to wander the forest, which is lovely, and filled with bird song and the rustling leaves of the trees that sway in the wind.

One of the things that Ramiel doesn't know, is that his death at the hands of the First-Born Black Templars had started the overt schism within the Black Templars, between the ones who viewed the Black Templars as Abominations to be purged, and the first born (who found them to be useful) and the Primarus Marines who didn't want to die and were not abominations against His Imperial Majesty. They had been created upon the orders of Him on Terra, created and raised on Mars for the majority of their training before The Imperial Regent in all his wisdom had decided to have them sent out to reinforce the various chapters of the Space Marine Chapters.

But that is something he doesn't know yet, simply that his mentor, The Honorable Veteran Chaplain Mephisteil Petras, had thought him something to kill. He notices movement and hides in the shadow of a massive tree when he spots three or four base line human children running around and playing in a camp site, with the adults talking to one another amiably as the kids played nearby. They looked so happy, which both soothed and hurt something inside Ramiel that he couldn't understand for some reason as he watched them, entranced.

Keeping very still and shrinking back further when he noticed some of the adults glancing his way. He doesn't think they saw him, otherwise they likely would call back the children and leave the area. One of the children notices something and shrieks with emotion, and runs towards- oh no. Oh child no! He spots a couple of Chaos Marines and growls softly. The child is not at fault for not realize that wasn't an Angel of the God Emperor, but a Scummy traitor.

He pulls his blade shifts his body and, despite his wounds Charges towards the Chaos Marines with a bellow, getting in-between the child and the Chaos Marines who swear and pull back as he growls at the Chaos marines, “Scum and Filth to be purged. You Heretics shall die by my hand! Child- run back to your parents and leave this place.”

[automaticsoulharmony]

Guys guys guys

Hi, I’ve been doing research on Harley Quinn (scrolling through her wiki page) and have learned quite a few things that could creat a fantastic fic okay, let me lay this out for you

1. Harley Quinn was created in 1993 in the Batman The Animated series and made her comic deput in 1999

2. I’m guessing you see where I’m going when I tell you that she came about with Tim as Robin

3. See and then we learn she also started going solo in 2000- again, Tim was still Robin

4. She later has a solo series that is her first time as an anti-hero where she moves to Brooklyn and- no joke- becomes a landlord in 2013

5. This is post Red Robin (and technically during New 52 but it gets confusing)

So what I’m saying is: picture with me Post Red Robin era Tim following a mission to Brooklyn, getting badly injured, and knowing one anti-hero stationed in the area that would most likely have the medical supplies needed.

Or if you prefer, like me who gets tired of the post Red Robin angst, same exact story but altar timeline 2 degrees left to get Robin era Tim, in Brooklyn, injured, seeking help in newly Anti-hero Harley Quinn

And imagine Harley reminiscing with her baby bird on how far they’ve both come

[rennorthernlights]

The World We Knew

Chapter 1, Chapter 2: Take a Trip Down The Lane, Chapter 3,

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, Zombies, Zombie Death, mentions of family death

August ish, 2023. Time??? Location: outskirts of Navasota, Texas.

“Gaz, you almost got it fixed, yeah?” The voice calls out making Gaz jolt. Too lost in his world to realize that his Captain was peering over his shoulder. Gaz has been working on it since Soap managed to nab it back when they were passing College Station. Soap got a massive earful from Ghost and Price considering he almost become zombie fodder.

“Aye, sir, almost got it.” It’s been driving Gaz mad for the last couple of days. The man has nearly lost his patience on it more times than he can count and that’s saying something considering he has the patience of a mountain… sometimes. “Bugger just won’t—“

A muffled voice that slowly becomes clearer as the radio tunes into the signal. “Oh and you won’t believe what I did today,” Gaz and Price freezes as they hear a woman’s voice on the radio. They share eye contact as they listen in. Hoping that it’s not a hoax or a figment of their imagination. “Managed to nab a blanket for once. Sometimes Texas is warm and other times is— BZZZ”

“No, no, no,” Gaz says as he angles the radio to try and listen to her speak again. Price sighs and claps a hand on Gaz’s shoulder. A firm squeeze as he looks at his Sergeant. “It works, Gaz,” he says as he looks at Gaz frantically trying to get it back. “Gaz, hey,” Price says as he tries to get him to look at him. “Kyle!” He yells and Gaz’s shoulders slump.

“Gaz, you got it to work. We’ve had it for weeks now without a single peep but you got it to work. That’s all that matters.” Cupping the back of Gaz’s head with a light squeeze. “Go help Soap with a perimeter check. Let me see if I can take a crack at it, yeah?” He offers as he knows Gaz needs a break, giving him a tender kiss on the forehead. Gaz’s shoulders relax and he mutters some reluctance before he stands and leaves. Price takes his spot and he rolls his shoulders. The stress of it all weighing just a bit more now that he knows the radio works. It’s gonna plague Gaz for a while and Price needs his head on straight.

“Alright, let’s try it,” Price cracks his knuckles and works on it. Been almost a year since the world went to shit. Last year he was getting Soap and Ghost out of the military base in Las Almas and now he’s somewhere in Texas. They tried to convince Rudy and Ale to get on board with going with them to Fort Sam Houston. The Mexican Colonel was vehemently against leaving Las Almas even Rudy didn’t think it’d be a good idea. Took Soap speaking to them and then finally Ghost putting his two cents in to convince. “Safer in numbers,” He remembers Ghost grunting out only for Ale to argue that he and Rudy are needed with the Los Vaqueros. As he works on the radio, he thinks back on what eventually set them down the path they are in.

————————————————————

“I’m not leaving my men, not after what that cabrón did.” Spitting on the ground as the fire from the tank that Graves was in is still going. It’s been a couple days and there’s already been reports of this disease. At first Price didn’t want to believe it, hell, no one wanted to believe it. Man eating disease? Sounds like something out of a horror novel. “Colonel Vargas, the sooner we get to that Fort the sooner we can bring back whatever cure they have to your men.” Price steps forward, eye level with Vargas, as his arms cross over his chest. Beard crinkling as his lip twitches.

“We need all the help we can get and you and your Sergeant Major would expedite the process of that.” Vargas sighs, his hands on his hips as he turns to Rudy whose been silently listening. They speak fast in Spanish, both have different expressions as they talk it over to each other. Vargas mutter a curse, that one Price can understand, and Rudy then steps forward. “We are needed here. We can’t let Las Almas suffer, this is our home and we will stay. With or without a cure.” Rudy states and Vargas nods in agreement. Price sighs and a faint smile graces his face as Soap clasps a hand on Rudy’s shoulder with a “be safe, hermanos” in his Scottish accent.

Took a days time to gear up and pack the necessary essentials they’d need. The whole world has been put on a pause and no planes go in and out especially when news came around that the President of the United State’s plane had sick people get on board. Secret service is still trying to find the rest of the plane since it nose dived somewhere in Philadelphia. Price only knew about the Fort from Laswell when she gave him a call. She didn’t have much time to speak on the phone before it blacked out with the insistent beep of the call disconnecting. Didn’t matter how many times he tried to call back.

When she last called she sounded out of breath like she’d been running a marathon. Speaking fast with her words, “M’glad you’re safe, John. It’s been hell here.” Shots firing in the background as he can hear screams, “Place is a lil crowded for me right now but listen!” She pants as sends him the information to his phone with shaky hands. “Fort Sam Houston is researching and performing experiments for a cure. Get there and keep the scientist safe. Fuck!” She curses as she now sounds far away. Someone is shooting again. He calls her name urgently but the phone disconnects as he punches the wall with a yell.

That phone call was 2 days ago. Soap still tried to convince Ale and Rudy but they held firm to their decision. The most Colonel Vargas could do was gift them a military vehicle and a decent number of guns, supplies, and preserves. A month. Should just take a week to get up there anyways. Provide protection for the scientists. Once they’ve made a cure then they can head back and then everything will hopefully go back to normal. That should be enough time to get up to the base and back. If everything goes smoothly that is.

Even though Price wanted to believe it even back then he knew that it would take more than a miracle for this to actually work but… He trusted Laswell, trusted her judgment with these things. He just wishes he could hear her speak again. He knows she’s resourceful, she’s probably with her wife right now hunkered down somewhere safe… hopefully.

“Are we ready?” Gaz calls out as Ghost loads up the last bag. Vargas was overseeing the load out to make sure they had everything for their mission, he even triple checked for them. Few sightings of the sick people have been roaming the streets. Mexico City is going dark as they get ready to head out as they speak. The Mexican military is deploying every able-bodied soldier at the moment and yet it isn’t enough. Too many have gone radio silent. Vargas and some of the Los Vaqueros plan on scouting there to see what’s going on as soon as the 141 leave. “Let’s load up!” Vargas yells as he hands Price a couple CD’s for the music player. Vargas may or may not have had that installed when he was tinkering with the vehicle weeks ago…

“Figured you Brit’s—,” a quick Oi from Soap, “AND Scot,” an amused glint in his eyes as he winks, “would prefer if I left some CD’s, si? Gives Soap enough time to work on his Spanish.” A Cheshire grin on the man as he leans an elbow against the door.

“Fine by me, s’long as Ghost ain’t driving and Soap can fix up on his Spanish,” Gaz remarks and Ghost levels him with a glare. “Gonna tell me I’m wrong, Ghost? Soap told me how you drove getting out of Las Almas.”

“My bad, next time I’ll put my blinker on,” Ghost grunts out sarcastically as Soap clasps a hand on Ghost shoulder with a belch of a laugh. Bantering back and forth as Price and Gaz sit in the front. Gaz acting as the map since the wifi has been acting stranger and stranger. A wave goodbye from the Colonel and the Sergeant Major as they drive off. A month. That’s all they’ll need and it’ll go back to normal.

The days quickly turned into months. Barely crossing the border of Mexico into the US it started becoming one shit show after another. Far too many close calls that definitely made Price age more than he already is. The main roads were clogged with people trying to get in and out of of major cities. It was madness, the people were everywhere. Screams and yelling as people tried surviving. Rudy kept talking with the men from where he was in Las Almas. Their radio working pretty well considering the long distance. Rudy and Ale would talk and give regular updates day in and day out until it stopped. Soap tried everything to get the radio working, thinking that the wires were crossed or something but… to no avail. They couldn’t even turn back considering how far they were, all they could do is push forward.

Ghost and Soap went through a rough patch, arguments and spitting curses in left and right. Ghost saying that they shouldn’t go back because “choices have consequences” only for Soap to angrily disagree. It took Gaz stepping in to act as a buffer while Price had to put his foot down on the matter.

“We can’t go back. We gotta keep moving, Johnny.” A sad look on Price as he places a hand on the Scott’s shoulder. He’s knows Johnny will take the blame and guilt himself into thinking it’s his fault for not convincing Ale and Rudy better. Didn’t help that when they stayed at an apartment complex someone stole their vehicle when they got pass Laredo, Texas. At least they had the weapons and supplies that Ale gave them in the apartment they’re hunkering down in, small mercies.

Derailing most of the plan and making tensions so high that Ghost could’ve cut it with one of his knives. It got even worse when Gaz couldn’t contact his mother anymore, barely a month in as the group walked more on foot from place to place. Gaz shut off completely for a week, not even Soap could ease him out of it. Took Ghost sitting next to Gaz on a warm night in an abandoned gas station for Gaz to finally cry it out. Ghost, never being one for soft words, held Gaz close to him, not saying a word but just being a comforting embrace for Gaz to fall into.

When they finally got a car it went a little smoother, Price scouted it at a JoeVs. He won’t talk about how he knows how to hotwire a car much to everyone’s annoyance and amusement. Soap was able to get a few phone calls from his family until it just stopped coming altogether. Phone calls making a “We’re sorry, the person you have dialed is not able to come to the…” Soap could only hear it so many times before he threw his phone against the wall causing it to crack and break.

Soap leaned more on Gaz for help since he understands more about it. A silent comfort that they had each other to work through it. Ghost took on more of the load since he knew that Price couldn’t carry all the weight. Especially since their Sergeants were going through it emotionally. Ghost’s only family was the men in the car so he didn’t have much to worry or cry about. Price was an only kid and with parents already in the grave. They really only had each other to lean into, all of them did.

The team went through a list of names to call the sick during the quiet nights they had. It all came down to a vote for “Z-Fuckers” since it was funnier hearing Soap call’em that in his Scottish accent.

“Z-Fuckers!” Soap said it experimentally and Gaz has to cover his mouth as he nearly choked on some beans. Ghost having to aggressively pat his back as even he started laughing. Price tried to be stern about being quiet but even he gave into it when Soap kept saying it. A lil calm in their storm, for once the night feels normal.

“It’s like that Romero movie, m’serious Gaz.” Soap grins as they sit next to each other in an office building they’re hiding in. The other in different spots of the room as they chatter back and forth like it’s a normal 141 mission. The Z-fuckers, as Soap so lovingly calls them, are outside on the streets. Moaning and groaning as they search for something breathing and living to sink their nasty teeth into. As they were looking for a place to stay earlier, Ghost narrowly got bit when he pulled Price back from the exit only for Price to punch the shit out of the dead woman making her stumble. Gaz was quicker with stabbing her in the head and then the zombie went limp.

When they finally settled for the night Soap spoke up again to Gaz and then to the rest of the group. “It’s the brains. I dinnae think it’d be but it is.” Soap says outloud and Ghost agreed to it, “Aim for the head.” Become the motto of the group.

Took 5 months in total, a few near misses, a couple of shit shows after the other, and finally they’ve made it to Fort Sam Houston.

“Jesus Christ.” Gaz whistles out as he looks on the binoculars. “Sore sight that’s for damn sure.” Soap makes a grabby hand motion and Gaz obliges him. Blue eyes widening as he looks to Price.

“You’re out ya damn mind if ya think anyones livin.” It’s definitely not a pretty sight. Too many deads, blood smeared on the outside walls of the building. Body parts on the ground. “Pretty sure that’s guts on a car…” Like a horror show from the looks of it. Especially with the broken glass and some of the cars in the parking lot being overturned.

Arms crossed and jacket pulled tight as Price levels him with a look. “We’ve a mission, Sunshine. Don’t tell me you’re nervous.” Soap snorts and keeps looking through the binoculars. “Ghost, you see anything?” Turning to look up as Ghost is laying on a rundown car. His rifle in hand as he looks through the scope. His eyes flickering as he searches and looks for movement.

Price tilts his head expectantly, and finally Ghost speaks, “I see lot of z-fuckers roamin. There’s movement in the building, too fast for a Z so it’s possible but I can’t get a clear view.” The older man nods and rolls his shoulders.

“Alright, let’s gear up.” A circle movement of the arm as he’s as satisfied as he can be with that answer. Not like they have a choice anyways.

They, thankfully, still have their comms and good enough gear on hand. It’s not the best and Price would’ve definitely lectured all of them if they were on a mission, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Soap and I will take the first. You two will take second. Comm for assistance.” His voice naturally moving into the tone that’s been honed over the years as Captain. “Don’t get hurt and don’t get killed.” He pats on Gaz’s chest since he’s the closest. “Don’t become a meal either.” Simple enough as is. Get in, find the scientists, and get out. Pretty clear cut. What could go wrong?

“Price you’re gonna have to think of something! Gaz and I are about to get cornered!” Ghost yells into the comm as he quickly tries to find a room to try and hide him and Gaz in.

Ghost slams against the door and throws Gaz inside. Shutting it quickly as the screech of a dead alerts more to where they are. “Fuck,” Ghost curses as he grabs whatever is heavy enough and barricades the door. The wood of the door being slammed against by the mindless drone of the zombies. He pants hard as presses a hand on the back of his head. His fingers flexing against his mask. His mind working overtime to think of a way out for the both of them.

His eyes searching for an exit as he spots a closet and windows. “Can’t break it. Might be more out there..” muttering as he taps once and then twice on his comms but it’s no use. He slammed too hard against the door, it probably messed with his comms somehow. At least they’re on the first floor. Far too many zombies on second that they had to turn back. Tapping the back of his head with his fist as he thinks of a strategy.

He pauses as he hears anxious muttering. Turning his head a lil he notices his Sergeant gripping his head. He takes a step closer, worried when he finally hears what Gaz is saying,” We’re not gonna make it.” Gaz repeats it again and again.

“Gaz” he says softly, trying to get his attention.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” He’s spiraling as he tries to breath. Tries to keep calm, he’s been trained for torture, trained to handle the extreme but this is different. It’s a hopeless feeling being trapped in a room with no way out. He lost his gun when he tripped down the stairs. Ghost probably only has a clip left. It’s hopeless.

“Garrick listen to m-“

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to John or Johnny.” His hands shake as he tries and tries to breath. To calm down but he can’t focus. His ankle hurts, it’s definitely sprained from when he fell down the stairs. He didn’t mean to fall but a crippled zombie reached its hand through the bars of the rail and grabbed him. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ghost so… scared when he called his name out as he killed the zombie when it crawled on him.

“Kyle!”

His name being yelled is what pulls Kyle out of his spiral. The shuffling of fabric is heard as Kyle breaths in and out. The throb of his ankle momentarily fading as he turns and looks at Ghost. His eyes widen as Ghost isn’t wearing his mask anymore. It’s clenched in his gloved hand as he comes to Kyle.

“You’re not gonna die. Its not gonna happen.” Ghost says it so sternly, so assuredly that Kyle stammers a response back.

“There’s too many outside the door. They’re clawing to get in, Gh-“

“Simon.”

“W-what?”

“Want you to call me, Simon.” The bigger man says as he steps closer. His gloved hand reaching out and cupping his face as Kyle looks dumbfounded and confused. His breath hitching as he stares into Gho- no Simon’s eyes. Lost in thought as he looks at every crease, every little scar that Simon has. Has he always had such pretty brown eyes? “You’re gonna hide in the closet and I’ll give’em something to chew on.” He murmurs softly.

Something to chew on? What does that mean? Wait… he can’t possibly be meaning what he thinks he’s meaning. That makes him tense as he shakes his head. “No, no-“

“Kyle,” he starts but he gets cut off fast.

“No! I’m not… I can’t just… no!” He steps back but Simons hand grips him a bit harder. Months ago he wouldn’t even think about yelling back to him but he doesn’t care. He’s not going to let Simon die. Not because of him. A battle of wills while the zombies growl outside the door.

“I love you.”

Kyles shoulders slack, his mouth parted slightly as his heart pounds from adrenaline and fear. Eyes glassing over as he says, “y-you what?”

“I know it’s taking me a while to say it. I’m sorry but I do. I love you” Simon looks down as he says it, like it’s a secret that wasn’t supposed to be said but also a yearning to be spoken about. “I’ve lost a lot. I’ve buried too many.” He laughs sadly, “Maybe Johnny was right that I’d need to be put in these types of situations to say it.”

“But Johnny, you love Johnny.”

“I do. Figured it out in Las Almas. Doesn’t mean that I don’t feel for you or… John.” Slowly pressing his forehead to Gaz. Ignoring the pounding hands of the dead on the door that could break at any minute if it wasn’t for the desks in front of it. Simon looks at Gaz like he’s the only thing here. The only important thing in this room right here and now. “The dead outside this door isn’t gonna stop me from protecting what’s mine.”

“We can both hide. We can…” he tries to offer, tries to think through the emotions bubbling up in his chest.

“Kyle, you’ve a brilliant mind. Best on par with John but you know as well as I that the dead won’t stop till they have something to sink their teeth into.”

“No, no you can’t just confess. You can’t just tell me you love me and then die!” He yells and something fierce is in Gaz’s eyes. “You don’t get to leave.” Hands reaching out and grips the collar of Simon’s shirt. The one that Johnny got for him when they were running through a Walmart. A determined look in his eyes and something even more as he glares at his Lieutenant, his Simon, his.

Planting his feet as he ignores the pain in his sprain. “You don’t get to die on me Simon Riley. Not now. Not ever.” Leaning up and kissing him as Simon’s eyes widen. Shaken up as he clearly wasn’t expecting Kyle to kiss him or even reciprocate it. Maybe he also needed to be put in this situation to realize it as well that he loves Simon too.

“Dead’s be damned,” he breathes out as he knocks his forehead to Simon’s. “Our guys will get us. You know they will, don’t try and die on me.” Nose brushing against each other. The cracking of the wooden door pulls them out of the moment. Simon stepping in front of Gaz fast as he widens his stance and grabs his gun. The barricade in front of the door won’t last long. Simon eyes the closet door and then behind him to Gaz.

“I have a clip left. I ca-“ a loud sound outside makes the building shake and he can think of only one person that would make such a loud noise. Just as he’s about to laugh about the odds of who it is. A buzzing noise on Gaz’s comm comes to life as Johnny is speaking hurriedly, like he’s running. Telling them that he and Price are making noise on the east side of the building and to head towards the exit.

“Come on, Kyle,” He places his mask in his pocket, moving the barricade from the door away. Quickly surveying the hallway before he moves and hauls Gaz’s arm over his shoulder. “Our guys got us after all, huh?” His other hand gripping his gun as he keeps a constant watch. Determined to not let anything harm the two of them.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Kyle grunts out when some of his weight is on his sprained ankle. Ghost noticing as he nearly lifts him off the floor as his hand grips at his waist. Shouldering the weight of Gaz as they get out.

“Maybe a lil,” he grins and Kyle finds that he likes the way Simon grins. All teeth in it as he helps him out. Price is already providing cover fire as soon as they both make it to the exit. Soap coming around and helping Gaz so they can get away faster. The building becomes a distant dot and blur of a memory months later, maybe even a laugh at the odds and luck that Gaz has.

————————————————————

Back to the present day as Price smiles softly while working on the radio. From that point on everyone’s been closer, nearly losing Gaz and Ghost was a wakeup call that they all desperately needed. They’ve had near misses but never like that. Never to the point where it felt like the end. Now no one goes anywhere without letting the group know and they have to have a buddy with them at all times. It’s typically; Price and Gaz. Ghost and Soap. Sometimes they’ll switch up but they’re always communicating. Hell, there communicating better than when they did when they were on mission.

Bzzzz… Crchhhh “-nally saw a deer again. That was nice. Last one I saw had bite marks on it. Really, really, hope it was a dog and not a dead fucker.” The mystery woman chuckles, and Price can’t believe his luck. He calls hurriedly to the other men to come over as the woman keeps speaking. “Would kill for a burger from Whataburger, you think they’ll have the ingredients there? Man o man-“

“The radios working?“ Ghost says, stunned that it’s actually working. The radio keeps going as the woman keeps talking unaware of her listeners. “Gaz and you finally got it to work. Guess I can stop railing on Soap for grabbing it.”

“Knew it’d work, ya just dinnae believe me, Si.” Elbowing the big man as Soap steps closer, “Sounds like pretty lil ‘o bird. Gonna speak back, Captain?” Soap inquired as Price holds his finger over the button to speak. For once Price feels… nervous. The first human voice in nearly a year and he’s unsure about it. The number of pros and cons already playing out in his head.

“It might scare her off.” He moves his finger away as they listen to her speak about something that sounds mundane but is everything to the men in the room. It feels normal. “Let’s wait it out a bit. See where this goes. Don’t speak on the radio unless necessary, got it?” Price orders and they all agree. As much as Price wants to speak to the lady… he also wants to protect his men and keep them safe. Who knows who she is or if she’s even alone? The risks outweighs the benefits of a potential alliance for now.

Listening to her on the radio has slowly become a part of their routine. Sometimes in the morning or afternoon she’ll speak. Talk about her day, what she had to eat, commenting on her place of choice for the night, etc. The men would huddle around the radio so they could hear her and her “Talkshows” as they’d call it. Some of them wonder what she’d look like, what she’d sound like in person, how old she was, Soap even placing a bet that she wore glasses while Gaz placed a bet that she didn’t. It became part of their routine to check the radio everyday for her voice until one day…. She went silent.

She didn’t say anything in the morning and then the afternoon rolled by and no response. “We need to reach out and talk to’er.” Gaz said almost insistently when the second day rolled around and still no voice from her. The feeling that she could be a dead becoming ever present on their minds. Price holds the radio in hand, a crease of his brows as he thinks it over.

“Lemme speak to’er, doubt she’ll be spooked if she hears a ‘funny’ accent, yeah? Might make’er talk a bit since I sound like Shrek.” Soap says and holds his hand out. Price takes a second before handing it to him. An encouraging nod from him as Soap breaths in and says, “This is Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Taskforce 141 operative. I’m trying to get in touch with the woman that regularly speaks on this line.” different murmurs from the men as they hope and beg that their lady is around to hear them.

Bzzzz… crchhhhh… He tries again, a worried feeling creeping up in his chest. His words more insistent. “This is Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacT-“

“H-Hello?” She says softly. A nervousness in her voice and the men all sigh in relief.

“You had us worried, Bonnie.” Soap says as he breaths out a low sigh. His hand unclenching since he had it balled from how nervous he was feeling.

“Us?”

Their eyes widen as they hear the fear in her voice. A curse from Ghost as Soap scrambles to speak, “Me and some of my group have been listening to your talks. We… We just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” The silence on the other radio is deafening and they all suck in a breath. Soap tries to coax some words out of her but to no avail.

She didn’t speak on the line anymore, but they held out hope. Johnny and Kyle started taking turns speaking on the line, talking about their day as the 141 sat around waiting for her to say something back. They were about to give up since a couple weeks go by with no response. And then finally, the static on the other side comes to life.

“… Hi,” the radio crinkles and buzzes with a soft noise, “I’m not going to give you my name or location but I..” the radio shorts out and the men wait on bated breath for her to speak again. “But I want to talk. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long to speak to you.”

“We’re here, Sunshine,” Gaz says softly as he takes the radio, “This is Kyle, do you remember me? I’d’ve spoken more to you whenever, Johnny,” glaring lightheartedly at the Scot, “would stop hogging the radio.” He chuckles softly. “We’re glad that you’ve decided to speak again. We want to talk to you as well, if you’ll let us.”

“I want to talk but… don’t tell me your name anymore, please.”

“…Alright,” he murmurs softly, “we won’t say our names anymore.” The men in the room all look confused about her request but they don’t say anything else about it to keep her talking. “Call me whatever you’d like, Sunshine.”

———

TAGLIST TWWK: @wrathofcats

[serenefreakgeekao3]

Apricity

[Table of Contents]

CHAPTER EIGHT, Disorientation

Day 32, Saturday (Day 29, Wednesday)

Adrenaline is pretty handy when you need to get over pain in a life-or-death situation. However, some pain doesn't go away so easily. Like the pain of watching Chuck, poor young Chuckie, get stabbed through the chest by a heaving and terrifying monster creature? Yeah, that wasn't going away so soon.

Adrenaline did help with the pain from your ankle, though. Or, rather, it would explain the lack thereof. You could feel the impact of your feet hitting the hard and uncompromising stone beneath you as you ran and ran, jolting up your legs and shaking your body. You should've been in pain, and if you could've focused on your ankle you were sure you would've been, however, your mind is focused only on one thing right now. And it was repeating over and over in your head.

That damned Griever was going to die for doing that to Chuck.

You weren't sure how long you'd been running, but there were plenty of close calls. A metal blade zipping past your cheek; tripping on a stray rock yet somehow managing to duck down enough to slide under the body of the Griever as it flew by overhead; even a trap you hadn't even known would be in the maze, a netted rope made to hold a body down. You had gotten caught, tangled in the webbing, and had only gotten out by using the rope against the Griever until it cut a hole large enough for you to slip out of.

You were approaching the edges of the maze, where the exits were and the cliffs fell harsh and deep. Glancing over the side as you turn to run alongside the edge of it, you couldn't even see the bottom. You weren't sure what to do, every plan was exhausted in your mind, your body even physically exhausted by this point.

A turn, another turn and clanking noises and the piercing sound of metal-on-metal clued you in to the closeness of your adversary. Another turn and it's a dead end. Mostly. The walls stretched high to either side of you, and behind you was blocked by the oncoming pursuer. Straight ahead was another cliff, coming up quickly. There was nothing else you could do.

You stop at the edge, turning around quickly and stumbling slightly, moving forward enough that your feet don't hang off of the edge. Grievers are horribly ugly, you've decided suddenly, full of black sludge without the rainbow sheen of oil. Metal stuck out in random places like someone stuck a bunch of nails into some melted Play-Doh, and its face and teeth looked like someone made a metal casing of a small dinosaur’s head- it all honestly looked like an enlarged nightmare version of some children's toy.

These were the incomprehensible thoughts flittering through your mind as the Griever closed the distance between the two of you, lifting up both of its arm-blades as if ready to slash downward onto you. Without hesitation, you slide under its ‘elbow,’ taking a chance to shove at the thing with your shoulder before backing up a few steps, watching it as you breathe heavily with exertion.

The Griever flailed, its limbs scratching and clawing anywhere it could reach, only to release loud screeching sounds as the metal glances off of the stone, not digging in. It was almost slow-motion, how the Griever was falling sideways and backwards, trying to save itself from its own momentum, trying desperately to grab a hold of something. Its stinger swings around suddenly, popping out from the inside of its gelatinous body to stab inside of you.

And you're so shocked for a moment, you don't even register what happens. Then your feet begin to get dragged with the Griever as it continues its descent faster, unable to stop itself with the only thing it was able to grab a hold of. You look down at the large metal cylinder pressed against your abdomen, your mouth hanging open as you try to reconcile what just happened. Belatedly, you grab the cylinder and then pull it out.

The stinger comes free, and as you let go of the metal the Griever finally falls away, disappearing into the distance below you. At some point, you can't see it anymore, although you were never really looking at its descent in the first place.

You were stung.

You feel the spot on your abdomen where you're bleeding, pulling your hand back to see just a smidge of that black sludge. The stuff that's in the stinger, that infects people with Wicked’s version of the virus.

Well, fuck.

You turn around, taking in a large gulp of breath in substitute of courage, and begin your journey back. You weren’t sure where you were or how you had even gotten here, but you knew you had to make it back. A few times throughout you had to stop your trek, hiding behind a nearby wall, your back pressed against the cold and unforgiving stone as you try to breathe quickly but quietly. You resume your run as soon as you’re able, but it’s getting too much. You’re slowing down, your ankle is flaring with more pain than when you injured it the first time, and your chest is spiking with pain and lack of breath. Your vision is beginning to blur, and you have to rub your eyes harshly to read your wristwatch.

3AM.

3AM?! You’d been running nonstop for hours on end, and you haven’t even made it back to the original Griever you killed. To where you dropped the stinger you came here so desperately for. Where you left Chuck behind.

You suck in a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain that grows ever larger in your chest and you push forward once again. You’re only jogging now, but it’s all you’re able to do. You take your time, scanning the too-similar walls and trying to distinguish where you are. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

There.

You recognize that pattern of the wall, somehow, impossibly. You lessen your jog, approaching the intersection and taking a look around for anything else you might recognize.

SLAM, SLAM, SLAM.

You turn and jog toward the sound, your heart pounding with something other than fright for once tonight. You turn, and you see a lump on the ground. You can’t control yourself as you cry out with relief, rushing quickly up toward where Chuck’s body lay on the ground- pulling your backpack off of your back and around to the front as you land on your knees next to him. Digging into your bag, your eyes are blurry and filled with tears, but after rubbing uselessly at them you find what you’re looking for. You jam the blue vial into the injector, looking down at Chuck finally.

Black was just starting to seep into his veins, but his eyes weren’t open. He hadn’t moved from this spot, so it wasn’t likely that he’s woken up yet. You let your hand touch his cheek, feeling his clammy and feverish skin as you trace the black veins as if trying to rub them away. You line the injector up with his thigh, then shoot the medicine into him. There’s a loud clunk and hiss, and you watch as the blue slowly drains away from the vial, leaving it empty and useless. You toss the remnants into your bag, rubbing Chuck’s thigh to hopefully spread the medicine quicker.

Beep, beep, beep

The incessant beeping finally draws your attention, and you glance up to see your prize. The metal cylinder, a little red light on the outside facing you blinks on and off with the little sound of a beep each time. You crawl over to Chuck’s other side, reaching until you grab ahold of the key.

You lean your back against the wall, letting the coolness of the stone seep through your shirt and hopefully cool you off while you take a small rest. You pull Chuck closer to the wall, just wanting him nearby, then begin to study the key in your hands. It’s still covered in the slime of a Griever, and no matter how many times you try to wipe it off it only seems to spread around more. You finally notice a number as you inspect it. Number 7.

Once you’ve finally caught your breath and kept yourself from falling asleep numerous times, you finally admit to yourself that you’re stalling. You can’t sleep here in the maze, it's not a guarantee that anyone would find you both if Wicked really is interested in capturing you and learning more about you. You stand with a grimace, jamming the stinger into your bag and slinging the whole thing onto your back. Then, you set yourself on getting Chuck up enough to carry him back.

It took a long time, a lot of effort, and frequent breaks. Your ankle still killed you, your body was exhausted, and- sorry, Chuck- but the dead weight you carried around made things infinitely harder. Thankfully, you haven’t had to try to hide the both of you from Grievers. In fact, you hadn’t even heard a call from one in a while. Limping along slowly, Chuck in tow, you struggle to lift your wrist and clear your eyes enough to study the numbers on it. They were all beginning to spin around, jumble together in your vision and head and memory and you thought it might’ve been sometime after 5AM but you weren’t completely sure?

You stumbled? You didn’t even realize you had until you took another three steps. You look behind you as if the cause of your misstep would be obvious, but it's all smooth stone around you. Everywhere is just smooth stone. You’re surrounded by massive walls of stone everywhere, on all sides, even below you. You were weighed down and heavy and even walking felt extraneous- and what were you doing? Why were you even doing all this? You were so tired…

You dropped what you were carrying. You must’ve since you felt as light as a feather now. You took a step, and another step, and it felt like you flew a great distance although the stone swirling around you told you that you only moved a few inches. When did the stone start talking to you?

The sky was awfully bright.

“I’m just bored, Tommy,” You whine, stretching your arms across the dining table as you lay your front half onto it, exaggerating your boredness by groaning loudly. You weren’t worried about bothering anybody, everyone else was hard at work as the object of your exclamation was seated next to you. Well- seated isn’t quite the right word when he’s sitting on the top of the table, using the bench as a footrest. Really, why does Thomas love to sit on top of tables?

“How can you be bored?” Thomas sounded playfully affronted, shoving at your shoulder though barely moving your frame, and you try to peak your eyes upward to see his face but it strains your eyes so you just close them instead. “On our one day off? We finally get to relax and do nothing!”

“Speak for yourself,” You whine mulishly, kicking your injured leg under the table as if he could see it. “I’ve had this thing wrapped up for half a week and haven’t been allowed to do any work. I’ve done all the relaxing I need!” You decide to gracefully ignore Thomas’ cackling, mostly because you don’t have the energy to feel offended right now.

“Well, then,” Thomas shakes the table as he jumps down from his perch, “Let’s go do something to dispel that boredom, then!” You huff, sitting up and turning around to face him, leaning your back against the hard line of the table as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Like what? I’ve been trying to do that for days.”

“Well,” Thomas drags the word out, kicking a stray rock as his eyes scan around the Glade. “How about we go bother Newt?” You furrow your eyebrows at this, pursing your lips. It’s tempting, but…

“But he’s working right now? Shouldn’t we leave him be?” Thomas laughs, reaching for your hand and pulling you to stand, quick with grabbing your cane and presenting it to you.

“Oh, don’t worry about all that. Zart is used to me coming by and bugging him on my day off.” You chuckle, leaning against the cane and moving to follow Thomas. You can tell he’s slowed down his gait for you, and you appreciate it.

“And he’s just okay with that?”

“I said he’s used to it, not that he’s okay with it.” You snort out a laugh, shaking your head as you glance over at him. The sun played across his tanned cheeks, lighting them with a healthy glow and causing his eyes to glimmer. He really was quite attractive. Was there any hope in what Minho told you? That he liked you as much as Newt?

You shook your head, facing forward as you walked. No, you couldn’t let yourself go down that road, not so soon to your plan. You don’t even want to be thinking of your plan right now, just wanting to enjoy what time you have with Thomas.

Thomas ducks down behind a row of trellises, waving for you to follow. You smother a giggle as you crouch down near him, listening intently to the plan he hatches, as if from thin air. Though, knowing Thomas, he probably did just come up with it as he said it. You nod along, moving around slowly to make sure you’re in the right place. Once crouching near where Newt was working, you waited for the opportunity. Soon enough, the farmer who had been working next to Newt wanders off, and he’s set upon by Thomas. Thomas startles Newt, who jumps and shouts something at him that you can’t quite make out aside from his name. You grin, beginning your stealthy manoeuvre over.

Thomas is nodding with a pseudo-sympathetic look, trying his best not to look over Newt’s shoulder and give your position away. You grin, reaching out with both hands and tickling Newt’s sides. He yelps out again- much louder for you, now that you’re closer- and turns around with a look of outrage that bleeds into slight annoyance and amusement.

“Shuck it, [Y/N], you startled the klunk outta’ me!” You can’t answer through your laughter, bending at the side from the heft of it. You can hear Thomas’ laughter as well, and when neither of you stops anytime soon you hear Newt’s voice again, louder, as if trying to talk over your incessant laughing. “Oh sure, sure. Laugh it up. You won’t be laughing later when I get you back!”

He ends the sentence by pouncing toward you, raising his long spindly fingers to dig at your sides, causing you to erupt in even more uncontrollable laughter, eventually falling to the ground as he tickles you, shaking your head and begging him to stop. It finally stops, but as you open your eyes and wipe a tear away you find out why. Thomas had picked Newt up from off of you, tackling him to the ground and pinning him there, tickling his sides nonstop as well. It’s a dangerous idea, what comes to mind, but you feel drunk with laughter and love. You sit up, sneaking up behind Thomas, and reach for his sides this time.

He turns around, a gasp of affront awarded to you as he notices who tickled him.

“Oh, it’s on!”

It’s sometime later, after the tickle war and a gentle not-so-admishment from Zart to Newt about his slacking off, but Newt is given the rest of the day as a gesture of goodwill. You’re not too sure you believe that fully, knowing his second-in-command duties never take a day off, but you’re glad to spend what time you can with both of them. Thomas shows you both his favourite game to play with Minho; Newt ends up showing you how to weave a basket, but this activity doesn’t last long as Thomas is antsy to get up and start moving again; eventually, the three of you can be found lounging in the dining area, asking each other as many unnecessary questions that you can think of.

“What about you, [Y/N]? If you could as the Creators for one thing, what would it be?” You hum in thought, pursing your lips. You couldn’t say what first came to mind, which would be ‘a copy of The Mazerunner so I know exactly how to get us out of here,’ so you take your time to pick something slightly ridiculous.

“Dice,” You finally decide on, shrugging. There’s silence for a moment before you look over. It seemed like both boys had been staring at you with incredulity, but Newt had turned away with pursed lips like he was considering it as Thomas leaned even closer.

“Dice? But why?”

“I can see the merit,” Newt shrugs, causing Thomas to turn on him.

“See the merit?”

“Well, you can get a lot of different games out of dice. And considering [Y/N] has been injured, I think they’re pretty bored of doing nothing by now.”

“Very bored,” You agree, making an exaggerated huff of displeasure that doesn’t garner you any sympathy. Thomas scoffs, throwing his arm out.

“What about something useful, though?”

“Oh yeah, smart boy?” You tease, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “What would you ask for then?”

“A map out of here!” Newt laughs, shoving Thomas playfully, but a chill shoots through you at his words. “What, I’m right! You know I’m right!” They laugh as they begin a shoving match, and you’re able to compose yourself and regain your smile before they notice it had left.

“So, Newt, what’s your favourite vegetable?”

Thomas hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he gasped awake, jumping with a start and throwing his arms out to either side. One hand flew through nothing, but the other quickly hit something soft, and he glanced over to see Newt’s grim and tired expression, his hands slowly wrapping around the hand that had smacked into his stomach. Newt meets his eyes, the bags under his own making it obvious he hadn’t slept last night.

“It’s okay, you’re just here with me,” Newt whispers, blinking slowly and reaching up to rub his eyes. Thomas left his hand in the grip of both of Newt’s- though his grip left something to be desired- and leaned forward toward the man. He raises his other hand, rubbing against Newt’s cheeks gently. They were both sitting upright away from everyone else, their backs against the wall next to the western gate. They hadn’t moved since the night before.

“Newt? You haven’t slept?”

“Like you could talk,” Newt murmurs with a yawn, raising a hand to cover his mouth before replacing it back on Thomas’ own hand. “You tried to stay up all night too.” Thomas glances outward, scanning the horizon. A few people were up already, making their way to their early morning routines, and the sun wasn’t out yet but the colours had begun to light up the sky. Thomas turns back to Newt, his fingers gentle as they trace the bags under his eye, then down his cheek.

“Well, it’s my turn to be up now. Try to get some sleep.” Newt’s already shaking his head, raising one hand to grab ahold of the one on his cheek, pulling his hand away.

“No, no, the doors will open soon.”

“And I’ll wake you when they do,” Thomas reassures, smiling down at the sleepy, but cute, Newt. “Just get what rest you can-”

He’s interrupted by the groaning of the maze, a shifting of stone. They’re so close to the maze, sitting on the ground and leaning their backs against the wall, that it’s like they can feel the shaking in their cores. They meet each other’s eyes, and Thomas watches as Newt wakes up fully in under a second. They both scramble to get up, jogging over to the doors as they begin to open. Thomas glances around, noticing a few people walking over to meet them at the entrance. The doors are slightly open, but it's too small and too dark to see anything inside yet. Minho is approaching, along with Gally and Alby. They’re whispering something, something that Thomas can’t quite make out yet. He faces the doors, scanning for any sight of you as soon as he can see into the hallway, but keeping an ear out for their words. Then what they’re saying hits him.

“I looked everywhere, Alby,” Minho’s voice is grave, even more so than last night, if Thomas had to guess. “He’s not here.”

“It’s just not like him.”

“Unless…”

“You think he saw them run into the maze and ran out there with them?”

Thomas turned suddenly, concern etched across his face. “Wait, what? What’s happening?”

Alby turns a hesitant and grave look toward Thomas. He sighs, taking a step forward. “We can’t find Chuck.”

“What?”

“Thomas-” Newt tries to interrupt, but he doesn’t hear him, his head ringing.

“Minho said he’s checked everywhere, but is there some extra place he might be hiding? Somewhere only you know about?”

“What?” Thomas repeats, shaking his head slowly.

“Thomas!” He’s jerked out of his reverie by Newt, blinking and looking directly into his eyes, realizing Newt has his hands gripping Thomas’ arms. Newt also has a slightly manic expression on his face, like disbelief and joy felt all at once. “They’re there!”

Everyone whirls around at once. The doors have just stopped opening, the silence settling around their little group as they stare into the hallway of the maze. There, they could see you and Chuck, both lying on the ground. It looked like you had made it a few steps farther than him before collapsing.

“Are they alive?” Alby asks, his voice full of incredulity. A body brushes past Thomas in his stupor, but the sight of Minho running full force into the maze shocks him into the present. He takes off just after Minho, running into the maze behind him, his heart racing fast with hope and fear in equal amounts. As Minho gets to the bodies, he hesitates as he looks between the two on the ground, then glances behind him. He locks eyes with Thomas, then nods with a stern expression, rushing over to kneel next to Chuck. Thomas throws himself down next to you.

“He has a pulse!” Minho yells out, and Thomas can see him trying to pull Chuck into his arms to drag him out of the maze. Thomas is hesitating, hands hovering above your body as it feels like his heart tries to burst out of his chest. Then he reaches for your face, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold your cold and clammy cheeks. One hand slides down, trying for a pulse.

He feels his heart race faster, if that is even possible, when he can’t find one. The longer he stares the more he sees- your pale skin, the edges of black creeping up from your clothes, the injury on your stomach that seems to not be bleeding heavily but also looks like it might be infected. It hits him out of nowhere. You were stung. His breaths come out like sobs as he reaches for a wrist, raising your right arm up toward him as he tries once again for a pulse.

It’s there, but faint. He sobs with relief, lowering down to scoop you up, looking up to meet Newt’s eyes. Newt, who has stepped inside the maze to make sure you were okay.

“They have a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.” The relief that flooded Newt’s eyes matched his own, and they both rushed out of the maze, shivering from the cold and trying to bring you somewhere that could help.

He’d never seen the group of Medjacks look so focused and no-nonsense before. And he could understand it, this wasn’t just what they’d been training this whole time for- this was also their friends. Alby helped Minho carry Chuck inside ahead of Thomas and Newt carrying you, effortlessly lifting his body and laying it down on a nearby cot. You were laid gently in a cot next to him, somehow looking even worse now than you had in the light outside. Thomas is forced back by someone’s hand, and he watches as Jeff tears into Chuck’s clothes, Hannah moving over to begin inspecting you, Clint standing next to Hannah as if sensing that you’re the more desperate case.

“He’s been stung,” Jeff says, and everyone in the room raises their heads, a small gasp emanating from Hannah.

“What?” Clint calls out angrily, skirting around the beds and looking down at Chuck’s body.

“I don’t know, it just-”

“What is it?” Alby asks, and Thomas finally realizes it’s Alby holding him back as the words bounce around his skull from such a close distance.

“No, he’s right,” Clint mutters, fully focused on inspecting Chuck. “But this doesn’t make sense. It’s stabbed all the way through and there are no black marks so the obvious conclusion is the bladed arms, but the puncture wound doesn’t support that. It pinches in, like this-” Jeff interrupts, raising a grim expression toward them.

“It looks like he’s been stung, but he’s not showing any signs of changing.”

“How is that possible?” Alby asks, and Thomas takes a step back just to get a little distance from him, wandering close to Newt and taking his hand.

“Here,” Minho calls out suddenly, digging some contraption from a bag. “[Y/N] was carrying this on their back- is this familiar at all?” He tosses it onto the bed next to Chuck, and Clint snatches it quickly, lifting it to the light. It looked like some kind of-

“The blue serum,” Clint mutters, and Jeff furrows his brow, although it’s Hannah’s voice behind Clint that speaks up.

“I thought you guys didn’t know what the blue stuff did?”

“We don’t.” Clint answers, at the same time Jeff insists,

“We didn’t.” The two Medjacks lock eyes, and then Jeff begins inspecting Chuck closer as Clint rushes toward the cabinets on the wall.

“Guys, I think we have a problem,” Hannah calls out, gently touching your stomach.

“What?” Thomas calls out, moving to step forward but being held back by Newt’s hand in his. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Hannah glances toward Thomas with pity but turns to look in Jeff’s eyes, as Clint is distracted.

“I think [Y/N] was stung too.” Jeff nods but doesn’t look surprised. Clint grunts out in annoyance, slamming a cupboard shut.

“I found it, Clint!” Jeff exclaims suddenly, excitedly, as he looks down at Chuck’s thigh. Minho draws closer, trying to inspect whatever Jeff found.

“Damn it, Hannah! Where is the damn blue serum?” She rushes over, pulling open a drawer to the side. Thomas is too far away to see what’s inside, but he watches as Clint reaches inside and pulls out a contraption that looks identical to the one he had held not too long ago. Then he fits a blue vial into it.

“What are you gonna-” Hannah begins to ask, but before anyone can react Clint has travelled back across the hut and has stabbed the injector into your thigh. Everyone reacts at the same time, except for Jeff, jumping forward with their hands out as if they could stop Clint from whatever act he felt he needed to perform. The blue in the vial slowly sinks away, and Clint pulls the injector out of their leg, huffing as if he’s out of breath.

“What the klunk was that?” Thomas yells out, his breathing starting to pick up. He can feel himself panicking, but the slow drag of Newt’s hand against his back keeps him from rushing Clint and throwing him across the room like his instincts demand. Clint turns, meeting Thomas’ eyes with determination.

“I was saving their life.” Minho turns his attention away from Chuck over to you, touching your stomach as Clint keeps his stare focused on Thomas. “At least, I hope so. I’m running off of context clues, but honestly? I’ve been curious about this damned blue serum since we started getting it.” He huffs, walking away and tossing both injectors into the bin. “We better hope it works, otherwise nothing will.”

“Hey, guys, there’s something-” Minho murmurs, pulling wads of paper out from your pocket. Thomas finally feels the resistance that had been holding him back drop away as both Newt and he walks up toward your cot. Minho is smoothing one paper out, his brows furrowing as he studies the markings on it. Newt reaches for the other, taking his hand away from Thomas to smooth out the paper as well. “This looks like-” He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “This is a copy of the map.” Thomas looks up, meeting his eyes.

“The map?”

“Of course, the map, what other map is there Thomas?” Minho looks upset, reasonably so, as he studies the paper. Thomas drops his attention down toward Newt.

“What’s yours?” Newt sighs, shaking his head.

“A letter.”

[half-deadmagicperson]

How Danny Broke His Favorite Star Projector

Hey y'all!!! This is my fic for @ecto-implosion on art by @midnightectosnack ! (WHO DID AN AMAZING JOB!)

Crossover: Danny Phantom, Hades (Videogame)

Rating: Teen (To Be Safe)

Characters: Danny Phantom, Zagreus (Hades), Cerberus (Hades), Cujo (Danny Phantom), Clockwork, Persephone (Hades), Charon (Hades)

Tags: Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Psychopomp AU

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Death Mentioned, Cannon-typical Violence

Summary: It's been a long time since Danny became a half-ghost. After the fights in Amity ended, he began a new job: guiding souls to their respective afterlives. One day, Danny stumbled upon a strange soul he's never seen before, a soul from the House of Hades.

Link to AO3

Next Chapter

Link to Midnight's Artwork!!!

   It was a pretty normal day in the Infinite Realms, well as normal as it can be. Danny had just finished up his day at work and was making his way back home. He floated in the Zone for what felt like forever. His fatigue caused his surroundings to blur. Islands, doors, staircases, a bluish spirit looking thing, more islands. Danny stopped in his tracks. He must've forgotten one.

   About seventy years ago or so, before Danny left Amity, Clockwork showed up to Danny's house with a new job. He asked Danny to help guide souls to their respective afterlives. The boy accepted the offer and began shortly after. 

   Danny walked with thousands of spirits. Some were strangers, others were a little close to home. It started with Sam's grandma, then Tucker's parents, then Sam's, then his own mother and father, then Tucker, then Sam, then Valerie, then Jazz. Eventually, everyone he ever knew passed away. Amity Park moved on, and so did Danny, well he's trying to.

    Now Danny was staring at the Blue spirit in front of him. It was definitely a soul, but it looked different than the ones he's seen before. Its face was a dark void with yellow eyes and kind of reminded him of a blob ghost, but more sentient. He should probably go to Clockwork. 

   The ghost boy floated around, soul in tow, until he approached a large clocktower.

  “Hello? Clockwork?” Danny called out into the dark entryway. He glanced around until his eyes landed on a familiar purple cloak. The boy’s mentor, currently in the form of a baby, turned around to greet his pupil. The baby’s form shifted into a frail, old man.

  “Hello, Daniel, what have you come to ask?”

  “Ok, so I was on my way back home when I came across this soul, and I don’t know which afterlife it belongs to,” Danny pointed to the blue creature next to him.

  “Ah, yes, I haven’t seen one of those souls in a very long time. This soul belongs to the House of Hades,” Clockwork moved to inspect the soul, “ Usually these souls are sent directly to Hades, but it appears this one got lost. Would you mind, Young Daniel, escorting it back to the Underworld?”

   Danny looked up at his mentor, now in the form of a young adult, and nodded. The Ghost of Time passed the boy a scroll with directions as well as a giant sack of meat. It was time to go to the Underworld.

    

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    

     In the darkness of the Underworld, the young prince prepares food for the fiercest of protectors, Cerberus the three headed hound.

  “Oh, you’re back, Old Man.” 

  Zagreus, Son of Hades, grabbed the sack of meat he prepared to feed his favorite guard dog. He walked down the cold, dry halls of the House of Hades until he reached the back of the Temple.

    The Prince wanders the halls of the House. He does not know what he shall find further ahead. Will it be a great ally? Or a deadly foe? Either way the Fates have something in store.

   “You know I can still hear you, Right?” 

   Zagreus sighed. There must be something, other than Cerberus ahead. Slowly, Zagreus crept down the hall, preparing for battle if necessary. He couldn’t believe what he saw next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Danny just finished returning the soul. He decided not to venture too deep into the Underworld, totally not out of fear, and dropped the prodigal off at the main entrance. 

   When he first arrived at the House, he heard a large growl. Cerberus, the massive three-headed hound, showed three sets of fangs to the unsuspecting ghost boy.

   Danny, not having any concept of danger, decided to treat the giant beast like he would any dog, and allowed it to give him sniffs. He floated up closer to the middle head. The creature’s giant noses created gusts of wind as it took in Danny’s scent. Danny braced himself for rejection, but instead felt a large nose bump into him, more specifically, into the bag of meat. The boy mentally thanked Clockwork, and presented Cerberus with the meat.

   In an instant, the ferocious hell-hound turned into an oversized puppy. Danny smiled as he offered the dog pets. He kind of reminded Danny of Cujo. The boy continued scratching under one of the dog's ears. He didn't hear the incoming footsteps.

  "Who the hell are you?"

   Danny whipped his head around. On the opposite side of the hallway stood a rather imposing figure. A guy, who looked just a tad older than Danny, crossed his arms and glared. He was dressed like a Greek god, and was built like one too. This was gonna be interesting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Zagreus didn't know what he was expecting, maybe some monster or a demigod or something, but it definitely wasn't a flying boy in a strange outfit. The weirdest part was that Cerberus had not attacked the intruder, in fact, the intruder was petting him? It was then that Zagreus noticed the sack of meat on the floor. Ah, bribery. Welp time to get this party started.

   "Who the hell are you?"

   The boy jolted into a defensive position. Zagreus noticed him analyzing his opponent. He was definitely a seasoned fighter, and not to be underestimated. The boy put on a nervous expression and responded:

  "I was…just leaving! Nice place you got here, uh, sir! I'll just be, uh, scooting out this gateway here."

  The culprit was trying to escape. Zagreus sighed. He may be new here, but he still must face the same justice. 

   "You are not allowed to intrude into the House of Hades, for that you must pay."

   He drew out Stygius, Blade of the Underworld.

   Danny eyed the blade carefully. It looks like there's gonna be a fight. Maybe he can talk the guy with the sword out of it?

  “We, we don't really have to fight! I can just lea-”

  Zagreus charged full-force at the stranger. The prince only had a few moments to process the glowing blue in his opponent's hand before he was met with another sword.

   Danny used his newly crafted ice sword to ward off his attacker. He eventually was able to get a lucky hit in and knock the weapon out of Zagreus's hand.

   “Could we maybe, I don't know, talk about things instead of fighting?”

   “No,” was the prince’s curt reply before drawing another weapon, a spear. Where the hell did that even come from?

   Zagreus spun the Eternal Spear into the intruder's sword. The ice shattered like glass. Looks like it was time for a new plan. 

   Danny summoned some ectoblasts and started shooting at the prince from a distance. Despite his efforts, Zagreus persisted and started backing Danny into a corner.

   Danny sighed.

   “I didn't want to have to do this, but you gave me no choice.” 

   The Underworld shook with the echoes of ghostly screaming. Stalactites cracked and crumbled onto the ground. Cerberus whined from the loud noise. Zagreus cupped his ears, yet still persisted. 

    Danny continued his Ghostly Wail until his throat was raw. Exhaustion waved over him. It's been a while since he's used that, he forgot how draining it was.

   Seeing the prince disoriented, he allowed himself to meet the floor. He couldn't fight more if he tried.

   Zagreus's ears were ringing, but he noticed his opponent was down. He did not hesitate to take the opportunity to trap the boy.

    Danny looked up at the two-pronged spear aimed at his throat.

 "WAIT!!!.....please," Danny croaked out. The prince stared down at him, refusing to let down his guard. Nevertheless, he let him continue.

  "I was sent here by my mentor to return a soul. I'm a psychopomp. I guide souls to their respective afterlives. I was on my way home when I found one of yours. I promise I never meant to intrude!"

   Zagreus looked down at the young ghost. He could be telling the truth, but he also could be lying. He scanned the boy for any indication of falsehood. He found none.

   Slowly, he let up on the ghost, refusing to break eye contact. The boy breathed a sigh of relief. 

  "Well, now that that's settled, my name is Danny, Danny Phantom, what's yours?"

[somefanficrecomendations]

Robins are an Invasive Species

Author: Havendance Fandom: Batman (comics), Huntress

Summary: Team up with a teen vigilante once and you'll never get rid of him again. Helena didn't sign up for any of this. Writing the fic I want to read, one Huntress and Robin team up at a time.

Readers Notes: This series sat in my TBR pile for months before I decided to pick it up in the hopes of reducing the size of the stack. It has 3 parts, Robins Don’t Make Great Roommates, Brothers Have the Worst Timing and, Batman for Dummies. Batman for Dummies is the longest work in the series and spans the No Man’s Land arc. I hadn’t read anything with Helena in it before this fic but after reading this I’ve gained a new appreciation for her as a character, and I love her and Tim as Batman and Robin! I love Tim, and Tim as Robin isn’t something I get to read very often. He’s difficult to write correctly, balancing the bat-competency and pragmatic realism with the optimism of a  young Robin!Tim. Havendance has done a spectacular job with these characters. If you’ve never read Huntress, this is a great place to start.

Rating: Teen  Warning: None Apply.    Words: 42,848k          Characters: Helena Bertinelli, Tim Drake, Barbra Gordon, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Additional tags: Helena Bertinelli & Tim Drake, No Man’s Land, Batman: Knightfall, Helena Bertinelli is Batman, POV Helena Bertinelli, AU-Canon Divergence, Helena Bertinelli-Centric, Canon Typical Violence

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager

Chapter 2: Chapter 2 of 1990's "Trouble with a Keen Manager" Furfur and Shax are caught up with developments down in Hell. Crowley goes to Aziraphale for laundry advice, but laundry is the least of his problems.

In Hell, a couple of demons approached the flaming acid dispenser, sneaking a bit of a break.  Shax, who still worked in Intake, was sharply turned out in a pencil skirt and 1940’s era suiting jacket in deep red, sporting stiletto heels that were registered as a lethal weapon in at least thirteen countries.  Furfur noted her lingering over her cup of acid as he hustled up from Requisitions, dying for a cuppa.  The luckless Furfur had been shunned for years, since his sting operation against Crowley had gone so terribly wrong in 1941.  But he still hoped, how he hoped, that he might get promoted, despite the horrible demotion he'd gotten some 50 years ago.

“Hello, Shax.  How's tricks?” Furfur asked hesitantly, daring to speak to her. 

“Slow,” said Shax in a clipped voice not welcoming association with the persona non grata, “There haven't been as many souls as usual coming into the department,” she added, relenting, while she sipped her acid, before asking, “You?”

Taking the opening at once, Furfur burst out to the first person who’d been willing to talk with him in ages, “I’m bein’ run off my feet!  Itemized miracle reports!  Itemized requisition reports!  Running reports and authorized requisition and revised requisition requests and revised requisition authorizations back and forth and back and forth between Usher and all of the demons he's managing on Earth! It's a nightmare!  I've never seen this sort of paperwork!  An’ he makes ‘em re-do the reports if they have any spelling or grammatical errors!  Do you have any idea how few demons know how to spell?  One demon in Italy's still tryin’ to turn in a report from last month!”  

Shax collected gossip like a magpie collected trinkets.  You never knew what might help you get ahead, even from someone like Furfur.

Shax asked neutrally, “Usher just got the promotion to manage the demons assigned to Western Europe?  Had some ideas about accountability and conserving resources?”

“Yeah, that's the one!  Got promoted for complaining ‘bout the ‘profligate and excessive use of resources’ to wage the battle on Earth,” replied Furfur eagerly.

“Wasn't he the one that made his department bring him their used pencils before he would issue new ones?” asked Shax.

“An’ that when everyone knows that pencils never get to the nub, they always disappear first,” said Furfur darkly, suffering the ignominy of stealing pencils from other departments under this new regime.

Sensing an opportunity, Shax glanced at the files clutched under Furfur's arm.  “Are those the reports that need to be delivered to Usher?”

“Yeah. Why do ya ask?” Furfur replied, surprised.

Shax held out her hand, “Let me take them.”

Furfur raised an eyebrow.

“I'm bored,” Shax said flatly.

Handing over the reports, Furfur whispered, “Let me know what you find out!” Then scurried back to his office, but not before liberating another pencil from Sins.

***

Crowley ignored the curious looks from passersby as they watched him, a blackclad suited man walking by carrying a black sheet tied up around black laundry.

As he shouldered his way into Aziraphale’s bookshop, one local resident called, “That’s a bookstore!  Not a laundromat!” 

Aziraphale looked up from his reading, as Crowley backed the door closed with his hip.

“Things have been piling up a bit, I see,” Aziraphale commented dryly, putting down his book, and standing up to lead Crowley upstairs.

Aziraphale ushered Crowley into a room with a wide table that held absolutely no books but did harbor a dizzying array of brushes, bottles, tinctures, chamois cloth, pastes, with an old fashioned iron cooking on the side.

Crowley halted in the doorway, arms full of clothing “Eh, what’s all this?”

Aziraphale bustled over to the midst of the room, slipping out of his fine three quarter length coat and twirling it onto a butler’s valet stand with a flourish then putting a couple of braces over his shirtsleeves and actually pulling on protective butler sleeves and an apron.  With a smile he turned to Crowley, “Lay them out here.  Let's see what we've got.”

Crowley handed garments over one at a time and Aziraphale tutted and clucked and started an incomprehensible babble directed at the uncomprehending Crowley.  “Well, you can see where the stain is fixed right here.  We'll try Mr Brown’s Imperturbable paste then some camphor.  And that stain.  Is that grease? Car grease? What were you doing?  Working on the Bentley with a silk shirt on?” The angel laughed at how ridiculous that was, until Crowley didn't join in, so he looked over at the demon, “You worked on a car wearing your best shirt?”

“I like that shirt! ‘S comfortable! How was I to know that black grease would show up on a black shirt!?”

Looking over a few more pieces, Aziraphale asked, “What is this?  This is ichor, isn’t it? Actual ichor!”

“If you know what it is, why’re you asking?” grumbled Crowley unrepentantly.

Staring at the demon, Aziraphale asked, “Have you ever laundered a garment, Crowley?”

Pausing thoughtfully, Crowley replied, “Nnn-no.”

“Really!? Never?” asked Aziraphale in astonishment.

Crowley appeared to be racking his memory, and finally offered up, “I did get pushed into a washing tub by a group of washerwomen once. Does that count?”

“Definitely not,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“Then, never,” said Crowley.

They looked at the pile of black and charcoal clothing that nevertheless was showing stains and wear.

Squaring his shoulders, Aziraphale dug in, “Alright. This is what you do.”

Aziraphale dove into the washing and mending, directing Crowley on the usage of the various butler's help meets arrayed before them.  The angel knew he was talking a ‘blue streak’ as he tried to impart several thousand years of knowledge.  Finally, Aziraphale looked over only to find Crowley peering at a box of powder in one hand and a tub of paste in the other, sunglasses pushed up on his head.  “And if I use this one first, it'll burn a hole in the cloth, but if I use this one it'll be perfectly, how’d you say it, ‘tickety boo.’”

“NO!!” Aziraphale snatched the solvents out of Crowley's hands.  “Those are the ones that will explode if mixed!” He set them far apart on the work table and took a deep breath, only to exclaim, “What have you been doing in that jacket!?”

“Uh.  Going about my normal day,” replied Crowley.

Pinching up a sleeve and inspecting it critically, Aziraphale complained, “How is digging in a ditch, palming a set of stage makeup, and drinking at a Middle Eastern coffee shop a normal day!?”

“Well, it is for me Mr Holmes, which is why I never went in for human laundering!  I’ve kept things tidy the traditional way, with miracles!” Crowley huffed.

“This jacket is a disgrace!  Take it off and hand it over! Go lurk in the stacks and keep the customers from the books! On second thought, hand over the shirt too, it's nearly as bad as the jacket.  You can glower at people in your undershirt.  And those slacks!” Aziraphale pointed an accusing finger at the pants.

“I'm not going to intimidate your customers in nothing but my skivvies!” Crowley shot back.

Handing over yards and yards of tartan, Aziraphale offered, “Here! You know how to wear a kilt.”

Curling his lip at the fabric and belted leather pouch, Crowley complained, “I'm not wearing this!  It's cream colored!”

“Oh for heaven's sake!” Aziraphale worked a little miracle,  “Now it’s black and green, your colors, as I recall!  Now put this on and get down there if you want me to deal with this, this…debacle!”

“I'm going.  I'm going!” Crowley said, arranging the tartan on the chaise lounge so he could shuck his slacks then lay back to deftly wrap and fold the kilt.  Strapping on the leather belt and bag, which he knew as a spog, and pinning the extra flag of tartan over his shoulder with a kilt pin he found got the kilt secured.  Rescuing a dark leather waistcoat from the pile and putting it on over his black undershirt and kilt, he stomped down the stairs barefoot in a towering temper.  It was demeaning having to wait around at the angel’s pleasure to do something that a few paltry little miracles could have achieved instantly! 

Aziraphale sighed happily, no one would stay in the shop, much less try and buy anything with Crowley in a snit like this.  Morphic resonance was already making him curse in Scottish.  Marvelous.

Clicking his teeth at the state of Crowley's favorite jacket, Aziraphale emptied all the pockets, as any good butler or officer’s batman would, though somewhat cautiously, this was a demon’s favorite jacket after all.

When he got to the breast pocket, the angel found the postcard.  Turning the piece of paper over carefully, he was surprised to find an advertisement for a book.

Why on Earth did Crowley have a book advertisement?  He’d never seemed much interested in books before.  Made him restful in the shop as Crowley never asked to take a book home.

Eyes scanning the color picture of a beautiful nebula, Aziraphale noticed the crabbed copperplate in the lower left hand corner which read:

“Temptation, ok?”

Hadn't the Americans had some spot of bother with that Handel telescope that was supposed to be the bee's knees for pictures of space?  Well good on them for fixing it, apparently! A book of pictures of stars and galaxies from the Americas, hmm.   Aziraphale had just gotten a catalog from this publisher and was even now putting together his order.  Interesting…a book about the stars that was a temptation.  Putting the advert in his own pocket, Aziraphale wondered, ‘what was it called when an angel tempted a demon?’

Crowley prowled the bookshop in his bare feet, since the angel had whisked away his shoes while he was distracted with the kilt.  This was his chance to steal the book (stealing was definitely permitted), but he couldn't find the bloody thing anywhere.  He'd searched the downstairs shelves, the upstairs shelves, the public section, the stacks of books in corners, the stacks of folios in boxes.  When a delivery man came by, Crowley had even snatched the box out of his hands, excited to see the Yankee publishing company logo only to be disgusted to find nothing but novels.  There were astronomy books in the shop, technical manuals for the astute gentleman with a Newtonian sixteen inch telescope, copies of Galileo's works (poor man, Crowley had enjoyed their conversations and still felt a pang of anger about how the Church had dealt with him).  Encyclopedias with some lovely pictures from the satellite probes, but no new Hubble telescope books in glorious color.  About the corners of the shop, he thought he glimpsed the kind of portals to other bookshops and libraries that this much information compressed into one place could cause.  But he was blessed if he was going to troop around other dimensions trying to find his star atlas.  Crowley wanted the bloody pictures of the sodding universe that he'd help make!  Not some other, inferior universe that might not even have had the good sense to make a Horsehead nebula!

When a gaggle of giggling University students straggled in, he snarled at them, “He probably hasn't got it, and he wouldn't sell it to you if he did! Push off!” But, apparently, even his license to menace had been revoked.  They kept giggling!

“Pity about the book, but you're cute.  Fancy a shandy over the road?” one young lady proposed.

“Cute? Cute!!?? I'm old enough to be…to…do you even…? Shandy? Out! Out, out, out, the lot of you!”

Still giggling, they sashayed out.  One stage whispering to the other, “I like a bloke in a kilt!”  

“Do you think he wears it Regimental?” another stage whispered back.

So not in the mood for fielding that sort of attention, Crowley locked the shop door and leaned against it.  What was going on?  Fretfully, he tried to miracle the blinds shut.  Nothing happened. So he pulled the blinds by hand.  Where were those miracles he’d requisitioned?  Was he reduced to requisitioning a creeping sense of dread, that was like, dead basic demoning!  Trying and failing to produce dread, menace, avarice, or even strong distrust, Crowley rummaged desperately in Aziraphale’s desk for paper and pen, only to give himself an awful papercut.

Staring at the beads of red blood on his finger as the wound refused to heal, Crowley wrote out another list of what he needed to do his damned job.

[goggledboi]

Heya, you ever miss those old creepypasta slendermansion vibes? Me too, thus why I made this ask blog!

I'm a Tobias/Toby fictkin and I thought it'd be fun to make a ask rp blog of him.

I will do my best to be in my version of the character. (Which isn't too different from how people majority portray him)

Rules and extra information under the cut.

Check frequently, I may change these randomly.

Also check bottom of post for annon claims so theirs no confusion, thank you!

Rules:

No NSFW/NSFT. I'm uncomfortable with it

No shipping involving Toby (Same reason as above)

Be kind, I don't accept hate

Remember this is my version of the character, not 100% the original cannon character

You are also allowed to ask questions in character from these fandoms: Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, and EveryManHybrid

You're allowed occasionally to ask questions to mod/out of character

Toby:

While he's still 80% the original version, I did change minor personality things. In this he's going to be 19 (because I'm 19). He still has his disorders (except Bipolar, I'm swapping that with Borderline personality disorder since I suffer from that as well as ADHD and can portray how I handle them) , I might portray him as paranoid depending on asks. I will have the slendermansion be mentioned, if you don't like it DNI I'll block and ignore hate. He is a proxy of slenderman, but in this AU Hoodie(Hoody) and Masky aren't in the mansion, but know Toby and he knows them. I changed my mind and just decided they don't live in the mansion but live in a abandoned cabin close to the mansion.

Ben (In this version he's 18), Jeff, Slenderman, Sally, ext... Are in the mansion though. You can ask about any of them, but it will be Toby answering about them, not the other characters.

⚠There is times where I may mention bullying, blood, violence, mental illness, and other things typical to the cannon violence of the fandom. Just a warning for all of that, read at your own risk. ⚠

Asks will be responded like this:

No, I actually don't love waffles. I am a fan of them though! They just aren't my favorite.

Oh and try to read tags, sometimes I put funny things or lil blurbs. Well, that's a I can think of right now. I may add to this if needed, but for now have fun! -🌲🦊

Can't wait to talk to you!

(Annon claims/ones that have been used so far:

-Jack👁

-💜anon/💜annon

– 👁👓

- ✖️🔥)

[ohnonotthehorrors]

Goodbye

I’m in a Rancher’s mood so take this 600 word drabble.

TW death, TW strangulation, TW death idolization, (sort of, it’s a ‘cannon typical’ levity)

“No- no no no no no” Desperately, Jimmy scrambles back, the wood of his shield splintering. “You can’t- NO”

It’s his ‘Do Not Eat That’ voice that he uses on moody cows. Scolding and firm in a frustratingly endeared kind of way. But now it’s shriller, the end turned high pitched.

Because an Enderman isn’t a cow, it doesn’t stop.

Long jagged fingers tear through his shield, leaving him clutching at a handle, furious purple gashes torn down his forearm. Maw unhinged and gaping it leans toward him, endless void where it’s throat and mouth should be.

Desperately, he tries to force himself backward. Twigs and sticks tear at his clothes, his feet trip over holes in the hill side. With a sickening twist of dread he realizes he can’t back up further, can’t get out of it’s reach.

“Not like this-” It’s laughably easy for the giant hands to catch around his throat, slender fingers wrapped entirely around as they squeeze.

Tears well in his eyes instantly; hands scrambling at its hold as his feet lift off the ground, kicking wildly. Mouth flapping he tries desperately to drag air passed his collapsed throat.

There is nothing like suffocating to death.

You would think it’d be fire, or lava, that’s the worst way to die. You’d be wrong. Fire burns hot, an unimaginable pain that vanishes with your dying nerves as fast as it arrived. Nothing like getting struck by lightning; that kills you so fast all you’re left with is the ache of respawn.

Bleeding out isn’t… terrible, not good but not the worst. It feels a bit like being drained, falling asleep even, if you can ignore the slight sting along your skin. (Did you know your internal organs can’t sense pain like your skin? Entirely different nerves.)

Poison is bearable as long as you have the right batch. The wrong one… well at least it isn’t getting pricked to death. That’s just embarrassing.

Even drowning is better than being suffocated. Yes, your lungs burn but taking that final gasp full of water is almost… relieving.

(Jimmy’s personal favorite way to die is via kinetic energy. It nocks you out before you feel a thing)

With suffocating there’s nothing to lessen the helplessness. No point where you can breathe in and know ‘it’s over, it’s okay, you can give up.’ There’s just desperate adrenaline, wind pipe screaming under the pressure as your organs fail. Quivering and tingly, like a limb fallen asleep.

The last thing Jimmy sees is eyes. Streaky and hazy, black spots overtaking the fuzz that comes from peering through tears.

(They’re just the wrong shade of purple)

“Void. Tango, I’m so sor-”

Beneath his fingers the Endermen’s claws turn to scratchy bed sheets, mangled by his hands tearing across the cloth. Gasping, fights past the ringing in his ears.

“-ry.”

Slowly, the room stops spinning. It’s wooden, kinda dusty, carriage wheels and holsters hang on the walls. The wood is different from the Ranch- it’s the wrong color. And these blankets are the type Tango hates. He insisted they switch them for the more malleable ones months ago.

Where is he? Did he forget to set his spawn- did someone manage to build whatever… this is around the world spawn?

Swinging his legs around he struggles to sit up, nearly crashing face first into a side table leant against the bed. A side table with a cow boy hat and sheriff badge resting on it.

Right.

Nearly uncomprehending he stares at the badge, it’s innocent metal glimmering in the moonlight. Something like grief creeps up into his chest, squeezing his lungs. It’s vines spiny and thick.

Right.

He’s on Empires. In Tumble Town. Where he’s the sheriff. Because he died first. Again.

There’s a lot he could do, a lot he could think, with that. A lot he could get angry over, could yell and scream and seethe because that just wasn’t- It just wasn’t fair.

And he will. Later.

Now, all that’s running through his head is a single whispered thought:

“I didn’t get to say goodbye”

[mothbagel]

Enthralled by Absolute Superman’s Brainiac; bro is doing some Hayes code shit and I am here for it

1) It seems like he’s naked

2) SCRUMPTIOUS NEW TOY??!!!! TF????

Now, I don’t know as much as I should about Brainiac (my DC knowledge lies in mostly Gotham and Watchmen) but if they’re setting up some homoerotic shit with Superman and Brainiac I am more than into it

[andy-solo1]

A Moment In Time [Peter Parker x Reader]

Pairing: Andrew Garfield Peter Parker x GN! Reader

Words: 741

Warnings: Angst, mentions of character death, cannon typical violence

*****

Peter’s arms were wrapped tightly around you in a near choking embrace, and, if you hadn’t seen the expression on his face before he’d pulled you close, then you would have joked about him using his spider strength to try and crush you to death. 

That expression, when you called out his name and he turned to look at you, his face had gone white, the colour drained from him. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. He looked like he saw someone back from the dead. He looked different, from how you’d seen him just earlier that day. Older, more hardened than he once had been. 

It was only when you felt a tear fall from his face onto the bare skin of your neck did you finally break the silence hanging in the air. 

“Peter? What’s going on? I just saw you, when I went to help you fight Max. How did we end up here?” 

He didn’t respond, only tightened his grip around you as more tears fell against your skin. 

“Peter?” You asked again after a few moments. “What happened?” You asked, more urgency and desperation in your tone. 

“You died.” Peter whispered softly against you. A shiver of cold dropped into your gut and the breath felt like it dropped out of your lungs. You should have been denying the statement, but you knew Peter, he rarely lied to you, if he did it was to protect you. He’d never lie to you about something like this. 

“How?” You asked breathlessly, liking your lips, suddenly feeling like you hadn’t drank in years. “What happened?”

He lets out a shaky breath before speaking. “After we stopped Max, Harry, my- my friend Harry showed up in a suit with a glider. He was so angry that I never gave him my blood to- to save him, so he grabbed you and flew up high with you.” 

You wracked your brain, but you remembered nothing of the young Osborn coming for you. “What then?” You asked quietly.  His arms tightened impossibly more around you and he let out a small sob before his next words. 

“I tried to save you. I tried so hard to catch you when you fell, but I was too late. You fell too far and when I finally caught you…it was too late, I was too slow. You snapped your neck when you hit the ground.” He whispered, his voice breaking at the end. You stood in stunned silence as the confession hovered around you. 

“It wasn’t your fault Peter.” You whispered softly, even as disbelief stirred around in your mind, though you knew deep down it was all true. “You tried to save me, and I could never blame you for that. But, how am I here?” 

He finally let go of you, enough to look you in the eyes, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “It took me a long time to realise that you wouldn’t blame me for what happened. I still do, but it’s not as bad as it had once been. As for how you’re here, well, that’s a longer story.” 

You listened as Peter explained to you about the multiverse, and how himself, Max Dillon, Dr. Conners, and some other version of Peter Parker and villains he’d fought had been pulled together into the universe of a third Peter Parker and they were all trying to save the villains before finding a way home. 

“I want to help you guys.” You told Peter once he finished explaining it all. 

“No, I lost you once because you wanted to help. I’m not losing you again.” He pleaded. 

“Peter.” You whispered softly, making him look down at you with such a sad expression you could hardly bear to get out your next words. “Hun, odds are, you will lose me again, when we go home.” 

He shook his head, tears slipping out again. “No, please, there has to be a way to help you too.” 

You raised a hand and caressed his cheek, forcing his gaze to meet yours. You placed a soft delicate kiss against his lips. 

“Peter, it’s going to be okay. If you do lose me again, at least you have this chance, this moment to spend with me. One last time. I love you.” You whispered. He smiled sadly and pulled you close again. 

“I love you too.” He replied softly. “I always have.”