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writersblockedx · 2 years ago

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Loose Ends: Chapter One

Chapter One: Insects

Based off - Episode One Pairing - Joel Miller x Fem!Reader Warnings - General violence, language, a good bit of angst Words - 6.3k

A/n - Hello! Welcome to my the last of us rewrite! I wasn’t sure whether or not I was going to write this as I’ve never tried to start a rewrite without having watched the full series first. I’m hopping everything I’ve planned for the reader’s character works out and I hope you enjoy it!

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Masterlist

There was a hasher side to having the job Y/n did. But, the bad things were lucky they didn't weigh out the good. She had a job that not many could replace. At least, not yet. She may not occupy the great muscle that soldiers did but she held knowledge above a college level. Without, any sort of school system left standing, Y/n was a rarity many had fought over. Though, she found herself settled in Boston for the last ten years.

A very long, a very complicated ten years.

She wiped the used needle, putting it back in its box of the remaining free that they had no choice but to keep using over and over. The woman turned, halted by the figure standing in the doorway between the hall and her makeshift office. She shifted and her expression turned sour as a huff fell from her lips, "I thought you were avoiding me."

Joel was leant against the door frame, hands in his pockets ever so lazily. "Apparently Doctor Davis is unavailable." He informed as his gaze guided along her. "And I'm in need of pharmaceutical resources."

She shook her head, "Doctor Davis was demoted because he failed inventory. Lost some painkillers and couldn't explain it. We came to the conclusion a smuggler was behind it." The man tensed. "Whatever it is you want Joel, I'm not helping you."

"What about a check-up?" He pressed.

"You want a check-up?" She gestured to a group behind him, analysing some lab work, yet they lacked the lab coat that hung around Y/n's shoulders. "Get one of the junior doctors to do it for you."

Joel glanced back at them and scoffed, "You mean your little science projects?" He raised a brow which seemed to taunt the woman.

She walked from the middle of the room towards the door. And even with him towering over her, her stern expression didn't dare to break. "I'm not giving you anything, I'm not helping you. So whatever has brought you here after a year, I can't do-"

"It's Tommy." He interjected, his gaze falling down to meet hers. Her lips shut. "Its been three weeks. He hasn't responded."

Y/n thought on it for a moment but the second her eyes met with Joel's, he knew it was a lost cause. "That's got nothing to do with me anymore, just like you don't."

He peered behind him, catching sight of the working group once again. He looked back and leaned in slightly, his words only a hushed whisper, "I know you don't owe me anything, but-"

"You're right." She cut him off like her tongue were a knife. "I don't owe you anything. I'm sure you or Tess will figure something out." It took Y/n a lot, but she looked him in the eye and she swore all she could see was a flicker of a memory she had forced herself to forget. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got somewhere to be."

But Joel nodded and took the rejection in his stride as he turned his back to her and exited the building.

Y/n wasn't lying. She had somewhere to be. Somewhere she needed to be desperately in fact. She left the building with a bag of her usual medical supplies. This was her third time sneaking around in the last week; she was surprised no guards had started to catch on. Then again, as Joel had once put, the white lab coat she wore seemed to open every door and drew any attention away from her.

She took the same route. Though, as organised with Marlene, never the same time. Y/n's lab coat couldn't quite hide her from everything, she still had to be smart. She slipped into the Fireflies building, unnoticed and, seemingly, safely.

There were a few people dotted around, all of them tightly focused on their individual tasks.Y/n didn't have to walk far until coming across Marlene, likely planning within the space of her own head. "Hey," The woman greeted, wandering around the table where maps were laid out. She jolted a little, only settling when her gazed settled on Y/n. "Jesus, what's up with you?"

Marlene huffed as she looked back to the papers scattered beneath her, "Got some new resources coming in before we move." She informed.

"Since when did that put you on edge?" The other girl questioned.

She finally pulled her gaze from her maps, finding her palms settling on her hips. "Since it's a new smuggler whose delivering."

Y/n nodded her head in realisation, "Ah, right." She uttered before her eyes pulled to a door situated across from them. "You spoke to her yet?"

Marlene looked to the door too, "Yeah. Once we get this stuff, we're gone." Y/n met the gaze of her friend and found a glint of regret surged through her pupils. "You can still come if you want."

She flashed an apathetic smile, "You know I can't." As much as she may have wished she could. "I'm the only doctor they've got left in this zone."

"What happened to Davis?"

Y/n could have laughed. In fact, she almost did, "Helping Joel smuggle painkillers." By the expression Marlene wore, she wasn't all that surprised by such. "I'd go with you if I could, but you can get her out of here and you keep her safe better than anyone else ever could."

Marlene shifted in her stance, her expression softening, "You can still come with us. We'll find somewhere with better medical supplies, somewhere that's safe-"

"Marlene," The girl cut in. "Nowhere is 100% safe, I think here is the best place for me." She went on, taking a cautious step forward as her voice lowered, suddenly aware of the ears which could be listening in. "There will be other scientists, other medics, whatever you need will be out there to maybe do something." She assured.

"We'll miss you." She sent a smile which was easily returned.

"I know." Y/n was already walking out the room as she continued, "How long have I got to do vitals?"

"Dealer should be here in five."

Y/n nodded in understanding and fully turned, heading for the room Ellie was still stuck in. As she had been doing for two weeks now, the girl entered the room with her bag of medical supplies and a smile she hoped would comfort the kidnapped girl. Ellie wore the same clothes she came in. Yet, now, she was freed from the chain which once kept her here, along with having her bag returned to her.

At the sound of the door opening, Ellie stood, relaxing only a little when Y/n walked further into the room. "You're still here." She observed with knitted brows as if she hadn't expected it.

Y/n unzipped her bag, pulling out the damaged and remaining supplies she had. "What? You miss me?"

"That lady-" She gestured her head towards the doorway.

"Marlene?" Y/n questioned.

To which, Ellie nodded and continued, "Said I was leaving. I wasn't expecting the FEDRA doctor to come with me."

"I'm not coming with you." She broke to the younger girl.

Something of which seemed to insight panic, "You're not?"

Still, with that comforting smile which wasn't doing a brilliant job, Y/n shook her head. "I can't." She started walking further into the room. "Come on, sit, I still need to check your vitals before you go."

Ellie wasn't certain but she took to the floor as Y/n did. The woman reached for the blood pressure machine and as she always did, she turned to find Ellie had already rolled up her sleeve. "What will you do now then?" Inquired the girl.

Y/n didn't look away as she strapped the machine around her arm, turning it on as it started to squeeze against her skin. "Nothing different." She answered mindlessly.

She waited until the machine relaxed around her arm before continuing, "You know they tell stories about you at military school."

The older woman barely looked up from jotting down the results as she answered, "And do you bother to believe them?"

Ellie shrugged, "Some are a bit far-fetched." She thought aloud with a hum as Y/n reached for a thermometer. And, as had become routine, Ellie looked to the side as Y/n scanned her ear. "Mainly the ones that call you a murderer."

She chuckled, "And what are they becoming in military school I wonder." The thermometer beeped and Y/n pulled it back. Once again, noting down the results. "I wish I could come with you, you know." She admitted.

"Then why don't you?"

Y/n thought on it for a moment. She thought about avoiding the answer all together but that curious glint in Ellie's eyes seemed to insight her. "Because them stories you've heard, they travel further then your little military school."

The younger girl was about to give a reply when the mutterings from outside the door got louder. At first, Y/n wasn't going to pay much attention to them. That was until she caught the words woven between the sudden sharp tones. "This wasn't what we agreed." Yelled Marlene.

A sickening scoff was sounded, "Oh, was it not?" Taunted another voice. Y/n wasn't certain, but she made an assumption it was the new smuggler. Obviously not one to be trusted by the sound of things.

She glanced back to Ellie who was listening just as intently as she were. "Stay here." Y/n instructed.

Ellie watched with wide eyes as the woman slowly crept closer to the doorway, keeping low to the floor as to not give away her location. Well, more importantly, as to not give away Ellie's location. She peered her head around the doorway, lucky to find most backs faced her. The smuggler and his fellow guard dogs were talking to Marlene and a few other loitering fireflies.

"Look, I don't know what your plan is here, but either you're going to get what we actually agreed on or we're gonna have a problem." Said Marlene.

She scanned the various smugglers. Their ripped and ragged clothes. And then the pistols which hung from their belts, accompanied with shivs and other blades. A part of her worried for the woman who was facing the group, but Y/n knew Marlene could handle herself. And while she was certain Ellie could too, she took the decision to protect her.

With a sharp inhale, Y/n delicately pressed the door shut, holding her back against it. She met Ellie who had still yet to move from her spot. "You got a gun in that backpack of yours?" She questioned, quietly, gesturing to the bag which was near the girl.

The girl didn't speak. Instead, she rummaged through the bag and pulled out a very small pocket knife. Not a gun, not a dagger, just a small, blunt pocket knife. Y/n could have sworn they were dead there and then.

"I don't think that's how this is gonna work!" Snapped the male voice, immediately followed by the sound of gunshots.

Y/n stiffed and her gaze jumped to Ellie. She gestured her head for the girl to come next to her. She followed, scurrying across the wooden floor as her back leant aginst the door like Y/n's did. The sounds of bodies getting hit and thrown jumbled with groans of pain. Y/n reached out her palm as Ellie passed the only thing they had to protect themselves. She had no plan on moving from this room. She would wait it out. The only problem which plagued her was if they dared to look in the locked room.

Alas, long moments passed of holding their breath before the gun shots dwindled out. The sound of movement was limited to the sound of body's dropping and suddenly, the only noise from outside their room was the mumbles and groans that Y/n struggled to make out. "Is it over?" Whispered Ellie from her side.

The younger girl was looking up at her for assurance that she was unable to give. So Y/n kept her gaze to the floor as she focused on every sound she could catch. "I don't know yet."

The groaning continued and Y/n thought about escaping the comfort of the room which was keeping them hidden. Then came the footsteps. More than just a pair and that was enough to keep her body and Ellie's behind the door. "Shit," She heard Marlene curse. Another voice replied in a soothing tone which told her the girl was safe.

"It's Marlene." Ellie noted, worry glazing her pupils as the two looked to one another.

"I know." Y/n huffed.

"Well, aren't we going to do something?"

The expression written over the woman's face gave Ellie her answer. She wasn't going to do something. Not yet, anyway. So in an act of desperation, Ellie snatched her pocket knife back and busted the door open.

"Ellie, don't!" Her voice screeched. Y/n scurried to her feet, attempting to grasp the young girl, but she had slipped from her fingers.

Though by the time the words had slipped from her tongue, Ellie had been thrown to the floor again and Y/n found herself faced with the barrel of a gun. A gun that was held by Joel Miller. "Y/n?" Questioned Joel as if he didn't quite believe it.

And, in a similar fashion, she did the same, "Joel?" Their eyes both snapped to the end of the hallway where Marlene was stumbling with a gunshot wound, held in a steady position by Kim.

Then Y/n's eyes jumped to Ellie and her expression simply read: Told you so. Y/n looked passed the gun that was still held at her head, "Ellie? You okay?" She asked, glancing between the weapon and the teenage girl.

She hummed something along the lines of a, "Yeah." before reaching out for the pocket knife, almost bruising her fingers as Joel stepped on it, keeping it from use.

"Ellie." Called Marlene. At first, the girl seemed too captivated with sending a death glare to Joel that she hadn't dared to turn away. "Ellie." Marlene repeated, more stern and forceful than before, prompting her to finally look away.

Her eyes found Marlene's face first, then they jolted to the blood which was drowning her t-shirt. "Oh, shit!"

Marlene hovered a hand in front of her as if silently saying it was okay. "No, it's okay. I'll be alright." She lowered her gun. "You can't be stupid like this."

"Trust me," Y/n spoke up. "I'd tried to stop her." The two were like scolding parents with a disruptive child.

Y/n only caught a glance, but a glance was enough to process the puzzled, tender emotion that was painted over Joel's face. Even if he had yet to move that gun from her. "So this is who Robert screwed us over with?" Came another voice as they rounded the corner: Tess. "The Che Guevara of Boston and the FEDRA medic turned firefly?" She scoffed as if it were laughable. "War must be going pretty shitty for you to buying from scumbags like him."

Y/n found her eyes rolled but her lips stayed tied shut while Marlene replied, "Yeah, it kinda has been. Merch was bad and he didn't take fuck off for an answer." Which would explain the voices her and Ellie had overheard before the gunshot started.

"What about you?" Y/n's gaze jumped between Joel and Tess. "The hell are you doing here?"

Tess snapped back before Joel could, "None of your business."

"Give me my knife." Demanded the voice from below.

The voice of which had been ignored. "What do you need a car battery for?" Joel interrogated.

Ellie moved when she shouldn't have. Maybe the fact she was ignored had prompted her on as she reached for her knife anyway. Thus, leading to the gun once pointed at Y/n to point at her. Marlene and Kim both raised their weapons. And with nothing else, Y/n swiftly pulled the shiv from Joel's belt, swinging it around his throat.

It hovered over his skin just as the gun hovered over Ellie's forehead. "Don't point it at her." She stated in a slow, firm tone which had seemed to send a shiver down Joel's spine.

He didn't dare move. So he gave a harsh whisper in reply, "Then where the fuck am I meant to point it?"

"I don't care." She said. "Just not at her."

So, with that, Joel's hand moved. Rather than point to Marlene or Kim, Y/n felt it prod below her ribs. Sharp and prominent that it made the thought of breathing fearsome. "Why do you need the car battery?" He asked again.

This time, Y/n felt obliged to answer, "For a much better reason than you do." He pushed the gun further into her skin and she tensed.

Luckily, Marlene swept in to continue, "Tommy's just one man." She felt the gun relax slightly at the mention of Joel's brother. "It's our business to know things."

"To know things." The man reiterated. "You're the cause of it. You turned my own brother against me."

"Not the only reason." Y/n mumbled, expecting that to cause Joel to push the gun against her skin again. Alas, it seemed to just keep his lips sewn shut.

Within the silence, Kim brought everyone back to current matters at hand, "That was a lot of gun fire. FEDRA's gonna be on their way." As if they didn't already have enough to deal with.

"I know." Marlene nodded.

Y/n looked over Joel's shoulder, "What do we do now?" It was obvious Marlene was stuck in a thought. A thought of which she didn't seemed to like. "Marlene?"

She sighed but let on such thought, "We were going to move Ellie out of the zone tonight. But we won't make it anywhere like this. Not for a while." She explained. "So now I'm thinking, you're gonna do it."

The shock from both parties encouraged them to pull away as the shiv left Joel's neck and the gun left Y/n's ribs. Spontaneously, together, there came a chorus of negative responses:

"What? Marlene-"

"I'm not going with them!"

"The hell we are."

Glances were shared between the three of them; all of which opposed this very stupid idea. "Who is she?" Tess inquired, considering this deal.

"To you, she's cargo." Suppose that was how they were sure to look at this.

"We don't smuggle people." Said Joel.

Kim looked over at Marlene and offered, "I can do it."

That was instantly shut down by the wounded woman, "Kim you don't have a fucking ear on your fucking head." And that plan went out the window just as quickly as it had come in. "There's a team of fireflies waiting for her at the old State House. We were going with a whole squadron for that very reason. But now I don't have a squadron or a truck. FEDRA's five minutes away. What I do have is you."

Maybe it was practical, but it was still a stupid idea with how delicate they must handle this situation. "Why can't Y/n take me?" Ellie queried.

Tess had scoffed at the idea of that as she stared at the doctor, "Because she's got no idea how to survive without these walls which keep her precious prestige."

She could only reply to Tess with a deadly glare that did nothing. But as she looked back to Joel, she spoke up, "I know what you're both capable off." A glint passed through the man's eyes that she couldn't pinpoint. "For better or for worse."

"What are they capable of?" Came that vulnerable voice from below.

Y/n's gaze flickered to Ellie before back to Joel, "We can give you what you need to find Tommy, not just the battery."

Marlene backed that up, "Just get her to that house safely."

It seemed they were on the brink of a deal when Ellie had to throw in a curve ball. "I'm not going without one of you." She was peering over at Marlene and Y/n, that worry still lingering in her pupils which sparked guilt.

"I'll just slow you down." Marlene pointed out, still having that gushing red pool at the fabric of her shirt.

So then eyes landed to Y/n. The automatic answer of 'I can't' didn't seem to follow. Not when she was facing Ellie's desperation to feel secure with someone she could trust. And it took her a long moment before she sucked it up, "Okay, I'll go with you." She decided.

"Y/n-" Marlene was about to remind her of what she already knew, about what could be awaiting her out there if she wasn't careful.

"It's okay." Y/n assured.

"Well this will be a first." Critiqued Tess. Again, something that had earnt her a glare from Y/n as she was left with nothing else to respond with.

The couple soon met eyes, Joel nodding his head before they trailed over to have a silent conversation. Y/n took that as her chance to move over to Ellie, handing the knife back over to her. "Talk it through but please remember I'm bleeding out over here!" Yelled Marlene.

That seemed enough to draw their ever so important conversation to a close. "Alright, here's the deal." Tess started as she spun on her heels to face the group. "The three of us will get her to your crew at the state house but before we hand her over, they give us everything that we want. If not, we kill her. There and then." As in true Tess fashion.

And, almost too quickly, "Deal." Agreed Marlene.

"Really?" Ellie uttered. "That fast?"

"You are all that matters." Marlene said. "My team will not jeopardise that."

Y/n helped the girl back up to her feet, "Come on, lets get your stuff." She gave one more glance to Joel and Tess before wandering back into the room.

Ellie grabbed her backpack and Y/n stuffed her medical supplies back into her bag. By the time they exited the room, Marlene was by the doorway, offering a pistol to Y/n. "Just in case." She uttered.

She glanced between the weapon and the woman who had grown to become her friend. "Do I get one?" Ellie beamed.

In synch, they both snapped back, "No." Before Y/n took the offer, shoving it in the waistband of her jeans.

"You stay safe out there." Was the last thing Marlene said to her before her and Ellie were trailing behind the smugglers. Joel took one last stare and Y/n overheard Marlene as she practically threatened the man, "Don't fuck this up."

There came no reply from Joel. Instead, he must have nodded his head and continued on with the rest of them. They tread through the pouring rain. Pace in their step as they walked against the curfew. Ellie was smart. Any whiff of a solider and she had her face hidden. Right up until they entered an apartment complex.

Tess led the way, stopping at what Y/n assumed to be their apartment, unlocking it. She slipped in first and held the door open. Ellie wandered in first, her curious eyes translating between this new surrounding. And Y/n followed her. Which was when Tess moved. "Give us a minute." She stepped back through the doorway, and before either of them could realise what was happening, the door was slammed right in their faces.

"What the fuck!" Exclaimed the young girl, while Y/n found it to be expected. Tess had never particularly warmed to her.

Ellie huffed as her back hit the wall. Y/n took further steps into this apartment that wasn't her own, but seemed to have speckles of her memory. Most memories which had Joel attached to them. The blanket they had once shared, the old board games she had been adamant they kept, the books which words were rich, but their pages were lacking in such as they started to tear. As Y/n kept walking, her eyes fell to the paper insect that hung by the window.

The cutout butterfly glistened against the street lights, it's colours reflecting into the room. It was a haunting memory of someone Y/n was still certain came as a comfort to Joel. "Do you trust them?" Ellie questioned, finally moving from the wall she had once been leaning against.

Y/n peered away from the butterfly, "I trust Joel's need to find his brother." Their voices still lingered outside. When the girl looked to Ellie, she was sat in a deadpanned expression, urging for more information. To which, Y/n obliged. "For now, I trust them. I'll let you know if it changes."

Ellie started snooping herself. Though, not for what parts of her might still linger in this room, but for what she could use as leverage. Something better than a blunt pocket knife, she hoped. "How do you know 'em?" She wondered as her fingertips tranced a bookshelf by the window.

"Old friends." Y/n uttered and Ellie hummed in response as if she didn't quite believe her but didn't bother to pester further into the topic.

"Tess!" Yelled Joel's voice from the other side of the wall. Y/n turned, facing the door which was still closed on them. Then she looked to Ellie who was flicking through a music book. "Tess!" He repeated.

Soon after, he entered the room, clearly not in any better of a mood. He threw his bag to the side and headed for the couch without muttering a woad. "So?" Ellie spoke up. "Who's Bill and Frank?"

His eyes widened slightly before meeting Y/n who had seated herself in the armchair by the window. "Didn't I tell you she's good at eavesdropping?" The woman raised a brow.

Ellie continued on: "The radios a smuggling code, right?"

Again, Joel looked to Y/n for an answer. "Or that's she catches on quickly?"

"60s song they don't have anything new, 70s they've got new stuff." She went on, reading from a note tucked into the thick book. Joel stood from the coach. "What's 80s?"

He snatched it from her hold and threw it to the battered coffee table which was somehow still standing. Then he returned back to the coach, getting comfy against the fabric once again. Y/n was just about to turn her head to the window, when Ellie piped up again. "What are you doing?" She was standing over Joel.

"Killing time." He said without taking a peak back at her.

"Well what am I suppose to do?" She snapped.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Ellie spun, facing Y/n who didn't have any excuse for Joel's unwelcoming ways. She took the book back, dragging a chair over to where Y/n was sitting. "Your watch is broken." She pointed out as if Joel were unaware.

That time, his eyes pulled open, meeting Y/n. They both thought the same thing but neither of them made a move to voice it. Ellie huffed harshly as she sat down, "Why were you friends with him again?" She asked.

Y/n stole one more peak at the man who had shut his eyes again, though was still obviously listening, and she chose it best not to answer. Her gaze pulled to the window as she attempted to wash away the thoughts of the day. She wasn't sure yet if she had just made the worse decision she could, but leaving this zone was the biggest risk she could possibly take. Only time would tell if that risk was going to come back to haunt her.

Hours must have passed. The sun set and curfew was soon enforced. Ellie had shut the song book and joined Y/n in staring out the window like it was the most entertaining thing in the world. Somewhere along the lines, Joel stared to stir back awake. Ellie noticed first, "You mumble in your sleep."

Y/n turned her head, confused as she expected Ellie to be talking to her, only to find her eyes centred on Joel. The man pulled himself up and the young girl continued on with her words, "I've never been on the other side of the wall. Look how dark it is. You guys go out there a lot?"

"I guess." Joel answered, still in between the state of dreams and consciousness.

"When was the last time?"

His eyes flickered to Y/n before he said anything, "A year. Maybe." He shook his head, seeping into a different topic, "What's it matter?"

Ellie shrugged, "You know where to go. So were gonna be okay?"

Silence passed and neither of the adults in the room knew how to answer that question. It seemed a matter of false hope or reality. "Yeah," Y/n finally uttered. "We'll be fine." Or so she prayed they would be.

"What's the deal with you anyway?" Queried Joel. "You some kind of bigwigs daughters or something?"

Y/n replied before giving Ellie the chance, "Since when did you ask questions?" She snapped like the words meant something.

Joel shifted at that, standing from the couch in an act of opposition. "Sorry," He spat back. "I won't do it again." Y/n watched as he turned his back to her, wandering over to the kitchen tables. Suddenly, she was wishing she had given the chance for Ellie to speak first, a guiltly feeling burdened her gut that she knew wasn't going away any time soon.

"Oh, the radio came on while you were sleeping." Uttered the younger girl once tension had sizzled slightly.

Joel snapped back around as Y/n scolded her, knowing where this was going, "Ellie-"

But it was no use, "What?" The man rushed. "What was the song?"

"He kept saying like 'wake me up before you go-go'."

Joel looked down, "Shit." He muttered to himself.

And such had ever so easily given him away. A smile tugged at Ellie's lips as she said, "Gotcha." It was with that when Joel finally caught on too. "80s means trouble. Code broken."

"I did warn you." Y/n added.

The man was about to point his finger and scold the girl just like Y/n usually did when the door swung open again. Tess walked in and all three of them stayed silent. "The spot under Lancaster looks good." She informed before pointing to Ellie. "You got a jacket in your pack?" She nodded and then Tess glanced over to Y/n. "What about you, prestige? Got something other than that lab coat?" Her response was a silent one, the answer given to Tess by the expression which was written over her face. "Of course, you haven't."

Joel was already moving as he spoke, "I'll go get you one from the war-"

Some material hit her chest before he could finish. The man stopped, seeing as Tess had thrown her one from her bag anyway. No one dared to say anything. Y/n slipped from her lab coat to Tess' jacket within the matter of a moment before she announced, "Let's go." And with that, the rather dysfunctional group exited the apartment, uncertain as to when they would return.

The streets were littered more than usual. Soldiers lined the roads, their guns aimed and trucks patrolling the area. Each of them stayed clear of the light, weaving and tangling through the bodies which could easily catch sight of any of them. They were lucky to get so far. Though, once they were outside of the wall, loitering on the outskirts, it may as well not have been worth it.

Tess led the way, turning a corner they didn't realise was going screw them over. "What the hell?" They all stopped at the voice they didn't recognise as one of their own. They turned, a soldier starring at each of them, all while his zipper was undone.

"Shit," Y/n mumbled, instinctively nudging closer to Ellie.

The man scurried to make himself some-what presentable before addressing the group. "Hey, hey! Don't move!" He threatened and they are raised their hands at the sight of the rifle he grasped. And then he uncovered the front of his helmet, "You got to be shitting me."

Y/n looked to Joel; of course, she should have known. "Okay let's talk this out-"

"Turn around!" Suppose he wasn't in a talking mood. "Get on your fucking knees!" He demanded when none one of them moved.

"Now, hold on-" Joel tried again.

And again, he failed. "What did I fucking tell you man? Stay the fuck home."

Y/n glancd to the man, "Glad to know you shared that information with the group." She huffed.

"Get on your knees!" He ordered again.

This time, Tess moved. "Just get on your knees." The woman said. And they followed her, dropping to the dirt and mud. "Listen you let us do this run, we'll split the cards with you."

"Oh, will you?"

She nodded, "Yeah."

But Tesss' plan hadn't worked. He laughed and gave her the sarcastic reply of, "I'm so blessed." Which was followed by, "Put your hands on your head. Eyes forward."

"Really man?" Y/n looked across the line to Tess who was being tested.

Shit. Her eyes widened, soon to meet an equally worrisome Ellie. "Yep." Said the soldier. "We're doing this by the book." The machine beeped and Y/n knew her and Joel were all that stood between Ellie's life and the soldier.

"Alright, how about three-quarters?" Tess still nagged.

"Joel?" Y/n leaned over, her voice low in hopes to not gain the soldier's attention.

He looked between her and Tess a few times before finally listening, "What?"

"Unauthorised exit." Continued the guard.

"I didn't tell you everything." Y/n spoke up to Joel, lucky the guard was too focused on the beeping machine in front of him.

Joel's brows became knitted, struggling to follow her words in such dire situation. "They'll hang you for that." Informed the soldier as he moved behind the man.

"Fine!" Said Joel, bypassing Y/n's words for a moment. "Everything from this run and half off on the pills."

The machine beeped, followed by a scoff from the soldier. "Half of?" He reiterated like it was pitiful. He moved to behind Y/n as he responded, "All off!"

Y/n slowly brought her eyes to meet the man next to her. Her pupils empty as she knew what awaited them. And in that moment of complete uncertainty, she could only say one thing. "Joel." Her words were drowning in the type of fear he had only ever heard her say once before. And that's when he realised something was truly wrong.

The machine beeped behind her head before the soldier moved on to Ellie. Y/n couldn't take another breath. Not until she heard the soldier groan and stumble. The four stood to their feet, watching as the blunt pocket knife was soon shoved into the man's thigh. "Ellie!" Y/n snapped.

And while the girl had lept for Ellie, Joel lept for the guard. The rifle was soon pointed right at him. "Woah woah, we can fix this." Said Joel in the calmest tone he could muster in that moment.

The soldier gave one order: "Move."

And Joel didn't listen to it. He jumped forward, tackling him to the ground. The rifle was thrown to one side. Once given the upper hand, Joel started punching. And punching. He didn't stop until the breath from the guard's mouth did.

He slowed. He realised. And then he rose, turning to face what was left. Y/n was holding Ellie who seemed curious at the violence which had occurred. Not scared, just curious. He looked up and down between that sight and his bloody hand. There were thoughts plaguing his mind. Enough that it had pulled Y/n forward, as softly, she called, "Joel?"

It was more of a question, a prompt for assurance which wasn't given in return. She stepped closer to him until he was only looking at her. "Are you okay?"

He never got the chance to answer. "Joel! Joel!" Screamed a panicked voice from behind them.

Tess was showing the machine, the blinking red machine which meant infected. "I'm not sick!" Ellie claimed.

"Tess, you don't get it." Y/n went on as she jumped to protect Ellie once again.

"Look!" The younger girl yelled, rolling up her sleeve and the wound which painted her forearm. "This is three weeks old!" Tess inspected it herself. "Nobody lasts more than a day. This look a day old to you?"

Y/n went on to add, "You have to trust us Tess. Why else would the fireflies and a doctor be working together?" Tess seemed to be coming around to the idea. "Why are we all trying so hard to keep her fucking safe? Huh? We need to go, alright?"

The sirens made clear of that plan of action. Y/n took a hold of Ellie and Tess started to lead the way once again. "Joel!" Y/n yelled and the man glanced at her. "Come on, we gotta go!"

It took him a moment. He stared between the body and the girls which were already leaving before he started walking, grabbing the rifle as he did so. He joined the side of the woman he once loved as they followed the one he did love and the dead girl walking.

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kinglazrus · 1 year ago

Text

The Cracks in the Mask

Sequel to The Moment it Breaks. Written for @invisobang 2023!

AO3 | FFN

Rating: T

Words: 9156

Warnings: mild panic attack, nondescript mention of vomiting, temporary dismemberment, graphic description injury

Description: Danny has been struggling for months. Balancing ghost hunting, school, and keeping his powers a secret has drained him both physically and mentally. And it all comes crumbling down when an identity is exposed—but not Danny's. Tucker Foley, his best, is a ghost hunter. And not just any ghost hunter, but the Tech Hunter. The same hunter who, just three days ago, pressed a cannon to Phantom's chest and fired without mercy.

This is fine, right? Everything is fine.

Check out the amazing art made for this fic by @popjeckdoom!

Cover | first scene | second scene

—

Danny can still feel Tucker's hands on him. Not in some aching, metaphysical way like when they bump shoulders, and the warmth of that contact lingers for hours afterwards. This isn’t warmth, but heat. Tucker’s fingertips had only brushed the hollow of Danny’s throat during that final grab, yet the spot burns now.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning toward a storefront window as he checks his reflection, pulling the collar of his hoodie down. Splotches the colour of old bruises litter his throat, tinged green around the edges and dotted with red. The rash and micro-cuts left by Tech’s nanobots are unmistakable. Had Tucker noticed how the nanobots coated his fingers as he reached for Danny, seen how they wounded him?

Of course, he didn’t. There is so much Tucker never notices.

The hoodie isn’t damaged, but that doesn’t surprise Danny. Tech’s touch has always hurt, and it was always designed to hurt ghosts.

It never destroys anything man-made.

Never harms anything human.

Danny clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. It’s getting harder and harder to lift his feet with each step. The wobble of his left knee, the stabbing in his chest every time he breathes, the itch of his throat. It all weighs him down. And atop that, something far heavier bears down upon him, a bone-deep dread that twists his stomach into knots. He has felt the press of that unseen force from the moment Tucker stepped into Lancer’s office.

Danny sways under a bout of dizziness, nearly stumbling into the street when he tries to catch his footing. Unable to breathe deeply, he compensates with quick, shallow breaths.

And the itch on his throat persists, like bugs creeping under his skin, gnawing on his insides. They skitter from his throat to his chest, spreading from his ribs to his heart, his lungs, burrowing deep.

Danny doesn’t notice his hand roaming under his hoodie until a nail slips between the bandages on his chest and pricks the open wound. A passing woman glares at him when he yelps, muttering something about delinquents under her breath. Danny ignores her.

At least he isn’t thinking about the itching now. He presses the heel of his palm into the bandages, grimacing through the lingering sting, waiting for it to dull into the ever-present throb. To be safe, he clasps his hands in his pocket, so he won’t scratch again as he continues down the street.

Despite how bright the sun shines, the air is cold. Or, it had been when he left for school that morning. He remembers looking out the window—seconds before realizing he was three hours late for class—seeing how crisp and clear everything looked, how the snow sparkled in the sunlight, and knowing it would be cold. But he's not cold now. He almost feels too hot, and the temptation to rip his hoodie off grows along with his weariness.

A red-hot coil burns in his chest, hissing as it brands the inside of his ribs. He exhales the steam in shallow puffs and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Something yellow glints at the edge of his vision, causing Danny's heart to leap into his throat. He throws himself to the side, slipping in the snow as he tries to get out of Tech's reach.

But Tech's not here. Tech is at school.

The taxi that caught Danny’s eye passes harmlessly by.

He leans against the nearest wall as he tries to catch his breath, which is hard when the bandages around his chest are so tight that his ribs creak. He reaches under his sweater again and probes the bandages, finding the loose loop his scratching had created. His fingers come away damp, but that could be blood or sweat. He doesn’t want to know which, wiping his hand on the inside of the hoodie.

It's too damn hot out here. His skin crawls. There's so much yellow everywhere, every flash cranking Danny’s nerves up. It all becomes too much, and he crashes to his knees as his stomach revolts.

No one pauses at the sight of a kid gagging on the sidewalk. Danny wonders what they think of him but decides he doesn't care as he retches again. Nothing but bile comes up. When was the last time he ate or drank anything besides ectoplasm? When did he even have that last? He has a foggy memory of opening the box he keeps his supply in and downing the last three vials at once, but he can't say when that was. As for actual food, that must have been on Friday, before the fight. That was three days ago, and he hasn’t had a bite to eat since.

Danny's head spins.

He should go home. Lancer told him to go home. Actually, no. He said he would send Danny home. With a parent, probably. Parents who already hadn't been answering the secretary's calls, which would have left Jazz as the remaining option. Danny won’t be surprised if she had put herself down as one of his emergency contacts the second she turned eighteen last month. But going home with her would either mean waiting at school all day for classes to end or pulling her out of class so that she could take him home.

Danny's stomach churns again. No. He wouldn't have let that happen. Even if he hadn’t stormed off, he still would have left.

He slumps against the wall behind him. During the fight on Friday, he landed poorly, and his left knee has been smarting ever since. It protests a bit more loudly now, especially after getting jostled around by Tucker. A few seconds to rest and stretch it out will do him some good.

Snow soaks into his jeans, but he doesn't care. Taking a handful of snow, he shoves it in his mouth, swishing it around until it melts, trying to get rid of the bile taste. He doesn't have anything else to wash it down with. He doesn’t even have his backpack, for that matter. Maybe it's still at home, sitting by the front door. Or he left it in the school office. He can't remember.

He doesn't remember much of anything since Friday. Just the pain, and the blood, and the cracking of his heart as he glimpsed those familiar green eyes underneath the visor.

A few snowflakes fall onto Danny's lashes. His eyelids flutter.

Why is it so hot?

After checking that people still aren't paying attention to him—they aren't—he closes his eyes and tugs on his core. Cold floods his veins as his ice powers activate. It soothes the bruises that spread across his back and stomach. He focuses on the palm against his chest, concentrating on his worst injury.

The cold is a balm. It pushes back against the heat in his cheeks and helps him forget about the burn of Tucker's hand.

Danny doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a vehicle pulling up. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but his cheeks are still far too warm. He still hasn’t caught his breath.

He hears tires rolling over broken concrete. This must have been where he fought Johnny a couple of weeks ago. The city is usually pretty good at cleaning up Danny's messes, but sometimes the smaller debris gets missed. Most people have learned to ignore it by now, but Danny always notices.

A window rolls down.

Danny squeezes his eyes tighter, hoping he hasn't been mistaken for a vagrant. A scrawny kid with no backpack, huddled on the street during school hours in winter, wearing nothing but a hoodie. He pulls his knees up to make himself smaller. Bending his left knee hurts a bit more than it should, more than it ever has with bad landings in the past, but he ignores it.

“Danny, do you need a ride?”

It takes Danny a second to recognize the voice and the truck. Mr. Foley leans over the passenger seat and peers at him through the open window.

It takes another second for Danny to remember his ice powers and cut them off. He misses the cold as soon as it's gone. He always feels better when the cold comes from within, numbing his body from the bones outward. But he can't have Mr. Foley noticing the glow in his eyes. Despite the delay, Mr. Foley doesn't react.

“Where's your jacket? I almost didn't recognize you and had to turn back around,” Mr. Foley says.

“I don't need a jacket.”

“Everyone needs a jacket. You're going to freeze.”

Danny brushes the snowflakes off his lashes and stares hard. “Where's Tucker?”

“At the school. We got him set up with that student tutor program, and he's working on that for the rest of the afternoon. He has to catch up on all the work he missed from ghost hunting.”

“Oh.” Isn't that nice?

Danny almost says no. He has known the Foleys his whole life, considers them family, and would go so far as to call them his honorary aunt and uncle. There had once been a time when, if he couldn't go to his parents for something, he would go to the Foleys. But he almost says no.

Mr. Foley must notice his hesitation because he rolls his eyes and says, “Just get in the damn truck.”

Danny gets in the damn truck. Hot air blasts into his face once he's inside.

Mr. Foley waits until Danny, who first closes the vents on his side of the truck, has buckled himself in before speaking again. “I'm disappointed in you.”

How diabolical of him to wait until Danny can't easily escape.

“There's a jacket in my locker,” Danny mutters.

“Not because of that. Although, yes. You're going to get sick if you aren't already. Do you remember when you boys were little? Whenever you and Tucker played in the snow, you always took your jacket off. We couldn't leave you alone outside, or you'd come in three hours later with the worst cold we'd ever seen.” Mr. Foley shakes his head with a smile, although it fades quickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tucker, but it’s not like you to lash out,” he continues. “It’s obvious you’re going through something, and I’m here if you need to talk. But what you did in there wasn’t okay.

Danny watches the sidewalk as they pull into traffic, staring at the indent he left behind. He hadn’t noticed how much it was snowing when he was sitting, but a pile nearly three inches tall marks where he had been.

“I can’t say I’m not mad, but… I’m just disappointed.”

Danny wants to say he didn't mean to hurt Tucker, but he can't. Tucker is his best friend, but Tech? Thinking of Tucker's alter ego makes Danny's heart pound, and not in a good way. Not the way he's used to. Thinking of Tucker as Tech? He wants to throw up again.

Every bruise, every burn, every little cut Danny has gathered this past month throbs at the thought of that golden armour. He checks over his shoulder, but no one is there.

Tucker's at school. Tucker's at school. Tech is at school.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mr. Foley asks.

Danny shrugs.

“Tucker's okay, by the way. You didn't hurt him any more than he already was.” Mr. Foley pauses, giving Danny space to respond, but he doesn't. “This is an upsetting situation. Tucker is hurt and has been getting hurt for some time. Going out and hunting ghosts—” Mr. Foley shakes his head. “It's funny how much a mask can trick you. Tucker made me follow all the 'official' Tech Hunter accounts. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything there is to see of Tech online. It seems obvious now that I know. I always thought he was just a fan.”

Mr. Foley's grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But some of those videos…”

Danny doesn’t need to hear it. He has seen them, too. Clips of Tech zooming through the city, using gadgets and gizmos to take down ghosts with ease. They started fun. Even Danny enjoyed the videos at first. He felt a kinship with this new hunter, who didn't seem much older than him. But then the tech got bigger, the fights more brutal, the targets more… familiar. Danny stopped watching the videos a while ago, after he became the ghost in them.

“These last few weeks alone… I swear he was hunting down Phantom every day. I was starting to feel sorry for Phantom until—well. Until.”

Danny rubs his knee. Despite having time to rest, it still hurts. Touching it is like pressing on a fresh bruise.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Foley says. “It's been a stressful few days, but it's not appropriate for me to dump this all on you. You need to worry about school, not ghosts. I just always thought Phantom was a good one. It doesn't seem right that all ghosts could be bad.”

“Well, you were wrong. Everyone knows ghosts are bad.”

“Danny, your parents—”

“Were right all along. We all should have listened to them. Ghosts aren't good.” Danny squeezes his knee. “They can't be good. They're monsters, right? Because only a monster would hurt Tucker like that. Wouldn't see the person behind the mask. It—Phantom—Tucker was there the whole time, and Phantom couldn't see that. He just kept hurting him. He should have known!”

The soft voice of the radio fills the cab. And then Mr. Foley turns it off, and there's only silence. Danny can't look. He lets go of his knee, flexing his fingers. They're numb from how tightly he clenched his hand.

He wants to make himself small, curl up and disappear into nothing. He doesn’t want to be seen or heard or perceived. If only a portal would open up beneath him and take him to an endless void—there must be one somewhere in the Infinite Realms—where he can stop existing for a while.

“Danny,” Mr. Foley says.

Stop it.

“Danny, I'm worried about you.”

Stop looking at me.

“Your parents are good people, but I don't like it when you start saying these things. And you've been different lately.”

No, no, no!

The heat of the cab bears down on him. His bandages are damp, and he is cold and hot and too many things all at once. Mr. Foley keeps talking, but his words don't reach Danny. The pounding of his heart drowns them out. The truck turns a corner, making Danny's view spin, but when the vehicle straightens out, the world does not.

“I—” a voice says. “Please. I need—”

“Are you okay?” Something hot touches Danny's forehead. “You're burning up.”

A hand reaches for the door. A monster's hand with pale, bony fingers and scabby knuckles. It pops the door open. The truck screeches as Mr. Foley slams on the brakes, but Danny is already out the door, part of him phasing through the metal when it can't open fast enough. He hits the ground running.

“Danny!” Mr. Foley shouts after him, but Danny is gone before the truck stops.

He doesn't know where he's going. Snow pelts his face, nearly blinding him. The wind has gone from nipping at his cheeks to slicing through him, whipping into a storm. In the distance, a haze of green and orange glows behind the snow. Danny veers away from it and pivots down the nearest street. As he turns, he skids on a patch of ice and loses his footing, careening into a mailbox. The corner drives into his chest, and his world goes white.

Danny comes to face down in the snow with ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it is long enough that the flood of adrenaline has ebbed. As the tide recedes, it uncovers all the aches he had ignored for the past few minutes.

Every breath drives a dagger through his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry, puke, or collapse. Or all three at once. Through the flurry of snow, he hears a shout.

“Danny!”

He has to keep going.

“Danny, where are you?!”

Leaning on the mailbox for support, he drags himself up, pivoting on his left leg.

He hears a pop. A crackling, like stepping on broken glass. Danny crumples with a scream as a searing pain tears through his knee. It’s here and gone in seconds, leaving his whole body trembling as he lays in the snow. He tries to rise, but his knee immediately gives out.

A hand touches his shoulder before he can try again.

“Daniel.”

He tries to clamber away from the hand, the voice, but his leg can’t bear the weight, even when sliding across the ground. His entire side spasms when he accidentally knocks his knee, and he lashes out at the hand reaching for him, stopping just sort of crushing those fingers in his grip.

He whimpers. “Leave me 'lone.”

“Don't be stupid. You're coming with me.”

Danny is scooped up before he can protest. He doesn't even have the energy to squirm. Anything that isn't snow is just a blur of colour. The face above him. The car ahead of them. As they approach, Danny’s shaking stops. Not because he adjusts to the pain, his body just stops. No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing. All at once, everything has become very far away.

“Not so much fight in you today, little badger.”

He tenses as the car door opens, but inside is barely warmer than out in the snow. Danny lies in the backseat, cheek pressed to the chill leather. He tries to keep his eyes open, but staring at the seat ahead of him while the car moves turns his stomach. Again, nothing but bile comes up.

He closes his eyes, drifting into nothing as the darkness takes him.

—

A tether pulls Danny along. His body moves, and he moves with it, but he isn't moving it. “Danny” and “Danny's body” are not the same right now. His body feels the arms around his shoulders and under his knees. Danny does not. His body lifts its hand to stare at its scarred fingers. Danny does not.

Danny drifts behind, watching but not seeing, as the world moves around him. It is dull and flat and not quite real. It’s like possessing his Doomed avatar all over again.

That changes when he is set down on a cold table in front of a glowing expanse. The swirling green fog beckons him forward. He tries to rise, but those hands grab him again and sit him back down. This time, he feels the pressure on his shoulder as if through layers of thick cloth. One hand moves to his head, dragging through his hair. Danny doesn't try getting up again after that. He sits, content watching the ebb and flow, breathing in the sour air.

The one time Danny's friends had been in his parents' lab, they called the air acrid. Danny would have agreed with them before. Now, that smell comforts him. The same way people enjoy citrus, vanilla, or pine, Danny savours the scent—and taste—of ecto-rich air. The longer he sits there, the more “Danny” and “Danny's body” feel like one thing again. The table beneath him becomes solid, real. His breathing, although far from easy, evens out. The haze over his mind creeps away like fog in the sunlight.

The trembling starts immediately. Danny closes his eyes, taking as deep a breath as possible, ignoring how shaky it is. He wants to curl into a ball and wallow, but this isn’t the place for that. Not anymore. Instead, he gives himself ten seconds.

One.

Ten seconds to be miserable.

Two.

To wonder how badly he screwed up this time.

Three.

Four.

To wonder if he cracked a rib when he hit that mailbox.

Five.

Six.

Or what he might have torn in his knee.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

To pretend he’s just a normal kid having a shitty day.

Ten.

Danny sits up straight and turns. Now that his panic has retreated—not gone, but tucked into a corner of his mind like a wild animal—he realizes where he is. Who he's with.

Danny didn't notice when Vlad pulled away. Part of him, much larger than he wants to admit, laments the loss of contact. Now, Vlad leans against the console of his lab. A large monitor rises behind him, with several smaller screens angled beside it. They can function as individual screens or act as one massive display. Danny has played Doomed on those screens many times in the past year. He can see the game's case just behind Vlad, alongside his NASA mug and a pair of headphones he has never seen before.

Vlad follows Danny’s gaze to the items on the desk. He smiles and picks up the headphones. “Do you like them? They just came in. I know your old headphones got damaged in a fight.”

“Yeah.” The ear pads on the headphones are planets, and stripes like the rings of Saturn decorate the headband. It will not be the first gift Vlad has given him. Danny swallows before adding, “With Tech.”

Vlad puts the headphones down and comes forward. “I'm sure you heard the news by now. It's all over Amity Park. I'm sorry your best friend turned out to be a ghost hunter.” He rests a hand on Danny's head in a paternal gesture, which Danny normally finds comforting. “It must be hard. Are you all right?”

Danny takes in the lab, which has grown more familiar to him than his own home. The day Vlad showed him this place and revealed himself, something in Danny changed.

You're like me, Danny had thought. You understand me.

Any ghost can stumble into Vlad's lab, but he and Danny are the only humans able to reach it. It became his haven. Here, he could be himself without worrying about anyone else seeing. And Vlad gave him that.

Tucker's words, which had never left Danny's mind, resurface.

Vlad told me to.

Danny jerks away from Vlad's hand, leaving it hanging between them. Something changes in Vlad's expression. It's so minute that someone else might not have caught it, but Danny has spent too much time with the man not to notice. Vlad's nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches downward. Danny blinks, and Vlad's smile is back at full brightness, but it's too late. Danny saw the mask crack.

Vlad clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. “I heard about your suspension. Your father added me to your list of emergency contacts after I came to Amity, and when you left without waiting for an adult, the school contacted me. You're lucky I found you. Have you even treated your injuries yet?”

“Vlad.” Danny's tone could make a ghost shiver.

Vlad pauses for a second. “Daniel. What did I do to lose my uncle privileges?”

“Whatever you did to Tucker.”

“Oh, dear. Is this about the press conference? I promise it won't be anything bad, but this is a big revelation for the city. I would be remiss not to address it.”

“No, I—press conference?” Danny shakes his head. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Tucker told me.”

Vlad's jaw tenses. Another crack. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

“Everything!”

Vlad looks Danny up and down, then swivels, heading back for the console. He swipes the NASA mug up and swirls around the liquid inside. Some week-old energy drink, probably. He sniffs at it and makes a disgusted face, then dumps the contents over a nearby floor drain. Vlad takes his time going to the eyewash station, filling the mug with water and cleaning it.

Two minutes pass before Vlad returns to the console and leans against it, giving Danny a long stare. Unable to straighten with the gnawing in his chest, Danny curls in instead. Vlad smirks.

The expression makes Danny bristle. He knows that face. It's the smile Vlad gives him when they've both seen something stupid—a private joke passing between them. Danny doesn't smile back. He doesn't see any jokes around here except for himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Is your fever getting to you?” Vlad says.

“You knew who he was! Tucker said so!”

“Oh. I found out by mistake. I knew it would only hurt you, so I gave him some advice. I would have told you sooner if I thought it would end like this. But you know how unstable you—”

“LIAR!” Danny howls, the sound tearing from Danny’s throat, shaking the lab. It cracks the monitors and shatters the mug in Vlad’s hand. He scowls, shaking off glass and blood, while Danny cries out. “Why would you make me hurt him?!”

“I didn't make you do anything. You said you wanted to help, so I gave you a task. You did get the relic, didn't you?” Vlad pauses, but not long enough for Danny to answer. “How exactly you went about getting it was entirely up to you. I have plenty of resources you could have used to track it down before Tech got to it.”

“I wasn't going to use one of your ghosts!”

“Oh, that's delightful.” There is nothing friendly in Vlad's smile now.

The shift takes Danny aback. Despite the cracks he saw, he doesn’t want to believe the mask is there, to see it crumble. This isn’t supposed to happen. Vlad should be smiling at him—warmly—and offering some sage advice that sounds pompous but ultimately helps Danny figure this out. And, after taking care of Danny’s wounds, they will go upstairs and watch something in Vlad’s home theatre. An old Packers game if Vlad reaches the TV first, during which he’ll recite the same hundred facts Danny has heard a thousand times over. Some kind of monster flick if Danny gets there first, or a space documentary if he wants to annoy Vlad. But no matter what they watch, they’ll spend the hours crafting a perfect lie about his behaviour for Danny’s parents, and when Danny goes to sleep later, he can rest easy knowing that Vlad has his back. Even if no one else does.

Danny wants his Uncle Vlad.

He doesn’t want this.

“You really think you're a monster, don't you?”

Danny fights back tears, saying, “I'm not like them! I have a heartbeat. I still feel things. I don't just hurt people because I can!” He doesn't even convince himself.

“There's more than one way to be a monster.” Vlad presses a button on the console.

The screens, cracked but still functional, light up. All seven show the same thing: a clip from Friday's fight. It isn't in the video circling online, but Danny remembers this moment. It happened not long after the fight began.

Phantom grabs Tech by the chest piece, lifts him, and then slams him down on the ground. Hard enough that the pavement beneath Tech fractures and his suit glitches. The video closes in on the ghost's snarling face. Its bared fangs. The wild, inhuman eyes.

“Shut up!” Danny launches himself at Vlad. In the second it takes to cross the lab, he transforms from human to ghost. His claws tear into Vlad’s suit as they collide and crash into the main monitor. It shatters, glass raining down around them, but the video doesn’t stop.

The screens on either side show the clip on a loop. The same scene is happening here, in a different place, with a different friend, but the same feral look on Phantom's face.

“I didn't want to! You made me do it!” Danny slams Vlad down again and again and again. All the while, that recording taunts him from the edges of his vision. Danny's attention snaps to the screens on his right. Beams of ectoplasm explode from his eyes and carve through the screens, scorching the walls as he turns from right to left.

Vlad shoves his palm under Danny's chin and fires. Pink overtakes Danny’s vision as the ecto-blast goes off, throwing him across the lab. The smell of smoke and singed flesh overpowers the comforting tang of ectoplasm. Danny stares at the ceiling, panting, and swallows. It hurts.

“Little badger, look at yourself. You're not in the right state for this.”

Danny pushes himself up and finds Vlad, now transformed, floating closer. The front of his suit is torn, but the injuries beneath are little more than paper cuts to him. Danny flicks the blood off his claws and tries to stand. His knee gives out beneath him.

“You can't walk.”

Danny tries to respond but cuts off with a sharp gasp. He touches a hand to his throat. When he pulls away, he finds ectoplasm dripping from his claws.

“You can't speak.”

Danny snarls.

“I thought you said you weren't a monster?”

With a screech, Danny throws himself forward again. Vlad dodges to the side. They've been here before. How many times has Danny tested himself against Vlad, tried out new powers on him, and sparred in the lab?

How many times has Danny lost to Vlad in these friendly sessions?

That doesn’t stop Danny from throwing himself, again and again, at the man he trusts. The man he sees as a mentor, an uncle, and maybe even a father figure. He lashes out with claws, and teeth, and ectoplasm, but nothing hits. Vlad keeps slipping out of the way, unbothered, as if this means nothing to him. Danny's whole world is crashing down around him, and no one cares.

He tries to duplicate, desperate for any edge he can get over Vlad, and gets so far as having two right forearms sprouting from his elbow before something inside of him fizzles.

“No, no, no!” Danny croaks. A ring flickers around his chest. He forces it back, barely, and leaps at Vlad again, charging ecto-blasts in all three palms.

Vlad dodges the first blast and the second but slips right into the path of the third. Triumph fills Danny as the ecto-blast explodes, until a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t forget who taught you all of your tricks.” The duplicate Vlad left behind to take the hit melts away as the real Vlad steps back, claws sinking into Danny’s flesh. He smiles before wrenching Danny’s arm upward.

Danny screams over the squelch of the limb tearing from his body. He crumples on the floor, groping at his elbow. Threads of muscle coated in blood and ectoplasm twitch beneath his fingers. Their tattered ends dangle from the arm in Vlad’s grip, a jagged bone poking out between the flesh.

Danny retches when he feels the muscles twitching. Darkness creeps into his vision, and he has to fight it back.

His arm. His arm. Vlad ripped off his arm.

A string of muscle slips out of the severed arm and hits the floor. Globs of ectoplasm follow, splattering against the tile. The flesh shrivels, sloughing off in chunks, followed by the remaining muscle, and the bones crumble in Vlad's grip as the arm corrodes from the inside out. Danny flinches at each wet smack, unable to tear his eyes away from the decaying limb. Every time a piece of it falls, his elbow spasms. He cups the wound, expecting his hand to close around a stump, but finds solid flesh instead. Slowly, his gaze lowers.

Ectoplasm oozes between his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he watches the last dangling thread of muscle fall, joining the mass on the floor. The ectoplasm on his elbow bubbles and smooths out into pale, unblemished skin.

Between the swimming in his head and the darkness creeping into his vision, it takes him a while to truly process what he sees. His right arm, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, is still there.

The melting limb is fake—the duplicate.

It is the duplicate, right? Danny flexes his real—please, please be real—hand. The crumbling remains of his other fingers twitch, sending a jolt up his arm. Muscles that did not exist before—and exist no longer—strain to move a part of him that isn't there.

The limb is fake.

But it feels real.

Every second of agony as his flesh decays before his eyes.

When the rings come again, Danny doesn't have the energy to fight them off.

“Remember: it didn't have to be like this, little badger. If it weren't for your stubbornness, we could have kept going as we were. But I suppose you've ruined it.” Vlad waves his hand, creating a shield of ectoplasm. With a push, it shoots forward, pinning Danny to the ground, moulding around his body as it binds him.

The last chunks of his arm dissolve, and Danny’s eyes widen when the puddle inches toward him. He squirms, breath hitching as he tries to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. His bindings tighten, forcing his elbows into his ribs, cutting into his wrists until his fingers go numb.

The ectoplasm seeps into his hair. When he whips his head around, droplets splatter against his cheek. One lands on his lips.

The taste of lime. The smell. Burnt. Rotting.

Vlad rests a foot on Danny's chest, on his injury. It draws Danny’s attention, but one word lingers in the back of Danny’s mind.

Acrid.

“And I could have done so much for you,” Vlad says, then digs his heel in.

Danny is too busy howling at his cracking bones to see the foot come for his head next.

—

Danny was bleeding the first time they met. It was the standard for their first few run-ins, spread over the following weeks. Even now, it seems that Danny always bleeds in Vlad’s presence.

He had been late coming home from school, caught in a fight on his way. He pelted toward the stairs, clutching his backpack against his stomach—the fifth backpack he would lose after his accident. Before he started climbing, his dad beckoned him to the living room. Danny didn't have time for whatever his dad wanted. He could feel the wet spot on his side growing. If he didn't get behind a closed door soon, someone might notice the stain spreading on his shirt. He cared more about that than the grey tint slowly overcoming his vision.

“Danny? Are you coming?” his dad called again.

Danny made the mistake of looking back. His dad’s eyes were filled with so much hope. Danny knew his parents were eccentric and that put people off, but how could anyone ever say no to Jack Fenton when he radiated such joy?

Danny's earliest memory is the glint of his dad's smile. The warmth of his arms.

At that moment, Danny was bleeding into his backpack. His vision was growing dimmer by the second, and he wasn't sure if he could walk straight. But his dad smiled and waved him forward, and suddenly Danny was a toddler again, taking his first wobbling steps toward his favourite person in the world.

His dad’s beckoning hand pulled him toward the promise of that warmth, and he stumbled into the living room.

He didn't know the man sitting on the couch. Didn't hear anything his parents said, either. Danny rushed through an introduction (Hi, I'm Danny, nice to meet you—I'm going to my room now) and fled as soon as possible.

Once locked behind the bathroom door, he stuffed his bloody shirt into his bloodier backpack and started fixing himself up. He had to dig a pellet of ice from his abdomen and was surprised it hadn't melted yet. That ghost—what was his name… Klemper?—had been tossing snowballs left and right. Danny hadn’t expected it to hurt once he got hit with one, much less bury a chunk of ice in his stomach.

So much for making friends.

Once the shard was out, blood flowed freely from the wound. Danny nearly passed out at the sight of it. It was the first time he had bled so much from a ghost fight. He impressed himself by holding it together, until he tried to stitch himself up with a travel sewing kit. As the needle dug into his skin, his world went black.

An hour later, Danny was bandaged—but no stitches, never again—and the bathroom was clear. He had stuffed the toilet paper and towels he used to mop up the blood into his backpack, intent on tossing the whole thing in the dumpster once night fell. Satisfied with his cleanup job, he slunk into the hall, shirtless, once again hiding behind his backpack.

Danny had been so busy checking if Jazz's door was closed that he hadn’t noticed the body before him until he buried his nose in a cashmere jacket. He looked up into the stunned face of the man his dad had wanted him to meet. Some old friend of his parents’ from their college days. Danny had already forgotten his name.

He wouldn't find out for weeks how the man noticed the only drop of blood Danny had missed—a stain the size of a quarter on the hem of his jeans. In the moment, all he saw was the man's shocked expression melting into amusement, and something else, something Danny couldn't name but recognized on an instinctive level. Something that made him take a step back.

The man surprised Danny with a pat on the head. “Try dish soap. And cold water,” he said before gliding past into the bathroom.

Danny spent the rest of that evening hiding in his bedroom, afraid that at any second, his parents would come bursting in because their friend saw him bleeding. They never did.

To anyone else, that interaction would have been insignificant—a few harried seconds easily forgotten. But to Danny, who had already been through so much, it meant one thing:

There was an adult he could trust.

—

Danny wakes up to a fever and a ceiling covered in stars. Not the dollar-store, glow-in-the-dark stickers he grew up with, which his dad helped him put up when he was five, but a light projection from a lamp on the nightstand. With the curtains drawn, only the stars provide light for the room. Danny is thankful for that. He can barely keep his eyes open with how much his head pounds.

He reaches to peel off the blanket, but freezes. His right arm hovers in front of him, trembling. It comes back to him quickly: the sound, the smell, the taste. The slow decay of the phantom limb.

It was fake, he tells himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. That wasn’t real.

The rest of his body feels stiff, fresh bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like there’s a knife in his back, held in place by Vlad’s heel, and even the smallest inhale pushes Danny’s chest back into the blade.

His throat is a footnote in comparison, barely worth his notice.

But his knee… This morning, Danny’s knee twinged. There was discomfort, but he could walk. Comparing his pain from then to now is like comparing a bruise to a bullet wound. He knows the disparity between those two injuries.

He pushes himself up, peeling away from the sweat-soaked sheets, and bites back a cry when his leg shifts. He has to stop twice and grit his teeth before he manages to sit upright.

The blanket falls into his lap just as he spots his reflection in the mirror across the room. His chest and throat have been bandaged with care. The edges of his injuries creep out from beneath the bandages, flares of red skin touching his collarbone and ribs. The bandages on his throat are also damp, but not from sweat. Danny recognizes the slightly tacky sensation of Vlad’s healing salve—a concoction made to soothe ectoplasmic injuries. It works best on surface wounds.

Beneath the blanket, he discovers unfamiliar pyjamas. Pulling up the left leg reveals a compression bandage around his knee. If it’s supposed to help, it’s not doing much.

There is little else in the room besides him, the bed, and the mirror. The projector and the nightstand, of course. A dresser beneath the mirror. A Dumpty Humpty poster on the door. This room is one of many that Danny had yet to explore in Vlad's manor. Despite this, he immediately knows what, or who, it's for.

This is Danny's room.

Only a day ago, that realization might have warmed him. Now, it fills him with disgust. He needs to leave as soon as possible, but he can't go out in a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see his hoodie or sweatpants, but he notices a stack of clothes on the corner of the bed.

Designer jeans, a Vladco polo shirt, and a fur-lined leather jacket. No way Danny is putting those on.

He goes to transform, tugging on his core, but a jolt of electricity stops him. It rips through his body and leaves him breathless, clutching his chest. He doesn’t try again.

He should. If he wants to get out of here quickly, he only has one option. But just turning his hand intangible makes his insides itch. He doesn’t want to know how intense that would feel across his whole body. Doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

Danny berates himself for his weakness.

He changes into the clothes and hates every second of it, but he doesn't have another option. It takes an embarrassingly long time since he has to manoeuvre his bad knee. Bending it hurts. Straightening it hurts. He can’t even let it lay limp without some discomfort. But he manages, grimacing when he catches his reflection, and starts the arduous process of limping through the manor.

He may not have explored every inch of Vlad’s home, but he knows the layout well enough to find his way to the front door. He keeps one hand on the wall to help his balance, but he still falls a few times.

By the time he reaches the stairs, the wall is the only thing holding him up. Every time he puts weight on his left leg, his knee slides beneath his skin. His right thigh aches from hopping across the manor on one leg. While ghost hunting keeps Danny in shape, the last few days have drained him so much that he feels like a weak freshman again, barely able to run a mile.

As he peers down the stairs from the third-floor landing, part of him whispers that he should go back and collapse into that soft bed. But he hasn’t sunk that low yet. As he debates the least painful way to make it down, a voice floats up to him.

“—wake him up. I don't want to take up more of your time,” Jazz says.

“It's not a problem, dear.” Danny's heart quickens at Vlad's voice. “Danny visits often enough. I don't mind him taking up one of my spare bedrooms for a few hours. I'm just glad I found him so quickly.”

Danny clings to the newel post as he lowers himself to the floor, starting the long process of scooting down the stairs one step at a time.

“Thanks again for calling the school back. Lancer said he didn't want to pull me out of class, but someone needed to be here for Danny.”

“He was fine with me.”

“Family, I mean.”

“Right. Of course. But you could have waited for school to end.”

Danny glances at the grandfather clock on the main floor, visible at the back of the hall now that he's worked his way down to the second landing. It's not even three yet. Jazz had to leave school early because of him. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He swallows a few times, but the taste lingers. He can't get rid of his guilt that easily.

“Yeah, that's not happening. Danny comes first.”

He wishes she would stop saying stupid things.

When Danny finally reaches the bottom floor, he stops to gather himself. A few quick breaths, so close to hyperventilating that he wonders if his panic has reared its head again, before he strides over to the doorway leading to Vlad's sitting room. He almost makes it all the way, but on the last step, his leg buckles, and he clings to the door frame to keep himself up. Jazz’s head jerks up at the sound of him hitting the doorway, and her face lights up when she spots him.

“Danny!” She is upon him instantly, leaping across the room to reach him, rubbing his hair, touching his forehead, and fussing with the jacket. “Oh. This is new?”

“His clothes were soaked, and he didn’t have a good coat. I couldn't in good conscience leave him like that.”

While Jazz frets, Danny stares past her. Vlad sits in a lavish armchair with his back to them but watches through the mirror above the mantle. He has a thing for mirrors.

Their eyes meet, and Vlad's flash red. Danny pales.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jazz asks.

Danny, unable to speak, nods. The way Jazz fusses, she keeps pushing him back, forcing more weight onto his injured knee. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, Danny.” Jazz lifts a hand to wipe the tears away, but Danny flinches back.

“Careful.” Vlad rises from his chair. The movement yanks Danny's attention back to him as he approaches. “I think I might have bruised his ego when I had to carry him inside. He must be sulking.”

Danny can feel Jazz's eyes on him, but he can't look away from Vlad. Danny hasn't stopped shaking since they made eye contact. Vlad raises a hand to fix his sleeve, and Danny flinches again.

“Oh.” Jazz's hand finds Danny's wrist and squeezes it once. “Well, thank you again. I'm taking Danny home now if that's all right.”

Her tone says she doesn't care if it's all right; they're going home now.

“By all means,” Vlad says.

No one moves. Danny doesn’t want to look away from Vlad, afraid of what might happen the second he turns his back. Jazz must pick up on his wariness because she keeps looking between them as if she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

Vlad finally breaks the spell over them by gesturing to the door.

Jazz takes Danny’s hand and pulls him away. He stays behind her, so she can’t see him limping. Unfortunately, they’re nowhere near the wall, and he has no way to hold himself up when his leg gives out again. His hand rips from Jazz’s as he stumbles, barely catching himself from face-planting.

Jazz spins around, lips parting, but Danny snaps, “What?” before she can say anything.

Hurt flashes across her face. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He drops to one knee, ducking his head to hide his grimace, and mutters, “Tripped on my shoelace.”

Jazz doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t lift his head to see what face she’s making. Danny fiddles with his perfectly tied laces until Jazz’s feet turn away from him and head for the door. He stays on the ground, breathing softly through his nose until he’s ready to stand, rising on one leg. His left knee spasms.

He massages it through his jeans, although it doesn’t help. The compression bandage doesn’t seem to be doing anything, either. It feels like someone sliced his knee open, chipped the bone to pieces, and filled the hole with oozing ectoplasm.

The front door opens and shuts.

Danny only has a second to process what that means before he jerks toward Vlad, just in time to see a syringe of orange fluid jabbed into his arm. Danny rips his arm away, but Vlad is faster. By the time Danny stumbles back, the syringe is empty.

“I've done a lot for you, little badger. I still will.” Vlad closes his fist around the syringe. There's a flash of pink, and then ash falls from his hand. “You'll be thanking me in a couple of hours when that kicks in. Remember, I only want what's best for you.” He turns but pauses halfway. “Oh… and keep that relic safe for me, won't you? I'll be needing it soon enough,” he says before drifting out of sight.

—

The car shakes as Danny drops into the passenger seat, and once more when he slams the door shut.

“Hey, not so hard,” Jazz says.

Danny ignores her, facing the window as he scrubs his face. He can still taste the salt on his lips, and the red around his eyes is prominent. He tries to rub it away, but there’s no helping it. After a few fruitless seconds, he gives up, pulling the bar under his seat to slide the chair back and give his legs some room. He cranks the lever on the side as well, putting the back down, and drapes a hand over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jazz prods him. “Upright, seatbelt on. That's not safe if we crash.”

“Do you plan on crashing?” The words drag at his throat, which quickly went hoarse during his minute of alone time. His voice comes out raspy and quiet. Danny doesn't know what Jazz sees, or what she makes of him right now.

After a few seconds of staring, she sighs and turns the engine on. “Just wear your seatbelt.”

Danny clicks it into place with the hand not draped over his eyes. If Jazz sees the redness, she’ll know that he was crying. Stupid. Fourteen years old and crying like a child. Danny's fingers dig into his scalp. His nails aren't quite claws when he's human, but they're sharper than normal and prick his skin. Every time he cuts them, they start growing back to a point. He always trims them before it gets too obvious.

They drive in silence. Danny grits his teeth, focusing on not hissing in pain every time they hit a pothole. Hold it together, he tells himself. Only a few more minutes to home, and then he can fall apart in private. Until then, he just has to be okay.

Everything is okay.

Jazz doesn’t try to talk again, which is better for Danny. He’s unsure if he can open his mouth without some strained sound escaping him. The inside of his lip is already ragged and bleeding from how hard he bites down.

When they turn onto their street, he thinks he’s in the clear. Jazz parks on the backstreet, in front of their garage, and Danny hears her shuffling around. At first, he thinks she’s getting out, and hopes he can wait her out and go inside a minute later. His hopes are dashed when something drops onto his chest.

Danny bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

“You left your backpack at school,” Jazz says. “After you got suspended. Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny clenches his jaw, breathing as deep as he can through his nose, and swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. Once he can speak without gasping, he says, “Yeah. I put it down, and then I forgot it was there, and then I left because I'm not allowed to be there anymore.”

“Only two weeks, and you still have to do schoolwork. I'll be bringing it home for you. Maybe you can use the rest of the time to get caught up on everything else you haven't done yet. And then you can tell me what the hell happened with Vlad back there.”

“Can we just… not do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out angry, but there’s a bite to her name that he can’t take back. Being in this car, with her, is too much right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs things back to the way they were when he was oblivious and hurt, but not as hurt as he is now.

Jazz purses her lips. “Okay. I'll tell Mom and Dad about the suspension. You can talk to me—and them—when you're ready.”

“Yeah. Right.” Danny gets out before Jazz can say anything else. She follows, but he refuses to look back, fighting to hide his limp. He doesn't stop until he's inside, up the stairs, and in his bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the bed, crumpling against the door, curling over his knee as tears prick his eyes.

There are daggers under his skin, chipping away at bone and muscle, driven deeper with every step he forced himself to take. He thumps his head against the door, mouth open in a soundless scream as he lets the pain wash over him. It tears through his body, every bruise and burn throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Outside his room, the house comes alive as his parents return, their voices filling all the empty spaces. Danny's room stays dead and quiet.

For hours, he leans against his door, staring up at the stickers on his ceiling. While his eyes trace the familiar constellations, his mind has receded deep within himself. Moving from his head to his toes, he focuses on all his aches and pains, giving himself a few moments to feel each one before shoving them out of mind.

Some pains are worse than others. The bruises, he files away without a second thought. The headache and the twist in his gut take a bit more effort. But his chest? His knee? Danny doesn’t have the words to describe how much they wreck him before he can push them away.

It’s just pain. He can handle pain.

At some point, someone comes by and knocks on his door. Danny doesn’t answer, barely conscious enough to hear it. His chin dips to his chest as he watches the shadow until it leaves, relaxing only a fraction when it does.

Eventually, the sounds outside dim. Jazz whispers goodnight. The floorboards in the hall creak, first under his mom’s light steps, and then they groan as his dad traipses across them. A door closes. Everything goes quiet. With the quiet comes an all-encompassing numbness.

The clock on Danny’s nightstand reads two a.m. by the time he drags himself from his stupor. In his backpack, abandoned at his side the second he sat down, something glows. Danny reaches inside and gropes around until he finds it, small and cold to the touch. He draws the item out.

“This is all your fault,” Danny mutters. Whether that is to himself or the relic in his hand, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. Both are true.

As Danny opens his palm, the Ring of Rage glows brighter.

#invisobang #invisobang 2023 #danny phantom #Tech Hunter AU #No One Knows AU #Danny Fenton #Vlad Masters #Maurice Foley #Mentor Vlad Masters #Manipulative Vlad Masters #danny phantom big bang #danny phantom fanfiction #phicc #phanfic #mild panic attack #nondescript mention of vomiting #graphic description injury #temporary dismemberment

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tiddygame · 19 days ago

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Ghoap god type au part 9!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

aphantasia whooped my ass trying to write this chapter, so for clarity's sake, the fort in this chapter is an almost complete rip-off of Murex Fort from Assassin's Creed: Odyssey with only some small adjustments (i.e. the snowy mountain, added stone walls, and size with my version being bigger than what you see in the game) and the upper part of Pharsalos Fort. It is painfully obvious to me that I copied these forts, and even if the plagiarism doesn't come across in the story, it would feel disingenuous to try to imply that I came up with the layout all on my own so I wanted to give credit where credit is due.

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The fort was significantly bigger than Ghost was expecting.

It wasn’t one of the temporary encampments he was used to; It had proper walls made of brick, towers that provided ample view of the surrounding area, and long banners that draped down the walls with the kingdom’s symbol emblazoned proudly across them.

The fort was built into the base of a mountain and he could see the tops of some buildings that trailed up the incline poking out from the high walls. The snow that had piled against the bricks only served to make it look grander, a sign that the fort had been standing there for many winters and would continue to do so for many more to come.

It was an impressive structure but the fact that Ghost was able to get as close as he did was concerning. The walls were built to house hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers and yet he stood at the open front gate, unimpeded.

He was fully equipped with several weapons on display and his armor clearly denoting him as an enemy soldier sat atop a war horse. He should have at the very least been stopped, if not openly fired upon.

Ghost advanced slowly, waiting for someone to finally notice him and raise an alarm or light a brazier. Yet he stood in the entrance and wondered if he was too late.

The plans he had copied made mention of weak spots that could be targeted and gaps in defenses that could be exploited but there he was, right inside an enemy fort having used the front door.

The interior was oblong, carrying on further to his right but quickly cut off on the left by a cliff face, upon which were some of those buildings he saw outside. At the base of the cliff were hastily assembled canopies doing a poor job at protecting the crates of supplies housed underneath them.

On his right, the area was partitioned by another wall of stone, this one man made, with an entryway that led to the rest of the fort. With the angle he had, he could only see more snow and stone walls beyond the door.

There were a few signs of life; There was a small path carved through trodden snow leading to the supplies and he could hear fires crackling and people hurrying about on the other side of the interior wall.

But something was wrong. Even the small, temporary camps he was used to had better guarding than this.

He had stopped Taxes right after the gate, unable to move forward. His paranoia was getting the better of him, but everything just felt so wrong that he couldn’t take one more step.

Not that Taxes would have allowed that. She was nervous as well, sensing her rider’s worry. She stomped and snorted in place, making it known that she did not want to stay there.

Ghost dismounted; He was worried about what would happen if she was caught in the crosshairs of a surprise attack. Ghost walked slowly and quietly towards the doorway to the right, leading Taxes behind him as he itched to grab his weapon.

Still, he carried on with only her reins in his hand.

His suspicion that the inhabitants of the fort were beyond that wall was correct. There were several campfires dotted around the middle area with soldiers huddled around them for warmth.

Most of the tents and buildings seemed to be occupied by others in need of medical care, medics and healthy, uninjured soldiers rushing in and out of tents. As he watched, the people around the campfires would tap in and out with those working, a rotation to assumedly make sure no one exhausted themselves or got too cold.

It was only then that he realized that the walls of the fort were fully hollow, presumably all the way around, as people carried supplies to yet more medics within the walls.

It seemed that what was once a formidable military fort was now an impromptu emergency medical center. Ghost blamed Soap for the pang of sympathy that struck him and nestled into his chest.

He wondered if the general knew he was planning to attack the sick and wounded. Wondered if he would care. He thought back to the soldiers’ sleeping faces. Perhaps not.

Ghost’s rumination was interrupted when someone finally, finally, noticed him.

They shouted orders and very quickly there was a wall of people blocking him from continuing further, their spears drawn and hastily grabbed shields raised. He made no move to draw his weapon but did not raise his hands in surrender.

Taxes pulled against the reins once but remained calm. Ghost was sure that standing in the dark shadow of the doorway, they made for a rather intimidating sight. He was just glad they didn’t immediately attack, but it did raise concern about their proficiency as soldiers.

Not openly attacking was the correct decision in this incredibly specific scenario, but they had no reason to know that. Ghost was glad that he didn’t have another arrow in his chest, but if these were the people he needed to win the war, then things were going to be even more difficult than he thought.

A man emerged from the hollowed walls and immediately made his presence known with a shout. “What the hell is going on?”

The man didn’t need to push his way to the front of the blockade as they parted for him; Clearly he had some level of power and/or respect here. He carried himself as a man in charge, but the emblem on his tunic called him captain.

“Who are you?” the captain demanded, enough authority in his voice to be mistaken for a much higher rank. He had significantly less protection against the cold than those around him, wearing only long sleeves and an ugly hat with no coat in sight.

“Where is your commander?” Ghost asked, even though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“You aren’t answering my question.” He said it with enough power that it came off as a threat without any promise of violence having been muttered.

Ghost ignored him again. “Where is he?”

The captain let out a humorless laugh that made the hair on the back of Ghost’s neck stand up. “I’m afraid someone has already poached your contract. He died two weeks ago.”

“I am not a mercenary,” Ghost stated with much more conviction than he felt. The man had an aura of power that made Ghost loathe being on the receiving end of his ire.

“An assassin, then. Either way, he’s dead,” the captain paused and let the statement linger, “If you’re after the person in charge, that’d be me. But I would not suggest attempting that — I’m afraid you’re outmanned.” He said it with a huff of air, like Ghost killing him was a bad joke at best.

“I am not here to kill you,” Ghost corrected even though he knew it wouldn’t change anything.

The captain retorted quickly, “And snow is yellow.”

(It was certainly the most creative way he’d been called a piss-poor liar.)

“I came here to offer information,” Ghost said flatly, wishing he got tips from Soap on how to be personable.

There was a small amount of movement to his left, but he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off of the captain. One errant twitch of Ghost’s fingers and he’d be dead. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could survive seven spears pointed right at him.

“Oh, did you now?” the captain laughed, this time something closer to real but just as alarming as before. Laughed like Ghost was a naive child with no idea about how the real world worked. It made him more unsettled than offended.

He plainly answered, “Yes.”

There was a long pause, the silence filled by the wind wailing around the mountain, enraged at the walls of the fortress for preventing it from wreaking havoc on the people within.

A new voice cut in. “Uhm, I—”

Their voice was quiet but as soon as they spoke, both Ghost and the captain turned to see who dared to interrupt the verbal struggle between them. The person the voice belonged to shrunk back when their attention snapped to them, their sentence cutting off. They had a crutch under one arm and a person under the other, who looked nervous for them as they glanced between the two parties.

It… was the kid. Deja-vu washed over him at the way the kid cowered, flashing back to the medic on the brink of death he had found dying in the woods.

…And clearly Ghost failed to help them.

Their leg had been amputated.

Above the knee amputation; An aggressive procedure that was avoided as much as possible with many complications spawning from it, not just with the immediate infection risk but the pain as well.

Ghost… Ghost could have killed the kid in battle and he would have felt remorse, but not guilt. Yet now, he watched the kid lean on their friend for support as their wooden crutch slid against the icy stone and he felt nothing but reproach for his own cruelty.

He looked back up at the kid who somehow looked more panicked when their eyes met his, quickly turning away and staring at the ground beneath them with shifting eyes. Ghost was consumed by a level of contrition he had thought himself no longer capable of feeling.

He had killed gods-alone-know-how-many people yet it was the first time he had left someone permanently disabled—

No.

It was the first time he had seen his own actions directly lead to someone being permanently disabled. Ghost would never know how many times this story had been repeated before with his callousness being the cause.

“I— I have something I need to s-say,” they said, stumbling over their words so much that it took a moment to understand them. Ghost wondered if his presence alone was enough to push the kid to the brink of a panic attack.

It, for whatever reason, almost made him feel worse than causing the kid’s leg to be cut off.

The captain’s voice softened as he addressed them, “Son, now is not—”

“NO!” they shouted, shifting as they almost lost their balance, “Or, no, I’m sorry— I…”

“Breathe, son.” The captain was kind yet commanding and the kid listened.

It was obvious that he was much more used to leading on a smaller scale, a scale where he leveled with those under him, treated them as people and not soldiers. No self-respecting commanding officer would refer to an underling as ‘son.’

Either way, they followed the order, taking a shaky breath. “I… think you should listen to him.” The kid stared at the general as they said it, voice shaky but opinion firm.

It wasn’t what Ghost was expecting at all. He thought it was going to be a request to get the first hit in.

The captain sighed at the request and was about to refute it but the kid pushed on. “He… he was the one who— who carried me out of the woods. He was the one that got me to the doctor. I’d— he—”

The kid took a breath, trying to formulate a passable argument around the panic overtaking their mind. “He didn’t have to save me, but he did.”

Their mouth moved like they didn’t want to leave it there, but no noise came out. Having said their piece (or as much of it as they could get out), the kid looked between Ghost and the captain before staring holes in the ground.

The captain looked at the kid with that sympathetic look before pinning Ghost under one that was much more threatening as he considered what the kid had said.

“Is that true?”

Based on the way he asked it, Ghost could tell that he was already coming to terms with having to give Ghost the benefit of the doubt.

“Yes,” he said, only just leaving out the ‘sir’ that wanted to follow it. Just because the man carried himself with authority didn’t mean Ghost had to treat him as an authority figure.

The captain dropped his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He waved a hand at the soldiers to stand down and return to their posts. Some of them gave him questioning looks, but they all soon quickly returned to their prior routine.

The kid looked up at that, a grateful expression taking over the anxiety riddled one.

“Drop off your weapons and horse,” the captain said, pointing to a spot to his right with an empty hitching post. “Then follow me.”

Ghost gave no verbal confirmation or even a nod, just quietly followed where he had pointed and loosely tied Taxes’s reins around the post. He didn’t think they were stupid enough to try to do anything bad to his horse, but he wanted to make sure the knot was loose enough that she could pull free if they did.

He laid his smallsword and halberd against the wall and hesitated before dropping his bag as well. He busied himself with nothing in particular as he watched the kid out of the corner of his eye. The captain was having a word with them, gently advising something while the kid obviously protested whatever the advice was.

When they were done, the captain dismissed them and stood at the base of a staircase that led to a path atop the stone walls as he watched Ghost. Ghost gave Taxes an apple and made a point not to rush just because the man was waiting on him.

When Ghost approached, the captain looked at the two arms he had deposited. They both knew that Ghost was still equipped with whatever weapons he had hidden, but the captain nodded and led him up the stairs regardless.

The top of the walls provided a path to the buildings Ghost had seen on top of the cliff at the entrance. The overview of the fort showed a grim picture, the entrance vacant and covered in snow while the other side had people constantly rushing around to prevent the sick and injured from getting worse.

Ghost was tempted to tell the captain that he needed to post guards at the entrance, but he had a feeling the man already knew that. They walked in silence, Ghost taking in the landscape with the higher viewpoint.

He was sure that if he had a warm fire, he’d find the grand, snowy vistas charming. Instead, with the echoes of the rushed medics and freezing soldiers behind him, it looked like a siren’s song, like it was begging some poor, naive soul to fall victim to its promised eternal slumber.

The ice made the winding passage tricky; there was no footpath worn into the snow. Wherever the captain was leading him, neither he nor any of his soldiers had been in a long time.

Part of him was curious if the captain was just taking him up there to kill him away from the prying eyes of the rest of the fort.

The walkway led to yet another, albeit shorter, staircase, this one ending on a man made landing carved into the rock. Up on the cliff, the walls weren’t able to protect them from the wind and his cloak whipped to the side; The captain remained unaffected.

Ghost didn’t know what purpose the two buildings served, only that they both looked fairly similar. He was led past the first one and glancing through the frosted windows, it was dark, but it looked like it had at one point been a storeroom that had since been emptied.

The captain stopped at the second building’s door, pulling out a key and unlocking it, though frowning when it didn’t open. He braced himself against the door, taking four attempts to shove it open. He carried on inside as if it was normal.

Ghost followed. The inside was just as dark as he expected, the only light to illuminate the dusty interior falling in through boarded and dirtied windows. The open door made the wind echo loudly inside the room, the noise seemingly magnifying as it crashed against the walls.

The other had gone further in, lighting a lantern and doing something in the dim light. Even though he knew how likely it was for everything to have been a setup for an ambush, he closed the door, shutting out most of the noise.

He took several more attempts to close it than the captain had to open it, with Ghost fighting against the wind for the handle to latch. By the time he turned around, the captain had lit a fire in a fireplace he’d failed to notice in the darkness.

Ghost watched as he broke an old, brittled chair into pieces and tossed them on the fire. Now with more light, he set the lantern on a table in the middle of the room. It must have been some kind of war room or headquarters that had gone abandoned for one reason or another.

The captain dusted off one of the old (but thankfully not brittle) chairs and set it at the table, gesturing for Ghost to do the same. He was not sure why he did; Any other scenario and he would have stayed standing out of spite.

Still, they sat at the meeting table directly across from one another. Ghost sat down without taking his eyes off of the captain, subconsciously checking that the book was still in his pocket.

Once settled, the man across from him appraised him before sticking out his hand. He introduced himself, “Captain John Price.”

Ghost appraised him as well. His other hand was flat on the table, not hiding any weapon just out of sight. He followed the display of trust without having to think about it, shaking hands as he reciprocated, “Ghost.”

“So I’ve heard. Why are you here?” the Captain asked, maintaining the firm tone that told Ghost that the man sitting across from him was not intimidated.

“I have information,” he repeated.

“What’s with the sudden change of heart?”

“Grew a conscience,” Ghost lied dryly. He pulled the book from his pocket, showing clearly that it wasn’t a weapon, and slid it across the table. “Page 73.”

The Captain gave him a skeptical look but followed along, making no secret of glancing back up to keep an eye on Ghost as he flipped through the book. His eyebrows raised as he assumedly reached the page.

The inner margins were full of information, writing that appeared to be nothing more than random scribbles until you looked close enough to actually read the messy scrawl.

It was an entire war’s worth of information crammed across a handful of page’s margins; Detailed plans of attack, possible weak points, and entire dossiers on each commanding officer’s strengths and weaknesses that he’d observed over the years.

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t cathartic to write out the general’s every failure and how to exploit them, even with the guilt hanging over him like a noose. From page 73 to 79, he doomed the man who had previously been his savior.

After skimming over everything, the Captain folded the page to mark it and closed the book. “And how do I know I can trust you?”

It was probably more rhetorical than anything; Whether he meant it or not, marking the page showed he had enough trust in Ghost’s information to want to come back to it.

“You don’t,” Ghost answered honestly, “It depends on which risk you’re more willing to take.”

On the journey, he’d had a lot of time to think and the question of trust was one he had asked himself and found he had no answer for. Anything that could be a sign of honesty was too easy to turn back around with an explanation that still left Ghost without an alibi.

(After leaving the cabin, part of him had considered turning around. Riding back to camp and removing the general’s head. Wrapping it in cloth and hanging it from his bag. Showing it off as a proof of trust. Tossing the decapitated head to the man in charge to see how he’d dispute that.

He wasn’t as appalled at the idea as he should have been.)

“I’ve heard of you,” the Captain said after an agonizing pause, “Not good things, but I have heard of you.”

Ghost didn’t back down from his piercing gaze even as he dreaded wherever this was going.

“I think there’s more to it,” the Captain finished. Ghost waited for more, but that was it.

The Captain was trying to say as little as possible while prompting Ghost to spill everything — A good tactic that probably would have worked on anyone other than Ghost.

Unfortunately for the Captain, he had long ago perfected the art of only answering exactly what was asked and nothing more. What felt like a lifetime ago, it had forced a quick-tempered father to word his demands very carefully and, more recently, forced an ill-mannered general to overthink every order he gave.

With no question asked, Ghost remained silent. It went on for several minutes, Ghost waiting to see how long the Captain could remain stoic before he broke and asked another question.

Six and a half minutes passed (yes he counted, what else was he supposed to do for almost seven minutes?) before the Captain sighed and rubbed his face, exhaustion now firmly on display.

Before he spoke, Ghost knew what was going to happen now. The intimidation hadn’t worked, so the Captain was going to switch to a more human approach. But with the way he held his head in his hands and, for just a moment and no longer, let his guard down, Ghost again wondered how much of it was a ploy by a cunning officer and how much was an exhausted man unable to rest.

The Captain sat up in his chair and put his elbows on the table, crossing his hands and holding them in front of his mouth in the mimicry of a prayer. He let his head rest against them a moment before seemingly finding the strength to lift his head and speak.

“I’m going to level with you, Ghost.”

(Ghost had a small smile that was unnoticeable behind his mask at correctly pinpointing what the Captain was going to do next.)

“I’ve had about three promotions in the past five months, I’m holding onto the title of captain out of stubbornness. The sick and injured were sent here as a temporary solution to a lack of medics, but now they outweigh the healthy troops,” the Captain partially mumbled the last part as he looked out the window, like he got caught up in doing calculations on just how screwed they were.

So Ghost was right — a fortress turned into a medical center. He had a feeling that was a decision made three promotions ago and that no one in charge stayed alive long enough to do anything about it.

The Captain took a deep breath, sighed, and dropped his hands to the table. “Now you’re telling me that the enemy is planning an attack and we need to move to a less defensible place? You, the enemy, is suddenly coming to us with insider information— do you see why I’m struggling to believe you here?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Ghost replied, still sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed. It was a bit of a risky gambit; It ran the risk of antagonizing the man further and, in turn, leading him to disregard everything Ghost had to say.

They had reached a stalemate. Trust is a two way street and both refused to move.

And so Ghost waited. He stared at the captain with a stony expression, unmoving. To an outsider, he would look intimidating, like some infallible, unaffected thing; In reality, he was trying to remember what Soap grabbed from the cabin that he could eat for dinner.

“Why are you here?” the Captain tried again. However it was a question that Ghost had already answered twice (the first time without even being prompted) and thus felt no need to repeat himself a third time.

They returned to silence.

Ghost quietly hoped that the Captain would start interrogating him again. He was tired from the trip and the room was comfortably dark and warm with the fire; Could you blame him for starting to feel sleepy?

“And what of the god of death?”

Well, that woke him right the fuck up.

“Excuse me?” Ghost asked, hoping his odd reaction looked like that of someone who was surprised at a seemingly random question. Surely that would be more logical than whatever the truth was.

The Captain laughed like something was funny and Ghost did not like not being privy to the joke. His smile was genuine and threatening. Like he found Ghost’s ignorance amusing but felt nothing but contempt for him.

He sneered, “The army that shed so much blood, the Old Gods had to awaken to take care of the dead? Not even their favorite executioner has heard the rumors?”

Ghost remained impassive on the outside while ice ran through his veins, shocking his system and shutting off everything non-vital. He couldn’t tell if he was more alarmed that people were getting close to finding out his connection to the god or that they thought Soap was aiding the slaughter.

He would need to tread very carefully, to overthink every word and every way it could be interpreted. But he was not sure of how to go about the following conversation in a way that would save himself and Soap from any potential fallout.

“No,” Ghost corrected sharply.

“Pardon?” the Captain asked, angered surprise pouring from his tone.

“Soap has not sided with any faction,” he answered, throwing self preservation out the window. He was angry at even the implication that Soap and the general could possibly be working together.

Why he felt the need to protect Soap’s reputation over his own safety, he did not know. It seemed he didn’t know much these days, but he knew that the idea of the god repeating the cycle that happened previously had his bones twitching.

In fact, he was so caught up in his own righteous anger and need to protect someone who did not need protecting that he didn’t catch his slip up until the other leaned back like he was taking in a sudden rush of information.

Soap.

His name had been forgotten for an age. No one should know it, least of all know it well enough to drop it casually in conversation.

Fuck, that was stupid.

Yes, Soap had chastised for him for calling himself stupid, but holy fuck, that was stupid.

“Yet he sent you,” the Captain asked, confirming his fuck up and putting the last nail in his coffin with such force that the wood cracked.

Ghost had nothing to say that could save him, so he said nothing. He kept up the stoic stare while on the inside his lungs staged a revolt. The fewer damning things he said, the better.

“If we acted on this,” the Captain asked, gesturing to the book without taking his eyes off Ghost, “Would we have the god of death on our side?”

“No,” he answered, immediately throwing his previous solution to say nothing away. Ghost jabbed, “If you want a god on your side, start praying to the god of war.”

The Captain stared back at him. This was still an interrogation. Ghost could not afford to get angry; He answers only what is asked and nothing more. His previous response should have ended at no.

“Yet he sent you,” the Captain repeated.

Don’t answer. Don't answer. Do not answer. DO NOT ANSWER, YOU FUCKING MORON.

“If they win,” Ghost answered, “They kill the soldiers, starve the civilians, and continue their reign of terror. If you win, the war ends.”

The Captain muttered, “If life grows, so does death.”

He hummed, contemplating the slew of information that had been dumped onto him. Ghost contemplated what he would offer to Soap as an apology for how badly he’d fucked up.

Was the rumor of Soap’s return just an astronomically lucky guess out of the rumor mill? Or did someone, somewhere have some facts to back it up?

Sure, he told the kid Soap’s name, but he would be surprised if they remembered anything about that day beyond that he got hurt and Ghost took them to a medic. And even if they did, he doubted anyone would believe the delirious ramblings of a kid who just had their fucking leg amputated.

Ghost was likely the only one that could recognize the god on sight, and even then Soap looking like, well, Soap was a recent development. So how the fuck did the leader of the opposing army know that Soap had awoken?

The Captain’s voice snapped him from his contemplation.

“What do you know about strategy, son?” the Captain asked.

“Not much,” Ghost answered truthfully.

“That’s more than none,” the Captain said as he stood, “Which is good enough for me.”

He walked to the door and barely turned the handle, letting the wind blast it open. “Get comfy, we’re gonna be here a while.”

…

Several hours later, Ghost really fucking wished he’d lied and said he didn’t even know what the word strategy meant.

Apparently, whatever strategist they’d had died a while ago (which Ghost would never say aloud, but it explained a lot about the trajectory of their more recent battles.) The Captain instead brought in a few various lower ranked soldiers he seemed to trust.

And they trusted him in turn. As inexperienced as he may be with leading an entire army, he at the very least had the trust of each and every member of his troops. When they entered the reinvigorated war room and saw Ghost, the enemy they had just been pointing spears at, they hesitated but sat at the table with him when they saw their Captain do the same.

It became a battle plan by committee, everyone pitching in their expertise to patch where there was once a gap in knowledge; Occasionally, someone would be sent down to fetch yet another person who could lend a different viewpoint.

It was annoying to be a part of as a man who hated working in teams, but he still couldn’t help but admire their tenacity. It was a bad place to be in, the general more or less planning to attack a hospital, but they refused to accept it as an impossible situation.

Admirable, but fucking hell, he was exhausted.

He and the Captain were the two most experienced there (which was sad, to be quite honest) and had to act as the common sense filter for about eight starry-eyed rookies who refused to accept loss, both of the battle and human life, as a possibility.

By the time everything was finalized, it was so dark that they had to leave the upper section of the fort in pairs, sticking close with a torch to light the way. There was no room for pride when he and the Captain descended the icy stone, arm in arm so as not to fall off either side of the wall.

They provided him with lodging with the agreement that he would leave in the morning and return to the camp as if nothing had changed at all. It was harder to hold onto his guilt over leading soldiers he’d known for years into an ambush when he saw the way joy had slowly spread through the fort.

Word had gotten out that there was a plan in motion, a hope for winning. The fortress was pitch black with snow steadily falling, yet they quietly cheered at the notion that they had a chance.

The tent he’d been given was smaller than the one he had at camp with only a few blankets stacked on the ground as opposed to a cot, but even before spending a night there, he knew he preferred it to his own.

It was tucked close to the others, a small way to conserve warmth, and if he strained his ears, he could hear excited whispers from his neighbors. The words were lost to the wind but the happiness lingered, quiet laughter ringing in the desolate night.

It was stupid and it was sappy but Ghost finally felt at least a little close to being at peace with his betrayal, knowing that this was what he was saving in return.

The dinner he’d been fantasizing about for hours was provided as well. Sitting in his tent, he had resolved to eat some crackers if he felt up for it and go to sleep hungry if not, but one of the rookies he’d been strategizing with apparently noticed that he hadn’t eaten.

They had approached his tent and actually said “Knock, knock” out loud and waited for his permission to open the flaps of the tent. They handed over a bowl of some kind of stew quickly and quietly apologized both for bothering him and the small meal and wished him a good night before he could even fully process what they had knocked about.

He was still staring into his rapidly cooling dinner when Soap appeared.

The god didn’t say anything, just draped himself over Ghost’s back like a blanket, like it was second nature to make sure he was warm and comfy, and mumbled something about his food freezing solid before he could eat it.

Ghost smirked, pushing back against Soap teasingly before sitting up, still partially leaning against him. He pulled down his mask and ate in silence, Soap tapping a rhythm against his side as he did. The rookie had apologized for it not being much, but it was one of the better meals he’d had in a while.

He chewed slowly and dragged out the last few bites even though it had chilled past the point of being palatable, worried that when he was done, Soap would pull away.

Is he still worried about falling, jackass?

Ghost smiled. He hadn’t heard from him since that morning. It felt like two months had passed since then, since the cabin. Even after reflecting on how much he had done in one day and feeling the exhaustion creeping towards his spine, he still wasn’t ready to fall asleep and end the day yet.

It was a novel feeling for him, to want to make the day last longer as opposed to cutting it short, and though he knew he would be even more exhausted in the morning, he wasn’t ready to toss away this rare happiness for a few more minutes of sleep.

It did not take long for Soap to break the silence with a quiet mutter, “I won’t be able to stay like I did last night.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Ghost reassured quietly. He would miss forcing the god of death to be his pillow, but he supposed he could make do.

“What?” Soap poked back as he leaned forward, forcing Ghost to do the same, “Already wanting me to leave?”

Ghost scoffed and rolled his eyes. He took a breath to speak but cut himself off; He almost responded with a firm denial before his brain caught up and stopped that before he could embarrass himself.

The instinctive honesty from his own subconscious surprised him. Such a simple thing, but the realization that he was genuinely upset at the idea that Soap could have felt rejected by words that were meant to reassure left him unsettled.

Thankfully, his scoff and obvious dismissal of Soap’s teasing was enough of an answer even without a verbal response and the god chuckled silently. He remembered his prior wish that Soap had coached him on how to be personable; It was back tenfold as silence found its way back into the tent.

Ghost couldn’t tell if it was an actual awkward silence or just his social ineptitude back in full force.

It was easier when it was just the Captain interrogating him, but now he had to keep a not just civil, but friendly conversation up without being too clumsy.

A truly impossible task. At least the Captain had—

Had known that Soap was active but was mistaken on why. Who believed the rumors that were swirling of a greedy, malevolent god’s return. Who had his fears fed into by Ghost saying Soap’s name.

Ghost knew he was forgetting something.

“Ghost,” Soap said in a warning tone, “Yer thinking too loud again.” He added with a small laugh, “Or, sorry — Sulking, brooding, whatever word it is you want to use.”

Ghost took in a deep breath and before he could think better of it, said, “Rumors are circulating that you reawoke to aid the general.”

The god tensed but said nothing.

This was the one thing Soap had wanted to avoid. Despite how much his mind revolted at the words, Ghost hastily apologized, hating the uncertainty of not knowing what Soap was thinking. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I know,” Soap said in a soft voice.

Ghost had a feeling he wasn't talking about his feelings of regret.

The simple and quiet admission almost hurt more than if the god had gotten angry and cursed him. He didn’t deserve the god’s patience; Soap had already given him so much, but how much of it was given knowing that Ghost was restarting the cycle?

“How?” he asked.

Perhaps Soap could read minds as he answered, “It’s not your fault, it was bound to happen eventually.” He had the tone of someone telling a pretty little lie meant solely to appease the other.

Realizing that he might have misrepresented the situation, Ghost minutely shook his head and reworded his admission. “I… may have confirmed the rumors.”

Soap pulled away and looked at him with betrayed disbelief. “What?”

Confirmed the rumors that he had reawoken, not that Soap was siding with the general.

Ghost shook his head, “I meant—”

Soap interrupted, “What did you say?” The words were not angry (yet), but the surprise that Ghost may have betrayed him was still there.

Ghost relayed the conversation he’d had with the Captain almost verbatim, focusing on the memory as opposed to Soap’s reactions to his words, if the god had any reaction at all.

It was easier with Soap still sitting behind him. Confessing his fuck up to the canvas tent in front of him was easier than looking a god in the eyes and confirming his fears.

Once he was done recounting the “interrogation,” (Was Ghost allowed to poke fun at the Captain’s interrogation skills if he got Ghost to crack, even if accidentally?) they fell into a nerve-wracking silence.

The howling wind outside only called attention to the quiet within the tent.

After some amount of time, Soap returned to how he was before Ghost had started talking — draped across Ghost’s back, this time his chin hooking over his shoulder.

It was a mirror of a position they had found themselves in multiple times before when on Taxes, but this time it felt different. A couple of weeks ago, or even a few days ago, he would have tried to tell himself that it was some convoluted manipulation tactic.

Right there in that tent, he wasn’t even sure he could convince himself that it wasn’t Soap trying desperately not to fall apart.

Soap pressed his mouth into his shoulder. Ghost could not tell what caused the reaction until he realized the god was trying to contain a noise — whether it was cries or laughter, he did not know.

The longer it went on, the more apparent it became that he was chuckling, finding some part of the account funny. Ghost could feel the god’s small smile growing as Soap tried to dampen the reaction.

Soap mumbled between chuckles, “If you want a god on your side, start praying to the god of war.”

Ghost’s brow furrowed, the parroting of his own words not clearing up any of his confusion. The angle was awkward, but turning to his right, he could just about see Soap and the tear tracks that were running down his face.

Ghost panickedly asked aloud, “Are you crying or laughing?”

“Yes,” Soap answered with a huff of laughter that ended on a sad sniffle.

That wasn’t a yes or no question!

He felt like a rookie on the battlefield for the first time, terrified of doing the wrong thing. Except he wasn’t fighting for his life — he could do that just fine. No, instead he was just trying to fucking comfort someone.

He would rather be on the battlefield. Getting stabbed wasn’t as stressful as this shit.

Soap’s hands had ventured back to holding him at some point in the midst of it all. Not knowing what else to do, Ghost patted Soap’s hand in a shitty imitation of the comfort the god had provided him the night prior. Pulling the touch away afterwards felt like it would be the wrong move, so he awkwardly laid his hand on top of the Soap’s.

Now, of all times, would be a fantastic time for a pushy dead man to chime in with some post-mortem knowledge.

I don’t know? Just do whatever feels natural?

Well. Fuck. So they’re both lost then. Ghost had to think about it for a moment before rubbing Soap’s hand with his thumb. Soap had done something similar for him, right?

Right?

Probably? I’m fucking dead, not omniscent.

Gods, what the hell is the point of being haunted if the haunter can’t help you with simple tasks like social interaction?

Fuck you man, it’s not my fault you need a miracle—

“Thank you,” Soap muttered.

FOR WHAT?

Ghost and his haunter’s thoughts matched, for once; Both were at a loss for what Soap was thinking about and referencing with his gratitude.

“You’re welcome?” Ghost more asked than said with the hope that Soap would offer some clarity.

A hope that was dashed when Soap just snickered at his confusion.

Better than him crying, at least?

Soap, with a smile that seemed out of place for how much stress he had just caused Ghost, said in a wispy voice, “Lie down, you’re gonna have a long day tomorrow.”

It was obvious that Soap didn’t want to discuss whatever the hell just happened even though Ghost was still unsure if Soap was pissed at him or not. Making someone cry does not feel good.

He wanted to ask what Soap wanted him to do to make up for his blunder, to ask Soap if there was anything he could do. Ghost did neither. He instead stretched, the motion a little awkward with Soap still clinging to his back. If Soap wanted to act like nothing had happened, then that’s what Ghost can do.

Just ignore the past however-many minutes and go to sleep.

Unfortunately for him, it was as if Soap’s words had activated a part of Ghost’s mind, his exhaustion suddenly hitting him even though he had been fine barely a moment prior.

He stumbled through the steps he needed to take before laying down; Boots were removed with fumbling fingers, blankets hoarded by cold hands, and weapons laid out with sore muscles.

Soap tried and failed to hide his amusement at his lack of coordination, asking something about whether or not Ghost had snuck out to a tavern when Soap wasn’t looking.

Ghost aired his grievances, complaining about Soap with incomprehensible rambles. The nonsensical words kept him awake enough to carry through his routine but if you asked him the next day what the fuck he was talking about, he would have had no answer.

When he finally laid down, the weight of the day fell onto his chest, forcing him to lie still and breathe before he was able to untense and pull his blankets closer as he rolled to his side.

Ghost only remembered that Soap was still there when the god spent some time pulling his covers straight and making sure he was evenly protected from the evil cold. Again, he felt shame for how incapable it made him seem but he forced himself not to dwell on it.

Beyond the shame, there was something else there. Disappointment, mayhaps. But why he felt it, he did not know. At least, not until it was quelled by Soap lying next to him.

He internally scoffed at himself for being so childish but still did not rebuke the offered touch. It was muted through the several layers of fabric, something he was grateful for.

Ghost’s eyes drifted closed without his permission. Opening them, he found that Soap was watching him.

When he had first started looking into tales of the first incarnation of Death, he found it funny just how varied accounts of the god’s eyes were. It was such an odd thing to take note of, but it stuck out to him.

While most everyone agreed that the god’s preferred form had blue eyes, the exact tone was an unexpectedly hot topic for debate.

Some said they were dark like a stormy sea, some said they were light and freeing like an open blue sky, and some even claimed they were icy like a pond that had just frozen over.

Back then, he had thought it stupid, assuming people were either exaggerating or, what he thought was most likely, that the god changed the tone on a whim. But staring into Soap’s eyes directly, he finally understood.

They were monochromatic prisms, only reflecting one color but showcasing every shade that could be considered blue.

Or maybe it was past his bedtime. That was probably it.

When he pulled out of his stupid, blue-tinged thoughts, Soap was still staring at him but with an expression that Ghost wasn’t awake enough to understand. He hoped his own creepy staring would be cast aside as a direct result of his exhaustion.

He fought to stay awake a little longer, something in him wanting to avoid falling into sleep.

And it was as he was losing that fight that he felt something against his forehead for just a moment before it was gone. In his sleepy state, he couldn’t quite figure out what it was, brushing it aside as perhaps a stubborn strand of hair or bunched up fabric.

In a level of clarity you can only get when just about to fall asleep, when your logic and reasoning has already shut down and left you only with observable fact, he realized that Soap, the god of death, just kissed him on the forehead.

It felt nice, he thought.

Anything that came after was lost as he finally fell to the whims of his exhausted mind. While the idea of sleeping peacefully felt laughable for years, he had now fallen asleep two nights in a row without feeling like the world was going to crush him once he reopened his eyes.

The peace was shattered by a loud noise outside, something deafening in the dead of night that echoed through the walls of the fort.

He sat up quickly, his heart pounding as he prepared for an attack. He stilled as his chest heaved, forcing his mind to wake up and listen for more of an indication of what was happening outside the tent.

There were several quiet footsteps shuffling around, and it wasn’t until he processed that there was light, daylight edging past the flaps of the tent that he realized there was no nighttime kerfuffle.

It was morning.

Soap was gone, likely (hopefully) having left hours ago. While he wanted to fall backwards and go back to sleep, the sound had sent too much energy through him to allow him even a few more minutes of rest.

Ghost only got up to start the day after quite a while of cursing the gods (all except for one) and reluctantly peeled away each blanket one by one. With his shield gone, he got ready quickly, donning his outerwear before the icy air had the chance to freeze him solid.

He repacked his bag and rubbed his eyes, demanding himself to wake up fully before leaving the tent. He was barely awake when he pushed past the flaps of his tent, but it was as close as he was going to get.

When he stood fully, he saw that the rest of the fort was in a similar state of tiredness. He had a feeling that not even the Captain was awake enough to kick his men into shape as they shambled around and prepared breakfast.

As much as he wanted to throw himself onto a fire to get as warm as he physically could, he instead found the stable that Taxes had been moved to and prepared to set out. He needed to leave five minutes ago if he wanted to get to camp before nightfall.

Ghost was surprised to see that his horse had been well cared for, someone clearly having taken the time to win her trust to brush and feed her. He smiled as he pet her mane, happy to see his fears of her being mistreated were unfounded.

He remembered once upon a time ago, he had denied Taxes being his horse but by now she might as well have been. There certainly wasn’t any other horse he would want to take with him to fuck up a long planned war.

“Ghost, I—”

The voice from behind him was an unwelcome intrusion on his time spent spoiling Taxes. He turned to face it stonily, his anger plain in what was visible of his face.

It was the kid. His expression softened without him being fully aware of it.

“Gods,” the kid flinched at the anger that was momentarily directed towards them, mumbling under their breath in a way that Ghost clearly wasn’t meant to overhear, “Fucking creepy bastard.”

They rolled their shoulders and carried on. “I wanted to thank you.”

For the second time in less than twelve hours, someone was thanking him and he had no idea what for.

They waited, clearly expecting him to say something, and looked only slightly thrown off by the silence. Back in the woods, they had been full of determination and brashness, ready to gut Ghost if given the chance. Here, the determination stayed, but now with much more nerves.

When it was clear that Ghost wasn’t going to say anything, they swallowed anxiously and stumbled over their words as they added, “I… I would have died if not for you. Back there. In the woods. I—”

“Do not tell me that you owe me your life,” Ghost interrupted sternly. He walked to the other side of Taxes; He knew the conversation was not done, but he did not have the time to stand there doing nothing. He glanced up at them, waiting for their rebuttal.

The kid was surprised by the sudden broken silence and shook their head, “Well, yeah, of course not.”

Ghost heaved an internal sigh of relief as he prepared Taxes’s bridle.

The kid continued, “Not anymore. I turned in the favor by stopping you from getting skewered yesterday.”

Ghost heaved an external sigh. “You do not owe me for causing your leg to be amputated.” He wasn’t used to speaking so openly but he needed the kid to understand his point for reasons he himself couldn’t voice.

“What? No. What?” the kid looked bewildered, adding on, “My leg was already fucked when you found me. If you hadn’t gotten me out of the woods— What?” Their own bafflement cut them off and they paused, trying to figure out where the point of confusion lied. “Was I supposed to crawl for miles with one leg? Just worm my way through the dirt ‘til I found a town?”

Ghost stared at them as he realized that he was the one being irrational. The kid was objectively correct, and yet he still felt guilty. Why was he being irrational?

When Ghost again said nothing, they added, “I thought I was going to starve in those woods. And I would have if not for you. I mean, ‘if it’s life or limb,’ and all that, right?”

He stared at them. They stared back, but with a shifting gaze, too impatient. Snow had accumulated in their hair, standing out against the black strands. They never stood still, their fingers tapping where they held their crutch and their foot shuffling as they tried to keep their balance.

They reminded him of his nephew.

The revelation hit him like a kick in the chest.

He looked in the kid’s eyes and saw a nephew he only got to meet a handful of times. A nephew he had gotten killed years ago, along with the rest of his family.

Logically, it made no sense. They did not look alike and even in behavior there were only so many similarities between someone old enough to be a medic in an army and a child forever stuck at six years old.

It made no sense, and yet he looked at the pain the kid had gone through and could only think of how much pain he had caused his nephew.

Ghost was being irrational and he didn’t like it. He was not supposed to be irrational— he was not allowed to be and with the life he led he could not afford to be.

“Uh, yeah, anyways,” the kid nodded, not knowing how to respond to Ghost’s unwavering stare. “Just uh, wanted to say thanks.” They turned, leaving slowly as their crutches struggled for traction on the icy stone.

“Kid,” he called out, refusing to let his irrational emotions control him. His chest still hurt.

“Badger,” they corrected as they turned awkwardly, standing as they waited to see what it was Ghost wanted. With such a shitty nickname, you would think they would be happy with being called anything else.

Ghost nodded his head in a “Come here” gesture, grabbing his bag. They approached Taxes cautiously, hesitantly reaching out a hand to pet her. To Ghost’s surprise, the mare allowed the touch, her skin jumping as they made contact but not moving away.

(Or maybe it wasn’t that surprising. Maybe this was just how she was when she wasn’t surrounded by the rowdy soldiers she normally had to keep company.)

Once they had her permission to pet her, the kid moved both of their crutches to one hand and rested their arm against her back for support. She was tall enough that the angle was a little off, but they seemed happy being able to pet her.

Looking away (and not thinking about how much his nephew had loved horses), he rooted through his bag, pulling out something that he never should have held onto and passed it over.

“Is this… my knife?” they asked.

Ghost grunted an affirmation, brushing Taxes and failing to not focus on the way their face lit up as they looked between him and the knife.

“Thank you! I thought I left it in the woods, I thought it was gone!”

Nope, Ghost just forgot to leave it with the medics when he dropped them off.

He grunted again, not wanting to admit that it was his own oversight that led to them thinking they lost something that seemed important to them.

The kid repeated, “Thank you, I wish I had something to give—”

“You do not owe me anything,” Ghost interrupted, staring them down.

“Right,” they added awkwardly, unsure of what to do with the firm command. When Ghost had to brush around their arm, they sheathed the knife and held out their hand for the brush.

He considered them for a moment but hesitantly passed it over. Unsurprisingly, they just brushed her other side. They had to lean awkwardly on their crutches to do so, but again just seemed happy to brush her.

(His nephew had ran up to him, excited. They met so few times the little tyke was still anxious around him but seeing the horse he’d been given for his visit home made him forget his fears.

The kid had gasped in amazed wonder, letting Ghost pick him up so he could pet the horse’s mane.

His brother smiled, happy to see them bonding, even if it was only for a few hours before Ghost had to return to his cell. These moments were treasured, for all of them.

They were bittersweet, he was only allowed home before a major fight. The one kindness from the arena, a last chance to say goodbye, one last shared dinner should the worst come to pass.

His nephew wasn’t old enough for any of that, however, and just seemed happy to pet his uncle’s temporary steed. He glanced between Ghost and the horse with a look of pure adoration—)

When they were done, they held onto the brush a moment, considering, before passing it back and asking, “The person that was with you, my memories are all fucked, but uh, gods this is gonna sound insane, was that the god of death? Like… the old one?”

Ghost did not reach for the brush nor answer. He did not think they remembered that.

They sighed, relieved. “Okay, yeah, I knew it was just my mind fucking with me. I just, I— I know it’s insane, but—”

He grabbed the brush and interrupted calmly, “No, you were right. That was Soap, the god of death.” Ghost turned to put the brush away and hide his smile at the kid’s sputters. At least he knew now that it wasn’t the kid that blabbed about Soap’s return.

The kid stammered, “What the fuck—? Actually, no, sorry, I have to go… uh… fucking… water the grass.” They turned and headed back to where they must have come from, shaking their head.

Ghost could hear them grumbling about ancient deities appearing out of nowhere just to be an inconvenience. Ghost could most certainly sympathize.

He finished preparing for the trip and mounted up. As he approached the gate, he made eye contact with the Captain. The Captain nodded at him and Ghost returned the gesture with a hole opening in his chest.

As he left the fort, riding out into the snow, he was struck by the realization that he felt… lighter. He should have felt worse, now irrevocably dooming his cohort, but instead he—

He stopped in the middle of the road.

Ghost… free wasn’t the right word, it couldn’t be, but after the battle, he’d be gone. He would have to. To leave, to find somewhere, anywhere else. He would never see the general again after leading his men into the trap.

Within three weeks, he could go wherever he wanted. The general wouldn’t have control over him, nor the owner of the arena. He pushed Taxes into a walk.

Why did the prospect of freedom fill him with dread?

#im so out of practice with posting #fingers crossed i didnt forget anything #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #ghoap god type au #forgotten death au

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videogamelover99 · 2 months ago

Text

[Gravity Falls] Waking Days Ch. 4: The Stranger

Summary: Bill Cipher is reborn, but not in the way he would have wanted. Stuck as a mortal and relying on those who brought his downfall, he realizes that maybe he didn't lie as hard as he should have. [AO3 Link] Characters: Bill Cipher, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Stanford Pines, Stanley Pines, Jheselbraum the Unswerving, The Axolotl Pairings: past BillFord Rating: T

A/N: This was one of my favorite chapters to write (Bill and Mabel just...work so well off each other, I wish they had more screen time together). Thank you to @megxolotl and @nexstage for beta-reading. Enjoy!

---

Free-floating through the mindscape, Bill tried to find Cashier Girl’s boss, Sarah Wheatfield.

Of course, there was no cleansing ritual. Bill didn’t know what the heck was up with the weird static in Cashier Girl’s mind, or how to get rid of it. Likely it was a symptom of a latent psychotic break, brought on by a glimpse into his dimension, but hey, that wasn’t his problem. The ability to make deals was as powerful as it was a pain, and for once, being able to drop the other end of the bargain worked in his favor.

When he finally found Sarah, he wasn’t thrilled.

I remember you, he thought and watched the woman arrange a shelf of T-shirts. She was middle-aged, with braided dark hair and a mole over her upper lip, one she bit constantly in a nervous fervor. Once in a while she would reach up and rub at her necklace, a rough string threaded through a tacky pink crystal.

She’d made a great backrest for his Throne of Human Agony, but this also meant that she probably remembered him.

No way of talking to her through the mindscape. She’ll know who I am.

He could take on another form if he wanted. He could look like anything he wished in the minds of humans, but he couldn’t risk some too-observant idiot connecting the dots. Best-case scenario, it’s a fit of horrified, traumatized screaming, which would be fun to watch, but not very useful. Worst case scenario: a quick trip to the town’s resident paranormal nerd. And the last thing Bill wanted was for Stanford Pines to know he got some of his power back.

He watched her fold T-shirts, fuming and trying to come up with a plan, when he felt something tugging at him, like a hook sinking into his middle, right underneath the bowtie.

“What? No, not yet!”

It didn’t matter how much Bill struggled to stay asleep when his body was waking up. It yanked him straight out of the mindscape, back to a dirty park bench with two children staring him down.

“Have a nice nap?” Dipper asked. “Come on, it’s getting dark.”

Mabel sheepishly held out a hand. Bill scowled at it, before pushing himself up, ignoring the pout he received. “Like a cacophony of ten screaming toddlers with their feet cut off.”

“Why do I keep talking to you?” Dipper wondered out loud, looking slightly nauseous, “You never have anything good to say.”

—

Greasy’s Diner was crowded with a dozen or so people, and it was pretty damn unusual at this time of day. No one paid him any attention, which was good. People didn’t know the Pines were harboring a chaotic space demon, and it better stay that way.

Stan managed to squeeze in between the Valentinos and find a place to sit, just as someone in the center of the big group of people cleared his throat.

It was a well-kempt man in a pristine white suit. A gleaming, expensive-looking pen poked out of his front coat pocket, and the greying sideburns in his dark hair only made him more good-looking. This man could’ve walked off the cover of a Business for Middle-Aged Men!

The man spoke in a soft, kind voice. “Hello, everyone! I’m glad so many could make it at this hour. For those who don’t know, hello! I’m Mason Jewels, the town’s new tourism consultant. I just wanted to get a better picture of the difficulties the small businesses of Gravity Falls are facing. Who wants to start?”

“Ooh, me, me!” Lazy Susan, standing behind the counter, raised her hand eagerly.

“Yes, you first, my dear.”

“Well, hi. I’m Lazy Susan,” she waved at the crowd.

“We know who you are!” Someone yelled from the back.

“As for difficulties, well…” She frowned for a moment. “Well, you see after last summer…”

“Nothing happened last summer!” Manly Dan bellowed from a booth. His wide frame took up most of it.

“Yeah, it’s the Mayor’s Nevermind All That Act!” someone else said.

“What happened last summer?” Jewels asked.

“Never mind all that!”

“Oh, right,” said Lady Susan. “After all that, I keep getting customers of the more…unnatural variety.”

Jewels frowned. “Unnatural variety?”

“Yes! Those little gnome men. And that bear with many heads. Not that I don’t like the business, but, well, this place is meant for human-sized guests,” she fretted with her hair. “And I don’t have the money to fix any more walls.” She pointed at a giant boarded-up hole behind the counter. A slight breeze came through the gaps in the boards.

“I see,” Jewels jotted something down in the little notepad he was carrying. “And the, ah, bear destroyed that wall?”

“Oh, no, he’s a peach! It’s those gnomes. One of them tried to get me to marry all of them, and they thought getting a ring the size of a minivan would do it. Couldn’t get it through the front door, so…”

Stan let out a laugh, then chocked it down when someone glared at him.

Jewels, for his part, seemed to roll with it. Either this man encountered gnomes numerous times in his career, or he was writing a note to send Lazy Susan to a mental hospital. “I see. Perhaps we can suggest some ideas on how to mitigate this issue?”

Manly Dan raised a hand.

“Yes?”

“Run ‘em outta town!”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Lazy Susan protested.

“Yes? Mrs. Valentino?”

“I, for one, found a nice cup of tea and a polite conversation went a long way. One of those bull-men had recently, ah-”

“Gone belly-up?” her husband suggested.

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Valentino giggled. “And all of his friends requested funeral arrangements. They were very loud, and, well, bullheaded, haha. But after a few calming cups of tea, they were sweethearts. One even cried right in front of us.”

“Aw,” Manly Dan wiped away a tear.

Stan rolled his eyes.

“Yes, perhaps discussing better arrangements with your new patrons would be beneficial,” Jewels said. “What do you think?”

“I could try,” said Susan, scratching her head.

“Anyone else?”

Stan raised his hand.

The man’s bright blue eyes fell on him. He looked surprised for a moment, almost like he recognized Stan. He better not have seen one of the wanted posters.

“Yes? Stanford Pines, is it?”

“Stanley,” he corrected. “Anyway, aren’t you a business expert? What’s with the support group nonsense?”

“I’m just here to better understand the situation of all my clients,” Jewels replied, polite as ever. His voice started getting on Stan’s nerves. “What about you, Mr. Pines? I’ve gotten up to date on every business in this town, including yours. Any problems at the Mystery Shack you are currently facing? You are welcome to share if you like.”

“No.”

“That’s not true,” Lazy Susan piped up. “Yesterday-”

“Okay, there is…one.” Stan folded his arms. “But he ain’t exactly easy to get rid of.”

“Troublesome customer?” asked Jewels.

“Worse.”

They were all looking at him. Damn him and his mouth. He couldn’t exactly come clean and admit he was housing that demon, of all things. Mayor’s Act or not, the panic that would set in would be a huge mess. “There’s, uh, this guy we’re letting stay at the Shack. He ain’t easy to get along with. He makes everything worse for everyone and then acts like he owns the place.”

“I’ve got a cousin like that,” Farmer Sprott piped up. “Why don’t you get rid of him?”

“...He’s got nowhere else to go, I guess.”

“Aw,” said Lazy Susan.

“Hey, don’t make it sound like we’re doing him a favor. If I could get rid of him, I would,” Stan muttered.

“That is commendable, Mr. Pines,” Jewels said. The gleam in his eye caught Stan off guard. He stared at Stan for a few moments longer, before clapping his hands together and turning to the rest of the townsfolk. “Well, you can see how our problems affect more than just our business. They create stress and fatigue, and suck away our energy.”

Stan grunted.

“There are ways to mitigate that stress,” Jewels continued. “The tourist wave is yet to start. By then you will all be busy. But before you go, I would like you all to have something.”

With that, Jewels opened his suitcase and took out a black velvet bag. He reached into the bag and presented…a set of crystals.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” said Stan.

The rest of the townsfolk seemed captivated as Jewels presented each piece. Stan meanwhile, was starting to put his own pieces together, as he held his free crystal in his palm.

Mason Jewels was a con artist, plain and simple.

—

By the time they got back, Seven Eyes was already gone, but Bill could tell she’d been there by the ionized air left behind by the dimensional scissors. Which was for the better. He had no interest in dealing with that. He didn’t want to see her.

Things took on a routine. Sixer avoided him in the most I don’t care of course I’m over it! way possible by hiding in his lab. Stanley came back from whatever it was old men do on their days off, a tacky new-age crystal in his hand, and Bill found it hilarious that the two-bit con artist had gotten swindled.

Bill had taken his usual spot on the couch when Mabel suddenly appeared next to him and produced her sketchbook. “We need to talk about your progress,” she said very seriously.

“You know,” Bill remarked idly. “That ‘I can fix him!’ attitude ain’t gonna do you any favors in your dating life.”

She ignored him and flipped back to the page with the drawing of his badness level. “Maybe we’re going at it the wrong way.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Can I sleep now?”

“You’re not taking this seriously. That’s the problem.”

“Sure I am! I’ve done all those things you asked me to! And don’t forget your end of the bargain.”

Mabel sighed, defeated. “Do you really like being a jerk that much?”

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, so listen close.” Bill lowered his voice for the dramatics of it. “Everyone on this planet, everyone in this reality, and all the other realities, they’re all jerks. Every last one of ‘em!”

“That’s not true,” said Mabel.

“Oh please,” Bill rolled his eyes. “You think people do things out of the goodness of their hearts? You think people are nice to each other just because? It ain’t how it works, kid. The big wigs up top invented ‘morality’ to get suckers to fall in line and feel bad about themselves every other opportunity. And those suckers? They do things not because they’re good, but because they feel good. That’s why you humans can’t even decide what religion to follow or who gets to die in prison. Morality is a scam.”

Mabel looked at him for a long time. “That’s a really sad way of looking at it,” she said finally.

“It’s not how you look at it, kid. It’s how it is.” Bill shrugged. “The sooner you realize it the sooner you’ll be free of all those guilt-generating shackles society’s put on you.”

“I don’t think so,” said Mabel. “I think you think that because it’s easier.”

“Whatever,” Bill flipped over on his side and pulled the blanket over his head.

Mabel didn’t move. He heard her scribbling furiously in her sketchbook.

He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.

—

He couldn’t. Bill squirmed on the couch, restless, unable to calm down, and unable to tell why. This body was supposed to want to sleep, and yet despite how tired he felt, he still lay awake, hours later, staring at the ceiling, where the blue translucent light of the water tank cast long wavy shadows across its surface.

The Axolotl was silent.

Mabel had fallen asleep, sketchbook still in her lap. Her head had fallen forward, her hair brushing against Bill’s ankles.

Frustrated, Bill sat up and watched her. Shooting Star, the only Pines he was sure could have caused as much chaos as he did. Right now, she looked less like a catalyst of sugar hallucinations and glitter and more like any other human thirteen-year-old girl.

He should draw on her face.

Bill reached for the marker still held loosely in Mabel’s hand. She gasped lightly in her sleep. The sketchbook fell from her lap, onto the floor.

He uncapped the marker.

Then Mabel sobbed and shuddered, her body twitching. She curled up into herself.

Ah. Nightmare.

It must be the one about the pig again. Bill watched her shoulders rise and fall with rapid, panicked breaths, marker still hovering inches from her cheek. All of a sudden drawing on her face didn’t seem that appealing.

In fact, not a lot of things seemed appealing at the moment. Mabel Pines worked best as an unapologetic little brat, not whatever this pathetic excuse was.

It’s not like he owed her anything.

But he didn’t like it.

Fine. The kid would get one freebie, on the house. Bill laid down on the couch again and closed his eyes.

This time, sleep came quickly.

—

Mabel Pines’ mindscape was just like he remembered, except it was on fire.

Crackling flames rose high above him, and Bill watched, floating in the center of it, as the inferno engulfed a giant cast of colorful characters, all screaming in pain. So not the pig one. This one was way more fun.

That’s when he heard the laugh. His laugh.

Bill looked up.

It was kinda surreal, seeing his own monstrous, spider-like form hovering over the glittery town of Mabel’s dream. Hey, she’d at least gotten his good angle! Bill should be flattered by the accuracy. He admired the screaming and the sights just a little longer before he remembered what he was here for in the first place. Right, find Mabel. Bill tore his eye away from his dream self and scanned the crowd.

There. Through the screams and the roaring flames and his own laughter, he heard it. Mariah Carey, entirely in meows.

He floated up to avoid the crowds and followed the sound of her voice. He watched a glamorous hot dog run by, screaming because one of its eyes was on fire. Oh man, that’s why you don’t carry extras, that was hilariou-

He found Mabel.

She was sitting on the ground of some tiny gross alley, her knees scraped and bloody. Her sweater was singed. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her hands over her ears as she sang as loudly as she could.

Bill felt something in his center pull and twist, like someone had stabbed his eye with a hot-iron poker. Suddenly none of it seemed funny anymore. It was like-

His thoughts all turned to static. Don’t think about it.

Bill snapped his fingers.

Instantly, the fire and the screams cut out. Bill ran a haphazard hand through Mabel’s surface thoughts and threw the first pleasant one he could find over the mindscape. Pink, fluffy white clouds floated underneath their feet, resembling pigs, above which was a kaleidoscopic sky of bright stars.

Mabel raised her head slowly and uncovered her ears. She looked around her own mindscape in disbelief.

Bill was out before she could see him. You owe me, kid.

—

“Morning, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel grinned over her cup of Mabel Juice.

“Morning, Pumpkin,” Stan’s usual demeanor gave way to a smile when he saw his grand-niece.

“Eugh,” next to Mabel, Bill made a face. Trust even Fez to be annoyingly sappy first thing in the morning.

Mabel elbowed him on the side before clearing her throat. “Grunkle Stan, our not-so-esteemed resident has something to say to you.”

She gave Bill a look. Bill returned the look with another look, one that spelled he would rather pull his eyeballs out than do what she wanted him to.

Stan, for his part, looked unimpressed. “What’s his problem this time?”

Bill caught her elbow before it met his side again. He gave Stan a pacifying smile. Or, at least, his best attempt at a pacifying smile. In reality, he was thinking of more and more creative ways to rearrange Stanley’s body parts. “Look, my bad. For the glue thing. For real this time.”

Stan still looked unimpressed. “And?”

“...And the shampoo.”

“And?”

“And that time I filled your room with geese.”

“And?”

“And for setting the toaster on fire. That one wasn’t even intentional, I swear.”

Stan grunted. “Not buying it.”

“Hey, I’m stuck here, in this awful, impractical human body. And you’re stuck with me. So why don’t we let bygones be bygones and make our mutual existence here less miserable? How’s that sound, pal? Also, is that a new undershirt?”

Stan stared Bill down. Bill smiled innocently. “...This is a new undershirt. Finally, somebody noticed.”

“Looks great on ya, less stains than usual. So, what do you say?”

Stan scratched the side of his face. “Look, I ain’t gonna pretend like every other word that comes outta your mouth isn’t a sugarcoated lie. But…alright. As long as I don’t get another toaster fire or…birds in the house. I’ll lay off.”

“It’s a deal, Fez?”

Stanley’s face made a funny little dance. “Don’t even start.”

When Stan left, Mabel took the opportunity to wrap her clingy little arms around Bill’s middle. “See? I knew you could do it!”

Bill squawked but resigned himself to his fate. If only she didn’t hug so tight, he couldn’t breathe. “Yeah, yeah, don’t make it a habit.”

“Well, this Mabel is proud of you anyway.”

Bill watched her skip away. He didn’t give what he’d seen in Mabel’s head yesterday much thought.

As far as he was concerned, he got one of them, hook, line, and sinker.

---

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#gravity falls #bill cipher #flat dreams #pengychan #human bill au #fanfiction #the book of bill #vee's writing #a different form a different time #waking days reboot #doodledrawsthings

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avacadokin · 11 months ago

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prev anon hello "later, when they're officially together, pac uses his extensive knowledge to wreck fit effortlessly" would you care to elaborate

ok you know the drill, cut time! this one definitely needs it, this isnt done but im posting it now anyway cuz ao3 [was] down

he built the thing of course he knows where the most sensitive spots are, exactly how to please and how to torture

pac made sure to put the etching of pac man, his permanent claim on fit, on a piece incredibly sensitive to touch, so he could indulge his possessive side by running his tongue over it while racking fit's body with wave after wave of pleasure

pac has given himself the option to either have a robo-cock (fully integrated with his nerves) or a pussy (biological). when he equips his cock he's created a mode where their dicks' sensations are synced

it originally only works when they're extremely close together (like frotting close), but with help from mike (who's partially doing this help his soulmate and friend, partially doing it to see if it can be done and the extents of wireless redstone, and partially doing it because he thinks it'd be a bit funny to see them tease/torture each other) they eventually get the range to be almost anywhere on the island

when that happens shit gets a little crazy, fit's mining and taking to the huevitos when suddenly he's doubled over in pleasure. his instincts from 2b2t won't let him stay out here vulnerable like this, where any stranger wondering the wasteland could find and take advantage of him ((well maybe he wouldn't mind if that stranger was pac)) so with shaky hands he pulls out his warpstone and teleports to Ilha Chume Labs

the walk from the waystone to pac's bedroom is agonizing, the hot wet pressure between his legs makes every step increasingly difficult, but the images filling his mind of what pac must be doing to cause this pleasure propel fit forward as fast as his unsteady legs can take him

none of the images could even come close to the beautiful scene laid out before fit when he opens pac's door

pac's prosthetic leg is carefully set up to charge next to his bed stand where his clothes are neatly folded. on the other side of the bed sits pac's scythe next to the flowers fit last gave him and a bottle of lube. in the middle, a perfect centerpiece for this picture, is pac, lying on his bed, head thrown back in ecstasy as he moves something between his spread legs

before he can investigate what's between pac's legs, fit's attention is drawn to pac's blissed out face when he cries out his name as he notices fit's presence in the room. their eyes meet and for a moment fit is overwhelmed with the love he feels for this man, but the moment is quickly cut off when pac moves the hand between his legs and fit feels another sharp pulse of pleasure in his dick

fit closes the distance between them, shucking his shirt and hoodie in one hasty movement, eyes fixated on pac's hand as he slowly figures out what is going on

pac is fucking his newly wireless dick into his own sopping wet cunt

fit's heart almost definitely skips a beat as he connects the dots, realizing the amazing wet heat around his cock has been pac's pussy the whole time

as fit gets closer pac slows down his ministrations, moving his hand to the side to allow fit better access, using what little leverage he has left to maintain a steady rhythm of pleasure pulsing through their dicks

fit leans down, running his hands along pac's legs and spreading them even further. tracing over surprisingly powerful muscles as his hands inch down steadily

fit ghosts his hands over pac's cunt, reveling in the stutter he causes in pac's rhythm and the quiet "fit" that escapes his mouth (god how he loves when pac says his name with a "tch") he soon returns his hands back to pac's legs, softly gripping onto the comfortable fat that covers beautifully twitching muscles.

pac's cunt isn't left unattended though, once his hands have found their place fit bends in and laps reverently at the connection between pac's dick and pussy.

pac impossibly becomes even wetter, or maybe that's just fit's saliva mixing with his juices, it doesn't matter, he's in heaven

fit however, wants more. pac's arousal is all he can smell, his slick is dripping down his face, his cunt soft and delicious on his tongue, his dick is enveloped completely by pac's warm tight walls

yet he needs more

he looks at the wires attached to pac's clit and is struck with an idea how he can get the more he so desires. it needs to be discussed with pac first though

it takes herculean effort to pull himself away from pac's cunt, but fit manages to, only for the hand pac is not currently using to fuck himself to wrap around the back of his bald head and drag him in for a passionate kiss

it's sloppy and wet and pac must be able to taste himself in fit's mouth, but fit wouldn't have it any other way

when they're finally forced to stop for breath, fit palms pac's dick and pants out "how far away can this thing go?"

"as far as yours i think"

oh the Ideas that gave fit, of taking it with him and fucking himself on it later, of stealing it and pranking him with pleasure or pain at the most inconvenient times, but none of that mattered right now, he had a mission

first he has to draw back from pac, getting up to undo his belt and discard his pants and boxers as quickly as possible (it's not nearly fast enough, fit wishes quesadilla island's anti-cheat wasn't so strong so he could use his abilities to speed it up, just so he wouldn't be away from pac for these unbearable seconds)

his dick finally being free shakes fit back to attention, his eyes refocusing on pac's delicious cunt

fit grabs his dick, giving extra attention to the pac man etched into it (attention pac greatly appreciates judging from the way his hips buck up at the sensation) before crawling up the bed to close the far too large space between them and bringing his hands to rest against pac's hole and hand

once fit has settled into his proper place between pac's legs, he covers the hand pac is using to fuck himself with his own hand, grabbing pac's dick through it. pac's movements stop as he lets fit drag his dick completely free from his pussy, the wet pop it makes echoing throughout the room

#qsmp #fitmc #long post #nsft #fitpac #qpac #hideduo #asks answered #artvocado #wip #not a reblog #qsmp fit #pactw #fit mech dick

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cannibal-nightmares · 10 months ago

Text

Kaleidos: In Birdsong

Stein is house-ridden due to teetering psychosis. Spirit stops by to check on him.

A preview chapter to a bigger project that will follow after an even bigger project. Honestly pretty much just a drabble and exploration of sorts. what started as a vent piece turned into its whole AU turned into a one-shot. kind of.

Soul Eater - Stein x Spirit (SFW) // hurt+comfort, angst, unreality, actually schizospec author; more tags on AO3 Word count - 4,525 -- [AO3 link] -- [soul resonance]

The thunking at the front entrance seemed violent and incessant in its five raps, the glass panes rattling in their frames. On any normal day the great scientist would have resorted to niceties and manners of opening the door with hardly any question, but this evening was not of the usual: Donning his lab coat snug in the middle, knees to his chest, Stein hid in a shadow of his laboratory in the corner closest to the entryway, a surgical knife twitching in his left hand as his arms hugged his legs.

“Stein?” A familiar voice cut through the air beyond the wall. “Are you home?”

He couldn’t think to move. As much as he wanted to invite the visitor in, his mouth wouldn’t say the words.

“It’s Spirit, Franken. I’m just here to see how you’re doing.”

Stein stalled to think, reaching into his right pocket to retrieve a robotic mouse. He set it on the floor and bopped its head, sending it on its way to loop into the darkness and somewhere outside to greet their guest. Shortly in response, the creaky research door opened to parallel him.

“Glad to know those little guys still work.” The man entering gently amused. His countenance dropped when he looked around and was unable to immediately find the doctor hunched over a project at his desk.

Stein watched the figure close, dissecting every thread of his blazer, every crease in his skin that he could see; shadows oozed from out of place folds, tangling his body until his form no longer seemed human enough to trust. The doctor’s throat tensed and he drew in a shakier breath than he would have cared to admit to. It was enough noise for the death scythe to notice, pushing the door further closed behind him to reveal the professor sitting smally on the floor. Before their eyes met, Stein slipped the blade to the left of him and the illusion of tangling blackness started to fade away.

“What are you doing down there?” Interrogation did not cross his tone.

When he spoke, his own voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

Spirit met him in a crouch. “Try me.” He said gently, but it wasn’t enough to get the doctor to crack. Franken held his eye contact until the pools of his friend’s irises swirled inward and forced him to look away to the blank wall. The blatant and unadulterated uncertainty surprised Albarn into a sad sort of shock.

“How are you, Stein?”

“You know how I don’t like rhetoricals.” He snapped a little faster than he intended.

“I can’t care for my loved ones? I’m hurt.” Spirit joked. He tsked playfully to himself and searched the professor’s face while he was turned away; he looked more than exhausted and his pupils were like pin dots.

“Your students have been asking about you.” Death scythe rested criss-cross adjacent from his partner, fishing a cigarette to his mouth and holding another out to Stein.

He hesitated before reaching out to take the dart between his fingers, but denied to have it lit after Spirit sparked his own.

“You don’t want to light it?”

“What do you tell them?”

Albarn acknowledged the shuffle of the interaction with a simple nod. “I tell them you’ve come down with something. Which, I guess, isn’t entirely dishonest.” He let the air hang for a moment so they could gather their thoughts, exhaling smoke. “Maka–you know how smart my little girl is–she sees right through that, you know.”

“You need remind she can see souls now.” Stein gestured to take Spirit’s cigarette in his free hand. “And you’ve never been a skilled liar.”

With the note, Franken took the chance to peek at his other’s soul whilst touching the darts together and inhaling to light his own. The death scythes spirit looked as it always had, still and fortified with a sort of subtle electrical ebbing that boasted of potential energy, but this time there was a slight quavering of worry. Stein was looking for fear, not anxiety, but Albarn yet again proved to unfalteringly trust his partner even in this low time.

He wondered if his own soul perception was to be believed as Spirit’s hair appeared to distort and his face misshapen.

After a drag off his cigarette and handing back the other, he evaded his eyes by rubbing between his brows with his thumb.

“It’s sweet, in a way, they’ve even made you cards–”

“Please don’t bring anything here.”

Spirit readjusted his attention. “I won’t until you’re ready for them. I know you well enough.” There must have been a tell, because his next question was almost on cue. “Respectfully, Stein, how are your… Are you…”

Stein couldn’t stifle a strained chuckle that evolved into a stressed out giggle. His hands shook as he wanted to cover his face but became too aware of the coincidental timing as if it would tell something to Spirit that wasn’t true. Eventually, he couldn’t hold it any longer, and he cranked at his screw nervously, shielding his face with his right hand allowing smoke to cast over their heads.

“Am I still hallucinating?” He choked through a broken grin. “Death scythe, you’re fucking melting.” Their eyes locked with ever-distancing contrast. The contact made him laugh earnestly, but the sheer sound of it made him annoyed, which made him laugh more. He shied his face away again into his knees in addition to the trembling fingers of his cigarette-laden hand, the other turning and turning and turning the bolt in his head, his grip turning his knuckles white.

“Stein…” Albarn reached out to take the professor’s wrist to keep him from ripping the screw out of his skull, but the air immediately around him felt like static electricity that had him take enough pause to heed the man’s next hissed warning.

“Spirit, before you even think about touching me, I need you to be aware of the scalpel next to my side.”

Albarn missed a beat and almost hoped Stein couldn’t see him break out in a cold sweat the instant he eyed the glint of metal.

“Thank you for telling me. I’m going to put it away, alright?”

Stein couldn’t respond with anything more than a choked involuntary giggle.

Why did he have this ready? Death scythe dared to wonder. He tried to subtly flick his eyes over him in the dim light whilst rolling the instrument towards himself, but he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Slow and intentionally predictable in his movements, Spirit rose to put the knife in a desk drawer, out of sight, and returned to where he was by his partner.

“When was the last time you slept, Stein?” He delicately slipped a hand past the doctor’s fidgeting arm to rest firmly on his shoulder. Stein was buzzing with electricity and felt warm even through his coat.

He kept his eyes strained tightly closed, listening closely to his friend’s voice with an intensity impossibly unbeknownst to Albarn. The clicking of his screw was soothing.

“What day is it now?”

“Tuesday afternoon.”

Stein looked up at the ceiling; a drag off his cigarette calmed his nerves steady for just a few seconds. “Friday night into Saturday.” He let his legs relax in front of him; Spirit’s company was doing more for him than he anticipated it could. The cog stilled, but he kept his fingers resting on it.

Death scythe nodded.

Then he tilted his head with a sincere smile.

“Would you be up for a walk?”

“A walk? Where?”

“Anywhere. Some sunlight may do you some good.”

“I don’t know if I could face running into anyone.” Stein remarked earnestly.

“Hmm…” Albarn thought. “Let’s get you dressed in some fresh clothes and see how you feel then. If you’re still not up to it, there’s no obligation. Deal?” He took his palm away from his friend’s shoulder and held it out patiently for him to take. Franken observed it as if it could bite him.

“You sell a hard bargain,” but his tone didn’t match his shell-shocked expression.

Spirit grinned and stood half-bent, gesturing to free up Stein’s balance by offering to hold his cigarette for him, his own smoke on his lip. The scientist accepted and took his partner’s right hand in his, but they were both surprised to find that he didn’t have the preparation under his feet to get up so soon and Spirit swiftly caught him upright under the arm.

“You alright?”

Stein allowed himself to pause and stared into the dark intently. Eventually, he let himself out from Albarn’s hold and patted him on the back in some attempt of reassurance.

“Could you turn the light on?” He asked quietly as he trudged to his room. “I can’t seem to do it, myself.”

Wordlessly, Spirit complied.

Seeing the laboratory in the light shouldn’t have been more of a surprise than what the death scythe anticipated. Stein had always been a rather tidy person, but the condition of his office would have suggested otherwise; if it were any other given circumstance Albarn would have thought to help straighten things up, but knew it would, instead, spook Stein’s current state of mind if he even offered the gesture. Mugs on his desk made him consider something.

“When’s the last time you ate?” He called through the wall. With no response, he peeked his head into his partner’s room.

“Stein?”

“One thing at a time, please, Death Scythe…” Franken was faced away from the entrance towards his wardrobe and tapped his forehead to its door in tired defeat as Spirit switched on a lamp. In the light, Stein's hair was more evidently heavy from not being washed.

“Would you like some help?” The weapon had crossed the room to comfortingly touch his meister’s back, but he only gasped in reaction, jerking around in terrored surprise. What frightened Spirit was the short crackling of electricity in Stein’s flexed hands.

“Woah,” Spirit soothed, “it’s still me,” he poorly jested. “Did you want some help?” He repeated, if not to emphasize his want to assist, then to reassure the doctor that it was most definitely his voice he might have heard.

“No…” He hesitated. Stein was looking like a cornered animal; Albarn leaned back on his heel as a gesture of giving him space. “No, thank you. Sorry, Spirit…”

Death Scythe knew him well enough to realize how out of character any sort of apology was. With a nod, Spirit tried to keep it casual by stepping around and sitting on the edge of his bed, awkwardly, then, lying half of his body back resolutely, blankly looking at the ceiling and tending to his cigarette–he wanted to appear as unthreatening as possible, but it didn’t keep Stein from staring. He didn’t make a statement against it.

It took significant time before the professor was able to finally open the armoire to retrieve something to wear, but once he could look upon the selection it seemed as though each choice had a cascade of consequences behind each of them: The plush white turtleneck was the most comfortable, but it would tell his secrets to on-lookers; the dark purple thermal was practical, but it had a habit of whispering lies; a light grey button-up might be a breath of fresh air, but there was also the chance it could take over his head and have him lash out at the first pedestrian he sees and he wouldn't be able to convince anyone where the source of the idea came from because he can’t just tell people a shirt told him a stranger’s true intentions because then they’d just call him terrible and untrue things–

“Are you okay, dear?” Spirit broke through the swarm of noise, recentering Stein’s attention momentarily. How long was he thinking for? God, where did his cigarette go? It’d be so nice to fidget with right about now…

Franken took a moment to focus on his partner who was crooked with his head perked up, his back flat on the comforter and his long legs stretched out across the floor. The death scythe seemed steady in his attention in contrast to the fraying edges of his vision and this comforted him slightly. Carefully he thought about the question.

“...Could you pick something out for me? I can’t seem to allow myself to make the decision.”

“I get to dress the great meister Stein?” Albarn hummed humorously. Immediately, he wondered if his comedy wasn't a relief at all.

The two traded places, Spirit waltzing to the closet and the doctor moving out of the way, coming to rest seated at the foot of the bed. The weapon found a bit of genuine amusement cross his own face.

“You have a wider variety of clothes than I last remember.”

Stein seemed to ignore the comment. “I’m losing my autonomy, Spirit.”

His light heartedness faltered a bit in response. “Only momentarily. It will come back to you.” Albarn turned to raise the item he chose so that the light illuminated his decision: A navy turtleneck made with heavy knitted fabric.

“For now, you have me.” He handed over the hanger to his friend and took one last drag off of his dart, snuffing the butt out in the ashtray on top of the wardrobe.

Stein sunk all of his attention into the texture of the sweater in his hands until it melted straight through his fingers. He closed his eyes and breathed in slow and deep, reopening to the details of his loyal partner in front of him. Why was he so loyal? Why didn’t he understand that his faith wasn’t going to change the reality of things? A whisper started to seep louder.

“I can’t do it.”

“What?”

He tried to suppress the pained giggle that was attempting to distract from the anger in his chest that fought the sadness of feeling alone against the face of indescribable fear. The meister tapped his head firmly with the heel of his palm. He wanted so desperately to hit harder, but grit his teeth to refrain in his current company.

“Hey, really, we don’t have to–” Death Scythe kneeled in front of him but–

“That’s not how this is going to work, Spirit, and you know it.” Stein snapped. His eyes shot to the level of his weapon’s but couldn’t meet his gaze directly, darting his look to either side of his partner’s face. He was growing erratic and couldn’t stop it. “Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but you’re going to end up taking me the fucking infirmary under Lord Death’s order.” Franken was barely able to hear his own words and pushed and bent and twisted his hands more-than-firmly into each other, resisting the need to crank at his screw, to hit himself, to do anything. And he most certainly didn't want to find out if the urge extended to other people.

Albarn couldn’t help but admit to himself the spike of agonizing concern that suddenly stabbed into his chest like a spear. He was growing terrified in his own guidance. At this point, he wasn’t scared of Stein, but for him.

“We’re not going anywhere.” He gently cradled Stein’s elbows, his intonation conveying a small smile without changing his expression at all. “I’ve decided for us. We can stay here.”

Franken wanted time to stop as he rewound the tape and noted the uneven jaggedness of his reactions, fragments of quips looping in his mind. It was all so tiring. The cogs were slipping. The transmission was stuck. He felt like he was coasting and stalling up and down hills. He had no option but to ride the waves. When did Spirit even get here? What convinced him to listen? Somewhere, Stein decided to give in to what he had to be certain was real and he slumped forward, resting his forehead head on his partner’s shoulder, child-like with sigh. If this wasn’t it, then he’d be damned, anyways.

“Wh– Hey–” Spirit adjusted his posture to–quite inelegantly–shift him into a hug from his kneeling height. While the doctor went almost dead-weight, the weapon pulled himself in tight and rubbed his back.

“I’ve got you. Don’t you worry. I’ve got you.”

Soul resonance. It doesn’t always happen in the middle of a battle, it doesn’t always occur paired with a grand exclamation: It can happen when you land a joke with a loved one or when you share a meal, when you effortlessly collaborate with a friend on a passion project or share tears over a loss. Be it a spark or superb explosion, there are nuances of soul resonance that can’t be taught or forced, only organically experienced.

This moment burned slow like a cold flame.

Albarn felt his spirit get swept into the thrashing tide of Stein’s turmoil, and it was his instinct of panic that he had to choke down for their shared sake. Under the water did the waves turn to shrieking television static, incomprehensible messages swirling about and past… Spirit had been here before; while the sights no longer terrified him, it was still all so disheartening. He had to remain calm in remembering that this is where his partner resided all the time, albeit at varying levels of volume. The truth was there was nothing he could do other than be there for him.

And so he waited until his meister let go of the embrace.

“Thank you, Spirit.” He said unpredictably smally.

“My pleasure, Stein.”

The exhausted professor sat up, still hunched, and let his eyes drift around the room where things were seemingly much clearer now. He eyed an inviting beam of sunlight that illuminated a patch of the bare concrete floor.

“Didn’t you say some sunlight might be good for me?”

Spirit was taken a bit back by the change of heart. “Did you change your mind?”

He nodded just once. “With you, I will take your word.”

The two took their time getting dressed and settled, Stein’s moment of pause allowed him to readjust his autopilot so he didn’t have to think about the unbearable weight that the thought of leaving his home had gained an uncertain amount of time ago. Death Scythe helped him dress in the dark blue long sleeved shirt and his most comfortable slacks; he would never be without his lab coat, of course. The sun felt bright on his skin, and the overwhelming feeling of anything at all had him hesitate at the doorstep.

“You just say the word and we’ll head back home.” Spirit reminded.

“I’m fine.” Stein insisted. He genuinely wasn’t sure of the untruth behind the claim.

A noise from behind his eyes argued differently, but Franken found himself grateful to be out. The change of scenery was stimulating. Here and there some of the details of the setting distorted confusingly, but there was enough else to look at, even if it was all the same trees and rocks and shrubs he’d seen over and over on his commutes. At some point, Spirit had started rambling about workplace shenanigans, but Franken inexplicably couldn’t ask him to stop despite the disconcerting mess his mind made with the patterns of his words. All he could do was put a hand to his partner’s shoulder, and Death Scythe knew to change the subject or take pause.

They eventually found themselves at a park on the middle-edge of Death City. Your typical park. There was a lot more noise, naturally, amongst them, some sounds of which Stein could pleasantly listen to, others felt like they had ulterior motives in the depths of birdsong. He spent so much focus jumping these hoops and hurdles of logic and absurdity that he hadn’t even noticed where their journey ended up.

“I forget you can walk on forever.” Spirit half chuffed. “I need a break.” He more-than-willingly rested on a bench, gesturing for his companion to join him if he wanted.

They found themselves sat in front of a basketball court, one that was dusted with vaguely fond memories of recovery. Almost on cue, a familiar cluster of kids bounded around the corner and, before they even touched the pavement, it seemed like they were already in the deep midst of a game of ball. Their typical octet was made a nonet with a new face.

“That’s Kaleidos, our newest meister.” Spirit caught onto Stein’s gaze. “I’ve got the feeling he’s a lot like you in his potential abilities.”

The boy in reference was significantly younger than the juniors and seniors of the group; he wore dress clothes that were out of place in the picture of playing sports, but what was quick to catch anyone’s attention was the blue evil eye pendant that clasped the top of his collar closed and reflected the brilliant blue of his own eyes. Soul Eater–one of the seniors, a boy with white hair and relaxed posture–took a moment to explain the rules of their made up game and took responsibility of splitting the players into teams. They were all quick to fall into a rhythm with one another, two clusters of souls reaching out to taunt and tease and play with one another. Kaleidos, as a newcomer, was naturally a bit awkward at first, but his soul was astonishingly quick to calibrate with each peer he neared, even in the middle of the game.

“No, he's not like me,” Stein allowed his analytical voice to ease out, “though it’s a reasonable conclusion on the surface. He has the ability to mirror anyone–down to the fine details–leaving him with the potential to become absolutely anything he allows enough focus. I read data and adapt. He becomes.”

Spirit chewed on the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t fathom what soul perception was like, but he never knew anyone who had it to be wrong. “You can read all of that from his soul at this distance?”

“Just watch.”

Upon observation of the teen running around, each child had their own style and unique quirks. The boy with stripes in his hair wouldn’t step on the painted lines on the blacktop, one of the girls was quick to delightfully give up the ball to whoever wanted it; Kaleidos immediately followed suit. He knew to be aggressive with the blue haired boy, but to charm him with a laugh of jest, he established the girl with pigtails would follow the rules unless she sparked resonance with Soul. All from merely seconds into the game, the freshman had them all read like books.

“I’m not arguing. His performance as a student already confirms you are right. He can pair with just about anyone, but everyone he pairs with feels overtaken despite his intentions. Sound familiar?”

Stein did not show amusement on his face. He did not look up to Death Scythe when he spoke. “Among anyone we have had at the academy, he is at the most imminent risk of becoming a kishin.”

Albarn’s wavelength shifted drastically in shock of the tone change. “What? Come on, you must be kidding…”

The professor made sure a glint of light didn’t cover his eyes when he chose to make dead eye contact with his partner for the first time that day.

“He may not even have to eat souls to achieve it.”

Spirit couldn’t look away, holding back from letting his mouth go agape–it was about all he had control to prevent–never had Stein been wrong about his readings, but was he in the state to make such conclusions? How clouded was his judgment right now, really? Surely it was time to go home–

“Papa? Professor Stein? What are you both doing here?”

Before them, a dusty-blonde haired girl stood catching her breath. Her expression shifted here and there from comfort in seeing familiar faces, distaste in specific company, but a hint of compassion for surely the sight of her teacher who had been absent for a few days now. He knew she could see his soul, which must have seemed shattered and ebbing inconsistently like a high noon light reflecting off choppy water; maybe if they were both lucky to have any semblance of reassurance, she would have also seen the soft burgundy breeze sweeping the electricity to calm. Maybe if they were unlucky, she would have seen the red start to quaver.

“Oh, hi darling,” Spirit chimed, surprised from out of his thoughts. “We were just getting some fresh air.” He stumbled on his own cadence, realizing now how distracted he was. “Are you winning?”

She gave him a scoff that read of genuine humor and half-hearted annoyance. Not much could get past her, that was for sure.

“We’ve missed your guidance in class, Professor Stein. I hope you get to feel better soon.” Maka Albarn was her name: Valedictorian with a heart of gold. Patience and forgiveness swirled within her soul more than what was warranted, occasionally.

The note caught the doctor off-guard and the feeling of gratefulness gently swept through him once more–he wanted to reply, but found himself unable to speak again. Spirit noticed the hitch in his timing and moved to take his hand comfortingly, starting to reply, himself, but Stein couldn’t seem to hear him as a high-pitched ringing pierced through the scene, putting them all mute. Stein thought he could fake through it, but the image started collapsing in on itself: He was falling, there was darkness–Maka’s face split down the middle and expanded, engulfing him and Spirit– Where was Spirit? He was right here and all of a sudden–

Stein jolted awake from the nightmare, disoriented and abysmally frantic.

“Whoa, easy! It was only a dream,” a familiar voice cooed, but Franken couldn’t yet tell where it was coming from.

“My god, Stein, you’re shaking.”

The meister huffed, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened, though it quickly appeared he had fallen asleep in an embrace with his weapon partner in a frankly rather awkward position sitting up at the foot of his bed.

“Hey, hey.” Spirit hushed. “Are you okay?”

“I–” He took a breath, looking around. His vision was clear of the grotesque shadows that were unspeakably haunting him prior. “I had a nightmare that–” He took a second and reconsidered, shaking his head conclusively and readjusting his attention. “You let me fall asleep on you like that?”

Spirit chuckled. “Stein, you hadn’t slept in three days. I wasn’t going to keep you from any second of sleep that you could get!”

Stein searched his partner’s face for any semblance of unreality, but came up short. An absurdly relieved smile cracked across his expression and he couldn’t hold back an oddly sincere laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Albarn questioned, stretching out a crick in his neck.

“I just–” He put a hand to his forehead to pair with his continued giggling, exhausted but clearer than before.

“I know what I have to do.”

#im about to leave for a trip and i really wanted to leave something before i left ^^#my fanfic #soul eater #soul eater fanfiction #my art #my writing #soul eater stein #soul eater spirit #franken stein #professor stein #spirit albarn #stein #actually schizospec

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flowercrowngods · 2 years ago

Text

🤍 also on ao3

The clock shows 3:27 when Scott wakes to an empty bed, and the sigh he lets out is familiar, if involuntary. He's not exactly a light sleeper, but these days he wakes up most nights, feeling like something's wrong. Every time, the bed beside him is empty, and every time, Scott worries.

Tonight, he gets out of bed.

He finds Wayne in the kitchen downstairs, sort of just staring at the counter, like he was in motion and then just stopped. Like he's trying to remember what he came down here for, like he's a bit lost with it.

Scott approaches him slowly, the gnawing worry inside his chest only increasing with each step that doesn't make Wayne look up.

"Hey, love," he murmurs, barely interrupting the silence of the room, but it's what finally gets a reaction from his man.

"Shit," Wayne says, running a hand over his face and looking around as if taking stock of his surroundings. "Did I wake ya?"

Scott shakes his head and comes to a stop beside Wayne, leaning against the kitchen counter, their shoulders touching. "I don't think you did. I just wake up sometimes when you're not there. Like my body senses that something's missing."

It sounds cheesy, but the analogy makes sense. Maybe his body does notice -- what do we know about sleep and the human subconscious anyway?

"Sorry," Wayne says anyway, like he doesn't wonder about sleep and the human subconscious, like the simplest explanation is always just talking the blame. It's something Scott has to pry away from his subconscious, gently and with care.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, love." He looks over at Wayne and even the darkness of the kitchen can't hide away the circles under his eyes or the slump of his shoulders. "Wanna tell me what's wrong?"

Wayne shakes his head, but it doesn't mean that he won't talk about it, just that he's busy fighting some kind of war against himself, breaking down his own walls brick by brick. Scott knows. So he waits, leaning against Wayne a bit more, sharing his warmth a little.

"It's the quiet."

The silence that follows this statement almost hits Scott in the face with how intense it is. Unfortunately, he doesn't really understand yet.

"What about the quiet?"

Wayne shrugs. "'M not used to it. I'm... I can't sleep."

Scott takes it in for a moment, connecting the dots, filling out the empty spaces, the little holes in the past nights. The fact that Wayne sleeps perfectly when they spend the night at the trailer park, rare as that is.

And his heart falls a little when he asks, just to be sure, "My house is too quiet for you?"

His house. His quiet. His bed that Wayne can't find a good night's sleep in. His guilt when Wayne nods.

"It's just... See, I never grew up in the fancy parts of town. There was always something going on, some car pulling up or speeding off, someone taking a walk around my walls that are thin enough to hear the grass growing. It was never quiet, growing up, and when i was a teen it was me walking on gravel paths, it was me pulling up or speeding off, it was me chasing the quiet away. And then Eddie. Y'know, I never used to sleep when he first... moved in with me."

They both snort at the notion of Eddie 'moving in' with Wayne like he wasn't twelve years old and abandoned, with Wayne as his only chance in life. It cuts into Scott every time he thinks about it, remembering the wild, unruly boy in middle school.

"He'll kill me for this," Wayne continues, "but he cried every night the first four months. That was a new kinda noise I had to get used to, and I did. I listened for it. Sat with him most nights, just to be there even when he wouldn't look at me. And then over time, the cries and sniffles turned into frustrated yelling at his homework. And then into self-taught guitar lessons and that music of his. And then into reading, because the boy loves to read out loud until late at night and then grumble about it in the morning. Still does, the menace."

A smile tugs at Wayne's lips and Scott mirrors it, determined to just listen and soak up all the information this man who captivates him so has to offer about himself.

"The trailer park, it's never quiet. They talk big game about cities that never sleep, but they ain't seen nothin'." A sigh, and Scott reaches out to take his hand. Wayne tangles their fingers and Scott hides a smile in his shoulder, feeling bashful in the middle of the night in his kitchen, where everything should feel out of place.

"And my house is big and has great insulation, and you hate it," he concludes, playful but only mildly joking.

"I don't hate your house, darling," Wayne counters, squeezing his hand and lifting it until it read against his cheek where he likes to nuzzle it. Something that never fails to make Scott feel about ready to melt on the spot. Something that makes him want to give his Wayne all the noise in the world if that means he's gonna sleep.

"But you sleep better at the trailer park. You sleep better in your bed."

At that, Wayne only nods. "I'm sorry, sugar. Think it's hard-wired into me or something."

"No, it makes sense."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! I could tell you a little something about brains and 'wiring' if you want me to; but I don't think you do, so you have to trust me when I say it makes complete and utter sense, my dear."

Wayne looks up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time tonight, and with the way they catch the light of the street lamp outside Scott almost things they're shining. He smiles, leaning in to kiss Wayne's forehead just because he can.

"Would it help you if i put on some music down here and we went back upstairs? Should easily reach your sensitive ears and provide background noise, but... Does music help?"

"It does with Eddie," Wayne shrugs.

"Well, love, I shall apologise profusely for the lack of heavy metal records." He grins and winds his arms around Wayne's neck, just to hold him close. "All I have to offer is some Johnny Cash, but I have it on good authority that you won't mind."

"Cash is fine," Wayne grumbles, like he's not obsessed with the man and his music. Scott chuckles and leans in for another kiss, this time to the man's nose, who only now seems to catch up with his plan. "Wait, are you sure you're okay with that? You're the one who has to get up at ass o'clock and function for, like, eight hours or something."

"I'll be fine," Scott reassures him. "Before you entered my life, my darling man, I used to listen to music to fall asleep almost every night."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was for an experiment if you will."

Wayne leans back in his embrace just to give him that Look. His certified You ridiculous man look. It makes Scott laugh and his heart flutter

"Will you come back to bed with me?"

Wayne nods, taking his hands from around his neck. "Yeah, let's go back to bed."

The music does help. Wayne is out like a light within minutes and Scott falls asleep with a smile. He wakes up with one, too, when he sees that Wayne is still asleep and hasn't so much as rolled around in his sleep.

They spend more nights at the trailer park after that. Some nights, when Wayne has a shift so early it should count as a night shift, Scott will read to him until he falls asleep. Most nights, there will be music.

Its a gentler kind of noise that even Scott soon finds himself unwilling to live without. He makes it his mission to explore that kind of gentleness and love, expressed in favourite records and slow dancing in their pyjamas and a book so compelling he reads the same chapter four nights in a row until Wayne finally catches all of it.

Wayne's apologies become rarer and rarer until "I'm sorry" turns into "I love you". The the gentlest noise followed by the tenderest quiet that is filled only with a matching heartbeat of two.

#clarkson #scott clarke #wayne munson #wayne munson x scott clarke #scott clarke x wayne munson #so i tried to sleep but it didn't work and it's rude so have some clarkson at least #my keyboard is fucky though so all the double spaces and letters being out of place?? courtesy of my phone and the reason for my absence #dio words #there are too many commas in there but that's how it is sometimes it's 2:28am aand i wrote this in the tumblr app

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mmkin · 9 months ago

Text

The lessons have been concluded...

I can't believe it happened, but the final chapter of my Tahnorra story, Lessons, has finally been updated! It's been a long time in the making, but I am pleased as punch to finish this story and give Tahno and Korra their sassy, happy ending. The final chapter can be found here on my AO3.

Content warning - definitely 18+/NSFW but all consensual, no trigger/content warnings.

Chapter mirrored under the pics and cut.

Chapter 5 – Love Lessons

This chapter is set after Korra has had her full Bending ability restored.

o0o0o0o

Tahno trudged home after a long day of delivering messages. He had a better appreciation for the working man now, working all these shifts for minimum wage. It had felt weird moving back home, especially since his teenagehood had been tumultuous, and he fought with his parents quite when he was younger, but now he got along better with them. His parents had bought a small house a few years ago, and he sat in a wicker chair in the modest front yard, taking a breath of fresh air.

His mother came out, giving him some tea. He had to admit, it was nice having her fuss over him. He had been so used to being independent and supporting himself. He didn't want to be a mooch, but he had to admit, it was nice being 'mommied' again. He sipped his tea, thinking of Korra. It’d been months, but the memory of her had not faded. Nor did he think they would ever. He’d taken – and been taken by – the Avatar, and though he was older and more experienced than her, she’d taught him quite a few things in and out of the bedroom.

If Korra knew what Tahno was thinking about, she probably would have smiled. It was good to be back in Republic City. She was glad that she had finally started to understand how to access her past lives for help. If the spirit of Avatar Aang could restore her Bending and give her the knowledge to restore other people's Bending, she wondered how truly powerful the Avatar Spirit was. Anyway, she wanted to try to help restore the Bending to the people who lost theirs to Amon. It wasn't right for innocent people to have a part of them taken away. It would be a long time before the city was in balance again, but she wanted to try.

Korra remembered the promise that she told Tahno that if she ever figured out how to restore someone's Bending, she would let him know. "Naga, help me find Tahno," she instructed her polar beardog. Naga led Korra further inland, into an area that looked to be modest and middle-class, with houses lining much of the streets, dotted by an occasional grocer or other shop. A few Cabbage Cars and lower-end Satomobiles were parked on the sides of the road.

Tahno looked up as he heard someone's surprised yelp from a few doors down, and looked over the low wall that surrounded his parent's yard, eyes widening as he saw a familiar creature. "Korra!" he called out, waving. She smiled at him and waved back and led the beast over to him before she climbed off Naga.

"Naga, don't eat those." Korra scolded her dog as she sniffed some of the shrubs. He came through the gate and hugged her in a friendly way. "I'm really glad to see you again, Korra," he said warmly.

"It's good to see you too. I have good news. Would it be alright if I sit with you and talk?"

Tahno blinked. Did she mean… His heart started beating quite fast.

"Of course. Naga can come too, but there is not that much room in the yard, she will need to be careful." he cautioned as he led her within the walls. His mother, seeing he had a guest, brought some tea for Korra, He led her to the other wicker chair, sitting across from her. He looked different now, a little more worn but also with an appealing sense of maturity that replaced his cocky swagger. He was still in his delivery uniform.

“That time in the South Pole was what I needed. I finally connected with my past lives and Avatar Aang's spirit restored my Bending and gave me the knowledge to help restore other people's bending." she smiled. "Lin Bei Fong was the first person I tried this technique on and it worked! She can Barthbend again! You’re the first person that came to mind after I healed her."

He was silent for a moment, processing the fierce churn of emotions within him. He would get his Bending back! Yes! Finally! He tried to not seem too excited, and he took a deep breath, trying to be cool. "That is wonderful news, Korra. I'm really glad you got it back, and good for Lin, too."

"Well, would you like me to give you your Bending back?"

"I think you know the answer to that, don't you?"

She grinned and stood up. "Well, you're going to have to kneel for me," she smirked. "Oh, uh, don't be frightened when my eyes start to glow. I need my past lives to help me when I Energybend."

He nodded and got to his knees, it felt a bit weird since he had been in the same position when he was de-bended. He felt her thumb against his forehead, and her hand on his chest. He took a deep breath as she closed her eyes and summoned the help of her past lives to Energybend.

Somewhere deep within, he wasn't sure if it was his head or chest or elsewhere, but it felt like Korra had opened the block that Amon imposed on him, and he closed his eyes as he felt the tension release itself, like a dam that had been broken. The chi flowed through his body like water racing into dry channels, and he let out a short, shuddering moan, one that was almost of pleasure and relief.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he stared into bright blue eyes. Her thumb slid from his forehead so that she could cup the side of his face with that hand as she gave him a gentle smile. "Come on. Try to Waterbend."

Tahno looked around before he saw the teacups and flicked his wrist, The water in them rippled. He moved his fingers, and the water snaked out. Gods! It felt incredible! He flexed his fingers, causing the water to spin and writhe around them in a ribbon.

The water gently plopped back into the cups before he pulled her in for a bear hug. She buried her face against his shoulder, and they stood like this for several moments.

"It feels incredible to Waterbend again,” he sighed happily, knowing he was stating the obvious but it had to be said nonetheless.

“Oh, I know the feeling.” His body felt strong and warm, and she leaned into it.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she admitted quietly before she looked back up at him. His hair was combed, hanging at the side of his face, a little longer than before. ”Hey, now that you have your Bending back, you can make your hair look fabulous again." she teased. “Pretty boy.”

"Ahh, I also missed you calling me that."

"And I missed hearing you call me, Uh-vatar."

"Uh-vatar." he said in a playful singsong tone.

"So what have you been up to these past months?" she asked as she took her seat again on the wicker chair.

"Well, I took a job as a deliveryman," he said, motioning to his uniform. "It doesn't pay as well as Pro-Bending, of course, but I've learned a thing or two about having a real job."

“Do you think you’ll return to Pro-Bending?”

He shrugged. "I'm not sure." Moving back in with his parents and taking a regular job was essentially starting a new life. Now that he had his Bending back… he knew one thing was for certain. He could not repeat the things he'd done in the past. Sure, he'd been young and stupid, but he'd still made conscious choices, and some of them had been pretty bad. It'd also been nice not dealing with the pressure of dealing with the public and paparazzi. In a way, coming here had been something of a detoxification process. Just because he had his Bending back didn't mean he needed to let toxic people back into his life.

Not that he hadn’t been a toxic person himself at times…

"I don't know. Maybe I could become a healer like my mother. It's a decent-paying job and I'll be able to help people. I’m not entirely sure I want to return to Pro-Bending," he admitted.

She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that’s because of…” she trailed off, but both of them knew what she was talking about.

“If I do go back… and that’s a huge if, things are going to be different. I'm a little ashamed of the person I became."

“Just a little?” Korra asked dryly. He regarded her with a sheepish expression.

“I’m older and wiser, Korra.”

“Pfft. You’re not that old.”

"Gee, thanks." he grinned at her as he lightly touched her cheek.

"Hey, I'll still be around Republic City for a while. I got Avatar work to do, so maybe we can hang out more."

"I really would love that. I remember the day we spent at the beach.”

She smiled warmly at that. “Glad to see I’m not the only one who remembers that fondly.” They rose from their seats, and he gently kissed her forehead. She hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, resting his chin on her head.

“I’ll see you around, then?” she asked as she pulled back.

"Of course. You know where I live, you can come bother me any time." he teased.

“See you later, pretty boy,” Korra said before she mounted Naga, and Tahno stood at the gate, watching them make their way down the road.

o0o0o0o

Tahno had been seeing Korra regularly, sometimes she came over to his parent's house, other times he took her out for dinner or walks, sometimes he took her out in his Satomobile, other times she would return the favor and take him around on Naga. Since he got his Bending back and wanted to make use of it, he was now shadowing an acquaintance of his mother's as an apprentice healer.

Korra rode on Naga to Tahno's place, wanting to spend the afternoon with him. She'd spent the morning at the Police Headquarters helping to restore the people's Bending. After a few, it was tiring. She knew it would take a while before she could undo all the damage the Amon had done to his victims. It was nice to get away from her Avatar duties and hang out with Tahno.

The man in question was meditating in the yard, and this time there were no shouts of alarm or surprise. So he did not become aware of his friend’s presence until Naga came along the wall that enclosed the yard, their shadow coming across his face and cutting off the sunlight that shone through his eyelids. He opened his eyes and grinned before he rose to his feet.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" he asked with a grin before he rubbed Naga under her chin.

"Stopping by to spend time with you. How's your apprenticeship going?”

"Pretty good, actually," he said, talking a bit about his day and what he had learned. "I'm learning so much about Waterbending. It's opened my eyes," he admitted.

"I can imagine. I felt the same way when Master Katara started teaching me about using Waterbending to heal."

"So.,.. what did you want to do tonight?”

"How about we head to the beach? Maybe a moonlit swim?"

"Sounds like fun. Let me change into something more appropriate." And get something else, he thought as he went into the house. He came back out, looking a bit nicer, his hair was also in the waterfall that she knew and was fond of. he grinned up at her and let her help him onto Naga. Holding onto her, loving the feel of her body against his.

"You seem to be in a really good mood today," Korra commented as Naga ambled down the road.

"Oh, I am," he said as he rested his head against her shoulder. The beach greeted them with a pleasant vista, the afternoon sun hanging over the horizon as they slid off Naga and started taking off their boots and socks. He dug his toes into the sand as he listened to the waves crashing against the rocks and sand. Not only that but with his Bending restored, he could feel the water that surrounded him. It was much like a mother's embrace, encompassing and comforting.

The trio ambled down the beach, Naga occasionally darting forward to sniff at something or play in the water. He felt her hand seek out his own, and offered it, feeling her fingers intertwine with his. Pausing in his steps, he turned toward her.

"How do you feel about me?" he asked as he looked down at her. She blushed and blinked, regarding him with a smile.

"I enjoy spending time with you. I've seen you change as a person, and I'd say you're probably my closest friend."

"Really? I'm your friend?" he paused. "Is that all? I mean, I'm just curious, since we've been more than friends…"

She was thoughtful as she stared out at the waves for several moments. "I am fond of you," she finally said.

"What would you say if I said I cared for you? I mean, deeply?"

She turned back to him. “I care about you, too.” She squeezed his hand.

“Am I someone you would consider spending your life with?”

Her eyes widened as she absorbed the implications of what he was saying. Their relationship thus far had been made up of different things. In the beginning, there had been animosity, yes. Then there was the flirting and teasing, the playful challenges and snarking, and then… there had been genuine care and affection. And respect.

And now, they had moved beyond all that, though neither of them gave a name to that new level, at least not yet.

“Well… with you… that's something that is… worth considering," Korra finally said. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a necklace.

"I made this for you," he said gently. "I would be honored if you allowed me to court you."

Korra was speechless as Tahno handed her the necklace. She looked at the image he had carved on it and saw that it was an abstract design of a seashell engraved on a blue stone, she was reminded of the necklace that she had seen Master Katara wear. She was silent for a moment before she stepped forward to hug Tahno and whisper, "Yes."

He nuzzled her and hugged her fiercely, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "I’m glad you liked the design. I almost went crazy trying to figure out what to do for the design, I wanted it to have a special meaning for both of us."

The idea had come to him when he recalled that day they spent on the beach. There’d been no sex, yet it had been an incredible day with her, and it was what helped him realize that his attraction for her went beyond a carnal level.

“It fits,” she said as she felt the design under her fingertips. He let her study the pendant before placing the necklace around her shapely neck.

"You look beautiful." he breathed as he touched her cheek. "But then, you always do."

She pulled him in for a kiss, sucking on his lower lip. He stroked her hair, feeling like the happiest man in the world.

o0o0o0o

It had been about a week since Tahno’s proposal. They had decided to take an afternoon off to have a picnic at the beach and enjoy time together. Korra strolled up the street on Naga to Tahno’s house, eyes sparkling as Tahno’s mother greeted her before retreating inside to give the young couple some privacy.

"Well, there's my beautiful, gorgeous, sexy fiancee," Tahno said with a grin as he drew her into his arms.

"Aren't you looking handsome and fabulous today? Ready for a fantastic day at the beach?"

He flipped his waterfall. "Baby, I've been ready for it all week." He wiggled his eyebrows at her, giving her a playful leer. She chuckled at that before he went inside to get the basket he'd packed and a blanket. She secured them to Naga before the two of them climbed on her. It was almost funny to think that he was now riding Naga regularly after their unpleasant first meeting.

“How’s work going?”

"Pretty well. I'm older than most of the other apprentices, but since I was a Pro-Bender, that has helped me advance quickly in some ways." They chatted a bit more about their work before arriving at their beach.

“Well, here we are. At our spot,” he whispered warmly into her ear. She chuckled at that.

“Yes, our spot.” She looked up at him fondly before they slid off Naga, spreading out the blanket and sitting down for their picnic after taking off their shoes so they could curl their toes in the sand. He opened the basket and took out several goodies that he’d helped his mother make, including gyoza, rice balls, and vegetable wraps.

“I also brought along marshmallows we could roast. And chocolate to dip the fruit in. If you’re willing to Firebend, that is,” he said as he brought out a container of fruit and a bag of the puffy confectionery as well as a ceramic container filled with pieces of solid chocolate.

“Ooh! Yes, I can make us a fire in a bit.”

"You already make me hot in my pants." Tahno teased as he took a bite of his gyoza.

"I'd be disappointed if I didn't," she smirked before she munched on her wrap. He took out a rice ball, munching on it as he stared out at the vista. The sky was starting to take on colors at its fringes, indicating that afternoon was turning to evening.

“I’m just about ready for my treat,” Korra said before she lifted the clay pot, applying a judicious amount of Firebending to melt the chocolate. To ensure it was melted through and through, she stuck her pinky finger in it, stirring before lifting the digit to her lips. Her tongue darted out, and she eyed him as she slowly licked her finger. He felt a familiar surge of heat that had nothing to do with Firebending…

"Now I'm imagining drizzling that chocolate along your naked body and licking it off.…"

"Mmm, I bet your cock would taste wonderful with chocolate smeared onto it."

"I do believe it would." he grinned as he dipped a strawberry before eating it. Korra took a strawberry, making a show of licking the strawberry clean of the chocolate before taking a bite.

"Mmmm... perhaps you would like to remind me more of your licking skills later..." he said with a smirk, eating another strawberry.

“Maaaaaaybe…” came her drawl as she dipped another strawberry.

"Since we're teasing one another and talking about sex... why don't we do it here?"

Her eyebrows raised in interest. "Sex on the beach? That's rather bold."

"We're alone, Naga is keeping guard, and we're both skilled Waterbenders, and you're the Avatar. Don't tell me you're afraid of a bit of sex on the beach." he grinned.

"I'm not afraid," she pouted. "This place has a special meaning for us. Sure, I'm up for some hot sex on the beach with my hot fiance," she smirked. "So..., we gonna get naked?"

He pulled off his jacket and shirt before wiggling his way out of his pants, wearing nothing but black undershorts while she did similarly, sitting back down on the blanket in her panties.

“You look good shirtless,” she said as she ogled him, making no secret of it. He grinned and puffed out his chest, flexing his arms and posing for her. Unable to resist this stroking to his ego – other parts of him would get plenty of stroking soon enough – he swayed his hips, doing a bit of a dance for her. The sunlight shone on his pale skin, casting it a rich gold in the waning light. With the waves crashing behind him, it made for a stunning show.

He smirked at her as he slid off his underwear, now dancing naked, completely au naturel on the beach, looking like a god that had just emerged from the sea. Her eyes widened, and she welcomed the hot stab of arousal that passed through her core.

He approached her and crawled onto the blanket towards her with a seductive purr, tugging at her breastwrap with his teeth. She giggled and batted at him lightly a couple of times, but allowed him to divest her of the garment as he growled at her playfully. Her hands reached up to massage her breasts for him, and he closed in to suck the left nipple, nuzzling the warm mound of flesh.

She leaned back on the blanket, letting out a sigh of contentment as she watched him attend to her breasts with his hands and mouth before he moved down to her underwear. Lifting her hips, she watched as he divested her of the last of her clothing, tossing it aside to the side.

"You look good enough to eat," he said with a purr. "Almost as good as a strawberry..." he joked. She rolled her eyes, but she had to admit his teasing could be amusing sometimes… and he let her tease him back. When she felt his hands on her thighs, she whispered his name, pulling her knees apart. He wasted no time in pleasuring her, and she had to muffle her cries. The last thing she needed was someone walking in on them!

She lay there in a haze of pleasure as Tahno sat back on his knees, unsurprisingly erect as he looked down at her. She looked at his turgid flesh for several moments before an idea came to her, and she grabbed the chocolate. Dipping two fingers after reheating the chocolate, she dripped the warm treat along the top side of his cock.

“Fuck, Korra…” he breathed, watching her tongue slather up and down him, licking the chocolate off his stiff flesh, his cock twitching happily under the ministrations. "Does the good girl want a lolly?' he could not help but tease as he sat back. Fuck, it felt so good, and he watched as she savored her treat as he felt her hand massage his balls. She was rewarded with a new treat when he had his orgasm, but she continued licking him, ensuring that all traces of chocolate and semen were gone. Which did a pretty damn good job in ensuring that he remained hard.

She sat back, and he was certain she would ask if she could ride him. His cock ached for it, and he wiggled his hips, making the hard flesh bounce. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Mmm, I'd love to take your sweet, sweet ass again," she smirked at him. He gave out a mild groan of dismay at that.

"You want my ass? Not my cock?" he chided lightly.

"I do want your cock, but you did enjoy that one night when I played with your ass."

"I admit nothing," he said with a mock huff, crossing his arms.

"Your ass is mine, pretty boy!”

"All of you is mine." he shot back, flipping his waterfall.

"Mmmm, I guess it is." She smiled, stroking the stone of her necklace.

"You look hot wearing nothing but that. Well, hotter than usual." he grinned. "Come here, baby." He held out his arms to her. She wiggled close and snuggled against him as he kissed her forehead. Her fingers trailed along his chest.

"So, you gonna let me claim your ass again?" she smirked.

"Why should I?" he mock challenged.

"Because I'm the Avatar and I said so." she teased.

"Oh, don't tell me you're going to be lording that over me through our relationship," he mock grumbled.

"You're just gonna have to deal with it." she grinned. To that, he could only blow a raspberry.

"Mmm, hey, we haven't tried bondage in any of our sex play. If you let me ride your ass, you can restrain me and tease me,” she offered. His lips spread into a lecherous smirk as he imagined the possibilities.

"Now, that's more like it," he said.

"So we have a deal then? See, I can compromise."

"Isn't that what marriage is about?" he replied in his usual smart-ass way. Yes, he stopped being a jerk, but he was not going to stop being Tahno. Korra lightly punched him in the arm before blowing a raspberry.

“Come on now, show me that gorgeous ass of yours,” she commanded as she Bended some water, manipulating it in the shape of a cock and anchoring it to herself via its other end, effectively making a double-ended dildo.

She preceded to attach the water strap-on to herself so that she was sporting her own cock. Looking over his shoulder with a sultry gaze, he assumed the position, rolling over onto his knees and swaying his hips, wiggling his butt at her. She came up behind him, giving his cheeks a firm squeeze and a light spank.

He gasped quietly and nibbled his lower lip, his cock aching. Noting his reaction, she spanked him several times, his skin taking on a pale rose hue as he writhed, wiggling at her. Korra tapped his puckered opening with the tip of her water-cock. She heard him take a deep breath, but he did not pull away. She reached down to rub his back as she pushed her hips forward.

“...Ohhh…" Tahno let out a moaning exhale as she slid in all the way, fingers digging into the blanket as he clenched around the intruder. And then, as he relaxed, there was only enjoyment. He lowered his shoulder, resting his head on his arms as he felt the head of Korra's 'cock' rub against his prostate as she pushed in and out, causing precum to drip from his cock.

“Yes,” Korra said in encouragement and approval before using her Bending to make the water vibrate within both of them. He jerked and gave out a small mewl of surprise before he arched his back in delight.

"Oh, spirits." he moaned, his penis aching even more than it was, straining against the air as it sought some relief for itself, twitching, some precum beaded at the tip. She increased her pace, panting as she worked herself to her climax, the vibrations and thrusting bringing him near his own, but he was unable to go over the edge, however close he hovered near the brink.

Finally, she pulled out, and Tahno looked over his shoulder with a shaky smile on his face. He couldn't believe how fucking hard he was. She discarded the water by Bending it to a distant spot before rubbing his ass. Her hands slid over the smooth curves of his rear end.

“Now, wasn’t that fun?” she cooed, pressing her breasts against his back as she leaned over.

"Yes," he admitted with a smirk. "And I know you enjoy being on top, in more ways than one."

"A deal is a deal though. Now it's your turn to be on top and tease me." she smiled sweetly.

"Then lie down like a good woman,” he said in a mock commanding tone. She rolled onto her back and propped herself on her elbows.

"Spread wide." he purred. As she did so, he summoned water to bind her hands and ankles, turning them to ice, and leaving her spread open. Before he touched her pussy though, he formed an ice-cube and touched it to her right nipple, seeing her gasp.

“Hey, that’s cold!” she whined.

"So it is," he said casually, teasing her with it for a bit before moving to her other nipple. She hissed at him as he continued to tease her nipples. She could very well Waterbend out of her bindings, or melt them if the cold became too much. But she was being a good girl, and remaining where he put her.

"Perhaps I should touch this to your clit..." he whispered.

“Oooooo! No!” Korra said with a horrified gasp.

"Don't worry, I'm not that cruel..." He traced the ice cube around her navel but did not go any further south. She watched him with hooded eyes, wondering what he would do next. He slid the melting ice along her body until it was almost gone before he climbed on top of her, gently tickling her armpits and sides, she was bound and in no position to resist. She let out a giggle at that, squirming against him.

"I love the sound of your laughter," he said as he poked her sides before placing a kiss on her cheek. He'd waited long enough, and his aching flesh was so red at the tip it was almost purple. With a wave of his hand, her binds were loosened, and he climbed on top of her, sliding the tip of his cock along her slit before pressing forward just a bit. She moaned and arched, and he pulled his hips back. He teased her some more, however, playfully nudging her quivering slit with his cock before pulling back a bit, and then poking her again, pulling back when it seemed like he would push in.

"Quit stalling and get inside of me already!" she pouted.

"What's the magic word?" he teased.

She growled at him. "Now." She paused for a bit before saying quietly, "Please."

He kissed her on the lips before burying himself within her in one single thrust. She let out a loud groan as she registered the feeling of his length buried in her throbbing cunt.

"This is what you've been waiting for, Korra?" he asked with a knowing smirk. She nodded eagerly, showing no hesitation.

"Ffff... yes.... that's it, you know what I love..." He continued to thrust slowly so he could enjoy the clenching. She grinned at him before she clenched around him firmly, not wanting to let him go. It was not long before he picked up the pace, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“You make me feel so good,” Korra purred as she stroked his face with one hand.

"That's my job. But it's a job I enjoy," he replied, leaning down to kiss her. She kissed him back, sucking on his lips and playing with his tongue while his hand traveled down to her clit, now playing with it as he continued thrusting inside of her.

"Keep doing that, I'm so close." she groaned. He nodded and did just as she asked, before giving out a pleased cry as he came. It took several more thrusts from his cock and fingers before Korra achieved her climax, and he moved in a languorous but steady pace, drawing out the pleasure for both of them. When he started to soften, he slid out and plopped down at her side.

Korra sighed in contentment and snuggled up to Tahno, wrapping her arm around his middle. After some time basking in their companionship, he spoke. "All that fucking has gotten me hungry."

"Yeah, I'm a little hungry too. Say, you wanna roast these marshmallows? That would be a great post-sex snack." she grinned.

"Some sugar after the sugar I got from you? Sounds good!" They collected their clothing, insulating themselves against the cooling of the evening. She pulled out some provisions for Naga and a large leather canteen of fresh water, Bending some sand and rock into a temporary bowl so Naga could eat.

The Avatar lit fire to several pieces of suitably dried driftwood while Tahno relaxed on the blanket, watching her.

"Such a hard worker, you'll be a good wife." he teased. She snorted at that and rolled her eyes.

"Being a Firebender has its perks. I can easily keep myself warm and keep a fire going."

"I'll be expecting you to keep me warm, of course, it will be part of your wifely duties."

She gave him a feigned glare, and he grinned. “Hey, if you can lord your Avatarhood over me, then I can lord my manhood over you,” he said before he flipped his waterfall and taking on a lordly expression. Nonetheless, he got up and found several more pieces of wood on the other side of the beach, and between the two of them, they had a steady fire going. He took two sticks and cleaned the tips before placing marshmallows on them.

They both liked theirs with a bit of a crisp on the outside and giggled as they carefully let the outer layer burn a little before pulling the treats away from the fire.

“Mmm, this is so good,” Korra moaned as she locked a bit of melted marshmallow from her finger.

"That's why I brought it along," he said with a grin. "Although you make a tasty snack, too…"

She gave him a playful growl before roasting a fresh marshmallow, and they talked and joked, sometimes feeding the other person their marshmallow. As the fire died down, they laid back, watching the sun go below the water. They knew they should be going soon, but he didn’t want to get up, not when he was high on sugar and sex, with the Avatar loosely spooned up to him.

"And to think none of this would have happened if I hadn't offered you these private lessons…"

"Ffff. I remember you wouldn't leave me alone, no matter how much I taunted you back."

"Admit it, you enjoyed our banter."

"I enjoyed watching you reel back and squeal in fear when I called for Naga to roar at you when we first met." she pointed out.

"Not as loudly as you squealed when I ate you out for the first time." he shot back.

"I hope we have many more relaxing and fun days like today has been in our future together." she yawned. He nodded and wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he licked the last of a marshmallow from his thumb. He looked down at her with a fond smile.

"I love you."

She snuggled contentedly against his shoulder. "I love you too."

o0o0o0o

HaefacielSmilingTitan - Back when The Legend of Korra first aired, I was a Makorra fan. That changed with Tahno’s infamous “private lessons” double entendre. I wasn’t alone in thinking that Tahno and Korra would be a fun and sexy couple. The LoK community certainly delivered producing delightful fanart of Tahnorra. “Lessons” was started a long time ago and I’m so happy that this epic is finally completed and available for fans to enjoy.

StyrawberryCatBeans – So, me and Haefaciel worked out this story way back when Korra was still airing, and recently we got to talking about Avatar and One Piece (which is my current main fandom, lol) Due to various stresses in real life I had not gotten much writing done in the last few years, and the writer's block was terrible. However, late last year, I had an event that shook things up and some of that shakeup was good. I have gotten more writing done in the last few months than I have in the last couple of years, and it's amazing. I finished this story and also posted a story I also co-authored with Haefaciel, called 'Spoken Truth' which is about Ming-Hua and Ghazan. (oh yeah baby)

Even with Korrasami being canon, we both still ship Tahnorra, and we had chatted about how it’d be great if Korra was with Tahno and Asami. Who says she has to choose, Asami’s also smart and sexy and has a gorgeous waterfall in her hairstyle, so when Korra’s tired from sexing Asami and Tahno, she can watch them have gorgeous waterfall smex.

Yeah, we got a little corny and cheesy there, but what's the point of having a friend if you can't share these corny and cheesy moments? So if you enjoyed this story, please come and check out my other works. Have a great day and let's hope 2024 is better than the last few years! Lord knows we need a (looooooong) break from all this fuckery.

#tahno #korra #fanfiction #writing #villain gets the girl #avatar the legend of korra #tahnorra

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aforrestofstuff · 1 year ago

Text

Green and Red

small batarou ficlet. I figure i'd post it to tumblr since it's so short, but you can also read it here on ao3 instead if that's what you prefer. Rated G, warning for language, no other warnings apply.

“The fuck…” The pink contents of the dryer are spooled out on the floor like the innards of some animal. Tama walks in, curls up in the middle of it. “What the fuck, what the fuck…” and Badd is muttering to himself, pulling out fistfuls of his once white shirts, socks and boxers until he finds a bright red sweater at the bottom of the drum. He bends to get it until he’s nearly hip-deep in and rises back out. It was Garou’s job to do the laundry last.

“Garou!” Badd calls. He shuts the dryer, steps carefully over Tama. “Garou!”

The morning sunbeams pass over his face in shapes as he stomps down the hall, past the bathroom, past their bedrooms, to the living room. Garou is there, reclined on the couch, and his heavy head is in his hands as if he just shot himself awake. “Mmn-yeah?” He says in the middle of a yawn, “Can I help you?”

Badd looks from him to the television, “Did you stay up all night watching Millionaire Matchmaker?”

“Mmmnnno?” Garou says, “…yeah, kinda.”

Badd’s shoulders slump. He sighs, holding up the sweater. “Look at this.”

Garou blinks. “A sweater.”

“A red sweater.”

Garou blinks again. “Okay.” Like he didn’t really believe Badd.

So Badd tilts his head, “This is red.”

“Sure.” The uncertainty is still there.

Badd squints. Garou must be playing with him. It’s red, it’s as real as the sweater in his hands, and Garou’s sitting here debating like its existence was theoretical. Maybe it is. Maybe… no that can’t be it. He’s identified colors before.

Badd thinks of it some more. Okay, he hasn’t.

Garou waves his hand, “Hello?” A frown, “Can I go back to sleep, or are you gonna keep daydreaming over me?”

Badd drops the sweater dramatically, stomps back down the hall. Then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the thought of leaving something on the floor, making the living room seem a mess. He walks back over, picks it up, and he’s back down the hall again.

Zenko’s got a stack of magazines in her room that she takes apart when she wants to do collages. Badd got her a set of safety scrapbook scissors and everything, so there’s little bits of ribboned paper here and there when he barefoots over the carpet. He can already hear her little voice in his head now: don’t come in my room! You’re invalidating my privacy!

And he imagines himself arguing back while absentmindedly stirring something over the stove. Invading, Zenko.

I’m sick of your doubletalk! I have rights!

He thumbs the stack until he finds the one he wants, the face of the model on the cover already cut out in a sloppy oval.

Down the hall again. He’s got the magazine pages wrapped back to shove a color blind test in Garou’s face. “What number is it.” He says.

Garou scrunches his nose, pushes aside Badd’s arm. “I’m not doing that.”

Badd throws it on his lap instead, finger pressing on the dotted circle in the middle of the page. “It’s easy, just say what number it is.”

“No.” Garou’s got his arms crossed. “Leave me alone or I’ll fuck you up.”

Badd stands there for a moment, thinking about what to do. He’s colorblind. He’s so colorblind.

“Forty-seven.”

Badd grins. “It’s a six.”

“Whatever, man!” He throws the magazine at Badd, standing up from his Lay-Z-Boy. “Those tests don't prove anything anyways.”

As he walks by, Badd says, “Then why’d you get it wrong?”

Scowling, Garou’s got his head in the fridge (where it often is). “Because—!” And he slams the door, glass bottles rattling inside. “I dunno! Because it’s bullshit!” He snaps the metal cap off a bottle of Coke using the corner of the counter (which Badd had told him to stop doing).

“It’s not a bad thing to be colorblind, dude.” The magazine is on the kitchen table, Badd takes a seat next to where Garou’s standing and using the mouth of the bottle to hide his pout.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are!”

Garou narrows his eyes. “Give me the test again.”

“I already told you the answer—”

“Well, go to another one!”

Badd sighs, folds over the page to a fresh test. Garou comes up behind him and leans over the table, studying it.

“Forty-seven.”

“It’s the letter A, Garou.”

Garou snatches the magazine. “How do you even—!” Turning it upside down, to the side, right-side up. “You’re playing with me!”

Badd has to put his head on the table to hide his laughter. His back is pelted with the magazine. “Garou—Garou. It’s okay—It’s fine.” Snorting and giggling.

Garou’s cheeks are red and he’s downing the rest of the Coke, Adam's apple bobbing. “You are such a tool.”

“Okay–okay.” Badd collects himself, sits up. “You’re just—You’re just not gonna do laundry anymore, man.”

“I’m not colorblind!”

“Yes, you are.” Badd rakes his hand through his hair, catching a breath. “What is that—like, genetics? You said your mom also had white hair and stuff, maybe she also had this.”

Garou’s eyes widen marginally. He scoots out the chair across from Badd and sits. “She didn’t tell me anything and if you’re suggesting I call her—”

“I’m not.” Badd says, flipping to the next page of the magazine. There’s a cologne sample Zenko ripped out prior, but the page still smells citrusy. “Just a thought.”

Garou wrinkles his nose at the smell.

“You’ve lived your whole life like this, doesn’t make it any different now that you have a name for it.” Badd says, echoing something someone told him about his fighting spirit once.

“I know that.” Garou whines quietly, head resting on the heel of his palm. “At least I don’t have to do laundry anymore.”

“Oh, right.”

Badd punches Garou on the arm.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“That was for ruining all the whites.”

#one punch man #opm #garou #metal bat #batarou #fic #my writing

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angelmichelangelo · 4 months ago

Note

If you're up for any prompts

I recently got the idea in my head of 07 Mikey accidently falling asleep in his can after a long day of bday parties and his brother finding him slumped over his middle console.

Yknow like the kind of sleep where you go

"God my eyes hurt imma just close my eyes for a sec" and next thing you know it is 3 and a half hours later and someone is shaking you awake.

Just need overworked 07 mike in general to be honest 😅

here ya go friend !! :)

read on ao3!

The computer hums at him, blue light blinking, cutting through the blanketed darkness of the room as Donatello lazily drags his cursor around the screen. Checking his emails leaves a longing feeling gaping at the bottom of his gut. Scrolling through his most recent messages, dating back just months now, are the first ‘letters’ he’d received from his brother. The latest one was mere weeks ago, from Donnie, calling out to him with a simple ‘you okay?’ that’d gone unanswered. Leo didn’t write back, text back or even email back. It was like the earth had swallowed him up entirely. Anger swells up in that deep, gaping ache before he’s sinking it back down with a steady breath, tempering it with a concentrated ease as he checks his call logs for the day. Eyes scanning over his monitor, he catches sight of the time. It’s late. Exceptionally late; Splinter had slunk away off to his room hours ago now after rolling through all his latest episodes he was waiting on, and Raph… well, Raph was doing his whole nocturnal gig and wouldn’t be present until lunch time tomorrow when he got hungry or something. And Mike–

Donnie swivels around in his chair, expecting to see his twin lounging across the sofa, half asleep with his hand in a popcorn bucket or something, but the space is empty, leaving behind only a sense of worry in Donnie. He stands, yanking the headset off from where it was draped around his neck. Mikey should have been home ages ago. He bypasses even checking his usual trackers on his monitor and heads straight up to his brother's room. It is it’s usual teenagery mess; comics strewn across an unkempt bed. In lieu of what’d be the usual boyish mess of laundry dotted about the floor, there’s old bandana’s and foam nunchucks with little teeth marks embedded into the sides on account of some of the monster children his brother dealt with at work. But there’s no brother here. No Mikey napping away the long, tedious work day. He doubles back out the room and towards the kitchen, hoping he’d somehow missed him there with his head no doubt buried in the back of the fridge. “Mike?” He calls out before he reaches the room with a skidding halt. His brother isn’t here either, not in his usual place around the old kitchen table, chowing down on cold leftovers or making breakfast-for-dinner like he often did at this time of night. “Mikey? You home?” He moves forward towards the garage, heart slowing to a steady clip-clop instead of the racehorse pace it’d been dancing along his chest walls when the van comes into view. He wrenches the door open to find his brother slumped across the wheel, leaning against one arm, the other dangling at his side, mouth slightly agape, a thousand scenarios go rushing through Donatello’s mind it’s almost dizzying when his brother makes a small, startling snoring noise that causes him to wake. “Huh?” He blearily blinks at Donnie, sitting himself up slowly and stiffly, no doubt to undo some of the ache that was starting to build there from the hours of being in such an uncomfortable position. “Oh man, did I zonk out in here?” The laughter that rushes out of Donnie is all breathy and worried and a little bit wet from the tears he refuses to let fall as he reaches in and playfully knocks his knuckles against his arm. “Yeah, you moron, You worried me.” Mikey laughs, all easy and normal as he climbs out of the van, slinging an arm around his brother’s neck as they walk back towards the lair. “You’re always worried, Dee,” is what he says, leaning into him to share his warmth. And Donnie wouldn’t dispute that. He’s more worried than not these days. And Mikey is always the one to keep him on all six toes.

“Yeah,” he croaks, keeping his brother close. “I know.”

#tmnt fanfiction #tmnt fanfic #tmnt fic #tmnt 2007 #tmnt 2k7 #tmnt b team #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt donatello #tmnt

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edupunkn00b · 2 years ago

Text

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 20: Happy Endings

Colorized version of Fighting at the Hotel de Ville, 28th July 1830 by Jean Victor Schnetz. (embedded image description)

Prev - Happy Endings - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Summer, 1830, Café Procope

Virgil leaned forward, elbows on the table, and he watched, eyes wide, as the bearded man took a long draw on his coffee. “Then what happened? Tell me, did Patton and Remus free them? Did they… did they go back for Logan’s body? Maybe… maybe he was really still alive?”

The bearded man’s eyes shot over to the bartender, but his back was turned to them.

“Patton didn't slept at all that night,” the bearded man shook his head. “Remus tried, if for no other reason than to mollify him. And to…" He lowered his voice. "Give him a little privacy while he grieved." The bartender faced the other side of the bar, studiously busy polishing a beer stein. The bearded man cleared his throat and nodded. "At first, Remus imagined making his way back to the palace, fighting and sneaking his way past the rebels, convincing the guards he was who he said he was, and breaking in to free his love and his brother.”

He drank more of his coffee. “But as the night wore on, the fires at Versailles grew brighter. And his hope dimmed.”

15 July 1789

Patton stirred at the first hint of pink along the horizon. “Your—Remus?” he whispered, moving closer and resting a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” his voice cracked. Patton was on his feet, stomping dirt into the embers. Remus scrambled up after him. “The horses stayed,” he murmured.

“Petit and Naif are good horses, aren’t you?” he cooed, scritching across the shorter one’s back before strapping down his saddle.

“So you’ll take Petit,” Remus copied his movements and buckled the other saddle. “And I’ll take Naif?”

Patton chuckled dryly. “Petit’s the taller one. You’ve got her now." He stroked Naif's mane and his voice went soft. "Logan used to pretend he didn't like that joke.” He dragged his hand across his face and watched the sun inch her way over the horizon. Remus lifted his hand, about to grip his shoulder or… Do something. Anything. Anything to cut through the blanket of grief wrapped around the other man.

But Patton straightened and pointed to the thinnest part of the trees. “We’ll head that way on foot, then see how the road looks.” He nodded and clicked his tongue. Both horses followed him. “With any luck, we can ride most of the way.”

~~~

The City of Light burned.

Black, oily smoke billowed from the Bastille and several of the larger estates along the far shore of the Seine. The tall, windowed doors of St. Germaine were barred with a crooked iron brace. There were scorch marks on the doors and more on the loose pages from the prayer books gathered in clumps along the gutters.

They walked the horses slowly, and Patton clucked soothingly when a loud bang sounded north of La Chapelle. “Welcome to Paris,” he murmured to Remus. The bright sunshine illuminated every cracked window, every pile of trash, every dirty puddle. Every beggar. Patton took them past du Foy, but Remy had boarded up the windows and was likely hunkered down inside, his stolen musket by his side, lead pipe in his hand. Remy had told him stories of the food riots in the '70s, and he was not the type to take chances after that.

A rumbly wave of voices spread out from the center of the city and they followed the noise. A large gallows had been assembled in the middle of Jardin Square. The air was thick and acrid with the fires dotting the city and July’s heat already rising up from the cobblestone streets. The memory of the forest's cool air and the babbling creek seemed unreal.

The gallows platform was empty save for a pair of rebels fastening nooses to the heavy beam. Either end was rough and splintered, probably plundered from one of the estates before the structure was torched. “Look,” Remus tugged at his sleeve and his eyes darted over to the floor of the gallows. It was built tall, with the stage higher than eye level. “There are trap doors.” Patton looked and under each rope was a jagged square. “If we can stop those from triggering, it could buy us time to cut them down.”

Patton nodded. “Let’s tie off the horses, then cover me while I get under there.”

Less than an hour later, Patton and Remus mingled with the crowd at either edge of the gallows, mere paces from the steps leading up to the stage. The moment the doors failed to open, they would rush up, clad in red scarves, and promise to help. They had to be fast, and cut the ropes before anyone else could reach them.

They had one shot.

Remus fidgeted, his curls, even dirty, bouncing as he shifted. He jumped when someone clapped his shoulder, laughing. He laughed along and said something Patton couldn’t decipher from the other end of the stage. A little boy beat out a steady rat-tat-tat on a dented drum and the crowd’s volume grew. The mass of people moved as one, breathless and faces bright with excitement. One of the Garde Royale emerged from the commandeered shop behind the gallows. His uniform was torn, epaulets ripped from the shoulders and a deep purple bruise covering one eye. The crowd jeered as he was led to the end closest to Patton and two students he recognized from the café tightened the noose around his neck.

More boos erupted from the men and women and children gathered around the stage. Janus stumbled out, eyes downcast and his hands tied in front of him, like the guard. He didn’t appear to be in as bad of shape, but he favored his left leg as he walked and he moved far too slowly. Remus’ eyes were fixed on him and he inched a little closer to the steps.

“Not too soon, Your Majesty,” Patton whispered under his breath, willing Remus to remember to wait.

Patton didn’t think the crowd could get louder but a flash of green drew a roar from the mob. A head taller than the men leading him, Prince Roman walked with shoulders squared and chin tilted up. If it weren’t for the split, bloodied lip and his blood-matted hair, he could have been making his entrance at a grand ball. He didn’t react when one of the men tried to trip him, catching himself before falling on his face, arms tied behind his back, one final loss of freedom they could inflict before at last taking away his life.

From where he stood, Patton could see the lever that was meant to open the hatches. Beneath the stage, he'd jammed thick cedar shims into the mechanisms, his sabotage invisible from the outside. The lever would work, but the hatched would remain closed just long enough for him and Remus to cut everyone down.

The drums intensified, riling up the crowd until there was a crack of gunpowder and the executioner pulled the lever. When the hatches didn’t open, panicked voices rose up from the students who’d squeezed through the crowd to get a better view of the hanging. They were now penned in, caught between the head-high hanging platform and the growing mob.

It was now or never.

Moving as one, Remus and Patton dashed onto the stage. Before Remus could reach his brother, the shim splintered and the hatch dropped beneath his feet. Remus shouted, a wordless, panicked cry, as he dragged Roman back up and began to hack at the rope. While that was going on, the guard had managed to wiggle one hand out from his ropes and freed himself before he abandoned his distinctive coat and jumped off the back of the execution stage. The crowd was stunned, and time seemed to stand still as Patton ran to Janus’ side.

With all eyes on the “King,” he sawed through Janus’ ropes and half ushered, half carried him to the other end of the stage. “Trust me,” he hissed at the twins, then ripped open Roman’s tattered green coat and shouted, “Everyone! Faites attention! He’s wearing red! The King’s a fraud, he’s just a guard." He pointed behind the stage, away from where the guard had escaped. "That man was the King!”

The mob roiled around them, a bubble waiting to pop. As they moved down the ladder, Remus spotted a familiar young woman dressed in rags, clutching her elderly grandfather’s arm. Her rough woven skirt and apron, stained and threadbare blouse looked like anyone else's but he knew that face. Relief flooded his heart and he almost smiled. Philomene! She’d gotten out and taken Maitre with her. She met Remus' eyes, bowed her head, then stepped in front of a rebel attempting to get to the stage. She grabbed his arm, speaking quickly and pointing to Maitre.

“Get to the horses while they’re distracted,” Patton ordered, pulling the princes along. He squirmed through the crowd as they pushed their way around the stage, hunting for the long-gone guard. Dirtied and bloodied, friend and foe, royalty and Jacobin all looked alike and they managed to get to the edge of the square where Petit and Naif nickered nervously.

“You found me,” Janus slurred once they’d stopped, hanging from Remus’ arm.

“Of course I found you, mon douceur,” he murmured and lifted Janus up into the saddle before climbing up behind him, one arm wrapped around his love’s waist, the other hand tight on the reins. “I promised you, ‘til my last breath and beyond.” He nuzzled gently against the side of his neck, shoulders trembling. After a moment, he straightened and turned toward the others. “Race you, brother,” he started to laugh, but it came out more like a sob at the sight his brother’s bruised and bloodied face.

“If you think I’m going to let you win merely because you saved my life,” Roman’s smile was weak but real as he mounted the other horse behind Patton. “You’re dreaming.”

Patton chuckled at the brothers’ banter and tugged on the taller man’s arms. “Hold on tight, Your Highness” he muttered.

“Mon héros petit,” he said quietly, both arms looped tightly around Patton’s waist. He looked over his shoulder when the sound of the mob changed. Someone in the crowd pointed their way, and the mob seethed, undulating toward them like some giant sea creature.

“We need to move,” Patton said, clicking his tongue at the horses. “Now!”

Urging Naif and Petit into a gallop, the four of them took off just ahead of the crowd, leaving the chaotic mob in their horses’ dust.

Summer, 1830, Café Procope

“Mon dieu,” Virgil murmured. “They made it?” Tears pouring freely down his cheeks, he accepted a handkerchief from the bearded man. He scrubbed his face dry and shook his head. “That was a beautiful story, monsieur. Thank you.” He swallowed hard and nodded. “Where are they now? The stories say they—”

“Last I heard, the four of them were still guests of King Fredrick in Berlin.” He shrugged and finished his coffee. “Exile beats death.”

Virgil tapped the sides of his cup and leaned forward, eyes drawn to the gun the bearded man still held. His gun. “Did Patton ever return to Paris to seek revenge? To find… um… Raúl?" He stared at his gun with hardened eyes before looking up at the bearded man. "Make him pay for killing Logan?”

Shaking his head, again the bearded man gazed out at the bartender working his way through his closing tasks. The bar counter gleamed in the lamplight, every glass shone, bright and glossy. Just like the bartender’s clear blue eyes. “Patton was never the type to hurt someone out of revenge.” He returned his attention to Virgil. “Besides, they all knew Logan wouldn’t’ve wanted that.”

The dark fire that had filled Virgil’s eyes faded, and the coffee had sobered him. He stared down at the table for a long time, rubbing his hands over the scarred but polished surface. Finally he looked up and jerked his chin toward the gun. “I listened to your story, monsieur.” He bowed his head and pulled the ring out from under his shirt. He kissed it, then left it out, hanging just over his heart. “May I have my gun back now?”

“How about…” Picking up the gun, he opened the chamber and knocked the three bullets it contained into his palm. “You keep your gun, and I keep your bullets.” He offered Virgil the revolver, handle first. “Fair?”

Virgil chewed on his lip then finally nodded. “Entendu. Fair.” His mouth regained a bit of the shaky smile he’d had at the end of the bearded man’s story. He accepted the gun and, after a moment, tucked it in his belt. “Good night, monsieur. Thank you for the coffee and… the story,” he said, uncertain, like he’d pushed and pushed and pushed at a door only to have it fling open when pulled. He gave the bartender a little two-fingered salute then slunk out into the night.

The bartender followed and locked the door behind him before lowering the shade. Smiling with a faraway look in his eyes, he filled the bearded man’s cup with the last of the coffee. “You gave ‘Patton’ a larger role in the rescue tale this time.” As he turned to extinguish the lamps at the next table, the flames cast golden light over the bartender's unruly mop of greying hair, momentarily restoring his formerly blond curls.

The bearded man smiled sadly at him.

“He deserves it. Roman was right. The little kitchen scullery was a hero that night.” He took a long drag of his coffee, relishing the way the hot, bitter brew scalded his throat. He set down the mug and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “Saved His Majesty’s life.”

The bartender nodded. “It’s too bad I couldn’t save you both. That I couldn't save you all.”

The bearded man rubbed the edge of Janus’ gold ring, back on his pinkie where it had been the night he’d given to him. “You did what we all did that night, Pat,” he shrugged, leaning over to extinguish the last light. The lamplight accentuated the bump in his nose from the decades-old fracture. He contemplated the light, then blew it out. Gas streetlights spilled into the suddenly darkened space from the transom, hiding the surrounding ghosts in long shadows. “You saved who you could.”

~~~

Side by side of the edited and original versions of Jean Victor Schnetz' Fighting At The Hotel De Ville (1830)

#French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution #final chapter #Chapter 20: Happy Endings #dukeceit #ts virgil #Virgil Gamin #ts remus #ts patton #ts janus #ts roman #Crown Prince Remus Capetian #Patton Cœur #Prince Roman Capetian #Janus Robespierre #demus #one-sided logicality #ambiguous ending #sanders sides fanfiction

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coldresolve · 2 years ago

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Moneymakers, pt.xi // Lazarus

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The wipers are switched to their highest setting, yet still struggle to hectically sweep at the rain pouring down on the Clio’s windshield. Renee ashes his cigarette out the slit in the window, then holds the butt loosely between his teeth as he turns onto a supermarket parking lot, eyes scanning for the green vehicle he knows is waiting for him. Empty as the lot is - as this whole area of town seems to be this time of year – it doesn’t take long before he spots it, parked in the furthest corner under the half-cover canopy of a couple of trees.

Renee parks his car next to it, cringing a little at how easily the handle of the handbrake moves into its farthest notch. He leaves the car in first gear before he kills the engine. The parking lot doesn’t slope, but he doesn’t want to risk the Clio going on any adventures while he’s here. Not least because it’d be embarrassing.

He spots Lazarus through the windows, seemingly so lost in his phone that he hasn’t noticed Renee arriving at all. That has to be a charade – usually, nothing gets past that man.

Renee clicks himself free of his seatbelt, haphazardly discarding the cigarette butt in a half-full takeaway cup, and grabs his phone from the dashboard, pausing briefly before he opens the door to look past the tree crowns to the dark clouds which don’t show even a sliver of a hint that they intend to seize their downpour. Counting to three, he gets out. Immediately, his sweatshirt is dotted with dark circles where the cold rain hits him. Cursing, Renee pulls open the passenger door of Lazarus’ car and shimmies through, shutting the door hard the moment he has pulled his feet inside.

Lazarus’ car, apart being a class bigger than his own, is also considerably cleaner. Here, months’ worth of dirt and gravel hasn’t built up on the floor mats, and fast-food bags and tissues don’t lie discarded in the seats.

As Renee brushes the dampness from his hair, Lazarus looks up at him. “Long time no see,” he says, and his crooked smile is genuine.

As if seeing the man for the first time, Renee is once again taken aback by just how good he looks, with his hair parted down the middle, framing his face in warm brown; his criminally long lashes; that jawline of his that looks like it could cut stone.

Reasonably satisfied his hair will no longer drip, Renee leans across the center console and presses his lips to Lazarus’, cupping his hand in the nape of his neck to pull him closer. He feels the stiffness of surprise in the other melt away into willingness, a call answered.

“Too fuckin’ long,” Renee breathes, leaning his forehead against Lazarus’, “if you ask me.” He kisses him again and then trails down, about ready to bury himself in his neck when a hand runs down his chest to gently push him away.

“Business first,” Lazarus murmurs in his ear.

Humming his displeasure, Renee sinks back into the passenger seat.

Lazarus laughs a little. “You’ve shown up with empty pockets before, Renee. I’m not here just to waste my time.”

Renee grimaces. “Way to ruin the mood,” he mutters. “It happened once, man.”

“And I don’t forget.” Although the tone is stern, there is nothing judgmental to find in Lazarus’ smile. “C’mon,” he says. “Tell me what you’re in the market for.”

Renee pouts, absentmindedly pulling out his phone to log onto his wallet. “The usual,” he grumbles.

Lazarus laughs again at his tone, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before he turns to climb over the center console to the back seat. “Don’t be so grim, big guy,” he calls back. Even if Renee hadn’t seen it, the grin in Lazarus’ voice would be unmistakable.

Damn him. He’s one of those people it’s hard to stay mad at.

Renee twists in his seat, looping an arm around the headrest to watch Lazarus unlocking one of the back seats and laying it down, giving him access to the trunk.

As Lazarus fishes for the stash hidden in the compartment that’s supposed to house a spare tire, Renee can’t help but let his eyes wander uninhibited down the man’s body, noting the way the black shirt hitches up to expose a sliver of skin, the way his jeans fit around his hips.

Renee clears his throat. “Do you, uh, have acid?”

Lazarus looks back at him and shakes his head. “Not currently, no. I know where to get it, though.”

“Molly?”

“That, I have in stock.”

Lazarus raises an eyebrow, and Renee nods in confirmation to the unspoken question.

“Sixty milligrams enough for you?” Lazarus asks. “I don’t have one-twenty.”

“Sixty will have to do, then. Ah, give me twenty or something.”

Lazarus nods and ducks back into the trunk.

The rain hits the roof of the car in staccato taps, rushes down the windows in shallow streams. Renee watches as a car drives by on the road outside, tires trailing up misty sprays of water that has collected on the roads.

Lazarus emerges from the trunk, dragging out a small precision scale and a steel box locked with a padlock on the front. He lays both out on the back seat, pulls a key from his pocket, and opens it. Lazarus filters through its contents, largely obscured by a mess of zip-lock bags, until he pulls out one that’s full of chunky pills, in a variety of shapes and colors. He carefully counts the pills into one hand and then lets them spill into an empty bag.

Closing the bag, he catches Renee’s eye and hands it to him. “I think I miscounted,” he says ruefully.

Renee grins back at him as he pockets the pills. “Aw, shucks.”

As Lazarus pulls out a zip-lock bag of white powder, Renee feels how his eyes become hungry.

“How much?” Lazarus asks.

Renee rubs the back of his neck, feeling a smile creep up on the corner of his mouth. “Give me thirty grams.”

Lazarus pauses, eyeing Renee with mild incredulity. “Got a job, did you?”

Renee grins at him. “Sure did.”

Lazarus snorts. Placing the precision scale on the lid of a steel box, he sets to work measuring out a cut of the product. “What kind of job, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Ah.” Renee drums a bit on the back of the seat, hands flat against the corduroy. He can’t quite keep the restlessness out of his voice. “I moderate a stream, actually.”

Lazarus glances up at him. “Like a Twitch stream?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Renee purses his lips. “It’s all kind of hush-hush. The guy I work for is paranoid as shit.”

“I didn’t know there was money in that. Modding, I mean.”

Renee grins. “You’d be surprised.”

It takes a while to calculate the price in dollars, and another to calculate the corresponding price with the current exchange rate of Lazarus’ preferred coin, but eventually, Renee can show him the transaction code, finalizing the deal. He hates how formal the whole thing feels, but Lazarus prefers doing it this way.

Once Renee can feel the weight and rustling of the product in his jacket pocket, Lazarus packs down the scale and steel boxes again, meticulously arranging the black mat, and Renee is nearly bursting at the seams with impatience. “I fuckin’ missed our meetings,” he says, a little too enthusiastically.

Lazarus chuckles, lifting the back seat up until it clicks into place. He nonchalantly slides down against the seat, not hiding his amusement at seeing Renee’s eager expression. “That so?”

“Yeah.”

Lazarus cocks his head to the side, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Come get it, then.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

💵

It’s still raining when Renee pulls back up to his parents’ vacation home, to the point where the gutter right next to the driveway is flooded as evidently, even the sewers are struggling to keep up. Renee parks on the road and gets out, walking briskly to get under the half-roof by the front door. Sheltered from the rain, he smokes a cigarette, tripping the entire time as the coldness of the air seeps through his clothes, chilling him to the bone. There’s a comfortable soreness in him, though, a satisfaction that can’t be wiped away as easily as with mere weather.

He doesn’t bother snuffing out the butt before he throws it into a pot of his mother’s withered petchoas and heads inside. Be it now or later, they’ll burn all the same.

At the dining table, Davin looks up from his laptop as Renee enters, hand frozen in the middle of writing something in a notebook. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out,” Renee answers as he shrugs off his jacket.

Davin seems to wait for an elaboration, but when it doesn’t come, he shrugs and returns to his work.

Eyes meandering to a wall clock, Renee wonders briefly if it’s too early in the day to start drinking. Concludes it’s definitely five o’clock somewhere.

Equipped with all the essentials of bourgeois leisure, the kitchen also features a small wine cooler built into the island. Renee, deciding he’s had enough of rum and coke, scours that cooler for any leftovers from summer, and is pleased to find two bottles of rosé scattered in among the reds. Although Renee isn’t usually a fan of wine, rosé has always been his exception – the sweeter blends, at least.

He pours a serving for himself in a normal glass, switching it around to watch the liquid stick to the sides, trailing down in streaks. One of the expensive ones, then. Nonchalantly, he walks over to stand behind Davin, looking over the man’s shoulder.

Half of the laptop screen is taken up by code, and the other – by the site Davin built to host the livestreams. Its design is so bare-bones, it might as well pass for another market or some whistleblower’s safe confessions. It features no art or images, only white and red text on a black background. Not even the font is particularly eye-catching. But that’s the standard for sites built in this field – here, practicality and security is valued above aesthetics.

“You redoing things?” Renee asks.

“Just ah… looking over things. Again.” Davin gestures at the notebook.

“Mhm.” Renee takes a sip of the rosé, then has to grit his teeth to keep from coughing at its dryness. He eyes the glass with newfound disgust. When he sits down next to Davin he places it a little too far out of reach on the table. “How are we doing?”

“Uh,” Davin says. “We hit over five hundred views at the peak of things,” Davin mutters, pointing to the screen.

Renee whistles. “That’s pretty good.”

Davin hesitates. “I hoped things would roll off a little faster,” he says.

“Nah, man,” Renee chuckles, “you worry too much. You said it yourself: once the story hits the mainstream, that’s a catalyst. It’ll work, man. It’s fucking crazy, but it’s gonna work.”

He laughs, then feels a smidgeon of uncertainty when Davin doesn’t respond to it in kind.

“Or am I stupid for having faith in it?”

Davin grimaces but makes no attempt at answering him. Renee drums a little on the table to egg him on.

“It’s just,” Davin says eventually, a little carefully, “that the moment the story hits the mainstream, the FBI will already have a team assembled to crack the site, yeah? And by then, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Before what?”

“Before we slip up,” Davin says, matter-of-factly.

Renee pauses at that. Drums on the table for a bit before he decides the dry rosé deserves another go. He takes a large gulp, closing his nose to the taste as he feels the alcohol bite in his throat. “Let’s not count on slipping up,” he says on the exhale.

Davin snorts, but nods solemnly, eyes trailing down the code scribbles in his notebook. “Why’d you think I keep checking our code? Same reason we’re torching this place when we’re done here. I don’t like taking chances.”

“Alright.” Sitting in an atmosphere that threatens to turn too heavy with the weight of what they just discussed, Renee tries not to fidget too much as he changes the subject. “I actually had some ideas I wanted to throw your way,” he says. “For the streams, I mean.”

The sigh Davin lets out is hard to not interpret as overbearing. “Shoot,” he says.

“First off – I want to be able to see chat during the stream.”

Davin nods, half-shrugging his shoulder. “Easy enough.”

“Secondly,” Renee says, and pauses, struggling to phrase it right. “We have to get rid of the gag, man.”

Davin’s nonchalant composure falters at that. “You want to let Conrad speak…?”

Renee nods.

“…during the stream,” Davin finishes. He lets the statement hang in the air for a moment. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

Renee shakes his head, holding his finger up for pause. “He can beg, I’m telling you. We’re letting all his eloquence go to waste.”

Davin blinks. “You’re clinically insane.”

“See, that’s the good part,” Renee grins. “I actually thought of a way to do it, and it’s very fucking clever.”

Davin leans back in his seat, folding his hands across his stomach. “Pray tell,” he says sarcastically.

“A delay,” Renee says.

Davin blinks.

“A delay in the stream,” Renee elaborates.

Davin blinks again.

Rolling his eyes, Renee pulls his chair closer to Davin’s and leans in as if confiding a secret. “Here’s how it looks in my head, alright? We let Conrad speak, but the stream runs on a delay of, say, thirty seconds. So in case he does decide to say my name, or say where we are, or anything like that, all you have to do is edit the feed in real time by cutting out that section of video. Maybe I beat him up a bit for ruining a perfectly good stream – problem solved, no harm done.”

For a long moment, there’s a furrow to Davin’s brow as he thinks over the possibility. Renee watches the man’s expression carefully, until finally, their eyes meet again. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Davin says.

“Yeah!” Renee exclaims, grinning wide. “Admit it. I’m the smartest person in this house.”

Davin laughs. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” he says.

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#writing #moneymakers #renee #lazarus #davin #clio

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