#crawford

[gay-o-l]

[keepingitneutral]

Crawford Studiolo, Toronto, Canada,

Anya Moryoussef Architect,

Photo credit: Scott Norsworthy

[greenjellybeanfish]

[ "What is happening to me?" ]

4k bg texture by swzydzn on twitter

[pastelfable]

i dont remember where this meme comes from but it kills me every time

[plsabdctme]

[5uwabbit]

Crawford 🔥🔥🔥

[postcard-from-the-past]

Joan Crawford on a vintage postcard

[painsandconfusion]

Off Guard

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Thirty-eight

(tw: electrocution, escape attempt, concussion, torture, death mention, murder mention, plotting murder, handcuffs, stun gun, blood, beating, unintentional self harm (bloody knuckles)) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Ethan’s fingers tingled as he walked, flicking them against each other by his side to stave off the sensation as he moved down the hall. 

He didn’t want to be too loud. Not tonight. The light was off in Nate’s room, so the bastard must finally be getting some half decent sleep. No reason to wake him and have the idiot trying to take over the scene. Again.

He shoved open the workshop doors, ignoring the slight grinding whine the hinges gave off - though still subconciously noting to add some kind of oil or whatever the fuck you do with hinges later. As the lights snapped on, the pitiful lump of a man in the middle of the room curled into his chains, a small sound of displeasure coming off of him.

“What, were you sleeping? I’m sorry-” Ethan stepped up to him, almost delicately pressing a foot down onto a dried slurry of blood that gashed over Crawford’s thigh. 

“Hnn-stopstto-”

“Hmm… I dunno, maybe beg a little more and see if it puts me in a good mood?” The edges of his mouth seemed to shift, tugging like curtains pulled by a string on the other side of the room to coax a smile out of him. 

Getting there, at least.

It was an almost completely forgotten sensation. Smiling without meaning to. It pulled an entirely different set of muscles than the simple, polite curve he gave to people he wanted to shut up or leave him alone. Different than the ruse he put on or the sarcastic toothy grin he threw in Nate’s direction in place of a verbal response. This was something different entirely. Like a little parasite had carved up inside his cheek and gnawed at the thin strands of muscle until they tightened like strings of a violin, ready for the steady screech of rosin to truly set them alight.

“Y’mdnr-”

“Hmm~?” Ethan’s foot ground in further, leaning in to see Crawford’s face as the man squished it against the cement. 

Another incoherent slurry of sound pressed from the man’s throat, still curled into a ball around the spot where the shackle lashed him to the ground. 

Ethan rolled his eyes, pushing off the man with a small kicking shove before crouching down and squirming his hand into the knotted ball of a man to grab his jaw. Twist him round. Hear his neck crackle with the fresh movement after nights sleeping on cement.

“Use your words,” he prompted, forefinger alone relenting the grip to taptaptap on Crawford’s jaw.

.PaiN.

Pain.

Ethan knew pain.

Close friends as they were for so many years, it was strange he found himself at a loss for its name when it reared its ugly head once more, overwhelming his mind in a single snap of blank, processing emptiness.

Ethan felt the echoing crack as his head hit the concrete, remnants of what he was finally recognizing as electricity buzzing down his twitching legs.

Some strangled growl ripped up his throat as he tried to right himself enough to grab for the man who was shoving on top of him, but his arms were slow - groggy from sleeplessness, shock and lost, aimless electrons trying to find their way underground. 

He shoved at Crawford only to feel the prongs of the stun gun shoved hard into his collarbone, burning agony through the skin and crackling as if eating through the bone itself as he thrashed to shove the searing pain away.

My name is Ethan Scott. The mantra lit up the back of his skull without prompt or ask. It was just there.

It begged him to fall stoic. To sit still and take it. Be tough. Be a good b-

No.

No-

NO.

My name is Ethan Scott and you cannot break me.

He won’t sit still- he can’t. Taking it isn’t strength right now, taking it is defeat.

Crawford was the one in chains today. 

Ethan’s hands scrabbled for Crawford’s arm, finally knocking the thing off of his flesh with a roaring gasp, shoving the other man off of him as best he could. 

Knuckles snapped against his nose, crunching it back. Some dull part of his mind calculated that that wasn’t even half the force of Crawford’s normal blows, but it locked up his mind anyway, pushing his gaze hazy and blurred as heat snapped across his sinuses and exploded behind his eyes. 

There was blood. He could taste it.

Shoving numbly, he was barely keeping up enough to track the bastard’s fingers knotting into his hair and slamming his head into the ground. Again. Again. Again-

And it stopped.

The weight lifted off of him in a blur of white and charcoal grey, sound muffling to the side. 

Ethan shoved back, hand moving to his face to press against the bleeding and squeeze his eyes shut to will vision to return to him. His head was spinning, like he was about to tip over and crack against the ground again. 

He shoved it back. Forced his eyes open and made them focus on the sounds and movement to his left as he shoved himself up on an elbow to squint at the unknown blur.

It took a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. 

Nate was a cheerful kind of bitch. The asshole whose smirk you could never wipe off. The life of the party. Class clown. Charmer. No matter how many screams he ripped out of Ethan, he did it with a gentle, almost seductive tone, grinning, smirking, or smiling almost fondly. He’d only seen Nate angry the once. When they’d met for the second time. 

But this savage blur in front of Ethan’s bleary eyes had him wondering if he was knocked into a dream. Blood splattered up Nate’s face from the sheer force of his hits as he drove his fist into Crawford’s face again and again, snapping it back and forth against the unforgiving cement. He didn’t even have to pin the man down - the whelp on the floor couldn’t do anything but try to throw his arms up in front of the blows, shielding his face. 

Nate didn’t seem to care. He hit them too. Silent yet somehow screaming a rage tha echoed through Ethan’s skull.

Ethan sat there for several long seconds, trying to blink away the mirage in front of him before it slowly sharperned into clarity. It was really happening. 

A dull thought finally graced his addled mind. He’s going to kill him.

Immediately a panic pressed up through Ethan’s veins like acid, snapping him to attention and the closest thing to lucidity his star-studded mind could handle. He shoved up to his knees and flopped forward to tackled Nate off of the man. “St- sstop- STOP!”

Nate shoves at Ethan, trying to throw him off enough to get back to Crawford. Ethan could practically see the red smeared over Nate’s eyes as he shoved the man’s hands away, fogged body easily ignoring the nails slicing blood from his arms in their desperation to return to their proper target.

“NATE STOP.” Ethan finally just grabbed Nate’s face, forcing it toward him. 

Nate’s eyes stayed on Crawford, but he did slow, chest heaving and teeth barred like some kind of animal.

“..that’s enough-!”

Nate tried to shove off the words along with his hands. “He w-”

“I get to kill him. Me. Not you. Me.” 

Nate’s breath stuttered off its ragged rhythm, and his jaw set, lips pinched tight as a glare snapped to Ethan’s eyes at last. 

In a surrendering kind of huff, he shoved Ethan off of him again. This time Ethan let himself roll to the side, lying with shallow, echoing breath on the ground as Nate shoved out the workshop doors at a brisk walk, sticky hand leaving a smear of blood like claw marks over the edge of the door.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @wormwriting @distinctlywhumpthing @whump-cafe @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta  @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions-deactiva @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @pickywhumpreader @whumpberry-cookie @morning-star-whump @nailevislev @throwawaywhumper @the-mourning-star @d-cs @pigeonwhumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @snakebites-and-ink @whumpedydump @orphans-parent @whumplr-reader @rainbowsandwhumperflies @starfields08000 @sunnyesunny @crystallizedme @lumpofsand @taterswhump)

As always, lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!

[eyeaart]

AND FINISHED!!!! Thank you everyone who sent a character!!!

[undeadorion]

Fall to be Free

Chapter 1 — The Door

Fandoms: Ghost (the band), original characters

Word count: 5,010

Warnings: cults, satanism, brief descriptions of abuse

So I wrote the most self indulgent thing. I AU’ed Ghost into my own world with my OCs. Because I had to.

The world is the setting of a comic I’ve been working on (I’ve had the characters for like 20 years). The basic concept is that it’s the late 90s in a slightly sci-fi-ish version of our world. And people with special abilities are common place. So the Papas (who are each their own person, not played by Tobias in this world but still a band) have some very special powers.

Dane drags Crawford to a small Ghost show at a record shop, and Crawford gets the Cirice treatment. Totally on accident and by chance.

Crawford followed Dane towards whatever the other had in mind. Dane hadn’t exactly explained what they were doing. A lot of rambling, a mention of making a “few stops” before hitting their usual bar. The fact that they were out at 3 in the afternoon left Crawford suspicious that these few stops would not be quick. He was more irritated that Dane thought he had to be sly to get Crawford to go anywhere with him than being simply outright. “Hey, let’s hit the record store for a while” is so much easier to say than the ten minute lead up he got instead. 

Because the record store was exactly where Dane led him. Crawford didn’t even realize that’s where they were until Dane was opening the door. He should have recognized it, he was here nearly every week, but the street was usually rather quiet. It was a hole-in-the wall sort of place, the door tucked away in an alcove so shadowed it looked like the service entrance for the restaurant around the corner on the more main road. Except today the street was teaming with people. A large bus dominated the parking spaces across the street, the sort of private affair with fancy cloth seats. Every other parking spot was filled as well, with people hangout out between and around the cars, on the sidewalks, even in the street. 

There were quite a few among the loiterers in black and white face paint. Metal heads, he thought, just as the pounding bass from inside the store hit his ears. The dread hit him that Dane was trying to drag him into some sort of concert. But Dane wasn’t into metal of any kind, not even in the slightest. Was the show just a coincidence?

“You can wait out here if you want,” Dane was saying, the door only open a crack. “There’s a shit ton of people in there, and I know how you feel about that sort of thing.” As he spoke, he pulled the door open a bit more. 

Crawford cocked his head to the side as he could hear the music better. It had a clarity he wasn’t expecting. The singer was neither screaming nor growling, and their voice easily lifted above the instruments. He couldn’t pick out the actual lyrics with all the noise on the street, but he could hear enough that it made him curious why this music had attracted the crowd gathered outside. 

Inside wasn’t any better. People crushed in shoulder to shoulder, making the already poorly ventilated store hot and damp. There was just enough space at the back to squeeze between the writhing crowd and the rack of CDs and records. People trod on his boots and knocked into him, but he just shoved them back into the crowd and they didn’t seem to notice. 

When Dane finally stopped at section of cassettes (it’s all his car could play), Crawford was able to catch his breath. It was an awkward corner where people hadn’t quite squeezed into. At the other side of the store, he could see the band that was the cause for such chaos. It couldn’t even really be called a band, really. It was just three people. The singer flanked by two men in masks, one with a guitar and the other a bass. The singer was almost entirely monochromatic in stark blacks and whites, except for the small portions of visible skin. Black hair, black jacket, white shirt, and his face painted vaguely to resemble a skull with bold geometric shapes. He spoke to the audience with a thick accent, something about it being his first time, only to clarify he meant in this city. This transitioned into the next song somehow, a very different style than the last. He was still wrapping his head around the tonal shift, when the singer pulled out something from his pocket, the yellow object standing out starkly against his white gloved hand. 

The sound of a kazoo floated out over the music, leaving Crawford completely and utterly baffled. Even more confusing was the reaction of the crowd. They screamed and howled as if it was the best thing they’d ever seen. Even though Crawford could only see them from behind, there were marks of it being a more hardcore crowd. A lot of black clothes and metal spikes, and patches as crudely sewn as his own. One guy bellowed “HAIL SATAN!” from somewhere in the crowd. All in response to a man playing a kazoo in the middle of a song that used the word “zombie” a lot. 

He turned to Dane to ask how much longer he would be, only to find the other not even looking at the tapes. Sure, he hand his hands on them, but he was half turned so he could look over his shoulder at the man on stage. Whatever harsh words were on Crawford’s tongue died immediately. He’d never seen his friend make such an expression. It almost like Dane were in pain, a deep and unspeakable pain, but softer. Even in the poor lighting of the alcove, his eyes glistened as if threatening to shed tears. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. 

Dane wasn’t exactly a brave person. He often needed a chaperone to do anything even remotely social. The idea of squeezing into a small record shop full of devil worshiping metal fans wasn’t something he could do alone. And Dane knew Crawford wouldn’t willingly walk into such a situation either. But it was obvious this was some band that Dane liked enough to even take a risk on it. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Crawford growled, before grabbing Dane by the shoulder and shoving him toward the crowd. He let out a yelp of protest before he disappeared into the crush of bodies. He’d be fine. Probably.

But before Crawford could step back to the safety of the alcove, someone bumped into him from behind. Half a step forward was all it took before he was also absorbed into the crowd. The zombie kazoo song had ended and everyone was jostling for the singers attention, shouting responses to questions Crawford couldn’t hear. It seemed that his every attempt to push back toward safety cause the crowd to surge and push him deeper. In desperation, his fingers clawed toward painted faces and studded leather. But no one seemed aware of him, enraptured in whatever was being said. 

No, the music had started up again. Softly at first. A few bass notes dropped and a stillness rippled through the crowd. Just for a moment, everyone hushed in anticipation. As the instruments started in earnest, the stillness broke and everyone crushed even closer. 

Suddenly, open space. 

Crawford froze, hands gripping some sort of rail. He was at an edge of the crowd. But he was still trapped. Before he could even begin to think of which way was out, he realized it wasn’t just any rail. All he registered in the song was the word “rumble” before his eyes focused on the shiny black shoes mere inches from his hands. Black shoes, white spats, black pants. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the shoes, expecting to see the singer looking out over the whole crowd. But instead, he found himself staring directly into that painted face. No, not just his face. He wasn’t addressing the front row. He was staring directly into the man’s mis-matched eyes. 

“I can see the scars inside you.”

It was just a line from the song, but somehow it felt as if the man were speaking to him and only him. His gaze unwavering. A gloved hand gesturing as if to say “this is about you, only you. No one else.”

Crawford felt something in his chest. His heart pounding like a caged bird desperate to escape. No longer aware of the sweaty bodies crushing against him. Barely aware of the music. It was just him and the man who was so recently wielding a kazoo. 

Even as he saw nothing but that starkly painted face, he had the oddest sensation he was standing in a hallway. A hallway lined with doors of different styles. Some had windows, some even stood open. He had the sense they could all be opened with just a touch. Except one. The one directly in front of him. He knew, the way one knows things in dreams, that it had always just been an empty wall. That this wasn’t a place where a door was, despite being the only stretch of blank wall in the entire corridor. But now…now there were cracks in the paint. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the cracked and peeling paint. Pieces fell away, larger than such a gentle touch should have caused. They cracks grew, spreading the cascade of old, dry paint and rust. There stood a door. A massive, metal door held shut with a rusted iron lock. Scratched into the metal was a large symbol, off center and crooked. Newer than the door itself, but the lines still starting to rust. Two intersecting lines, with an incomplete circle around the point where they crossed. Above it, something else was scratched into the metal. Words of some sort? He ran his fingers over them, but before he could begin to make them out an elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

The dream? Illusion? Hallucination? burst like a bubble. In that split second of awareness, he could have sworn there was a blue glow in the man’s white eye. Maybe it was just the lights glinting. He was also aware that he hadn’t just reached out in the dream. The singer had dropped to one knee and was gripping Crawford’s hand firmly. But that vanished as quickly as the strange dream, as a young woman had been the one to bruise his ribs in an attempt to offer her own hand to the singer. 

As Crawford stumbled back, dazed, he swore he saw fury in the man’s face, his dark upper lip curling into a snarl as the young woman waggled her long painted nails at him, begging for him to hold her hand, too. It was a fleeting moment as she was quickly ignored, the singer smoothly moving back to his feet to continue the song as if nothing had happened. It was the same song, still. Surely he had stared at that illusory door for longer than it would take to finish  a song, but he had the sense it hadn’t even been the length of an entire verse.

He could feel the memory of the door fading, like trying to hold water in his hands, the way dreams fade so very fast. No, this was different. Usually he could hold on to a piece or two, but it was as if the memory were being sucked away down a drain as he desperately tried to hold on to some piece of it. He let the crowd push and pull him, drifting like a rudderless boat on the water, as he tried to remember what he’d seen. A door where there wasn’t a door? That didn’t make sense. A message? Scratches? A symbol of some sort? He felt as if it were staring him in the face but he couldn’t place it. Like a shape taunting him from the corner of his vision that wasn’t there when he turned. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Dane’s voice cut through the noise as his fingers dug into Crawford’s arm. 

“What?” was all Crawford could manage. 

Dane managed to pull them both the rest of the way through the crowd and into the safety of the alcove once more. 

“How the hell did you get all the way up there?!” Dane managed to sound giddy and devastated at the same time. “And to be chosen like that…” He let out a whimpering sigh that was probably meant to be exaggerated or sarcastic, but even Crawford could see the envy in it. 

“What’s the big deal? I tripped. He probably thought I was reaching for him or something.”

“No!” Dane scolded. “It’s a whole thing. He only does it to one person per show! Not only cause what the song is about but it’s what happened in the music video. Papa picks one person to sing to like they’ve been chosen as someone special. Half the people in that crowd would trade vital organs to have been in your place.”

“So it’s just an act? It’s not like some mind control shit?” He still couldn’t shake that vague memory of doors. 

“It’s ALL an act,” Dane said with a scoff, as if it should be obvious. “Papa Emeritus III, the anti-pope of a satanic cult using music to overthrow governments and take over the world.” He let out a chuckle as if it were ridiculous to even consider something like that were real. “It’s all a schtick, but it’s pretty fucking hot.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing.” He glanced back to the stage and could have sworn the singer was watching him over the heads of everyone else. No, it couldn’t be.

“Hell yeah,” Dane said, wistfully as he watched the singer. “I’d let that man break me in half and I’d thank him for it.” He started detailing things he’d do for the singer, with increasing lewdness. But Crawford barely heard a word of it. He had the unsettling sense that every time the singer cast his gaze across the crowd, it lingered on himself. And not just for a brief moment. For entire lines of a song, it felt. That was impossible. He was a nobody and he didn’t even care about this band, so why would he even suspect a thing like that?

“What’s that symbol?” He asked, so suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure for a moment where the curiosity came from.

“What symbol?” Dane said, shaken out of his perverse musings.

“This!” Crawford grabbed the sleeve of a man’s jacket. On his shoulder was a sort of upside down cross symbol that struck Crawford like a punch to the gut. 

“Fuck off!” The man to whom the jacket belonged, jerked his arm away from Crawford.

“That’s just one of the band’s logos,” Dane said with a shrug, obviously not seeing anything deeper in it. 

Was that why it was familiar? Because now Crawford could see it was everywhere in the shop. On patches and necklaces and mingled into the promotional artwork hung on the walls. He shook his head as if he could shake off the weird feeling that it was important somehow. 

———

The rest of the show was only a few more songs. Needing time to think, Crawford convinced Dane he’d be fine and to actually go enjoy himself. What he really wanted to do was slip outside for a smoke. But something told him to stay there. That he was missing something. He wasn’t the sort to give a shit about celebrities, and this guy wasn’t even proper famous. Half a step above a basement show where no one cared about who the band was as long as they played something decent. So why the hell did he feel like the singer was actively watching him? It wasn’t necessarily a feeling of paranoia, but something twisted in his gut. Why couldn’t Jackie be here? She’d knock some sense into him and call him a paranoid idiot for it.

Finally, the singer went into some ramble about orgasms as a lead up to a song about a clock. At least that’s as far as Crawford could tell. He wasn’t paying very close attention, trying to shake off the feeling he was being watched and the relief that he could leave this surreal experience behind him. 

As the singer said his goodbyes, bowing and blowing kisses to the crowd, Dane staggered out of the loosening crowd. He was a sweaty mess, shaking slightly from exertion, but looking like he was having the time of his life. “Thanks, man,” Dane said with such genuine gratitude it seemed like he might cry. “I mean it, I really, really mean it.” He leaned on Crawford in a sort of half hug. Crawford suspected it was mostly to keep from falling over. 

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he said, an arm across Dane’s back to guide him towards the door. But he didn’t get two steps before bumping into a wall of black. A wall of black topped in silver. 

Two figures dressed like the musicians who had been on stage stood before them, stock still and facing them. These two definitely hadn’t been the ones on stage, both considerably wider in a way that suggested pure muscle. 

“You mind making room, assholes?” Crawford growled. He tried to step to the side, only to be met with another masked man. Both he and Dane staggered, stepping back to find another way only to discover another three behind three behind them. Six in total, boxing them in. All six facing them, and letting everyone else flow around them.

Rough, strong hands grabbed them from all sides, half dragging them through the dispersing crowd. No one seemed to take notice of this, chatting and celebrating amongst themselves. Ignoring Crawford and Dane’s shouts of protest as the masked goons forced them toward the back of the record shop. 

The fresh air should have been a welcome relief as they passed into the narrow alley out back, but all Crawford felt was a rising terror. Especially as he saw where they were headed. The singer stood there, talking with the two masked men from the stage as they packed up their instruments. He held a cigarette in his gloved fingers, looking as casual as if they were all just friends and there weren’t six men dragging people out to be presented to him.

“Oh, there you are,” the man with the painted face said, his voice just as accented as it had been on stage. Maybe that part wasn’t an act. 

“What’s the meaning of this!?” Crawford demanded, trying to pull free of the men who held him, but their grip didn’t budge. 

“Papa…” Dane breathed out. “It’s an honor…”

“You, my friend,” the singer said, pointing with his cigarette toward Crawford, “Have quite the gift. And you can’t even see it.”

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” Crawford growled. If the man behind him weren’t so tall, he could have nailed him in the balls with the heel of his boot to make him let go. He doubted a blow to the shins or knees would even be felt.

“That little song of mine, it’s…well, it’s mostly metaphor. A bit of exaggeration. But like with all forms of art, some parts of it are completely true.” A faint smile played over his lips as he regarded the two held captive before him. “The part that’s true is I can see into people’s hearts. Truly.”

“Fuckin’ exo…” Crawford didn’t care that people had abilities that he’d never have access to, but he hated when they acted like they were somehow special. Exos, phenoms, moxies, specials, metahumans, whatever term was used, it didn’t mean they were extra ordinary. Some people could do advanced calculus in their heads, some people could paint, some people can create fire with their bare hands. It didn’t make them special. 

“Do you often speak of yourself with such derision?” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ exo,” Crawford snapped. “He is,” he nodded to Dane. His friend who could change shape at all, but usually just turned into some sort of dog.

Dane was about to say something, but the singer placed a single gloved finger on Dane’s lips and he fell utterly silent. “Oh yes, I am aware of this,” he said, leaning closer to Dane’s face. “And so very eager.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper, “If you’re a good boy, you might have a chance to show your appreciation for your Papa…” he leaned closer still, his painted lips brushing Dane’s ear as he whispered something Crawford couldn’t hear.

Swallowing hard, Dane nodded, his face completely flushed. “Y-yes, Papa…” his voice trembled as he spoke. 

“But you,” he turned back to Crawford. “I can tell simple devotion is not in your…” he gestured vaguely with the cigarette. “…nature, as it were.”

“Get to the point, old man.” The more he spoke, and at this distance in the natural light, Crawford could more clearly tell the age beneath the makeup. The stark black and white did a lot of work to mask it, but there were deep lines in his face, especially around his eyes. From the back of the record shop, Crawford would have placed the man closer to his own age of 26. But at this distance it was obvious he was more than double that age. 

The man gave a slight nod as if it were a statement of fact and not an insult. He took a slow drag off his cigarette before continuing. “You remember the door, do you not?”

Crawford was barely aware of Dane asking “what door?” as he felt the floor drop out from under his feet. The memory had almost completely faded, and now rushed back with shocking clarity. 

“Ah, now you do remember. These doors you see, they’re all those things that make you, well, you.” As the man spoke, Crawford had the sense of walking side by side with him along that corridor of doors. “You have a lot of anger in here, do you not? But it is not without reason. Oh…” As if the man were peeking into a room that Crawford could not see into. “You are quite the talented musician yourself, Crawford Stone.” Hearing the man speak his name without even a vague introduction made it fell all too real, like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. “Let us hope you do not take my job, huh?” 

A sound emanated from the masked men at the joke. A sarcastic sort of laughter. It was the first sound any of the had made and it lasted only a moment. 

“But that is not what we are here for, no.” He stepped closer, his back rigid and yet only coming up to about Crawford’s chin. Fingers grazed that chin, such a gentle touch yet forcing Crawford to look down into the man’s eyes. There were no stage lights here, yet there was that strange blue glint in the white eye. “No, we are here for a very special door.” 

In a sudden breathless flash the scene was as real as the alley. He and the man stood before the metal door marked inexplicably with a crude version of the band’s inverted cross logo. “This door!” the man exclaimed, gesturing to it with both hands. “Well, the door is not special. It is the thing behind this ugly thing that is special.”

“Why is it here?” Crawford’s head swam with questions. In a way he understood what he was seeing. There weren’t really any doors. It was just a way to see what was inside his head. But why would one of them be so hidden and locked? Why would he forget it so easily when he knew the things in the other rooms so well. 

“Someone put it here, of course.” The man ran his fingers over the carved symbol. His gloves were no longer, but skin tight black leather with gold claw-like nails attached. “By someone not exactly in our church, but affiliated perhaps. Someone who knew we would be the ones who might save you, my friend.” 

As the man pressed his whole had to the door, Crawford felt a stabbing pain in his head. He dropped to his knees and the whole corridor shook. The man jerked his hand back, eyes sweeping the space. “So that is why…” His fingers tapped his chin as he surveyed the door. “This will be no easy task to undo.”

“I don’t think you should be touching it,” Crawford growled, his head still throbbing.”

The man shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Sometimes, if a man is shot in the head or in the chest, he can live with that bullet inside of him. The body covers it. Encapsulates it. That is what you have done.”

“I didn’t do this. You did.”

“The door you did not do, nor the lock. But hiding it, resisting it, that is you. Well, mostly you. The door, it whispers ‘forget about me, don’t look at me’ and you were very good at doing that. So good you will slowly forget if you are not looking directly at it.” 

Crawford started to protest, but the man interrupted him. “Stop talking and listen. I showed you this door, and what is written upon it. Within the hour, you forgot even the symbol carved into it. Even now you fight to get away, to not even speak of it. But it is not fear that keeps you away, it is something else. It is…a twisted obedience. But not to me or mine…” He was watching Crawford’s face with those mismatched eyes, studying him intently. “To he who hurt you so deeply. He who gave you so many scars…” His fingers brushed first the scar under his right eye. A gift from his step father, landing a back-handed slap across his face so hard it knocked him flat on his back. The gems of his ring gouging a chunk of flesh from under his eye. He’d only been sixteen. 

The man’s finger trailed down to his lower lip next. Another scar from the same source. He’d come home one afternoon with his lip pierced, in a fit of rebellion against his step father. The man had used a knife to forcibly remove it, instead of just removing it properly. Anyone so much as asking about those scars would have had Crawford biting their heads off. But as the man’s gloved fingers caressed the scars, it was like something inside him broke. There was a tenderness in that touch that he hadn’t felt in so long. 

Slowly he dropped to his knees, everything in him feeling so very heavy. As he looked up to the man before him, blurry through tears he refused to let fall, he felt no judgement for this. “He did this?” he asked, his voice softer than he expected. 

“It would seem he had it done,” the man said, stepping back and turning his attention back to the door. “I thought my own father a real motherfucker sometimes. But this…this is a cruelness only a righteous man can dream up.” 

“Why…” was all Crawford could manage before his voice gave out.

“Greed. Hubris. Pride, perhaps. I’ve not had the…pleasure,” the word dripping with sarcasm, “of seeing much of this father of yours was like, just the rage you feel for him.”

Crawford shook his head, trying to get his thoughts straight. “No, why…why do you care?” He had never asked the question so earnestly. This man was the frontman of a moderately popular band. Crawford wasn’t even a fan, but he’d still been singled out. 

“Because of this.” He ran a clawed fingertip along the barely legible words that accompanied the cross symbol.

“I can’t read it,” Crawford admitted.

The man looked at him, seemingly with concern, before his shoulders relaxed. “Ah…” as if he understood. He read over the words again, then nodded. “Well, essentially, it’s a sort of ‘If found, return to the Ministry’ message.” He thought for a moment, the turned away from the door. “It is much too complicated to fix here.”

Crawford became aware of the alley around him once again. It was like the lights coming on after a movie. Like the physical setting had stopped being important but still there while wrapped up in the big glowing screen. He was no longer being held by the large masked man, instead on his knees, slumped against the singer’s shoulder as if he’d fallen asleep. 

Straightening up, dazed, he looked around for his companion. Why hadn’t he said anything. The deep strumming of an instrument caught his attention. Dane was standing around with a few of the masked men, with one of their instruments in hand. He was showing off what his long, slender fingers could achieve on the bass, working through some surprisingly complex riffs. Crawford hadn’t heard Dane play since they’d been in high school, foolishly planning to start a band of their own. Apparently he’d still been practicing. 

“We have a small church here in the city,” the singer held up a business card before tucking it in the pocket of Crawford’s jeans. His arm was still under Crawford’s arm and across his back. “I want you to visit them. They will be expecting you.”

“What—“

“I will be paying your city one more visit, in a few weeks, before I return to my home. You will be going with me, then we can fix what is inside that head of yours.”

“What—“

“Have your things packed when I return.”

“I can’t leave the city!” he protested, finally.

“Oh, we won’t be leaving the city, we’ll be leaving the country.”

Crawford was left scrambling to his feet, trying to protest, but the man walked away to gather his minions. 

“Be good, my little pet,” he said to Dane, caressing his cheek. “And you might get to come with.” One of the masked men caught the bass as it slipped from Dane’s hands. Before either of them could utter a word, the man and his followers slipped back into the record store’s back door, taking their instruments and other equipment with them. 

“I don’t think that cult thing is an act…” was all Crawford managed to say, as Dane just stared at the closed door as if he wanted to chase after them.

[groriatrevi10xx]

"...Core..."

-Crawford-

-Al-

-Jairo-

-Adham-

------

G: Quería dibujar más magos, pero se estropeó el ordenador... Así que mejor saco los que ya hice... Aún me faltan unos cuantos más, no tantos... Ya que no pienso dibujarlos a todos.../I wanted to draw more wizards, but the computer broke down... So, I better take out the ones I already made... I still need a few more, not that many... Since I don't plan to draw them all...

Y sí, los Magos existen, pero son Neutrales... No como los Hechiceros y Brujas que se pelean por todo... xD/And yes, Wizards do exist, but they are Neutral... Not like Sorceresses and Witches who fight over everything... xD

Los magos usan varitas {Al igual que algunos tipos de Hadas}, qué fantasía... Quiero decir, se llevan bien con Hechiceros y Brujas, gracias a su forma neutral de ser... Trae su mundo a una paz... ¡Lo cual será interrumpido porque lo digo yo!.../Wizards use wands {Just like some types of Fairies}, what a fantasy... I mean, they get along well with Sorceresses and Witches, their neutral way of being... Brings their world to a peace... Which will be interrupted because I say so!!!...

[untouchvbles]

RIP to a Legend

[roughridingrednecks]

Crawford in Arizona

[pastelfable]

hello again gamers

prev

[postcard-from-the-past]

Cindy Crawford on a vintage postcard

[painsandconfusion]

Something's Not Right

Whumping the Whumper - Part Thirty-six

(tw: internal bleeding, death threat, illness, long term captivity, concussion, bruises, gun, murder mention, nonsexual nudity)

[Previous | Masterpost | Next] [Chronologically following this scene]

Four years ago...

“E-Ethan? Ethan wake up..-”

Ethan stirred at the light poke to his thigh. He groaned, stretching against the cold concrete before squinting open his eyes. His arms instinctively snaked around Johnny, pulling his warmth closer. His head was throbbing- he pressed the ache closer into Johnny’s shoulder to bury it away again.

“N-no, Ethan. Please.”

His eyes fluttered open, squinting down at Johnny in the moonlight. He looked…scared. Must have had a nightmare again.

Ethan swallowed the grogginess from his throat and reached up to brush a few stray locks of hair from Johnny’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”

Johnny stared up at him, eyes shimmering. “Som..something’s not right. It’s wrong and-” Johnny’s voice cracked as a tear leaked from the corner of his eye. “It’s just…wrong.”

Ethan’s brows pinched together. “Why don’t you try to get back to sleep? It always hurts worst right away - maybe when you wake up-”

“-no, it’s wrong.” Tears were dripping steadily now. Johnny’s quick, shallow breaths pressed against Ethan’s chest. 

Was Johnny always this warm?

Ethan sat up, looking over Johnny. He was bruised, sure, but..he’d woken earlier and Johnny was alright. Not…completely alright, of course. But…healable. Crawford had used his fists, the damage was mostly to his thighs and torso. No broken bones, no sprains, just deep, aching bruises. 

..Ethan tried to pull him a little closer. “Some more sleep sh-”

Johnny pressed his palm against the ground, tugging himself free from Ethan’s arms. “I-I don’t know what it…what it is. Something…something’s not right…”

Something akin to fear started to curl in Ethan’s stomach. No. Weighed it down. Sour and heavy and hot, pressing against his mind. He sat the rest of the way up, too, folding his arms around Johnny. He kissed the back of his neck.

…Johnny was sweating.

In this cold??

He gripped Johnny a little tighter. “Does it hurt?”

Johnny reached up, clutching Ethan’s fore-arms. One hand clamping down, the other resting lightly. “Yeah, it’s…yeah.” Johnny swallowed. “It’s wrong. Something’s wrong.”

“Okay, okay I…I hear you.” Ethan didn’t know what to do. He rubbed his thumb up and down against Johnny’s shoulder. “What does it feel like?”

“..just...wrong.” 

“Does…it hurt more than usual?”

“...Um…I think so? No. Wait. Not…not more, jus- … different. I can’t…everything feels wrong.”

Ethan’s hand presses against his forehead. “..is it any particular place?”

Johnny’s breath pulled out in a whine, hugging Ethan’s arm closer. “...e…kinda everywhere but…b-ut ‘specially here-” he made a vague gesture over his abdomen.

Ethan frowned, extracting himself from Johnny’s grip. He carefully picked at the hem of Johnny’s shirt, carefully pulling it up and off of him. There were no goosebumps despite the chill that must have just washed over him. Sweat clung to the shirt, making a sticky sound as he forced it off Johnny’s skin. 

Ethan’s eyes slid back and forth over the bruises that just barely showed up as an outline in the sprinkling of moonlight that worked its way into the basement. His brows pinched, worry starting to churn through him.

..Crawford hit too hard. He knew these symptoms, Johnny was bleeding where he couldn’t see. 

Ethan pulled the shirt back down, praying to the first handful of gods he could think of that it would clear up within a couple days. At least one god had to listen to him, right?

“..is…is i-t okay..?”

Ethan looked helplessly over Johnny, hand lifting to cradle his face. “..I don’t…I think so - I do. But..I really think we should get you a doctor.”

Johnny laughed- but the small, spiteful sound immediately sputtered out into a small whine, breaths immediately falling faster and shallow. “Hh-hhhe w-on’t- n-no way-”

“...Just let me ask.”

Johnny’s head tilted into Ethan’s palm, cradling it there with his own. “...o-kay..”

So much for his headache. Is it still considered a headache when it’s a concussion? 

In any case, so much for his concussion.

Ethan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Johnny’s forehead before dragging himself up and toward the stairs. He took them three at a time until his fists bruised against the door with the force of his banging. “HEY ASSHOLE-! GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE-!”

Johnny rolled his eyes through labored breath, propped against the wall. “...h-e’s not gonna come- it’s like fffour in the morning.”

“He will if I don’t shut up-” Ethan turned back to the door, hammering on the wood again. “CRAWFORD, YOU SLIMEY BITCH WE NEED A DOCTOR-!” 

Ethan paced, shouting up and out into the house he couldn’t reach for almost twenty minutes, his own head reeling and spinning damn near off his shoulders each time he screamed up to the well known abuser and an unknown god in tandem. 

Finally, finally, the bastard showed his face. 

The door slammed open the moment it was unlocked, gun pointed at Ethan. 

Ethan took a hesitant step backward down the stairs, eyes on the gun. He never got that out. 

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you,” Crawford bit out, all but drooling venom. 

Ethan lifted his hands. “We need a doctor- you fucked up Johnny too much.”

Crawford scoffed, starting to close the door. “I didn’t do anything different, go the fuck to sleep.”

Ethan stepped forward, bracing one hand against the door so it couldn’t close. “No, wait- I’m seriously h-”

The sound of the gun cocking cut off his sentence. “He’s. Fine. You were a little bitch when you first got here, too. Deal with it.”

“He’s bleeding internally!”

“And who’s fault is that?”

Ethan froze, memories of running skittering across his mind. Johnny’s screams. Crawford’s cursing. Guilt curled fresh into his blood. 

Swallowing down emotions and pride, he tried again. “...please. He needs a doctor.”

“I will kill him if you don’t shut the fuck up. He’s fine. Keep pushing it and he won’t be.”

Rage flickered across Ethan’s eyes, but he let his hand fall from the door. 

In a moment, it slammed in his face, deadbolt snapping back into the frame.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

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