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ssa-jet · 2 years ago

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Home Is Where the Heart Is🏠❤️

Pairing: Black!Fem!Reader x Emily Prentiss (Platonic)

Category: fluff☁️

Summary: After being attacked in her own home, Emily helps Reader settle back in.

Content Warning(s): swearing, mentions of- near drowning, near-death experience, afterlife, anxiety, blood

A weight should’ve been lifted off of my shoulders when the doctors informed me I was cleared to go home. Instead, my heart sunk into the bottom of my chest.

They say that home is where the heart is. In this case, my heart longs to be anywhere but home. Hell, I long to be anywhere but home. After the attack, the fear of going home became bigger than the fear of my attacker paying me a second visit.

What was once a safe space for me has now become a house of horrors filled to the brim with memories I don’t wish to relive. Being attacked in the one place where you’re at you’re most vulnerable state means having all positive memories of that place ripped away in an instant.

Since my arrival at the hospital, I’ve been bombarded with “comforting messages” such as, “you’re lucky to be alive,” and “it could’ve been a lot worse,” and my personal favorite, “there are people who have been in a similar situation and they didn’t survive.” Usually, I would just acknowledge their words with a nod of my head, but I couldn’t force myself to accept the fact that I’m one of the “lucky ones.” Eventually, however, I grew to believe them, until the familiar drive home.

My coworker and best friend, Emily, offered to give me a ride home and help me unpack, and, of course, I agreed because I knew that this would require support and guidance that only Emily can provide.

The ride started off smooth, with the occasional jokes and making of weekend plans that we know our job won’t allow, and I was beginning to relax.

Keyword, was.

By the time we reach the entrance to my apartment complex, my hands are beginning to shake, and my palms are moist with sweat. As we drive past the river, I can’t help but think back to last Thursday, when he would submerge my head underwater until I could barely breathe. Whenever I managed to get back up, his fist would collide with the side of my face.

Next, we pass the field behind the apartment building, and I remember how he dragged my near-lifeless body into the plush grass, where he stood over me and watched me take my last breath. That was also the place where I saw “the light.” The blackness created by the back of my eyelids was replaced with a blinding light that made my skin tingle with its warmth. There was no voice that spoke to me, no open arms. Just light and heat. Looking back, I thought it was the fluorescent ambulance lights, but that’s not possible, as I was barely awake when the ambulance came.

Lastly, we turn down the street that leads to my apartment. “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I whisper, clenching the fabric of my sweatpants. “Maybe I should just book a hotel room instead.” “If you do that,” Emily says, focusing on the road ahead, “you’ll only make this harder than it already is.” “What’s wrong with that?” I ask, desperation filling my tone as we near the front of my apartment building. Emily sighs and spares a quick glance in my direction. “Y/N, believe me when I say this: everyone on the team has had to face this, one way or another.” “What about Reid?” I counter. “Except Reid.” “And JJ?” “You get my point,” she tells me. “Look, we’ll be with you every step of the way, okay?” Not wanting to argue, I simply nod. The car pulls into my parking space, and my body is racked with uncontrollable shudders, which can only mean one thing— anxiety.

I wait by the passenger side door as Emily grabs my bags from her trunk, before slamming it shut and appearing behind me. “You ready?” she asks. “No,” I deadpan. She sighs again and urges me forward, to which I begin the walk towards the building.

After scaling the steep staircase, we reach apartment 624. The door mockingly stared back at me, begging to be opened. My trembling hands fumble with the keys, but I end up dropping to the floor. When I bend down to pick them up, I notice a small, white envelope that seems to have been resting on my front doorstep for no more than a few hours. “Odd,” I think to myself, gingerly picking up the envelope as well as my keys. “Why didn’t they put it in my mailbox?” I wonder aloud. “I dunno,” Emily replies. “It was probably hand-delivered.” I make a note to open it and push the key inside the doorknob.

Click.

I take a deep breath and push the door open, the smell of vanilla greeting my nostrils almost instantly. I knew that Reid had offered for him and Morgan to clean the bloodstains out of my carpet while I was in the hospital, but what makes me smile is the fact that he remembered that vanilla is my favorite scent. “Of course he remembered, Y/N, he had an eidetic memory,” I mentally scold myself. Despite the fact, it still feels nice for him to care about the little things, such as my favorite scent of air freshener. “Where do you want me to put these?” Emily’s voice snaps me back to reality. “Uh, right there is fine,” I respond, pointing to a spot next to the door. “You okay?” she inquires. “I… I don’t know,” I tell her, allowing my hand to fall limp out of her grasp. “This feels wrong.” “What do you mean?” “It… this doesn’t feel like my house. It feels like someone else lives here.” And it does. What should’ve felt familiar to me, things such as the corduroy couches I picked, the sage-green coffemaker Morgan bought me for my birthday, and the framed pictures on the wall of my with my family feel foreign.

I slowly walk around the room, tracing my fingertips along the lacy tablecloth my mom picked out. My eyes wander around the painting I hung on the wall, the pictures, stopping on my favorite baby picture of me, my head covered in thick, curly, dark, hair. I allow a smile to graze my lips as I admire the radiant smile forever frozen in time, captured, and hung on a wall for people to look at.

When I reach the bathroom, I’m hit with the smell of oils. What seems like thousands of hair products have made a home on my countertop, and yet I can’t deep to stop myself from buying more. I allow myself to smile again as a familiar memory brings itself to the forefront of my mind.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why girls need so many hair products,” Morgan scoffed, smiling. “I mean, who needs that many variations of the same thing?” “They’re not the same thing,” I replied, picking up a bottle of almond oil. “They all help with different things, like split ends, itching, growth, volume, dry hair, detangling, straightening, blow drying, and styling.” “See, now that’s too much.” “No, it isn’t! The only reason why you think it’s too much is because you’re someone who only needs a razor,” I laughed. Morgan’s eyes widened at my bold claim, but he just chuckled and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

Morgan is always so judge mental when it comes to my hair products, but, then again, any big brother would be. Although we’re not blood related, I’ve always looked up to and admired him as a protective older brother over Spencer and I. My shoulders drop with a sigh, and I make my way back to the kitchen, where Emily is leaning against the countertop and looking at me. “You okay?” she asks. “I think so,” I mutter, awkwardly twisting my fingers. “You know what would make you feel better?” Emily inquires with a ghost of a smile. “What?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows. “A little housewarming party!” she grins. “Not anything too big, just having our friends at the BAU join us for some wine.” “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I stammer. “Why?” I exhale, unable to find an excuse as to why I don’t want to host a gathering at my apartment. “C’mon, Y/N,” Emily says, taking my hands in her. “It’ll help you loosen up a little. And besides, it’ll be a good excuse to hang out with—” “Fine,” I groan, throwing my head back. Emily gives me a smug look before wrapping her arms around me in a hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “No problem.”

#spencer reid #emily prentiss #criminal minds #derek morgan #emily prentiss x reader

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2centsofsilver · 2 years ago

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11/19/22 ~ 1st Session with Pro Domme

I pulled into the parking lot in the back of the warehouse and found the green awning with little difficulty, thanks to her video guide. I was already 10 minutes late, so I didn’t have time to sit and collect myself. I opened my car door, grabbed my purse, and hopped out of my car into the snow. There were several concrete snow-covered steps leading up to the green door. I held onto the handrail, trying not to slip, as my heart pounded. “What if the door is locked?” I thought to myself. I turned the knob and opened the door. The floor was wooden and old. To my immediate left was a long steep staircase, dark and full of cobwebs. I peered upwards and thought to myself, “I’ve never seen a taller set of stairs.” Slowly and carefully, I began climbing the staircase, dragging myself along the railing and becoming out of breath. When I reached the top, I felt sick. “Is it nerves? Or leftover enema water?” I felt like I was going to throw up. Briefly stopping to catch my breath, I scrolled the instructions in her email. “Turn right, walk through the open doorway, turn right again...” I read to myself. “That open doorway? Is that a doorway?” I closed my eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and proceeded through it. I came to a long, long hallway and glanced down either direction. I felt like I was in U of M’s art school’s ceramics wing where the ceramics studio was. To be honest, nothing felt as creepy or sketchy as how she described it. I had been in places like this before... Art Hops in Kzoo, aniique stores in the warehouse district, art studios... they’re all the same. I walked down the wide hallway to my right. Walls were green with silouettes painted on them. “Red door on the right.... red door on the right...” There were multiple red, unlabeled doors. She called them artisan studios. I stopped in front of a large red door on my right, staring at it for several seconds. I turned to my left when I heard and saw movement at the end of the hall. A man was standing down there, around the corner, but I could see him standing right behind the corner. Why did it feel like he was hiding? I knocked on the red door 3 times. Footsteps approached, and suddenly the red door creaked open, slowly...very, very slowly. My eyes darted around a royal interior of sex dungeon furniture catching a quick flicker of the gynecological table. The studio was in full view and it was breathtaking; magical; beautiful. But where was she? I stood silently for a moment and then her green hair peeked out from behind the large door. “Hello Katie,” she said with a devious smile. “Hi,” I said softly.

She welcomed me in and from that point forward, rarely lost eye contact unless leading me to an area of the dungeon or leaving me briefly to retrieve a tool. Immediately, I began chattering away, apologizing for my lateness and asking whether she saw my latest email. “Yes,” she responded and was very supportive, accepting, forgiving, and kind. I felt raw and vulnerable; I hadn’t the time to finalize my appearance as all hell had broken loose in the days and hours leading up to the session. My face was entirely make-up free; my hair was pulled into a tangled pony tail, unbrushed; my cheeks were flushed as usual. I arrived starving; hadn’t consumed food yet that day with low blood sugar. I had just administered four bulb enemas less than 15 minutes prior to leaving my apartment. As a thick bitch, I hadn’t been able to properly administer them and they had leaked all over my bed, the bathroom floor, and in my brand new sparkly panties on my walk to the car. A heavy 27″ snow storm and depression from the fall out with my former Domme had prevented me from arriving on time, prepared, and appearing in such a way that adequately expressed who I was. She had reassured me during the week prior she’d run into many vulnerabilities in the dungeon and not to worry if I encountered an “Oops”during clean-out. I wasn’t able to insert the nozzle while sittong on the toilet, wasn’t able to prop my leg up on a stool while standing in the shower, and wasn’t able to squeeze the bulb of water into my rectum while laying on my right side without all the water leaking onto my bed. That said, I followed the instructions she provided in email and through a helpful infographic. I’d had professional colonics in the past and administered many comprehensive sigmoid enemas to myself in the bathtub for many years. My former Domme filmed content heavy in enema-play and I’d been reading about them since my teenage years on Literotica. If I knew one thing it was simply, never rush an enema; always give yourself plenty of time. I hadn’t. I’d arrived with a stomachache and nausea, as well as what I could only imagine was leftover water in my colon. She was warm and accepting as she led me over to a beautiful set of velvet Victorian couches. She encouraged me to go ahead and remove my snow boots and coat and get comfortable. She sat on the adjacent couch and said we would review my kinks, boundaries, and any concerns before getting started. She withdrew her notebook and mentioned not having access to our emails listing additional boundaries and medical issues from outside our Zoom negotiation last week. I of course blanked on most of my kinks and boundaries and she understood, reminding me, “This is just a Tuesday for me, whereas this is one of the first times you’ve been asked to recall very sensitive information to someone in person.” She was right. We recalled from notes and memories a few of my kinks and boundaries... Kinks: -Medical Play -Needles -Anal Penetration Boundaries: -No Bondage -Gentle Vaginal Penetration -No Standing or Kneeling -No Visible Marks -No Electroplay I reminded her of my medical conditions -- Lipedema and POTS, poor circulation in the legs, unable to kneel, unable to stand for prolonged periods. TMJ -- unable to open mouth all the way, Vaginusmus --- unable to tolerate moderate vaginal penetration... She asked if she could retrieve my emails on her phone and I said yes. I also offered to provide my full kink/boundary list on my phone and she said yes. She compared her notes and jotted down additional reminders to herself. We scanned the lists and discussed all areas of concern. She mentioned having many of the tools necessary for my kinks at home and that she would bring them next time. She said the gynecological table was stocked with needles all ready to go, but again, said she needed a second person -- a nurse who travels to the area to administer needle play to willing subs. We talked about anal training and my desire for enormous anal insertions and stretching. She mentioned a speculum she could use to stretch me open today. She asked for clarification that I indeed loved ice cold medical instruments -- affirmative. And I complimented the cold temperature of the dungeon, laughing that I run warm. She was pleased! I asked about urethral play and she again mentioned I’m the first female to ever express an interest in sounding; that she regularly sounds cis men. Her female sounding kit was at home and she said we should wait until a future date to stretch my pee hole or insert objects into it; “It can be a lot,” she said. Believe me, I knew. I asked whether anything in the dungeon might mimic needle play. “That’s a really great question,” she said. “I do have a Wartenberg wheel I’ll be using on you today that will feel very prickly. Usually when people request a deep, concentrated pain or sensation, I suggest my violet wand, but you have electroplay as one of your limits.” I began to think. “Well, I’m very curious about it. I know I want to try in the future, just not today.” She reiterated that she wasn’t suggesting we try or push any of my limits. “We won’t be doing any electroplay, we won’t be pushing any of your limits.” I appreciated this. But I continued to wonder, “Does it have a low setting?” I asked curiously. “Oh, yeah!” she said. “Absolutely! I always start low on new clients. The lowest setting produces a light tickle and as we increase, the sensation feels deeper and more concentrated, sort of like getting a tattoo.” “I don’t have any tattoos, so I don’t know,” I trailed off. “The violet wand is usually what I recommend to clients who enjoy that deep, sharp, needle-like pain,” she said. “I’ll keep thinking about it,” I said. She assured me there was no pressure to ever reconsider my boundaries. After talking and going over our negotiations (interests, boundaries, and limits), she asked, “Are you ready to get started?” I smiled and nodded, “Yeah,” I said. She smiled back at me genuinely. “Great,” she said, standing up. “So first what I have clients do is strip down” -- she looked my body up and down when she said this “to your comfort level and fold your clothes neatly on the couch.” “Ok,” I said. I instantly stood up. I pulled my black mesh hooded tunic over my shoulders first, turned it right-side-out, and attempted to fold it with fumbly hands. “I can’t promise perfection with this folding element of the assignment,” I said with a grin. She laughed. “I’m not the best at folding my laundry...” I continued. “You might have to punish me,” I said, gently laying a non-folded shirt on the velvet couch. “Hey,” she said. “I thought we weren’t doing that today...” I smiled and laughed a little, then began pulling down the waistband of my black velvet leggings. “I have shorts underneath these,” I said. She nodded, watching my every move. “Is that bra from Lane Bryant?” she asked. “Yeah! I just got it,” I said. “I like it!” she said. It was black lace and purple with a gold clasp between my tits. “Ooooh, those are cute,” she said, eyeing my silver sparkly leopard shorts, silky and sexy. “Are those from Lane Bryant too?” “Yes,” I said. I carefully folded my pants on the couch. I took off my socks and put them in my purse, then neatly laid my purple coat on the adjacent velvet couch. “There was a matching top with the shorts, but it was really short, so I left it at home...I could put the shirt back on...I’m not sure... ?” I posed. She thought for a moment. “No, I think you look great just how you are,” she said. “Really?” I asked. “Really!” she said, genuinely. I was in my bra and the lacey shorts with sexy panties on underneath. “I think you look beautiful,” she said. I smiled and felt really good. “Okay,” I agreed. “If you’d like we can make our way over to the bed and engage in some light touching and sitting close?” “Ok,” I said smiling and nodding. I was very quiet and soft-spoken. “Does that sound good?” she asked. “Yeah, I’m ready.” “Great!” she said, smiling and holding my eye contact. She began leading the way across the dungeon. “Please watch your step and be careful not to bump the radiator,” she said gesturing ahead. “Ok,” I said, taking a step down and walking past the heating unit. “So here’s the bed and we have all sorts of various foam pillows... all different shapes and sizes that you can choose from and get comfortable however you’d like,” said Ace. “Okay,” I said nervously, looking at all of the pillows. “I’m not really sure which is best...” I said, feeling sort of frozen. “Would you like to take a seat for now?” “Okay,” I said and kerplunked down at the foot of the bed with Ace by my side, taking a seat. She asked if I was comfortable and I confirmed I was. “Would you like me to begin touching you softly?” “Yes,” I said. Ace shuffled behind me on the bed on her knees and kneeled close. Softly, so softly, she began touching my upper back, back of my neck, shoulders, down my arms and back to my back, like a gentle, soft, sensual massage. Instantly, I melted, closed my eyes, and drifted into a deeply relaxed state. I said to myself, “This is what I’ve been craving.” Head bowed, I smiled. “How does this feel?” she asked. “Amazing,” I said. “Let me know when you’re ready for more intensity...” she said. “Okay,” I softly replied. I kept my eyes closed and, almost inaudibly, moaned. Inside my head, I didn’t want this soft gentle touch to end. I’d waited for years for this, so I decided to try not to feel any pressure and I sat and enjoyed it for a few minutes longer. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’m ready for more.” “You’re ready for more?” Ace asked. “Yeah,” I nodded.

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grenade-maid · 4 years ago

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Was thinking of dumb stuff I did when I was a teenager and remembered that there’s this road through unincorporated county that me and my friends would go to late at night at smoke and shoot cans and try to get our shitty falling apart hand me down cars up to 88 miles an hour to “go full Back to the Future on that bitch”. And see, this road runs parallel to a river, and that river floods periodically and VERY dramatically, so for the most part nobody would ever be dumb enough to build anything there.

Unless of course, you built those houses on stilts.

The road is on a hill above where those houses are, and that combined with the tall grass makes the stilts seem a little shorter than they really are, which is about 4 stories (45 feet/15 meters or thereabout).

As you can see, there’s no stairs or any other method of accessing them, but we were always deadly curious to know what the hell was up there. So we did what any reasonable person would do, and got a ladder. Except, well, the ladder wasn’t tall enough. I mean who has a 45 foot ladder hanging around? So we did what any reasonable person would do, and got a second ladder. We set up the second ladder on top of the first one, and leaned up against the side of the house, and wouldn’t you know it? We were still about a foot short. Undeterred, we simply accepted that we would have to stand on top and jump the final foot and hoist ourselves up over the edge. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a warning label on the top step of most ladders strongly advising you to not do either of these things.

Now, see, times like this make me believe very strongly in there being some kind of multiple universe or timeline version of reality, because by all rights we should have fallen to our deaths doing this. And that instead, we got quietly shunted into the timeline where we all lived, with our mangled corpses being piled neatly out of sight behind the closed door of other lifetimes.

It may not surprise you that inside was nearly pitch black, considering all the windows had been boarded up. Being that we were teenagers dumb enough to stack two ladders to break into a rural property, however, meant that we were dumb enough to not bring a flashlight. All we had was the tiny flickering flame of one of our cigarette lighters. By that light, what little we could make out was a vision of horror. Bathtubs and sinks lined with dark streaks and pools of stagnant liquid, smashed mirrors, textiles rotting, sagging, moldering, every dark stain taking on the quality of dried blood in our young imaginations.

And then we got to the kitchen, which by some blessing had a crack of light shining between the boards. Enough that it looked less like an abattoir and more like the dusty, once cozy and homely mid-century kitchen it once was, with flaking but cheery robins egg blue wood and peeling teal vinyl flooring. We exhaled, and took a break here, chatting and joking to break the tension and prepare ourselves to leave.

That is, until the one with the lighter leaned back against one of the countertops that the light didn’t quite reach, and heard a sickening crunch.

With shaking hands he woke the flame of the lighter once more, and by that dim light we saw that the counter, the sink, and every shelf of every cupboard was overflowing with filthy rodent skeletons, bits of dried rotting fur and skin and gore still adhered to the bones, resting on a bed of dark rich soil of decomposing flesh.

As we gaped in horror and babbled at the sight, we heard a knock coming from upstairs.

Although it’s plain to see from the outside that there’s a second floor, we had completely forgotten about it. All at once, we noticed the darkened staircase leading up, as if it had been obscured before and had only just now been revealed. The knocking continued.

Being that we were dumb enough to stack two ladders on top of each other, and dumb enough to not bring a flashlight, we were also dumb enough to walk up those stairs to see what was making that sound.

The stairs were dark, barely wide enough to accommodate our shoulders, and steep enough that it felt like we were at risk of toppling backwards just by standing up straight. As such, we were forced to cower. There was a crack of light shining beneath the door that waited at the top.

With timid hands, the one of us at the front pushed the door open. Sunlight poured in through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a room full of the vague shapes of boxes and furniture draped with cloth that had turned the color of skin over time. We heard the knock again, and something moved beneath those sheets. The one with the lighter raised his voice, demanding to know if someone was up there. We got our answer almost immediately.

The biggest owl I’ve ever seen tore out from some corner of the room, alighting on one of the covered boxes just long enough to give us a look that said “You shitass kids, what were you expecting? Get out of my house already.” before flying out the gap in the ceiling.

That explains the skeletons.

#at some point since then someone actually moved in there #i think they just walled in the gaps between the stilts beneath the house and live in there though #i couldn't imagine having that house as my roof #talk about the ultimate creepy attic

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tenthgrove · 3 years ago

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L'inizio- A La Squadra Backstory Collection

Chapter 3: Due Cuori (Sorbet & Gelato Part 1)

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: parental abandonment, homelessness, mildly-suggestive behaviour

The young boy sobs into the bag he’s carrying as he flees down the dark, damp street. The quick-paced footsteps of his pursuer sound loudly as they smack against the wet concrete. The boy prays for some rain to cover the sounds of his panting and running, but he knows such luck will not be afforded to him.

He is out of his depth in this part of Naples. Not yet 14, he’s one of many such young fools who thought it would be easy to snatch a little money from one of the smaller street gangs that roam this part of the town, making the crucial mistake of thinking ‘smaller’ was synonymous with less relentless. The boy has barely a moment to comprehend the dead end ahead of him before he is knocked sharply around the back of his head and sent reeling to the floor.

“Where the hell is my money, you shit?!” the angered man interrogates him sharply. He rears a clenched fist ready to strike him again, and the boy cowers against the wall.

“It’s there! Right there!” he shrieks desperately, pointing at the back dropped at his side. The man spits. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun. “I swear Signor! The money’s there!” the boy pleads, his voice hitching in mortal terror. The man scoffs venomously.

“Yeah, I heard.”

Two shots ring out, but they aren’t aimed at the boy. The man’s blood splashes over him as he chokes on it, falling to the ground without a word. The boy counts two wounds on the man’s back.

The figure at the end of the alleyway lowers his gun and begins to approach. He is somewhere on the boundary between boyhood and manhood, perhaps about 18, at a first guess. He is darkly dressed, with hair to match, and he returns his weapon to his pocket with a detached smoothness that suggests great experience with the murderous act. He leans over the boy and picks up his bag, smiling in satisfaction at the wad of cash crudely jammed inside. He zips the bag up and hauls it over his shoulder.

“Grazie,” he thanks him, turning away and beginning his journey back down the alleyway.

He does not walk far before he reaches his destination- a small house in a densely packed row just a street away. He knocks calmly, and the door soon opens.

“Ah, Sorbet,” the responder answers. “I thought I’d heard gunfire.”

“’Evening Gabriele,” he greets him, sorting off some of the money in his hands. “20,000 lire says I can stay the night.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Gabriele agrees with a small chuckle. “Come right in, friend.”

Sorbet removes his jacket and seats himself down on the sofa, shuffling the bag protectively behind his legs. He takes off his own bag as well and pilfers through to find the chewing gum he’s been saving for this evening.

“May I ask how you still haven’t found a place of your own? Surely you must be rolling in it from all that blood money you’ve got lately. Hell,” he remarks, eyeing the money poking out from behind Sorbet’s lap. “You could probably sort yourself out for a couple months on that alone.”

“You can certainly ask,” Sorbet answers apathetically.

“Well?”

Sorbet looks at him contemplatively before deciding he’s in the mood for compliance tonight. He leans back.

“To put it simply I’ve just been out of it too long. ‘Don’t have my birth certificate, ‘don’t have any documents of that sort. I left home at 14 and frankly I’d be shocked if I wasn’t legally dead by now. Well, assuming my mum was ever lucid enough to do the paperwork, that is.”

“You could rent a flat from the gang. They’d hardly say no to you,” Gabriele suggests.

“Not really a fan of that sort of obligation, Gabe,” Sorbet refutes him. “Besides, the quote on quote ‘buildings’ the gang owns get busted by the cops all the time. I hardly wanna deal with that at 1 in the morning.”

“True,” Gabriele snorts. A knock sounds at the door. “Who the fuck at this time of night?” he gripes.

“No idea, but have fun with them,” Sorbet says, getting to his feet. “I’m off to help myself to your shower,” he announces, departing up the stairs. Gabriele answers the door.

“H-Hello,” the newcomer greets. It’s another teenager, with messy blond hair and a sky of freckles. He shivers into his thin jacket, hand red-raw from clutching his heavy bag. “Are you Gabriele?” he asks.

“Who’s asking?” Gabriele says with scrutiny.

“My name is Gelato, sir. You don’t know me, but I know a friend of yours from Florence, well, small village outside of Florence, I’m sure you know which one I mean. I heard from him you wanted to get someone to do errands for you and well, I was wondering if I could do that for you,” the boy offers. There’s a wild look in his desperate green eyes, and Gabriele knows this won’t end quickly for him.

“Kid, that was weeks ago! What the hell took you so long?” he asks.

“It’s not my fault I had to walk here!” Gelato protests. “Look, I got kicked out by my parents, I’m only 17 and if you don’t help me I’ll have nowhere to go!” he pleads.

“That’s rough and all, but the job’s closed. Go find a shelter or something.”

“PLEASE!” Gelato begs. He’s trembling, but there’s a touch of anger in his eyes as he glares at him that makes Gabriele mildly scared to turn him down.

“Look, I have neither the need nor the money for another errand boy right now. But, now I think of it I do know a guy who needs someone to manage a bar for him. Make no mistake, it’s nothing more than a meet-up spot for the gang so don’t expect anything fancy, but I think it has a flat upstairs. Maybe you can ask to move into the place as your pay.”

“A bar? That’s perfect!” Gelato enthuses. “Thank you thank you so much!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m happy for you. Now If I go give the guy a call will you please piss off?” Gabriele entreats him.

“Anything you say sir! Thank you!” Gelato agrees. Gabriele heads for his phone with a sigh.

::::::::::::

An hour later, Gelato finds himself in the staff-only section of what was once a fully functioning bar.

“Look kid, it’s not hard stuff,” his guide tells him. “Just keep ‘em drunk enough they can’t kill each other and ring me up if you hear any talk the boss ought to here,” he explains.

“Yes sir, I will,” Gelato answers dutifully. The man opens a rickety door leading to a thin, steep staircase. Gelato follows him up.

“And, this is the flat you were so eager about,” the man announces, looking over the dark, dust-filled space of the bare-bones apartment. There’s a frightful stain on the sofa, and one of the kitchen cabinet doors is hanging on one hinge. “Consider yourself lucky I’m letting you have it when I could be giving it to someone who pays. Don’t expect a penny more from me, this is your full payment,” he continues.

“But how will I eat?” Gelato protests.

“I guess you better hope they tip you good,” the man answers apathetically. “Look, if you do a good job and don’t piss me off, maybe I can spare a few thousand lire a night later on, but until then, you’re getting no more help from me,” he maintains. “Maybe you should learn to pickpocket. ‘Useful skill to have around here.”

Gelato growls inwardly. Of course he knows how to pickpocket! Well- how to pickpocket 13 year olds outside a school gate. Grown men might be a different matter, but he’ll figure it out. Getting caught can’t be much worse than what happened when his parents found out.

“Alright. Thanks,” Gelato forces himself to say. The man gives a satisfied nod and exits.

“Make sure you know where everything is before you open at 9,” he says.

Gelato seeks out the bedroom and lies down, not caring how musty the frayed sheets smell. He grabs the pillow and hugs it close to him like a stuffed toy. It occurs to him that he’s scared.

::::::::::::

It takes him a month to accept his parents aren’t taking him back, two to stop fucking up every day of his life and three to feel some sense of normalcy in his new life at the bar. That’s not to say he’s happy, by any means, simply that he holds onto his current existence with a vice-grip, for fear that things could only get worse if he shook the boat too much.

He sleeps until noon, usually, leaves the house as soon as he’s awake enough to do so and just walks. Anywhere. Sometimes he tries to pickpocket but ever since that beating he earned from a poorly chosen victim, he saves it for his most desperate days. After lunch, if he has any, he sometimes goes to the library. He was never much of a scholar and rarely reads, but he finds the place more pleasant to dissociate in than his apartment.

Should he feel like treating himself, he occasionally visits the arcade when he has the change to spare. After it became clear letting him waste away was not in the landlord’s best interests if he wanted his bar to stay running, he began to help a little with food costs but nowhere near enough for such frivolous outings to be frequently affordable.

Around 3pm, Gelato goes home and sleeps until his hunger forces him to get up and eat. He likes to make a start early on setting up the bar, and cleaning it from the messes of its previous nights patrons, so he tries to begin by 7. It opens at 9 and closes at 2, after which Gelato will shower, and spend a short stretch of time watching the old, boxy TV he pulled out of the attic in bed, before sleeping.

As he exits the cellar, he receives a few apathetic glances from some of the patrons but ultimately nothing much. His eyes are on the far corner of the bar where, to perhaps less of his concern than it should be, two men are engaged in a heated argument. It’s a sight he’s well used to now, but he keeps a keen watch on the men, since the landlord insisted he de-escalate anything that looks like it may prove fatal.

“I don’t care what your excuses are! We had a deal and you’re going to fucking pay me!” The first man shouts. He is one of the younger ones, probably little older than Gelato but with an air of authority more akin to some of the older individuals in the mob. He has heard whispers about this man- his name is Sorbet and he is an enforcer. The mobsters are cautious about the word ‘assassin’, it makes them sound like a more ambitious group than they truly are, one that could be deemed a threat by the larger syndicates that truly control this city. Yet, Gelato reads between the lines when they talk about the things Sorbet has done. As Gelato approaches Sorbet’s eyes flick towards him momentarily. Gelato shies away from the eye contact and feels an odd feeling inside him. Seeing Sorbet always makes him feel odd. He doesn’t dare speak to him directly.

“Whatever. It ain’t on me if you misread what we were talking about. You did me a favour, nothing more,” the second man retorts. He’s another regular, as familiar to Gelato, if not more, than Sorbet is, even if he doesn’t know him by name. He is a cruel man, impatient and aggressive whenever he visits. Gelato always tremors a little when he comes through the door.

Still, he scares him less than Sorbet.

Gelato forces a smile as he approaches the second man.

“Pardon me, could I get you any more-” he inhales sharply as the half-full bottle of wine is chucked over him.

“Yes, one more of these,” the man orders coldly. Gelato wipes his eyes.

“Right away,” he nods, turning back towards the cellar and fighting every fibre of his being telling him not to let this slide.

Gelato descends into the cellar, shaking from the cold of his wet clothes and anger. As he pulls a new bottle off the shelf he wonders briefly if he ought to piss in it, but decides the best result that could come of that is having it thrown over him again. He pats down his shirt and takes the bottle back up to the bar.

He knows what has happened before the door is even open. The sound of shouting is familiar to him, and if the past few minutes is anything to go by, it’s Sorbet and that petulant man’s feud which has turned violent. Opening the door proves his theory, as a small crowd has formed around Sorbet and his opponent as they engage in a relentless match of fists.

Gelato debates to himself. He could put down the bottle and run, he could try and calm the men down and risk one or both of them turning their anger on him, or he could use this opportunity to finally get back at that bastard’s disrespect. Gelato’s never been much of a thinking sort. His mind doesn’t take long to settle on the third option. He rears the bottle above his head and charges.

There’s a collective gasp of shock as Gelato suddenly crashes into the man, smashing the bottle over the back of his skull with full strength. It shatters, and the man falls to the floor with a groan. Gelato looks up at Sorbet, briefly fearing his interference may have provoked anger but, Sorbet only smiles.

Gelato rushes to his feet just in time to join his new ally in kicking the man, again and again until he starts to spit blood. Gelato picks up the remains of the bottle’s base and pours out the remaining liquid onto his enemy’s face in one, final insult. The crowd cheers. Evidently this man was not so popular with the gang after all.

Gelato sits down, whoozy from exhaustion and adrenaline. He finds himself laughing. He cannot recall the last time he’s done that. Sorbet leans down and pulls a stack of cash from the unconscious man’s pocket.

“Lying bastard,” he scoffs. “He did have the money. Probably a lot more than I asked for, but I can hardly complain about that.” Sorbet turns to Gelato with a look of deliberation. He pulls out one of the 50,000 lire bills and hands it to him with a smile.

“For your trouble,” he declares. He withdraws his hand with a slow deliberateness, their fingertips touching for just the briefest of seconds. The odd feeling Gelato has felt since laying eyes on Sorbet returns with a vengeance, and yet, Gelato can feel nothing but awe as it begins to eat his heart.

Oh dear. Gelato might have a crush.

::::::::::::

It is three days later to the hour, that Gelato finds himself hauled into the cellar and pinned against the wall, mouth agape in shock as Sorbet digs his fingers into his neck. It occurs to Gelato he might have gone about this the wrong way.

“Alright, spit it out,” Sorbet demands. “What the hell was that up there?”

“Pardon?” Gelato pleads fearfully.

“Did you think I would let you get away with mocking me like that?” Sorbet asks through gritted teeth. Gelato’s mind turns to the myriad of weapons no doubt hidden in Sorbet’s clothes. That thought shouldn’t endear him as much as it does.

“Mocking?”

“Oh? Is there another explanation for why you would behave like that around me? Humiliate me in front of half my gang? Well?!” Sorbet entreats him. His grip around his neck tightens

“Flirting! It was flirting!” Gelato confesses desperately. Sorbet’s grip lessens.

“What?”

“Look. I think I like guys, you like guys or at least everyone says you do. And- I think I might like you a lot so- I wanted your attention. I wanted to talk to you again,” Gelato admits sheepishly. His cheeks start to burn, and it isn’t from the lack of oxygen any more.

Sorbet looks like something in his brain must have just blown a fuse. Perhaps Gelato should take this opportunity to run, since this half-assed attempt at seduction is clearly a resounding failure.

But then Sorbet starts to laugh. It’s a low, quiet laugh but nonetheless genuine as he fixes his eyes warmly on the floor.

“Oh you dear thing. That isnot how this works,” he says. Gelato breathes out in relief, as well as a little disappointment.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. This was stupid I should- probably just go back to my work,” he apologises. His body goes still as Sorbet touches a hand to his cheek.

“Though if you ever want my attention again,” he leans in and presses his lips lightly against Gelato’s. “You should just ask.”

Sorbet lets out a little hum of amusement at the sight of Gelato’s shock. He caresses his face once more, touching his finger to a little curl of hair as he does so, before finally freeing Gelato from his hold.

“See you later,” he promises, before leaving him alone in the cellar. Above him, Gelato hears Sorbet walk out in the direction of the front door. Gelato collects himself, and calmly wanders over to the sink, waiting patiently for it to fill with water.

He sticks his head in and screams.

::::::::::::

Sorbet visits the bar twice weekly, no different from before. But he starts visiting Gelato more often. Barely a week from their first kiss, they are in bed together, Gelato clinging onto his new love tightly as he reads. This touch is alien to him and in spite of his joy, he cannot help but quiver as Sorbet pets his hair. He wonders how he ever lived his life without knowing joy this strong.

Their second week is easier. They both start to become accustomed to this newfound love and no longer think of each other as strangers. Gelato knows Sorbet’s full name now, he knows which street he grew up on and the names and ages of each of his siblings. Sorbet knows what Gelato’s parents did for a living. He knows the name of the boy he had his first real fight with, and the therapist who tried and failed to relieve him of the ‘learning disabilities’ that made his parents despise him so deeply. Sorbet tries to at least drop in on most days, but when he can’t, he calls Gelato to tell him where he’s staying for the night. Gelato thinks of him as he falls asleep, hugging his pillow close.

By week three, the pair have found a new normal together. Sorbet sleeps over more often than not, and the bar patrons now know full well not to cause Gelato trouble when Sorbet is in the building. Sorbet has made every aspect of Gelato’s life more enjoyable, and he can see in Sorbet’s eyes that the feeling goes both ways. Gelato knows why Sorbet left home four years ago, and Sorbet knows how Gelato really wants to get revenge of his parents for abandoning him. On precisely day 19 of their affair, Gelato asked Sorbet if he planned to keep doing this with him forever. Sorbet did not hesitate in saying yes.

It’s a few days later that Sorbet comes to the bar with an especially warm smile on his usually cold face. Gelato thought little of putting down his current orders to rush over and greet him at the door.

“Sorbet, you’re here early!” Gelato enthuses. Sorbet pecks his cheek.

“I thought we might spend a night to ourselves. I think you need it, Caro.”

“But Sorbet, the bar doesn’t close for three more hours yet!” Gelato reminds him.

“Not if I can help it.”

Sorbet raises his gun and fires it twice at the ceiling. The patrons look up in fear. “Alright, everyone out. Bar’s closed,” he announces. The patrons sheepishly get to their feet and file out.

“But, the landlord!” Gelato protests.

“Fuck the landlord. If he has a problem with this, he goes through me,” Sorbet maintains. Gelato’s breath escapes him with a laugh and he follows him upstairs.

“Really, tell me,” Gelato insists light-heartedly. “What’s brought this on?” He turns around and his face falls to see that Sorbet is looking saddened.

“I- saw my siblings today,” he announces.

“Are they… okay?” Gelato asks worriedly.

“Oh, they’re fine. I saw them down at the cafe, they didn’t notice me. Taking a look at the other ones, I’m assuming the older ones are getting better at taking care of them. It makes sense, given the ages they’re getting to. The issue is… there was another baby, this time, who wasn’t there before,” Sorbet reveals. “Probably just a month or so old, from the looks of her.”

“Sorbet…”

“My sister,” Sorbet says, bringing his head into his hands. “And I don’t even know her name!”

“Sorbet,” Gelato says, taking his head in his own hands. “It isn’t your fault the way your mother is. Looking after them isn’t your responsibility.”

“It was,” Sorbet reminds him. “Then I left.”

“Look, I’m sure they’re fine,” Gelato reiterates. “Believe me when I say there are many worse things older siblings can do than just not look after you. Now,” he begins. “How about that night we were going to have together,” he smiles.

“Right,” Sorbet recalls, pecking him on the nose. “It’s you I came to see.”

Sorbet leans forward and kisses him deeply. Gelato, so recently a stranger to the sensation, leans in further to the kiss, pawing teasingly at Sorbet’s chest to urge him on. Sorbet groans to the kiss, hooking a hand around Gelato’s collar. Downstairs, something crashes loudly.

Sorbet pulls back. He sees Gelato’s eyes widen in fear as a parade of footsteps stumble into the building. Sorbet presses a kiss to his cheek reassuringly.

“Stay calm,” he urges him. “Not a sound.”

Sorbet stands up and, watching his feet on the old floorboards, moves over to the window to peer outside.

“Shit!” he exclaims, ducking away out of view.

“What is it?” Gelato whispers.

“The police. Two cars.”

“Are they here for us?” Gelato asks, voice hitching in fear. Sorbet shakes his head quickly.

“Unlikely. They most likely thought the place was empty. If we are quick, we can still leave without them seeing us,” he promises. Gelato shrinks back.

“I’m scared,” he admits. Sorbet takes his hand in his.

“Just stay with me okay? I’ll protect you.”

#la squadra #la squadra di esecuzione #Sorbet and Gelato #sorbet jojo #gelato jojo #l'inizio

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starsfic · 4 years ago

Text

The Ghosts of Fiery Cloud Manor, Chapter 3: Nightmares, Sisters, and Friends

Summary: Xiaotian has a nightmare and is reunited.

AO3

Notes: Yep, two chapters!

-_-

Xiaotian woke up with a crick in his neck. “Ow, ow, ow…” he grumbled, rubbing it as he sat up. See, this is why you should always sleep somewhere with a pillow. When the ache was soothed, he looked around.

The monkey was nowhere to be seen and the windows were dark.

“Oh boy.” he said, scrambling up and reaching down for his pack. How had he lost so much time?! Now, he would have to hike back down in the dark- His fingers clenched around nothing. He looked down in confusion.

His backpack wasn’t there.

Xiaotian looked around, but a minute of blindly searching yielded nothing. “Okay, don’t panic. You can find it tomorrow when there’s light.” He got up and headed out of the library, flicking his flashlight on. In the shroud of night, the manor was much darker and had a rather unfriendly feel to it, his little flashlight barely penetrating the darkness. Finally, he reached the front doors.

The rocks were gone.

Xiaotian barely had a moment to realize that before the door was slamming shut. He couldn’t help but run to them, desperately pulling on the knobs. When they refused to open, he desperately pounded on the doors. “Let me out!” he screamed, not sure who he was pleading to. “Please let me out!”

He only stopped when he felt warmth on his hands. When Xiaotian pulled his fists away from the door, his hands were bloody. He watched as a drop of blood dripped down and onto the floor, tracing the gold veins.

That was when the veins lifted off the floor. Before he could react, they snapped out at him, wrapping him tight. Xiaotian let out a cry as his chest gave an alarming creak from the pressure the gold bindings placed on him. A chuckle drew his attention and he found his gaze moved from the bindings to the head of the grand staircase. A figure stood there, watching his struggle, their features shrouded in shadow. They took a step down, the human proportions of their form shifting and twisting until a fire hit the floor. The manor burned as the fire approached him, a hand rising from the flames to cup his face. Then it spoke with a crackling, popping voice.

“Welcome home.”

Then the flames were consuming him as the manor fell apart around him-

Xiaotian’s eyes opened with a gasp.

He blinked until the face of the monkey, sitting on him, came into view. It let out a worried chirp. He let out a sigh, petting the monkey. “It was just a dream,” he sighed in relief, craning his head back to look out the window.

The sun was setting, nonetheless.

“Come on.” he said, scooping up the monkey with one hand to grab his backpack with the other. As he headed out of the library, Xiaotian found himself puzzling over his dream.

It was a possible sign that his anxiety was working on how attached he was to the manor. Combined with the ghost stories Tang said were attached to the house and the whole flame motif he had been finding, it created one hell of a nightmare. In a burst of curiosity, Xiaotian pulled out his phone to use the (surprisingly good) signal to see what fire represented in dreams. Instead, his eye caught a long line of texts.

They were all from his older sister.

We need to talk about what happened between you and Father.

Xiaotian, we need to talk.

Xiaotian, answer me.

There was a missed call from Bao, during his nap, and he was very much glad he had been asleep. His heart sank when he saw the next and last message. You’re being a baby about this whole thing. Call me so we can figure out how to deal with this as a family.

“Sisters.” he grumbled instead of a much ruder word, dismissing all the texts and stuffing his phone in his pocket. The monkey let out another concerned chirp. “I’m fine bud-” Xiaotian came to a stop when he saw the front doors were closed. In a burst of fear, he practically sprinted to the doors. They opened under his shove.

“Oh, thank gods.” he sighed, scrambling out to firmly lock the doors behind him. Xiaotian only looked back once when he was locking the gate. With the memory of his dream, the entire place had shifted in his mind’s eye.

The manor no longer looked beautiful.

It looked hungry.

-_-

Xiaotian found himself tossing and turning most of the night, musing over his dream. He had done that search when he had returned to the inn. Fire was most often used to symbolize passion, but it was also deep-rooted anger. Being tied up meant that you were feeling internally restrained.

Yeah, maybe he was feeling that restraint and that deep-rooted anger.

Before the attack, he had found himself snapping and had been taking steps to move out. Pigsy was more than happy to give him his spare room in his apartment. Before that, he had been forced to move to his parents and sister’s whims.

He sighed at that thought and tried to get some sleep. It didn’t work and he found himself stumbling down the stairs in the morning. The monkey hopped up on him when he hit the main floor and he didn’t even bother trying to remove it. “MK!”

That voice woke him up.

Inside the restaurant, Xiaojiao waved at him from a table. Xiaotian gaped. “What...are you doing here?” he said when she ran up and hugged him. This must be why she had been using her planning voice.

“You wished I was here!” Xiaojiao said, leaning back with a shrug. “I figured you might want some kind of friendly face and my parents agreed! So I talked to Pigsy who talked to Tang and…here we are!” Before he could ask about the ‘we’, a warm chuckle broke in.

“Give him some space, pretty girl.”

Spindrax, Xiaojiao’s other bestie and her racing rival, had walked up with a tray of breakfast food. “Three pairs of hands are better than one, right?” she said to Xiaotian with a smile as she set down the tray. Her smile turned gentle as she reached out, giving him a hair ruffle. “How are you?”

“Much better now that you guys are here.” Xiaotian said with a smile.

Together over breakfast, Xiaojiao and Spindrax got a laydown of the house and the possible ghosts. They explained in turn that Xiaojiao had immediately talked to her parents when her call with Xiaotian ended. Spindrax didn’t have any plans this summer so when she heard about the situation when she dropped by to give Xiaojiao her wrench, she had volunteered to come and help.

Pigsy had texted Tang, who had agreed, and the two had immediately packed. “And we spent most of the night driving, which is...wow. Five hours on the motorcycle isn’t the best thing in the world.” Xiaojiao said, rubbing her butt with a pained look. Now that she said that, he could see the dark bags forming under her eyes.

“Are you two sure you want to help right away?” Xiaotian asked, feeling concern rise up. Some of the staircases at the manor were a bit steep. One sleep-deprived slip and he would no longer have friends. “You two can nap here while I bring some of the basic cleaning supplies up there.”

“Wha- No?! We came to help!”

He mused on this and then leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You can see if Spindrax wants to snuggle.” They had mentioned that their room only had one bed…

Xiaojiao’s cheeks flushed at the mention of her crush. “You play dirty.” she grumbled, standing up. “But, fine. We will take a nap just to make you feel better.” She grabbed Spindrax’s hand and dragged her to the staircase. She paused to whirl around. “But be back soon! I at least wanna look around the town with you!”

He nodded his agreement with a giggle, waving bye as the girls disappeared. Syntax chuckled as he walked by, grabbing their tray of empty dishes. “I guess you won’t need a packed lunch?”

He was kind enough to point Xiaotian in the direction of a hardware store. Using the credit card that had been in the envelope with the manor key that had been waiting for him when he came, he headed out. He bought gloves, sponges, a bucket and mop, and a broom. He also found himself grabbing a marble cleaner, some weedkiller for the garden he hadn’t looked at yet, wet wipes, and glass cleaner. (He winced at the thought of cleaning all those mirrors in the ballroom.)

With that, Xiaotian piled all he could in the bucket and started towards the trail. Some village children stopped to watch him. It was halfway up the trail that he thought of the fact some of them probably wanted pocket money, enough to help him lug supplies up here. He brushed the thought away as he opened the gate. Much to his satisfaction, his nightmare no longer twisted the manor in his mind. It was still the same beautiful old house.

Inside, the inside was the same dark space. He couldn’t help but pause, expecting to be attacked again. When nothing happened, Xiaotian groaned. “Jumping at shadows.” he told himself, dropping the bucket down.

He probably should see if he could get a generator in here. The gas lights were interesting, but he didn’t want to burn down the manor, just like his dream- which he was working on forgetting. Xiaotian turned his thoughts away from his dream and to the instructions on the marble cleaner. He could get started, at least.

Setting everything on the steps, Xiaotian headed to the kitchen. Thankfully, the odd leaving behind of everything hadn’t extended to any food. That would’ve been gross. He pumped water into the bucket and then headed to the entryway, following the instructions and setting to work.

Finally, the marble floor in here was reflecting his proud smile. “There we go,” he couldn’t help but coo. “I bet that feels better...if you could feel. Which you cannot.” He really needed to remember that the house wasn’t alive. He returned to the kitchen to pour the leftover water out, setting the bucket and mop next to the backdoor. Now that was done, he should get back.

Or… he could see if the brush he had bought at the store could get the dust off the paintings.

Xiaotian found himself giving himself more and more small tasks in the entryway, wanting to stay a moment longer.

Just one more task, a little bit longer…

Just a little bit longer…

Just a little bit...

He was unaware of the monkey poking its head in, giving a concerned hoot. He didn’t answer, scrubbing at the steps with a dazed look. The monkey gave another hoot, which transformed into a screech. Xiaotian snapped his head up at the noise. The hazy look in his eyes faded. “Oh, hey buddy.”

His stomach rumbled. “Right, didn’t bring lunch.” He stood and immediately felt woozy, staggering back to sitting on the stairs. The monkey screeched and ran and grabbed his hands, pulling. “Hey, hey, buddy- woah okay!” He found himself dragged out of the manor, the monkey not even pausing to let him close the door or gate.

Xiaotian didn’t stop until the monkey was screeching as he opened the door to the restaurant. What felt like the entire village’s heads snapped to him. “Uh…” he said. “Hi. Got distracted.”

“Xiaotian!”

Mr. Tang, Wukong sitting next to him, waved from a table. Xiaojiao and Spindrax were sitting across from them. “I was worried!” the scholar said as he sat down. “Your friends told me you were just going for a quick trip up.”

“I figured I could get started.” Xiaotian explained sheepishly. “I must’ve lost track of time. Sorry.” His stomach rumbled and he found a bowl of noodles pushed in front of him. “Thanks.”

“It’s fine.” Xiaojiao said, swatting Tang’s chopsticks, reaching for Xiaotian’s bowl, away. “But save some work!”

“It was just the entryway. Believe me, I saved work for all of us.”

The lunch continued with conversation about the city and Wukong’s job at the nature reserve, where Xiaotian’s monkey buddy lived. Throughout it, he could feel the village watching. Finally, the meal came to an end and Xiaojiao was dragging him and Spin out, pulling out her phone as they walked.

“Hey, party people!” she said, clearly streaming. “It’s your girl Mei here with her besties MK and Spin!” She craned the camera and they waved, both used to it by now. “So, we’re here in a small mountain village to help clean an abandoned mansion!” A comment popped up. “Right! MK, what can you tell us about the manor?”

“Well, it’s called Fiery Cloud Manor and it's allegedly built in the spot where Red Boy…” He continued on in this vein until they got to the foot of the trail. Then it was Xiaojiao gasping and awing over the natural beauty. Spin leaned over at one point.

“She’s going to use all of her storage space before the summer’s over. I can feel it.”

Xiaotian nodded, unable to resist a smile anyway.

#my writing #The Ghosts of Fiery Cloud Manor #Monkie Kid #Lego Monkie Kid #Qi Xiaotian #Long Xiaojiao #MK #Mei #Spindrax #Zoisiteshipping #Tang #Sun Wukong

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crystxlclear · 4 years ago

Text

hell above

o. prologue ( the spark to light a match ... )

part one of hell above

synopsis: prologue.

word count: ???

warnings: mentions of death

paring: din djarin x original female character

author’s note: official prologue of hell above! din won’t show up for a couple of chapters but he’ll be there soon enough!

It’s the faltering stars overhead that first let Rhia Vytuia know that something is wrong.

She's learnt to trust them and the wisdom they utter; over the years, they've been a constant, a long-standing and persistent reminder of a world beyond her home. The only friend who never leaves her side. The stars recount stories of the universe - they whisper sonnets of far-off worlds, their anguish speaks of pain and their delicacy speaks of innocent. The stars sing to her while she sleeps.

Clear and bright and insistent. They are never-ending. The stars have existed before her. And the stars will exist in the sky long after she is dead, merely a memory lost to the world. They've regarded destruction and creation, birth and death, and all the horrors of the world. They are eternal and everlasting.

And, so, she yearns for them to tell her everything.

All the secrets from beyond.

Tonight, they dim and blink and falter, scattered aimlessly to the wind. Bright arcs and constellations, colours usually so vibrant and vivid they cast the shadow-filled horizon in pastel and gold, fading away into the distant blackness. The darkness creeps in and pulls everything apart, destruction raining down in the form of brutal chaos, in the form of shadows that pull across the skyline. The moment the darkness creeps in, she knows something is wrong.

In all her twenty-five years, they've never lied to her.

And that night is no different.

Rhia is sat overlooking the city. It's a familiar spot, a position she takes up every night when nightfall descends and the shrill, screaming bustle of life lulls itself into a fitful sleep. Her feet have an intimate relationship with the wood of her windowsill; she's committed each curve and groove to memory, that nightly spot she takes up when night steals away the sunshine.

The alarm is raised as the moon rises to its highest point, the tip of the city's crystal towers, standing tall and terrifyingly imposing in the west, pointing straight to it. The mark of midnight.

It's two minutes later when her room is filled with guards. Some familiar - the young man with the blond buzzcut who stands guard outside her door each night, and the woman with the plaited red hair that follows her whenever she wanders her gardens - some she barely recognises as the guards that trail her brother, and faces she's never seen before. They rush for her, where she sits overlooking the city. There are hands gripping her arms, pressing against her back; they yank at her shoulders and her wrists - everywhere, everywhere, everywhere - and they steal her from the solace of her room and out into the hallway. Their bodies shield her from the outside.

They don't speak and they don't answer her questions and, as much as she tries not to be terrified of what the hell is going to happen to her and her family - to her brother and her mother and father - and everyone else she holds dear or to significance, she has to hold her breathing steady, lest she start to sob and gasp and bubble up with pathetic sobs. There's no clarity within her fear as an alarm sounds and the stars aren't there to answer her pleas; it's loud and intrusive and horrifyingly shrill, and she's never heard it in all her years. It spikes terror through her. Her long nails dig deep into her palms.

Rhia is rushed blindly through familiar hallways, rendered unfamiliar when she can no longer see her ancestors' sketches that make the walls so vibrant. Without them, the palace is merely a labyrinth of repeating archways and awnings, a starless night sky of high ceilings above the heads of strangers. It seems to be closing in on her as they descend step-after-step; no noise comes but the rhythmic rush of footsteps and the alarm blaring loud, and Rhia wants to scream out proclamations and demands as fear swells up deep inside her chest.

She could be marching towards her death, for all she knew. An overthrow of the monarchy, the end of her days; the end of her families days; the end of the Vytuias and their reign over Ondorra.

Fear, more fear than she's ever felt in her entire life, crashes over her. It's brutal.

She's not afraid to die. She's only afraid of how death will come.

At risk of sounding like a petulant child, like the spoilt, rich little Princess she's sure most of them think she is, she yells out demands, practically screams at them for answers. But they just glare at her out of the corner of their eyes, like she's merely more than a gnat whipping around their atmosphere. Their lips form lines and there's a cursory regulation to their steps; they're rehearsed and deliberate and they never once falter, though Rhia still senses the weight in each footfall and the urgency that presses into the marble floor.

They rush down staircase after staircase, more than she'd ever thought could possibly be crammed into the palace she's lived in her whole life, stopping only to unlock imposing oak doors and relight torches in the darkness. They must be miles underground, hidden within a twisting labyrinth of identical hallways, each growing darker and darker, white marble walls turned amber with each flickering pass of candlelight. They're most certainly in the darker depths of the palace now; there are doors locked by rusty keys and large ornamental padlocks, and they're the only doors in the palace she has not breached.

They've always intimidated her with their stature - unnatural and heavy and always so steeped in danger that it never seemed worth it. She's always assumed that they hide her father's secrets; his mistress' quarters, old courtiers allegedly exiled for their crimes. The things he didn't want others to see.

She hadn't expected empty, hollow hallways buried deep below the earth and the lilac sky.

The guards halt at the end of the longest hallway; the abruptness of it startles her and she almost tumbles into the back of the guard in front of her. She's been complaining the entire way, long minutes stretching on and on and on as they circled down into oblivion, but the fear is burning her nerves, turning them to liquid fire and it bleeds out in the form of petulant demands for information.

The hallway opens out into a dimly lit room. The roof arches up imposing and deliberate, cut and carved from gleaming firestone. Light fractures in from somewhere high above; it throws patterns across the stone floor and the walls look as if they're painted in blood. She's sure this is the end the moment she sees it looming.

The perfect place for sinister intentions. A room stowed away so far below, hidden and unknown even to those inside. A red room, built of danger, so far from the stars that they cease to exist.

"Rhia," her mother's voice calls. The guards part from before and Rhia rushes to her, into the familiarity of her pinewood perfume.

"Are we going to die?" Rhia questions, into the empty space. Her voice echoes through the void; the room is a cavity, all plain and endless walls of thick, polished marble. There's a lip that stretches the entire expanse, like a bench, made for a hundred people, it seems. But there's no furniture; no beds or ornate dining tables, no armchairs or even carvings like the rest of the palace's rooms. The space is but a barren, never-ending chasm, swallowed whole by the abyss and she's sure that the darkness will drown her, if given half the chance.

There's an echo, here, and it's palpable, and Rhia swears that she can hear her heart thundering brutal against her ribcage.

As she glances around, she notices.

They're the kind of walls that are easy to clean.

"My darling, we are safe here."

"Where's Coren?" She inquires. Everyone is there, everyone but him. Her mother, her father, they're holding her close like they used to do in the dead of winter, when the eastern storms would roll in and douse the city in silt and fog and thunderstorms. The air is electric, just as it was back then. The static pulses through her. Her heart hammers within her chest, heavy and persistent. It rushes through her head, renders her dizzy. The end is near. She can feel it in her bones. "What is happening? Where are we?"

"My great-grandfather intended for this to be a training centre, back when Ondorra had the largest army in the Galaxy. Given the recent tensions, I intended on turning it into a safe room for us. I did not think it would be needed so soon," her father explains, hand gripping her shoulder tighter.

"A safe room?" Rhia scowls at each of her parents. The door she'd been rushed through opens, rusty hinges creaking and protesting. Her cousins and aunt are ushered into the room; they aren't nearly as heavily guarded as Rhia had been, by lineage not as important as the King's daughter. The guards lock and bolt the door after they enter and the light from the candles in the hallway is snuffed out. There are ten bolts, that she can count. They're trapped inside this lightless room, with an echo that bounces from each wall. "Where is Coren?"

She knows her brother is on Ondorra. Or should be, at least. She'd seen him that morning at breakfast, sat opposite her at the table, telling their father about his plans for the day; to visit the library, to visit the woman he's been courting. He'd smiled at her when she'd sat down and smoothed out her heavy skirts, and asked her how she'd slept that night, that kindhearted man always has time for his younger sister. She'd been restless the past couple of weeks. Too warm, too cold, too loud, too quiet, always something stopping her from falling asleep. There aren't many their age within the Court and they're close as a consequence. They look out for each other. She's pretty sure that they're best friends.

The King and Queen glance at each other, then back at their daughter. "Where is my brother?" She demands, her foot stamping against the marble floor. Her heel rings out like a bell throughout the room and the stoic silence that consumes it. She means to sound strong when she implores them for an answer, determined, persistent and persuasive, but her voice falters and breaks the moment she thinks of Coren's absence.

As if she's a fragile little bird, her mother brushes a finger over her cheek. "Starlight, he's gone," she whispers, "I'm so sorry." Her eyes sparkle with tears. Rhia is sure that hers do, too. She can feel the sobs burning the back of her throat as she tries to hold them in. "He's gone."

#hell above #din djarin #din djarin x original character #din djarin x female character #din djarin x reader #pedro pascal x reader #the mandolarian

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haberdashing · 4 years ago

Text

Watch What Happens

One possible version of the inevitable Panopticon showdown.

on AO3

The stone staircases were every bit as steep as Jon remembered them being in the tunnels, but now instead of leading down they led up, up, up to the Panopticon, up to the tower visible everywhere in the world now, up to the moment that he and Martin had been waiting for for a long, long time.

The staircase was too narrow for both him and Martin to stand on at the same time, but they held hands as they ascended together, Jon leading the way. Part of it was protection in case one of them slipped, literally or metaphorically; part of it was just clinging to what comfort they could while that was still an option.

Jon didn’t know what awaited him in the Panopticon, exactly, but he knew that it would change things, one way or another.

As Jon took the final step up, the first thing he noticed was the view. Just as all the world could see the Panopticon now, the Panopticon could see all the world in turn. All the horrors he had unleashed, all the suffering playing out because of his actions, it was all within Jon’s view at once now, the sights of a world transformed almost beyond recognition.

Jon only wished that how he felt about the sight of it all was simply horrified. There was more to it, though, whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, and the gasp he let out was not entirely displeased.

The second thing Jon noticed was Jonah Magnus in Elias Bouchard’s body--the man he had called Elias for years, not knowing he was just using the name of one of his victims--staring right at him, bright eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Hello, my Archive.”

That, at least, Jon didn’t have to second-guess his feelings about. That made his skin crawl, and a quick look at Martin as they untangled their hands confirmed that Martin disapproved every bit as much as Jon did.

He wasn’t wrong, though. Damn the man, but he wasn’t wrong. All that talk about how Jon was more Archive than Archivist, especially under Jonah’s supervision, being guided to play his part in the spectacle Jonah Magnus had been planning for almost exactly two hundred years now... he had a point, but that didn’t mean Jon had to like it.

“Hello, Jonah.” Jon really hoped that every bit of his hatred shone through as he spat out those two words.

Jonah raised one eyebrow. “First-name basis, is it?”

Jon felt vaguely nauseous. He had barely remembered that that was a feeling he could have. He hadn’t felt that way since before the change, perhaps since before anything that really mattered.

“I imagine you didn’t come here for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase. You’re obviously planning to kill me-”

“Figured that much out already, did you?” God, Jon loved Martin.

Jonah didn’t so much as blink at Martin’s comment, continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted in the first place. “But there are two reasons that doing so won’t work out like you intended, and I do think you had better hear them out before you make a grave mistake.”

Jonah held up two fingers when he said the word “two,” in a gesture almost like a peace sign, and Jon seriously considered returning the gesture, but with his palm facing towards him instead of out. Would it be rude? Yes. Did he really give a damn at this point? Not really.

Still, though, Jon decided against it, instead saving his snark for rolling his eyes as he said, with every bit of hatred and sarcasm he could muster, “Fine. Enlighten us, then.”

“First.” Two fingers turned to one, held up as if to command attention, as if he were a schoolteacher in front of a class of unruly pupils, as if Jon and Martin’s eyes weren’t already glaring straight at him. “If you were planning on pulling the same stunt you’ve used on other avatars on your way here, you should know it won’t be that easy. I am every bit as connected to the Eye as you are, Jon. Turning its power on me won’t obliterate me as it has so many others now. If anything, it might just make me stronger.”

Jon considered this for a moment. Jonah could be bluffing, could be trying to save himself at the last minute, but it did make a sort of sense that the Eye couldn’t be used to take down one of its own avatars.

“That’s not the only way we can get rid of you.”

“No, I suppose not, but it would make things easier for you, wouldn’t it? You’ve grown so accustomed to using the Eye’s power rather than your own... but insisting on going that route here would just lead you right into the second problem.”

Jon gently massaged his temple, careful not to impede his vision too much in the process. “And what might that be?”

Jonah steepled his hands and shot Jon a wry grin. “I think it’d be easier to show than tell in this particular instance.”

Before Jon could ask what Jonah meant by that, Jonah’s hands unsteepled, the smug grin fell off his face, and seemingly out of nowhere, he began running in the direction of the nearest staircase. His steps were neither graceful nor especially fast, though, and it wasn’t hard for Jon to grab his arm as he ran past, yanking him out of his run and pinning him against a stone wall within the Panopticon.

“What the hell is-”

Jonah’s eyes were wide and frightened-looking, a look Jon couldn’t remember ever seeing on his boss’ face before, and his eyes welled up with tears that were on the verge of falling any second now.

Something was definitely wrong here, and the shaky sound of Jonah’s voice interrupting his only confirmed as much.

“P-please don’t hurt me. I didn’t- didn’t want this, any of this, but I couldn’t stop him-”

His eyes were also hazel, now, and in all the years working with him, Jon had never seen Jonah with hazel eyes...

But this wasn’t Jonah, was it?

“So you are...” It wasn’t a question, not exactly. Jon wasn’t sure if his compulsion would even work, but he didn’t want it to now, didn’t want to force the truth out of someone who was already near tears.

“E-Elias Bouchard. The- the real one. From before he took over. I’ve been just-” He slumped his shoulders a little. “Just watching for all these years. This is the first time I’ve been able to do a damn thing in decades.”

“I see.” Jon heard Martin snort softly at that. “But how is that a reason...?”

Jon saw it, this time, saw Elias’ eyes change from that strange hazel color to a hue much more familiar, and he knew what it meant. Jon released his grip on Jonah Magnus and took a step back.

“I thought that much would be obvious, but apparently I have to spell things out for your benefit once again.”

Jon clenched his teeth, could feel them grinding against each other, though that was probably still better than spitting out any of the responses that came to mind.

“If you kill me, Jon, then you’re killing him, too. He’s still in this body, even now, watching everything that happens. Feeling everything that happens. Are you really going to kill Elias Bouchard just to get back at me?”

Jon let out a slight gasp, though he hadn’t meant to.

Elias- no, Jonah took a step closer, leaning slightly over Jon. “You could do it, if you wanted to. I could even turn over the body again, let you use your precious Eye powers to obliterate it, give you that revenge you’ve been seeking for so long. But you’d be killing an innocent man in the process. I know you’ve thought long and hard about how much suffering, how much death, has come about because of your actions. Are you prepared to add Elias Bouchard’s name to the list?”

Jon looked away from Jonah, was greeted by the sight of terror upon terror playing out in the world beyond the Panopticon, looked back at Jonah with a soft sigh of resignation.

Martin called out Jon’s name, but it felt like it was from far away. Jon barely heard it, didn’t bother seeking out the source, his mind too preoccupied with the dilemma in front of him.

“Or you could just leave. Leave the Panopticon the way you came, and find a new quest to pursue. The old one was doomed to failure, anyway; killing me won’t undo what we’ve created together. I’m sure you could find plenty of other ways to occupy your time out there. But I won’t stop you from killing me, either, from proving the truth behind my words too late. That’s entirely up to you. Make your choice, Jon.”

Jon’s hands were shaking slightly, and his mouth suddenly went dry as he tried to put half-formed thoughts into words. “I...”

“What about this?”

This time, Jon turned to find the source of Martin’s voice, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Jonah was doing the same. He’d almost forgotten that Martin was there with him, and felt embarrassed that he could ever have forgotten such a thing, could ever have forgotten the presence of someone as important as Martin.

Jon had also forgotten that within the Panopticon lay Jonah Magnus’ original body, but Martin evidently hadn’t forgotten, as he was standing right next to it. And, as Jon looked closer, he saw that Martin was holding one of the larger knives they had packed just above Jonah Magnus’ chest.

Then Martin plunged the knife into Jonah Magnus’ heart, and Jon only just had time to notice that the liquid that flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body didn’t look quite like blood should before the pain set in.

Jon felt like he was being burned alive. Jon felt like he was being torn apart, limb by limb, cell by cell. Jon felt like hundreds of needles were being jammed into every millimeter of his body. Jon felt a thousand pains rolled into one, torment upon torment and agony upon agony, the lot of them blending together into some unholy whole much worse than the sum of its parts.

Jon’s vision, always so clear, began to fade and blur, and he welcomed the darkness as it embraced him, hoping that it would grant him some modicum of relief.

The darkness lingered as he heard the voice, distant and muddled, as if from underwater. It was Martin’s voice, that much he could tell, but he couldn’t make out any individual words, let alone the gist of the speech.

Then a slight sting, and the world returned, blurry but definitely there, and Martin’s words became clearer.

“-up, Jon, please, come back-”

Jon groaned--more out of grogginess than anything else, as the anguish he had expected to come rushing back was still gone, without any discomfort left in its wake--and Martin’s rapid-fire speech paused for a moment.

“Jon?”

The blurriness resolved itself into clear vision once more, and Jon realized only belatedly that his eyesight had only appeared so blurry because Martin had been shaking him the whole time. Martin’s face hovered above him, a million different emotions fighting for control over his expression, as he knelt on the stone floor of the Panopticon.

Jon opened his mouth without planning his words in advance, figuring that reassuring Martin that he was awake again was more important than the details, and surprised himself a bit by coming up with, “For better or for worse, yes.”

Martin let out a soft, shaky laugh, and Jon felt something wet fall onto his cheek. “I- I thought... you weren’t waking up...”

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know, Jon, it’s not like could check my bloody wristwatch... a while? Longer than I would like.” Martin paused for a moment before adding, “A lot longer than I was, I think.”

“You felt it too?”

“A bit.” Martin scratched the back of his head nervously. “But I knew it was coming, you just- just collapsed on the floor, I thought maybe you’d hit your head, and stone’s not exactly the most forgiving surface for that sort of thing...”

Jon let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Martin stood up, extending one arm towards Jon. “Need a hand?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Jon was pretty sure Martin pulled him up more than he actually pulled himself up, but what mattered was that he was up, was standing once more, and the pain that had caused him to collapse and black out was still gone. Also, Martin’s hand had been warm and soft, and even though he no longer needed the lift Jon’s hand was still brushing against Martin’s, the two just barely making contact still.

Jon noticed, idly, that Martin’s clothes were covered in specks of the not-quite-blood that had flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body, but while it was unpleasant-looking and probably uncomfortable, it wasn’t the worst thing that had gotten on either of their clothes during their journey.

Jon’s train of thought was abruptly disrupted when his eyes fell upon a human figure still collapsed on the stone floor around them; as he approached, Martin following close behind, he heard the man swearing a blue streak, the profanities he let loose both inventive and especially obscene.

“Hello?” Jon asked.

“Are you alright?” Martin added.

The man sat up, and only then did he recognize the face of Jonah- no, of Elias Bouchard staring up at him.

“‘ve been worse... been a hell of a lot better, too, though...”

Elias sat up with a groan before locking eyes with Jon.

“Are you gonna kill me now, too?”

Jon looked over at Martin, who shook his head slightly, eyes wide.

“Depends. Who are you, exactly?” Jon was pretty sure he knew the answer already, but, well, better safe than sorry.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “Elias Bouchard, the original, like I said before. Son of Julian and Nancy Bouchard, though Mum’s been dead since I was a kid. Only joined the Magnus Institute because I wanted a cushy office job and not many places would take someone with my shit grades. Didn’t even believe in the supernatural until, well-” Elias made a vague, wobbly hand gesture. “-all of this happened.”

Jon let out a soft breath. “No, I don’t think either of us are going to kill you now, Elias.”

“Well, uh, thank you, then.”

“What, for not killing you?” Martin asked.

Elias laughed, and it sounded very little like the sort of laughs Jon had heard come out of Elias’ mouth before, self-satisfied and pompous; it sounded much more like a genuine, normal laugh, full of humor and free of self-consciousness, even despite the current situation.

“Sort of, yeah, but also for, well, for killing him.” Elias pointed his thumb back at the body of Jonah Magnus. “I honestly thought I’d be stuck like that for the rest of my life, just watching him walk around in my body, so... glad I was wrong on that one. And thanks for fixing it for me, I suppose.”

Jon thought about that for a long moment. For a while now he’d bemoaned that it seemed like he couldn’t save anyone in this new world, couldn’t help anyone, could only cause more harm, and now...

Well, he couldn’t really take credit here. Jonah Magnus’ death was all Martin’s doing, not his own. But still, it was... something. A modicum of progress, perhaps. A small sign of hope.

“Maybe you can help us in return.” Jon looked pointedly out at the unchanged hellscape that surrounded them. “Obviously things haven’t gone back to normal with his death. Do you know why?”

“Well, he was right that killing him wasn’t going to magically fix everything, he wasn’t quite enough of a dipshit to set things up like that-”

Martin let out a soft laugh, and Elias’ face turned pink.

“Sorry, is the swearing a problem? I can stop if you’d like-”

“No, no, it’s just... never thought I’d hear it from you.”

Elias shot Martin a wide, albeit shaky, grin. “Dipshit was actually probably my favorite word back when I was a teenager. Let it slip at a dinner party once and my dad was furious, so of course I made a point to use it as often as possible from that point on. Drove my teachers mad, too.”

Martin laughed a bit more, and Jon struggled to hold back laughter of his own as he planned his next words.

“But if you saw everything he saw, you have to know something... do you know how to put things back the way they were?”

Martin pressed his arm against Jon’s and said Jon’s name softly, but if it was meant as a warning, it was one Jon wasn’t willing to heed. Jon didn’t care about politeness right now; he wanted answers.

“Not exactly? I mean, he was always just planning to make it happen, seemed to think it’d be easy sailing from there on out... and I mean, he wanted all of this, it’s not like he was making plans for how to back out of it all...”

Jon let out a soft sigh.

“...but I do have a few, er, theories? Given what I managed to pick up along the way...”

Jon forced his face into a weak smile. “We’d love to hear them.”

#personal #tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #my writing #panopticon #the panopticon #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #jonalias #jonalias magchard

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realm-sweet-realm · 5 years ago

Text

Thieves’ Gambit

Hey. So, I wrote a chapter for the body-swap to the death AU. I don’t know if I’ll make a whole thing of this, but what the heck. This is going to be the “day five” chapter. It’s an uplifting chapter, sort of the calm before the storm (assuming I make a whole thing of this), so to speak. If I do decide to write the whole thing, well, it’s not all going to be this fluffy. It’s gonna involve self-mutilation as a form of revenge, and lots and lots of demonic magic. Alright, now let’s get to it.

---

Henry Stein slid the tape recorder onto the top shelf of the break room and pressed record, as he’d done with another five tape recorders he’d hidden around the room. While he was glad that he’d soon be back in his own body, he was thanking his lucky stars for the power that came with the one he currently inhabited. As Joey Drew, he could make the employees do whatever he needed them to do in order to get more information out of them. Like now.

The twelve body-swapped employees filed in a few minutes later and sat down in the chairs that Henry had set up.

“You’re probably wondering what I brought you all here for,” Henry announced in his best dramatic, upbeat voice. “Well, I’m here to give you the whole afternoon off! The only thing that I need you to do first is fill out a little survey for me. You’ll all have to stay in this room for thirty minutes. I don’t want any of you give incomplete answers just so you can leave early! Understood?” Henry’s speech was replied with a chorus of nods, and so Henry passed out the surveys and headed for the door. Before leaving he paused to wonder if Joey would have stayed longer to watch them. Henry supposed it didn’t matter. This whole scenario was already pretty weird, and between the surveys and the tape, and everything else that he’d done to secure information that week, Henry felt entirely confident that he was going to live even if he did a mediocre job at selling his role.

Everyone in the room was done their survey within less than fifteen minutes. Most just sat, still and expressionless, after they were done. It was easier than acting. Some, however, were on the hunt for answers.

Norman Polk, in the body of Shawn Flynn, ran up to Wally Franks (or rather, whoever was piloting him) and exclaimed, “Hey, Wally, my boy! Let’s do something crazy after we get out of here!” He didn’t bother to try and fake an Irish accent. No one but Shawn had one, so not having one wouldn’t have narrowed down anyone’s quarry at all. He was, however, ratcheting up the speed, pitch and volume of his normally deep, heavy voice.

Grant, who was currently piloting Wally’s body, just wanted to go home and collapse. He’d already taken a sick day this week because, as a person who barely had the energy to make it through the day as was, doing so while analyzing every action he and others around him made, and while pretending to be a bundle of zany energy and incompetence, was all but impossible.Soon, he promised himself, summoning the all the vigor he could to act like the boundless ball of energy he was inhabiting. “Oh, boy! I love me something crazy! What exactly are we gonna do?”

“Gee, I don’t know Wally. You’re my idea man, why don’t you come up with somethin'?”

Grant had no time to think. “Let’s roll down the biggest set of stairs we can find in a garbage can!” Of all things to come out of my mouth, it just had to be that, he snapped at himself. But, surely whoever was piloting Shawn would have the sense to shut it down.

“Now we’re talking! I know just the place!”

“Yeah! And, uh, so do I!”

“Let’s ride down every damn staircase in New York! We’ve got nothing but time!”

From the corner, Lacie was resisting the urge to fall over laughing. These two men were looking at each other with these big, pained, ridiculous smiles, curled fists and nervous looks in their eyes, and had devolved into chattering about absolutely nothing, probably because they figured that Wally and Shawn wouldn’t have just let the conversation die down. “Someone’s overselling your role,” she whispered teasingly to Shawn. Shawn was in her body, so he was allowed to laugh, a luxury she, in Norman’s body, did not possess.

Shawn began scribbling on a piece of paper. To anyone else, Shawn would have had to actually speak, producing a painful-sounding attempt at an American accent. Not to Lacie, though. The day before, Lacie had heard Shawn speaking in that strained voice, taken him into the ink machine room where no one else could hear, and stomped hard on his foot. The Irish cursing that had earned her was proof enough that she’d found Shawn. The two had agreed to a thieves’ gambit- neither would guess the other when the time arrived. They’d decided that Bertrum and Wally would be a part of the thieves’ gambit as well, if they ever found them.

Shawn handed Lacie the scrap of paper. Looks like he’s not the only one overselling it, it read. Shawn, a goofy smile on his face, pointed at a despondent-looking Grant Cohen who was sitting huddled in the corner. Lacie watched as the little man brushed tears from his eyes. That doesn’t look like acting, Lacie wrote. I’m going to go see if that’s one of the thieves’ gambit.

All in all, Lacie was fairly indifferent to Norman Polk. Barely knew a thing about him, which made playing him pretty difficult. But Grant had spoken at length about their friendship while the two of them (plus Shawn) had gone out drinking, so it was clear to her that being friendly to him was perfectly in character.

“Hey. Everything alright?” she asked.

“Grant,” who was really Wally Franks, stopped crying momentarily and looked over to “Norman” and “Lacie.” Wally generally found those two intimidating, but right now even their company was more than welcome. “Oh, yes,” Wally answered, trying to put the appropriate pretentious air into his tearful voice. “Joey is overspending again, what else is new? Don’t worry about me, I just want to be alone awhile.”

“Fair enough,” “Norman” replied. She didn’t see any way to force the truth out of him. They turned to go back to their own corner of the room.

Wally felt like a starving man who had just shoved a plate of food into a trash compactor. And for what? He was dead no matter how well he sold his role, and he knew it. “Wait,” he called after them as he met them in the center of the room. He wasn’t even trying to hide his real voice anymore. “Can I tell you what’s really botherin’ me?”

“Yes, go ahead!” “Norman” said.

“I don’t know how well I’m playin’ this role, and I still don’t know who anyone is, and I’m sure the opposite isn’t true, and I’m just tryin’ to accept that I’m gonna die and I really needed to talk to someone but I know he wouldn’ta done that, and I-“ Wally started sobbing. He felt like everyone could see who he was now. He might as well give every clue of it away. “I’m worried about my dogs. I don’t know if Norman’s eatin’ em or Joey’s sacrificin’ em to the Gods or what. I just wanna see my dogs, make sure they’re okay!”

Shawn looked awkwardly over to Lacie. It was pretty obvious that this was Wally, but he wasn’t about to let anyone into the thieves’ gambit without her consent. Lacie gave Shawn a little nod of permission, and Shawn put an arm around his crying friend. “Hey. Stick with us after they let us out of here, alright? We’re here for you.”

“Okay,” Wally choked out.

A few minutes later, everyone was allowed out. Shawn led the way, and the trio followed “Shawn” and “Wally.” Shawn tapped “Shawn” on the shoulder to get his attention, then put on his best annoyed-but-playful Lacie voice. “Hey, dumbass. You forgot to lock up the storage closet.” The strain to hide his accent aside, he was doing one hell of an impression.

“Oh no. I don’t know about any storage closet. Can you help me?”

“Of course. I’ll cover for ya, buddy. Just hand me the key.”

“Thank you,” “Shawn” said. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a key ring. Shawn grabbed it and quickly removed a small, round key before handing it back.

“I’ll get it back to you at Henry’s party on Sunday, alright?”

“Yeah, perfect! Thanks Lacie!” “Shawn” beamed before turning to go.

The second the three were a safe distance from the studio, Shawn spoke up in full Irish accent. “Wally my boy, do you know what just happened?”

Wally’s eyes lit up as he realized the identity of his cohort. “Shawn!”

“That’s right, my laddie! And your favourite dogsitter just nabbed the spare key to your apartment from his own body! I can’t solve all yer problems, but hey, at least we can see your dogs while “you” are busy rolling down stairs with “me”.”

Speechless, Wally squeezed the life out of Shawn. On the walk over, Lacie explained the thieves’ gambit to him. It didn’t encourage him any about his chances of living, but it still felt nice to have two people he didn’t have to act for.

—

Norman was good at this game, owing mostly to his ability to read people like a book. He’d already guessed the identity of seven players of the game, and he would have guessed “Wally’s” identity as well, if he hadn’t been trying to handle some harder cases first, and if “Wally” hadn’t been absent from work the day before. Even then, there were only so many people he could be, and Norman had narrowed it down to four potential candidates: Susie, Grant, Thomas, and Lacie. This trial they were marching towards (lord knows what staircase “Wally” was leading him to) would make a perfect test. Susie and Grant, Norman knew, were both fairly nervous people, and they both had their nervous ticks. Susie tended to play with her hair, and Grant preferred torturing his hands. Put “Wally” in between physical danger and acting out of character, and all it would take is a little observation.

Finally, they arrived at a steep set of stairs on the edge of a hill. The steps looked to descend at least a good fifteen feet, and Norman could see “Wally” wringing his hands at the sight of it. He’d already suspected it was Grant- had the same shifty eyes and the same manner of walking- but now he was fairly sure of it. For the sake of the act, though, the two fetched an empty trash can from an alleyway. At very least, Norman had convinced “Wally” to go first.

“Can I do the hill first?” “Wally” asked, looking back at Norman with a big, obviously fake smile.

“Sure, if you wanna be a coward!” He yelled without thinking. Another talent of Norman’s was entering another person when he was acting. In this moment, he was Shawn Flynn, and his unthinking instinct was to act like Shawn Flynn.

“Wally” mumbled an okay, climbed into the filthy trash can while trying to hide his hesitation, and tried to wrack up the courage to roll himself down the stairs. This is ridiculous,was all he had time to think before he felt a push against the side of the can and he was tumbling down, watching the world spin and praying for his physical safety.

Thankfully, Grant emerged from the can unhurt except for a few cuts and bruises and started making his way up the stairs to hand the can over to “Shawn” for his turn.

“Woo! That was amazin’! Sorry, but I’ll have to head home and walk the dogs after this. But first, I wanna see you go!”

“Wally’s” eyes trained on Norman as he handed him the trash can. Was he actually going to do this? Hurt someone else’s body to perform for one person? Heck, was he really going to increase his best friend’s chances of dying at the end of the week? He already had so many identities figured out, so how much extra protection would that even give him?

Norman tossed the garbage can aside. “Grant, this is stupid. We got through the workweek, let’s just stop acting already. This is Norman talking.”

Within about five seconds, Grant’s face phased through shock and anger before landing on relief. “Well, I admire your courage,” he replied, a snarky tone in his voice. “Next time though, maybe find it before making me crawl into a musty trash can and pushing me down the stairs?”

Norman chuckled. “Well, it was your idea.”

“Here’s a better idea. Let’s go back to my place, have some coffee, and play some cards. It’s been a week.”

“Good plan. It has been a week,” Norman replied.

—

Lacie, Norman and Wally had made their way to Wally’s apartment. Lacie went ahead to knock first, just in case “Wally” had changed his mind and come home. The coast was clear.

The second Wally was through the door, he was kneeling on the floor as a golden retriever bounded towards him. “Goldie!” he shouted in delight. After Goldie came a Jack Russell Terrier. “Clover! Oh, who’s a good girl?” two little white and black chihuahuas followed. “Oh, and it’s the twins!” Wally scratched each of their sides, both as sign of affection and because it was the easiest way to make sure they were being adequately fed. They all seemed as healthy as they seemed happy to see them. “I think they recognize me!” Wally chirped. Then Goldie tried jumping into Wally’s arms and ended up bowling him onto the floor, where he was helpless to the licking of his four dogs. Wally was laughing. “Guess she doesn’t see how much smaller I am now!”

Just then, the door creaked open again, and “Wally” and “Shawn” stepped in.

“What is going on here?” “Wally” asked calmly.

“Uh...” Wally sat up, realizing that he had absolutely no idea what to say. “Well, you’ve probably already guessed who I am, so I guess I’ll tell the truth. I wanted to see my dogs, and Shawn is my number one dogsitter, so I had Shawn-“

“Lacie” face-palmed. So much for staying hidden.

“Uh, sorry. I had Shawn get the spare key to my apartment. That’s what happened. So, uh, thanks for looking after my dogs. We’ll just be going, I guess.”

“Hold it,” Shawn said. “Have you all ever heard of a thieves’ gambit?” Shawn knew it was a long-shot, but this could be his only chance to save Wally’s life.

“I’ve heard of it, but I’m not familiar with it,” Norman replied.

“Care to explain it, Lacie?”

Lacie did explain it. “Imagine that two thieves are brought in for questioning. The police separate em’ and tell em’, ‘we’ll give you half the usual sentence, but only if you admit to being a thief, and tell us who your partner is.’ Now, obviously, the thieves shouldn’t tell. But that’s only true if they can be sure the other person is trustworthy.”

“Interesting,” “Wally” said, “But what does that have to do with us?”

Shawn spoke up. “The three of us are in a thieves’ gambit. We know each other’s identity and we aren’t selling each other out. It’s in all of our best interest if you join us.”

Lacie made a face. “Shawn, a thieves’ gambit needs trust. We don’t even know their identities. One of them could be Joey for all we know.”

“Well, if I can suggest something,” Grant said, “The goal of this game is to guess more people than we are guessed by. So, if we can’t trust each other not to guess each other, well, it’ll lead to the exact same result if we all collectively agree to share our identities and rat each other out when the time comes.”

“Now that I can trust,” Lacie said.

“Also, I have a list of nine identities I’ve figured out,” Norman added. “Let us into your thieves’ gambit, and I’ll share them.”

“Wait, nine?” Shawn exclaimed, looking to Wally with excitement in his eyes. “Wally, you’re going to live!” He turned back to face the others with a sharp, serious face. “We’ll all agree to rat each other out, sure. But nobody is ratting out Wally! There are eight people not in this room, and there’s nine names on that list. If Wally dies, I’ll know one of you ratted him out, and I’ll kick all three of your asses into next Tuesday, ya hear?”

“We hear,” Grant replied. Honestly, though, with Norman’s list, no one would have any reason not to listen to Shawn. They’d won. And with the workweek over, the bulk of their acting was done. That night, Grant and Wally even slept in their own homes. All they had to do was to get through “Henry’s” party on Sunday and they were going to live.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #my fanfiction #wally franks #shawn flynn #norman polk #grant cohen #lacie benton #Henry Stein

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chinatea · 6 years ago

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Tattoo/Christian, Superhero AU.

The one where Tattoo is a Superhero and Christian is a reporter who always ends up being saved by him.

(Tat is your generic superman - super strength, super vision, super speed, all that jazz.)

(A fun fact - I actually started writing this as Tattoo/Baby G, but ended up writing Christian, behavior-wise, so I changed the pairing to Tat/Chris. Although there is still a few Baby G-ish traits to him I decided not to edit out, cuz it’s just more fun that way, isn’t it.)

It’s Friday night and Jimin could think of a million ways how to spend it in style.

Like, having a hot bath with candles and a glass of Bordeaux. Classic. One could never go wrong with classic on a Friday night. And that was his plan for the day. Hell, he’s been looking towards it all week, but the plan has changed and that’s why Jimin is not currently soaking in himalayan salts, but instead soaking his ass in some dank-ass basement, all tied and gagged up like someone’s messed up idea of a Christmas present.

(Sadly, that wouldn’t even be the first time - the criminals around here lack both brains and originality, like, big time.)

Times like these, Jimin truly hates this city. Times like these, he swears as soon as he’s outta here, he will pack his shit and catch the first bus out of this hellhole, because he’s had enough of this bullshit.

Why him? Just...why?

A rhetorical question, mind you. He bloody knows why.

It all started with Mr. Titanium Glutes, or Tattoo, who spawned out of nowhere one day, like most superheros do, in his spanking new spandex briefs and has been stealing the front pages across editorials all over city ever since.

Meanwhile, Jimin was just a modest reporter (with awesome hair and scintillating smile) who did his job. And sometimes that job had him doing some footwork, sending him places no-sane-person-would-ever, putting his life at risk and other occupational hazards.

Running away from enraged crime mobs was nothing new to him. Little did he know, however, how much of a pesky menace Tattoo would become once they get to know each other a little better. Despite all Jimin’s attempts to minimize their contact as much as possible.

There is only so much he could do, however. He’s not a miracle worker, after all. His job is dangerous and dangerous spells Tattoo in big sparkling letters. The man would just turn up, whenever a shitstorm rolled in, to save those in need with his superhuman strength.

And yes, Jimin might have been a hair away from the imminent death, but was he in need? Hell no.

He never asked to be saved. Never asked to be held like he was made of glass. And he definitely didn’t ask Tattoo to look at him like a lovesick fool. (Must be the hair, dammit.) Naturally, it was exactly the moment when a million of stringers around the area chose to snap their best winning shot of the day - and ever since that day Jimin has gotten unfortunate notoriety and a new nickname...

Lois Fucking Lane.

Inevitably siccing every single villain who has beef with Tattoo on Jimin’s ass. Which is, like, the entirety of the criminal underworld by now.

Gee, thanks.

“Stupid rope,” Jimin mutters under his breath, struggling to loosen the knot holding his wrists together just enough to hopefully slip a hand out and undo the binds.

Whomever kidnapped him was stupid enough to leave him and his tiny hands unsupervised and is so going to suffer for it, because Jimin also has a superpower - in times of need, his tiny hands have the capacity to become even tinier. He’s a badass like that, obviously.

A few little huffs and puffs later, Jimin lets out a happy little squeal, wiggling his hands free and tackling the foot binds next. Followed by a nasty gag that smells like something Jimin doesn’t want to linger on too much to avoid a lifelong trauma.

Although free and unbounded, it still leaves him locked up inside a dimly lit basement, containing nothing but a rusty tankard left forgotten on a shoddy wooden chair in the corner.

Jimin has a mind to kick it in frustration when he makes out faint footsteps approaching from behind the door. In panic, he grabs the chair, the rusty tankard flying off with much racket.

Jimin cringes, cussing out loud, as he hurries to take point next to the door, readying the chair above his head. If he is to die tonight, at least he’ll take one of those motherfuckers with him.

He holds his breath as seconds stretch into long moments of waiting. Then, the door knob turns and Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, smashing the chair down on whomever glides right in.

The man doesn’t even flinch as the chair disintegrates into dust upon contact, raising a cloud of fine specks to float in the air. Jimin stumbles back by the sheer force of the impact, air caught in his lungs. He wheezes loudly, struggling to catch his breath. He feels a hundred years old, for some reason, utterly tuckered out. Who knew that holding that chair for two seconds could be so damn exhausting.

“W-what the hell are you doing here?” he finally stutters out, shooting a glower at Tattoo who just stands there, arms crossed over his massive chest, thoroughly amused by Jimin’s fumbling around.

“Oh c’mon, toots, you just jumped me with a chair. I don’t exactly expect a written apology, but a kiss would be nice, don’t you think?” Tattoo intones as he flicks away a few splinters off his bicep. “Besides, one would think you’d get the memo by now. Your knight in shining spandex has arrived. Now gimme my kiss.”

“Shut up,” Jimin grouses. “Where are the scumbags who kidnapped me?”

“Probably running for their lives now,” Tattoo shrugs. “I’ll deal with them later, don’t worry.”

“If you can find them, that is,” Jimin scoffs.

“Oh I will,” Tattoo adds smugly. “Just like I always find you, toots.”

It occurs to Jimin then that Tattoo indeed is infallible when it comes to tracking him down just in time before the heat. If only he hadn’t been too preoccupied being exasperated with the man half the time, he would have questioned it much sooner.

“Super hearing,” Tattoo explains then, tapping next to his ear, looking like he’s about to burst from smugness. “I always listen in if my toots is in trouble.”

“First, I’m not yours, second, excuse me??” Jimin seethes. “You can’t do that. This is violation of my privacy. I know my rights, dumbass.”

The look Tattoo gives him is far from remorseful. His unapologetic grin shines like a beacon of self-righteousness.

“Then go ahead and sue me, toots. I’d rather have you mad at me than hurt,” Tattoo says before adding in a voice that belongs in a bedroom with moody lighting. “Besides, I usually tune out for a while then you...ah, you know. Even if those are the prettiest little sounds I’ve ever heard anyone make with their mouth.”

Heat creeps onto Jimin’s cheeks as he gawks at Tattoo, feeling disarmed and stripped naked, metaphorically, of course.

“You didn’t...” he whispers.

Tattoo’s big stupid grin tells otherwise.

What a fucking sleazy bastard.

Mind gone black, Jimin turns on his heels and wobbles out of the creaky door and up the steep staircase, so steep in fact, he has to almost crawl up the steps, hating himself for choosing skintight jeans to wear today. As much as he loves how they hug his thighs, he hates the very idea of treating that douchebag to the dreamy panorama of his ass. He doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know that Tattoo is watching him go like a creep.

Because Tattoo is a creep, regardless of how many grannies he saves per day. And Jimin just happened to catch his fancy. Oh woe is him.

He pushes the heavy door and finds himself in a quiet back alley, heaps of trash bags and not a soul in the vicinity.

“Eh, toots?” Tattoo calls after him, hot on his heels, as always.

“I’m not talking to you. Ever.”

“Sure, but I think you’d still like to know that there is a huge damp spot on your ass that looks like you peed yourself, just saying,” Tattoo supplies helpfully. “Did you really pee yourself?”

Tattoo looks genuinely concerned for him while Jimin cranks his neck this way and that to access the damage done. His ass does feel wet to the touch.

“You know it’s okay if you did,” Tattoo continues, nodding to himself. “I won’t judge. We’ve all been there. Well, not me, obviously, but I still find you hot, don’t worry about th-”

“Jesus fuck, will you shut up?” Jimin barks at him. “I didn’t pee myself, you asshole. I sat in a fucking puddle for an hour, okay? And it’s all your damn fault.”

“I know.”

Tattoo sounds somber, for a change, all usual mirth gone, which makes Jimin eye him suspiciously. Did the bastard suddenly grow a conscience?

Then, Tattoo holds his hands out, squeezing the fingers in a grabbing motion, shamelessly lewd.

“Hop on,” he pipes, eyebrows wiggling. “C’mon, toots, you know the drill.”

(Or maybe not.)

A million curses later, Jimin finds himself successfully loaded into Tattoo’s arms. What choice does he have? Brave the streets with damp asscheeks? Hell no.

Arms wrapped around the bastard’s neck, Jimin tries to think happy thoughts - like choking Tattoo to death with his tiny hands which gradually translates into choking Tattoo with his thighs which ends up with Jimin power-riding Tattoo’s face, choking him with his ass.

His thoughts are weird, so what.

He just hopes that Tattoo doesn’t have a telepathic ability or anything of that sort, because…

(He’s totally fucked, isn’t he?)

Only the bastard doesn’t take him home as Jimin belatedly discovers. While in the air, Jimin keeps his eyes squeezed tight because Jimin and heights don’t mix well, so when he opens them, deeming it safe, what welcomes him is not his balcony with petunias from his mum.

“What in the frack is this?” he says, wobbly on his feet, soaking in the sight of a lonely tent on the roof of some apartment building. The inside of the tent, decorated with fairy lights, are layered cozily with blankets and throw pillows. Jimin spies a food basket and a bottle of wine, which leaves little room for misunderstanding - he knows what in the frack this is.

A romantic roof picnic set for two.

He faces Tattoo then, hands akimbo, and taps his foot impatiently, waiting for explanations.

“Well,” Tattoo starts. “I hope you like chicken, toots. It’s organic, I promise.”

“Did I ask you to do this for me?” Jimin asks, unamused.

“No, you didn’t,” Tattoo replies, looking too somber for comfort for the second time this night. His chest sinks with a sigh as he rubs the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. Better late than never, right? I’m sorry for making you a target even if it was not my intention, I just...I’ll be back in a second.”

Jimin has barely any time to blink as Tattoo flashes in and out of his sight, only this time, the spandex suit is gone and, in a way, Tattoo is gone, too. What Jimin sees in front of him is a guy in a hoodie, sweats and a pair of round glasses. What the..?

“My name is Jungkook,” the guy says. “Apart from doing, you know, superhero stuff, I’m an average student who majors in culinary arts with a minor in photography. I love video games and working out even though I break pretty much every gear I touch, so I don’t. I have a doting mum and a little brother. They’re normal, by the way, in case you wanted to know. I don’t know why I’m the way I am. My favorite color is yellow and hey, I’m single.”

The guy, Jungkook, wraps his speech up with a stupid wink and even a stupider grin and the only reason why Jimin doesn’t shove him off the roof is because of the major cognitive dissonance he’s experiencing right now.

So he lets it slide, just this once.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he says, quiet, hugging himself from the chill of the night. “Why would you expose yourself like that. That’s stupid.”

“Because I think it’s only fair after all I’ve put you through, besides I know that you won’t tell anybody,” Jungkook smiles cheekily. “And I don’t know how about you, but I’m starving, all this superpower can’t sustain itself on air, you know.”

Jimin stares at him as he shakes his head to himself.

“Fine, but only because I’m hungry too, okay? Don’t get any ideas now, brat. This is not a date!”

“Sure, toots. Here, I’ve brought some spare sweats for you.”

“The fuck I’m gonna do with them? Wear them as a dress?” Jimin gripes as he grabs the sweatpants offered, five times his size from the looks of it.

He quickly strips out of his skinnies and tugs those parachutes on as Jungkook crouches over the basket, unloading its contents. Jimin’s stomach grumbles at the mouth-watering smell of food and he mentally wills it to shut the fuck up - he’s been through a lot today and doesn’t need Jungkook being even more smug than he already is.

A total husband material he may be, but Jimin won’t give in.

Not on their first date, anyhow.

“Scooch, or something,” he gripes, settling down next to Jungkook who only scooches closer, unapologetic, and even if Jimin scrunches up his nose at that he doesn’t complain or move away - it’s warmer that way, okay?

(Yep, totally fucked, he is.)

#tattoo/christian #personas au

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imagine-marvelously · 6 years ago

Text

A Weapon of My Own Design: Flying (Ch 2)

Characters: Loki x OC (Ashira), some randos

Warnings: People being mean about women, rude language about women, drinking (sorta)

Locations: Her ship, Contraxia

WC: 3,253

Summary: Three days of awkward travel leads Loki to some conclusions.

A/N: So I also love Game of Thrones so there will also be some Game of Thrones references eventually tossed in. The outfit she wears is inspired by this Pin on Pinterest btw because I’m shit at describing.

Chapter 1

It’s three days into mindless flying in the voids of space when the pair officially talks again. Well, Loki gathers it’s been three days based on the sleep pattern of Ashira. He’s careful to try to be opposite of her: being awake most of the time she is asleep and vice versa. She always leaves food on the table for him, but he found out quickly she wasn’t wrong when she said it is likely expired. All of it tasted of mildew and mold and dust, the actual flavor an after thought. The water tasted decently at least.

Loki, for the most part, has been quiet on top of his careful avoidance. He isn’t quite sure what to make of the ship, the situation or the woman he is traveling with. Ashira on the other hand is chaotically loud: crashing into things constantly, playing bizarre music even while asleep and leaving parts of various sorts and tools all over the place. It is abundantly clear she is accustomed to traveling alone. It became especially apparent when Loki sat at the small table made barely for two the other morning, maybe evening?, and found himself sitting on an unfinished bomb that Ashira clearly knew about but he had no clue existed until that very moment.

He has thus far learned the following things about Ashira:

She is clearly an extremely skilled mechanic and engineer

Even with his Allspeak, he cannot read most of the hand written stuff she leaves lying everywhere, so her native language is not one he knows

She is very, very clearly running away from something that is life or death

With a huff he sits up carefully from the bottom bunk bed. He already found it odd that the bed she has is a bunk bed shoved against the wall, but when he found out she slept on the tiny window seat, facing the stars, he nearly questioned her sanity entirely.

Add that to the list: 4) Sleeps in uncomfortable places despite having mildly less uncomfortable arrangements available

The Asgardian wanders down from the top part of the ship after sleeping to see Ashira sitting down in the middle of the floor, tools and parts all around her, the table shoved even further into the wall than he thought possible, and a part of the wall he didn’t even know opened just beside the exit and across from the kitchen propped open with what appears to be a double-sided scythe of some form. At this point of the cycle she is typically up in the cockpit checking their route or showering, so actually seeing her working on something is an entirely new experience.

Her eyes flit up to his movement. She is also just now experiencing his routine, despite being keenly aware this is when he typically descends. Ashira knows she is the outside variable throwing a wrench in his day but also knows she needs to get this done before they land.

With a nod of her head she gestures towards the ground in front of her. The prince glances down at the somewhat empty spot that is still entirely crowded by random pieces of universe knows what. He sits carefully, long legs uncomfortably crossed to accommodate the lack of space.

“So, Loki, tell me more about yourself.” She goes back to tinkering with the silver sphere.

Loki adjusts his posture to be more comfortable before beginning. “As you know I was a king of a planet called Asgard. But previous to that I was one of two princes, became king because my brother became overly arrogant about a situation, was cast out…he returned however, we fought and I sort of fell into a void created from said fight. And you?”

Ashira softly inhales as the sphere cracks open. “Well, I was a princess but due to circumstances I ran away. And that’s why so many people are after me. Apparently running away when you are apart of some big deal is a big no no.”

Loki picks up a random tool, his need to fight to avoid his truth his growing. But her truth, now that’s of interest. “Princess of where?”

“Does it matter?” She places the tool aside and reaches inside, pulling up a neon, violently green light that swallows up the room. “I ran away for a reason, and all that matters is I don’t want to be a princess and I don’t want to be from there.”

Loki watches as she switches the light source to her right hand and with her left picks up another tool. “I told you where I am from, eye for an eye, no?”

“An Earthen saying that just makes everyone blind, so no.”

He can’t even see what she is doing at this point so he drops the tool and leans back. “But you know what Earth is?”

“Earth, Midgard, Terra, all the same…” she muses as she reattaches a few broken wires.

Loki sighs. It’s unlikely he will be getting anything out of her any time soon from the mumbling of an answer she’s given.

Add that to the list, 5) She is stubborn.

Ashira drops the green power source back into its containment, eyes flicking back up to Loki. The green in the room subdues back to nothing as before and Loki looks directly into Ashira’s eyes. If there is one thing he can do if she is going to be stubborn, it’s attempting to read her mind without physical contact.

“My family and people probably think me dead,” he says sadly.

Ashira re-seals the containment unit without even blinking, maintaining her stare down with Loki. While normally he can get some semblance of noise at least, he is getting nothing. No sentences, no words, no word fragments, not even static. Silence. He is not even getting an inkling of an idea of what she could even be thinking, forget trying to figure out where she is from originally.

“Fuck, I wish. Then I wouldn’t be on the run constantly. Maybe I could actually settle down, run a gambling ring or something.” A soft grin pulls at her lips. “I like you Loki.”

Loki smiles at the woman in front of him. Someone stubborn and possibly noticed his attempt at mental intrusion and stopped him? A wonderful match. “I suppose you aren’t that bad yourself.”

She scrunches her face in amusement. “We should be landing in a few hours. Gotta switch out the power source and maybe we can have some fun while we are at it… actually I will have some fun while we are at. You on the other hand, well I don’t know how you have fun my prince.”

—

Loki hadn’t expected an ex-princess to land them somewhere so dirty and surprisingly cold. But Ashira just hops off the ship with a coat she grabbed from under her window seat bed, her hair in an entirely different braid than literally ten minutes before, and starts walking towards the city like it’s nothing.

Like she hadn’t just landed them on a dark, dirty, cold, barren, waste dump of a planet.

Ashira stops about forty feet out when she realizes Loki hasn’t followed, turning quickly on her toes.

“You coming or not?” She shouts.

Loki looks down at the disgusting frost and snow. If there is one thing Jotunheim had going for it, it wasn’t dirty.

“A moment, please.”

The runaway huffs. They only have so long til someone will have a track on her ship, and even less time once they get in the city because it’s likely someone will recognize her through their drunken haze.

Loki braces himself. This woman was kind enough to take him on when she could have left him there as she knew nothing about it and even accused him of being after her. He can stay a few hours on an absolutely disgusting planet with her. He can do it.

He steps off the ship and onto the too crunchy icy snow. The sound of the door shutting tightly behind him lets him know there is no turning back now, unless of course he wants to just sit outside while she goes to town. So he walks forward towards Ashira with a grimace on his face.

“Don’t like the cold?” She teases.

Loki ignores her; he continues his walk, shoving past her to continue to the city. Of course he isn’t fond of the cold after what happened literally four days ago. But for it to also be this… this insulting? He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Ashira watches with a raised eyebrow.

“Someone is grumpy.”

She seamlessly catches up with him despite him being taller with longer legs, sliding beside him with ease. He’s surprised at the ease in which she walks beside him since he is by no means slowly doing for her. No labored breath, no increased exertion, nothing from what he can tell.

It’s a silent ten minute walk to the city. Ashira isn’t concerned with his possible questions and Loki hasn’t bothered to ask any yet. He is partially distracted by the snow: how harshly it falls, how heavily it hits the ground, how unnatural this particular type seems. In fact, the cold feels wrong as well to him. It could be entirely possible that it is due to the revelations of a few days ago, he admits, but something else about the air feels wrong.

As soon as their boots hit the actual city streets, Loki is instantly brought back to the reality in front of them.

“Where is this precisely?” Loki grimaces as a group of dirty, drunk creatures stumble passed them.

“Contraxia!” Ashira bumps into him playfully. “Place to get drunk, get laid and steal from people by hustling the hell out of every game.”

“Hustling?”

“Like pretending to be really bad at something then at the last minute beating the shit out of them at whatever game. I’m amazing at it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The ex-princess grabs the prince’s right hand in her left, dragging him quickly towards one of the many, many establishments with a flashy, bizarre sign advertising something just slightly nefarious with more than enough drunk people moving in and out. She pulls him sharply towards a staircase between two of the buildings. More than a little nefarious.

The staircase is entirely dark, steep and slippery and she walks much faster than he. Without her grip he honestly would have fallen at this point (not that he will ever admit that). At a sharp right, he trips. Ashira tugs him upright as she continues to ascend quickly and he barely lands on his feet in order to keep with her pace.

His eyes notice a light not too far off once he is balanced. Why anyone would put the light so impossible high and leave the rest of the journey dark and dangerous is beyond him.

And about a minute later they reach that light. A well-lit, golden door stands before them, complete with a perfectly hand written sign, placed just below Loki’s eye-height reading: “Master Zwell’s Gamehouse”. It is guarded by a single guard, faceless due to the mask, who as far as Loki knows, doesn’t even spare them a glance.

The ex-princess slowly pushes open the door. The inside is all white marble and golden accents and very, very well polished. People and creatures sit at various tables playing games he has never seen in suit styles he has never seen. Given the circumstances of the planet Loki expected another shady place with a randomly nice door.

“Come on,” Ashira says, tugging on his hand lightly.

She now leads him towards a side room to the right of them both where she releases his hand to shed her jacket. Clearly he wasn’t paying attention early because the oil-muddied clothes she was wearing before they got off are gone and are replaced with some of the most beautiful gold and white and silver dress armor he has ever seen.

In its essence it is a fortified white bodysuit with gold threaded designs throughout, extra silver detailing along the abdomen and where a slight v is cut out by the neck paired with sleek white boots with silver straps. The belt around the hips makes it clear that a sword and several daggers (and maybe a gun or two) could be sat there, but instead Ashira has left them empty, save a few pouches she has strung into them. Loki also notices a few places along the legs, barely noticeable to anyone with a keen eye, where blades likely sit. The outfit feels incomplete to him, so it is likely there is a cape meant to be with it.

“When did you change?” He asks.

Ashira looks up at him, sliding her jacket onto one of the many hangers. “I was gone for nearly forty minutes before we landed. I had time to change and redo my hair. Take off your jacket, unless it’s part of your,” she pauses, gesturing to him, “ensemble.”

He looks down at himself only to realize he did indeed conjure himself up a fur coat earlier that he does not need to be wearing. Loki quickly sheds it and hangs it besides hers.

“Now c’mon, I have money to schmooze.”

Back out the way they came in and past four guards is the desk where Ashira stops. She digs into one of the pouches attached to her belt, leaving Loki free to look about again. He always need to take in as much information as possible.

The first thing he notices is the number of wandering eyes now directed towards them. No, not them, her, as she keeps her back turned to the entire room. While Loki isn’t entirely opposed to checking someone out, he knows very well that his mother would yell at him for hours if he were so rude as to do so in such a way.

Ashira flips open her credit pass at the woman in charge of exchanges. This particular one is new, young, and uncomfortable in her white dress.

“Deal in for 30,000. Is there a spot open for Poker?”

The bored, blue haired, green eyed, pink skinned woman taps her machine against the pass. “Table 6 has a spot open.” Her eyes flit over Ashira’s shoulder to Loki. “Is he playing?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

Ashira slides the chips off the desk after placing her pass back in the belt pocket. She knows where all the tables in this particular establishment are since none of the Ravagers ever frequent it and a lot of the gangs don’t either because they are always too dirty and underdressed. And the best part of it? Foreign leaders and diplomats come without their spouses knowledge to get laid with one of those weird love bots and gamble. They spill secrets everywhere.

Loki now notes the sheer number of men and who he presumes are men playing with women or robotic women sitting on their laps or hanging off their arms as they walk through the grand room. Guards litter the perimeter of the room, faceless and armed. And yet here Ashira is, a short and universally wanted woman in a skin tight suit, waltzing into the room like it’s nothing.

To her, practically everything seems like it’s nothing. At least from the outside.

Table 6 conveniently has one spot but two chairs available. Ashira sits down with ease, placing her chips towards the edge of the table and waits a moment for to be able to be dealt in. Loki follows her pattern, sitting in the chair that is to the left but also slightly behind her, still taking in all the norms and customs.

The ex-princess turns over her shoulder, looking Loki up and down a moment before stopping at his eyes. “As you’ve noticed, it’s mostly men with female escorts and whores around here. I’m not asking you act as my whore but at least pretend to be my friend in here, like we are legitimately traveling together so people don’t think I’ve stolen you and try to arrest me,” she whispers. “They don’t care what the other men do. They do care what women do who aren’t their whores.”

Loki glances past her at a few of the men at the table they are at. Clearly dignitaries of some form, hiding habits from people back home. Powerful.

“Alright,” he whispers back.

“Sweetheart, you playing?” A man sneers.

Loki catches the look of pure disgust and frustration on Ashira’s face before it melts into one of the most amazing smoldering smiles he has ever seen.

“Figure I’d try my luck tonight.”

The prince tries not to change his facial expression at the sound of her voice saying that. It’s smooth, elegant, seductive and 100% unlike anything she has said within the past three days. He knows it is unnatural but she makes it sound like that’s just how here voice is.

Add that to the list: 6) A master of deceit.

For the next half hour or so, Loki watches in silence. Card games are rarely ever played on Asgard and the ones that are do not function like the one laid out before him. So he watches carefully as people slide their bets to the center or remove them just as quickly; the way people watch other’s eyes and hands and even other’s escorts for tells of lying or tells of a good hand; he notes the way Ashira lets herself lose a few times, pouting gently at the men at the table before winning a round with large wagers sitting in the center, despite the game being luck and lying.

Loki leans over Ashira’s shoulder, lips resting gently near her ear. “At this game it is just lying basically, no?”

She tilts her head in towards him, facade still on her face. “Basically, wanna give it a try?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll tap out and get us some drinks, you play this round.” She tilts her head back to the group, her face still as gently seductive as before. “I’m going to let my friend give it a try, you think he’s as lucky as I am?”

—

Slightly tipsy, several different types of games, and many credits later, Ashira and Loki are back on the actual streets of Contraxia. They are quieter now - most people gone to bed or crawled into a shop now that morning nears. Not that anyone can really tell when morning is on this planet.

But it’s near silent. The snow always helps absorb sound but less people is a plus.

“I believe this is the most fun I’ve had in quite some time.”

“I’m glad. And you helped me win twice the amount I normally do so I am going to get not only more food and other stuff but a few extra stabilizing units for the power source so hopefully I don’t have to replace it every few days.” She turns the corner and away from the ship. “Will you be staying here or you wanna come back on the run with me?”

“Well…” Loki pulls his hands behind his back and inhales. “I don’t think this planet particularly suits me and you are good company.”

“Good company?” Loki laughs at her wriggling eyebrows. “I’m glad.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Let us shop and then we shall go, my liege.”

Taglist:

@tarynkauai

#AWOMOD #loki x oc #loki x reader #loki imagine #marvel imagine #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki helason #loki fanfic

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kaitlynncahill-blog · 6 years ago

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Personal Narrative

Kaitlyn Cahill

Professor McCulloch

English 101-10

24 September 2018

Addiction in the Family

A knock on the door interrupted my whole family’s sleep. I checked my phone to see what time it was. 1:34 am. Bang, Bang, Bang, rattled the front door. I ran up the steep staircase to the living room where my grandparents were already gathered around our open front door. Through the frame of the door, I see the moonlight shining through, and in the shadows, two state troopers. I instantly felt my body become weak and the hairs on my arms become stiff. Not again. They question my grandparents, “Have you seen Susan Antcliff?” They hadn’t. Any feeling of calmness had been drained from my body.

A couple of months before, I was sitting in my mother's living room. Both of my brothers were playing around me. The TV was on in the background. Trucks, cars, and tractors were all scattered on the hardwood living room floor. There were enough toys filling this small one-floor house for ten children. The sink was overflowing with dishes, the fridge was basically empty, and the dirty laundry pile was spilling onto the floor. For anyone who knows my mom, this is nothing like her, except for when she’s using some sort of illegal substance. Before my brothers came to live with me, I always pushed her addiction to the side. “Not my mom,” I would tell myself. My mom could never be an alcoholic. Over and over I told myself that it wasn’t true, even though I knew deep down that it was. I knew she was a drug addict, but never an alcoholic. I defended her. I told everyone who asked about her that she did not have an alcohol problem. I told people that she just enjoyed drinking, but she drank every day. No matter what time it was, she was always drunk, drinking, or making another drink.

Living with my grandparents helped to hide the true reality of all of this. I could not get myself to admit the truth. My mom is an alcoholic. Saying it now feels silly, and I am very open about my family situation. Being open about these types of things is my way of venting.

After the police knocked on my door and asked if they knew where my mother was all hell broke loose. We were informed that my two brothers needed a place to go and fifteen minutes later they were practically left at our doorstep. My baby brother was dropped off with a car seat and nothing else. For that night, he slept in the middle of the living room floor in his car seat. The next part of the story is a little hard to follow. My mother was missing from her apartment but was later found hiding behind a shed in the back of her yard. She was then arrested. My stepdad was also arrested.

My mom got out on probation, and when we saw her we were able to start piecing the story together. Her face was covered with black and blue marks. Her cheek was so swollen from a possible broken cheekbone. Track marks filled up her arms. She was evicted from her once stable household, which always seemed to turn into chaos when the addiction burrowed itself back inside of her. As a “family,” we tore down the apartment that she was living in, just as addiction tore down my family. Addiction does not discriminate. Piece by piece we tore down the household and threw everything from this life into the back of an old pickup truck. We watched the pickup truck pull out of the gravel driveway taking away the objects that once furnished years of memories. Two childhoods were thrown away and left behind. My heart was so incredibly heavy.

A few weeks later an article was posted in the NJ Herald. When people at school got ahold of this article they started to send me the link. I was so embarrassed. It felt as though my heart was ripped out of my body and displayed for everyone to see. The article was titled “Man charged with choking girlfriend, punching police offered plea deal”. In the article, it states, “Carman was arrested after state police troopers responded to a home in Wantage for a domestic disturbance. The report states that troopers determined Carman head-butted his girlfriend during the altercation and punched her in the face, causing a contusion and bruising above her eye. After the assault, police said Carman ran into the woods, leaving their infant child in the house, the affidavit states. Checking on the well-being of the infant, troopers observed three hypodermic needles, 19 heroin bags, and two crack cocaine glass smoking pipes, all within reaching distance of the child. Carman admitted to striking his girlfriend, the report states, and he displayed signs of impairment at the time of his arrest.” (Comstock).

It is now September 18, 2018. My one brother is doing his homework at the kitchen table, and my baby brother is playing with his toys in our always messy living room. The adoption process will be started in December, and they will never have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or who is going to help them when they need it.

Growing up with the family that I was given, I learned a few things. The first is that no matter where or who you come from, you can make anything of yourself with time and dedication. I am the first person in my family to attend college. The second thing I learned is that family is everything. Although I would never say I hate my parents, because I do not, they are no longer an important part of my life. That being said, my grandparents have done more than anyone could have ever asked of them. They are raising myself along with five other amazing children. Without them, we would all be God knows where. A family does not always have to be the people that are related through genetics. Family, for me, is my grandparents, my boyfriend, and my best friend. All of the people I count as my family has helped me overcome all of the obstacles in my life and shaped me into the person that I am today.

Works Cited

“Man Charged with Choking Girlfriend, Punching Police Offered Plea Deal.”

New Jersey Herald, 28 Feb. 2018, www.njherald.com/20180301/man-charged-with-choking-girlfriend-punching-police-offered-plea-deal.

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zeltricstudio · 3 years ago

Text

'THE BRIGHT REAPER'

BRIGHT

AUGUST 2012

Deep in the countryside of Bright at 10 pm, a bus carrying a team of SECT Soldiers was driving through. The team consisted of 9 regular Soldiers, dressed in standard riot gear spray painted black, carrying assault rifles. The team was led by Captain Alex Stormer. The bus pulled to a stop, just a few miles away from the Davinson Farm. As the men began piling out of the bus, Stormer went in front of them.

“Pay attention men, I’m only going to say this once. Michael is dangerous, do not hesitate. You see him, you shoot him immediately. If you don’t, he will kill you. Michael is the target, no one else. I want zero casualties”. The rest of the team nodded and said words of agreement. “Driver, if we’re not back in 40 minutes head back to base” Stormer said to the driver and began making his way to the house. As the unit began walking, the men began turning the safety off their rifles.

Jeff Davinson was sitting on his porch in a rocking chair, with a double barreled shotgun at his side as he read his paper. He had on denim overalls, with a white shirt underneath and black boots, with a grey beard and grey hair. His reading was interrupted as he heard the gravel crunch and looked up to see 9 men approaching.

“Good evening Mr. Davin-“ Stormer began to speak

“Fuck off” Jeff said as he got up, with the shotgun in hand. The rest of the men raised their rifles as Jeff stood just a few feet from Stormer

“Guns down, I got this” Stormer said as he lifted his hand, signaling his men to stand down. “Mr. Davinson, don’t do this” Stormer warned Jeff

“Is this necessary? He’s just a kid” Jeff said, raising his gun

“Your son is 16” Stormer corrected

“It was an accident, he didn’t mean to do it” Jeff exclaimed

“How does he accidentally break a girl’s kneecaps and throw her down a well?” Stormer asked, no longer trying to keep up a friendly appearance. “Or string a boy up and set him on fire? Or drown an old lady in the lake?”

“It was an accident!” Jeff said in frustration. “They were just playing, he doesn’t know any better”

“I understand. You protect your family, as anyone would but this has gone on long enough. Your son is a monster and he needs to be stopped” Stormer said, now getting frustrated.

“I’ll talk to him, I’ll get him help!” Jeff tried pleading

“He’s beyond help now” Stormer replied coldly. “Either you give him to us willingly, or we will go after him”

“Like hell you will!” Jeff said and raised the shotgun to Stormer’s face. “Get the fuck off my property right now!” Jeff screamed, his hands shaking as he has never fired his gun at another human before.

“Mr. Davinson, if you put that gun down and surrender, I’ll forget you threatened me” Stormer said sternly, his eyes now on the gun in front of him.

“LEAVE!” Jeff screamed, his whole body trembling

“Alright” Stormer said. In a quick and fluid movement, Stormer cupped his hand over the barrel of the gun and tried wrestling it. Jeff fired a blast, but Stormer’s blocked the shot with his hand. With his hand on the barrel and the bead side, Stormer lifted the shotgun upright, whacking it directly into Jeff’s face, then again with much more forced causing Jeff to let go of the shotgun. Stormer then used the butt of the shotgun and hit Jeff in the stomach, causing him to double over before finally hitting Jeff in the side of the head, making him fall to the ground unconscious.

“Charlie 1 and 2, arrest Mr. Davinson” Stormer instructed as he let the pellets from the shotgun fall out of his undamaged hands, except for the gloves. Two Soldiers rushed over and handcuffed Jeff, with his arms behind his back. “You two wait here with him” Stormer instructed. The rest of the unit continued into the house.

The inside of the house was bare. Aside from a few pictures on the wall, this single story house was basic. As the unit continued sweeping through the rooms, Stormer stopped to look at some pictures. The first photo showed a photo of a baby, possibly Michael in his crib. The next few photos were Michael as a boy, such as him swimming, fishing with Jeff and eating cotton candy at a carnival. The final picture showed Michael as a teen, dressed in blue overalls and a white shirt like his dad, but this time wearing a wide brim had. As Stormer continued walking through. There were no other pictures he could see.

“Operator? Over” Jeff said into his radio.

“Delta here, go for it. Over” the operator replied

“Mr. Davison was threatening me with a firearm, so I had to subdue and restrain him. Over”

“Is he hurt? Over.”

“I hit him a few times to get the gun away, then handcuffed him. Over”

“Acknowledged. Over”

“We are now in his home, hoping to find Michael. Over”

“Understood. Over”

“I will update you when I find something new. Over and out”

“Over and out”

As the men continued walking around the house, looking for signs, Stormer entered Michael’s bedroom. Aside from a standard wooden frame bed with white sheets, the room was empty. The closet was open with nothing inside, the walls had small dirt outlines where the dresser, table and other items once were. Stormer noticed a lot of scratch marks and holes in the walls. Stormer walked over to the closet and noticed that a piece of the floor had a noticeable cut in the ground. Stormer took out his knife and used it to pop the frame out of the ground. Stormer lifted the small slab of wood and saw a dress in a small hole in the ground. The dress looked like it belongs to a child, it was blue with a white stripe going around. The dress was dirty with both elements of the earth, and blood. ‘What the fuck?’ Stormer thought to himself.

“Charlie 3” Stormer called out.

“Yes sir?” the Soldier responded

“Document this finding, I’m going to keep searching”

“Affirmative sir”

Stormer got up and left the room as the Soldier began work. Stormer and the rest of the men continued searching the house. It all seemed to be normal, if a bit baren. That was until Stormer arrived at the kitchen. The kitchen was in neat condition, except for the fridge. The tiles underneath the fridge had scratch marks, indicating it moves a lot. With little effort, Stormer gripped the fridges by its sides and pulled it out, making a screeching noise. This got the attention of several men, who wondered to see what was happening. As Stormer moved the fridge, he saw a small hatch in the ground.

“What do we have here?” Stormer said to himself. “Charlie 5, on me. The rest of you, keep looking around” Stormer said as he made his way to the hatch. Stormer noticed a standard lock and ripped it off with his hands with little effort, before flinging the hatch open. The hatch had a small staircase that was very steep. After making their way down, the stairs lead to a very small basement that wasn’t on the blueprints the unit had acquired. The basement looked very crude, like it was started and then abandoned. The only noticeable features in the room was a chest. Stormer looked at the Soldier, who raised his gun. Stormer cautiously opened the chest. The chest had a variety of items that belonged to children. A couple of shoes, bracelets, necklaces, teddy bears. Each one was dirty and seemed to be damaged, as if it were during a struggled.

“Fucking hell” the Soldier said

“I wonder how many unreported cases there actually are” Stormer replied, feeling disgusted. Stormer and the Soldier left the basement.

“Charlie 3!” Stormer called out

“Yes sir?” Charlie 3 said, around the corner

“When you’re done with that room, do this room next” Stormer instructed

“Affirmative” Charlie 3 said and returned to his room.

“Any signs of Michael?” Stormer asked

“No sir, no signs inside the house” Charlie 7 replied

“Let’s keep going” Stormer said and made his way to the backyard. The unit exited the home and stood at the backyard. As Stormer looked around, all he saw was empty fields, fields filled with crops and in the distance, a barn.

“Of fucking course it is” Stormer said to himself as he made his way to the barn, instructing the rest to follow suit. “Charlie 1 and 2, be advised we are heading to the barn at the back of the house. Over”. “Understood. Over” Charlie 1 replied. After a brief walk across the field, they arrived at the barn.

Stormer noticed the chain and locks placed on the barn doors. He walked over the lock and began prying it apart, with his bare hands. After a few seconds, the lock broke open and he pulled the chain out of the handles and tossed them aside. “Charlie 8, prep the door” Stormer commanded and moved to his unit. The rest of the members stood in a circle formation, their guns focused on the door as Charlie 8 began opening the right side, pulling it open. Stormer slowly began creeping in, using the flashlight to look inside. The barn, much like the house was completely empty, except for the piles of hay strewn about. The unit continued moving through, till they reached the back. The very back of the barn had a solid wall, where some metal hooks were installed. Near the metal hooks laid some chains and broken locks, as well as splotches of blood that trailed to the wall, and then upwards and out of the window 10 feet into the air. “Fuck” Stormer muttered, staring in disbelief at how anyone could scale that wall. Stormer and the rest of his unit scanned the barn but found nothing. As they exited the barn, Stormer went o the side and noticed a blood trail going down the wall, before stopping halfway and a few more blood prints trailing off into the tall grass.

“Sir, over here” Charlie 4 called out

“What is it?” Stormer asked

“The shack. All the tools are accounted for, except a pitchfork” Charlie 4 responded

“So he’s armed. Alright men, gather up” Stormer said as he rounded up his men. “The blood in the barn is still fresh, meaning that Michael just escaped. And he is armed, hiding out in the grass. Fan out and slowly sweep the grass” Stormer commanded and the unit got into formation, before beginning to sweep the grass.

“Operator, over”

“Delta here, go for it. Over”

“We found evidence of Michael in the barn, but he has escaped. We are now scanning the fields. Over”

“Acknowledged. Over”

“If you don’t hear from us in 30 minutes, send in reinforcements. Over and out”

“Over and out”

As the team slowly began sweeping the field, the night grew more and more quieter. The silence becoming almost deafening.

“What the OH FU-“ Charlie 4 began to scream, but was stopped short. Michael had driven a pitchfork through his chin and out the top of his head. The rest of the unit turned to look at Michael, who began to stand up. Michael no longer looked like he did in the pictures. This creature was now very tall, almost towering over Stormer. The creature was dressed in torn overalls and the white shirt was now black and had huge holes in it. Michael’s skin was now deceased, with his skin rotting and peeling. Bits of his skeleton and internal organs could be seen. His nose and upper lip were gone, revealing the bone and muscle underneath them. He had no hair, instead only the skull could be seen at the top of his head. Michael was now standing, with Charlie 4 hanging from his pitchfork a good couple of feet above the ground.

“Light him up!” Stormer shouted. The rest of the unit began firing into Michael, who was knocked back by the gunfire. Michael screamed in pain, before flinging Charlie 4 off of his pitchfork and rushing to the others. Michael stabbed the pitchfork into Charlie 5’s leg, then lifting it up, tossing the Soldier backwards. Charlie 6 got behind Michael and put him in a chokehold. The rest of unit began reloading as Michael tried prying Charlie 6 off of him, but to no avail. Michael then picked up his pitchfork, turned the sharp end towards himself and impaled himself, stabbing Charlie 6 in the stomach. Charlie 6 lost his grip and fell to the ground, limp. Charlie 7 and Stormer began unloading into Michael with their rifles, but eventually Michael was no longer affected by the bullets. The two men threw their rifles away as they run out of bullets and took out their knives. Michael swung his pitchfork at Charlie 7, who managed to duck underneath, before running to Michael and stabbing him in the neck. Michael punched Charlie 7 and knocked him back out of instinct, the knife still in his throat.

Michael picked up his pitchfork and held it like a javelin, then run and threw it into Charlie 7’s shoulder, causing him to fall back. Michael pulled out the knife and threw it as Stormer run at him. Stormer punched Michael in the stomach, causing him to double over before Stormer grabbed Michael’s head, kneeing him in the head making him fall backwards. Michael was fazed, but quickly got his bearing back and stood back up. Stormer once again ran at Michael, but this time Michael stood his ground. As Stormer tried punching Michael, Michael caught his fist. Michael then grabbed Stormer by the throat and lifted him in the air, attempting to crush Stormer’s throat. To Michael’s surprised, he wasn’t able to crush Stormer’s windpipe. Using this brief distraction, Stormer pulled out his handgun and shot Michael in the chest a few times, causing him to drop Stormer to the ground. As Stormer was crouched from the drop, Michael kicked him, making Stormer slide a few meters away. Michael was then alerted to Charlie 7 as he shot a few rounds from his pistol into Michael’s back. Michael then ran at Charlie 7, spear tackling him the ground. Michael held Charlie 7 on the ground, as he pried the pitchfork out of his shoulder and then raised it to the air, before driving it down into his head, killing him. Charlie 5 was beginning to crawl away, dragging himself on his working leg when Michael noticed him. Michael took the pitchfork out of Charlie 7 and began walking over to Charlie 5. Before Michael could raise his pitchfork, Stormer jumped on his back and placed him in a chokehold. Michael tried to break Stormer’s arms, but they were locked tight so Michael took his pitchfork and then impaled himself again, only this time instead of stabbing Stormer, the pitchfork bounced off, making a metal ding. Stormer was still deadlocked around Michael’s throat. Michael tried to impale himself again, but the pitchfork bounced off and made another ding. Michael then repeatedly began stabbing himself, each time the pitchfork bounced or scrapped off Stormer’s body. Michael was beginning to panic, as he struggled to breath. Michael tried using the pitchfork to get underneath Stormer’s arms, but he wasn’t able to squeeze through. Michael’s knees began to fall weak as he began slumping. Michael then fell to bis back and in his final attempts, began clawing at Stormer’s face but to no avail. After a few minutes of struggling and panicking, Michael began to slow down, before coming to a stop. Stormer held onto Michael for a few more minutes, before using all his might to twist and snap Michael’s neck.

After the snap, a giant beam of light emitted from Michael’s body and went flying into the air, exploding in a giant ball of light. Michael’s body immediately began rotting. His skin turned completely black and began decomposing in Stormer’s arms. Michael’s skin, bones and organs turned to mush, and then into ash until all that remained was Michael’s torn clothes. Stormer got up and dusted himself as best as he could.

“Operator over!” Stormer managed to gasp, getting his breath back

“Delta here, go for it. Over”

“Threat has been neutralized. I repeat threat has been neutralized. Over”

“What’s the report. Over”

“3 casualties, Charlie 4, 6 and 7 are dead. Charlie 5 is injured. Over”

“Acknowledged. Sending medical services to your location. Over”

“Over and out”

Stormer walked over to Charlie 5.

“You alright?” Stormer asked

“I’ll live” Charlie 5 responded. Stormer helped Charlie 5 up and the town began walking back to the house.

The rest of the SECT Team had been called in. Emergency staff treated the injured and bagged the bodies of the deceased and the Cleaners removed all evidence of the SECT’s involvement in the area. Bullet casings and their own blood was cleaned up. Michael’s remains were collected and burnt. Once everything was clean and taken care of, the SECT returned back to their base. Jeff was imprisoned at a maximum-security prison for threatening an officer and for covering up the various murders and crimes Michael had committed. The incident was quickly covered up and soon the Davinson Farm became another abandoned creepy story that the kids would tell to each other.

#THoS #TheHorrorsofSunshine #HorrorStory #ZeltricStudios

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hannahindie · 7 years ago

Text

The Wedding Singer - Track 4

“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Word Count: 1,432

Series Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Language, Mentions of Infidelity, Alcohol

A/N: This is the fourth chapter of an AU SPN Series co-written by myself and @pinknerdpanda entitled The Wedding Singer and is inspired by the movie. We have been working on this for the last few months and are very excited to share it with you. The series tag list is open. If you would like to be added, please send one of us an ask. I made our 80s inspired aesthetic and the series was Masterbeta’d by @wheresthekillswitch.

Track List Track 1: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record) Track 2: “White Wedding” Track 3: “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?”

Dean woke slowly, the throbbing pain in his skull enough to make him nauseous. He pressed his face into the pillow to avoid the offensive light coming in through the small basement window.

“What...did I...do?” He mumbled into the soft fabric, his fists clenched in the sheet as he tried to decide what to do. He gently turned over, and a low groan escaped him as his stomach flip flopped at the movement. Fuzzy memories of what had happened the night before were coming back in flashes.

Lisa.

The wedding.

The text message.

The reception.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut tighter as the blurred images became more clear. Him stumbling into the reception, then crashing the stage with his impromptu toast to Lisa, and then...nothing. Everything after that was a blur, although he remembered someone driving him home.

He sat up and shifted so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and leaned his head in his hands. “Mistakes...so many mistakes,” he mumbled. He decided to make one more and stood shakily, finally opening his eyes. He looked around the room and wondered how he’d made it downstairs; they were steep and there is no way he had navigated them on his own. Maybe it had been Sam that brought him home.

He shuffled over to the staircase, took a deep breath, then slowly ascended and tried to ignore how everything was spinning dangerously. He shoved the basement door open and wandered into the kitchen, which was even brighter than the basement.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he squinted, his eyes open just far enough for him to somewhat see where he was going. “Coffee...” He carefully navigated around the island in the center of the kitchen and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. Luckily, brewing coffee was something he could do with his eyes shut, so he moved on autopilot. The bitter scent hit his nostrils as the coffee finally began filling the mug, and he sighed contentedly. It didn’t fix anything, but it was a start. He made his way to the living room but stopped suddenly when he saw an unfamiliar form laying on the couch. He stood silently and looked at the small figure, and took a sip of coffee. He tried to remember if he had purposely brought someone home, but even at his lowest, he didn’t think that that was what it was. Who the hell...

The person jerked and sat up suddenly, her hair a mess and her makeup smudged. He brought the mug back up to his mouth and raised an eyebrow, “I guess I said that out loud.”

She looked at him with narrow eyes that widened as she realized where she was and who was standing in front of her. She cleared her throat, “Hi, Dean.”

“Hi, Y/N.” He took another sip of coffee, “Whatcha doing?”

Y/N smoothed her dress out and then began to fold the blanket she’d been wrapped in, purposely avoiding looking at Dean, “Well, I brought you home but Sam wasn’t here, and I didn’t want to just leave you. I guess I fell asleep.”

Dean nodded, “Fair enough. ...How bad was it?”

“How bad was what?” Y/N asked as she fiddled with the tag on the corner of the blanket.

“The reception...how bad was it?”

She waved a hand and shook her head, “It really wasn’t bad, everyone enjoyed the food, the music was great as always, it was good.”

Dean frowned, “Then why won't you look at me?”

A blush crept across Y/N’s cheeks and she gestured vaguely at him, “You...umm...well, you aren't wearing...your pants.”

Dean looked down and sure enough, all he had on were boxers that were doing a poor job of covering him. He groaned, “Great. Where are my clothes?”

“Well...I had to put them in the washer. You’d had a lot to drink, and I don’t think the ride over was the best medicine…”

Dean’s eyes widened in horror, “Did I…no...I didn’t throw up in my car, did I?”

Y/N shook her head, “No, but you might want to have Sam hose down the driveway.”

Dean collapsed on the couch and Y/N handed him the blanket she’d just folded. He threw it over his lap and leaned his head back, his eyes shut, “I said some stupid shit, didn’t I?”

Y/N turned sideways on the couch and tucked her leg under her, then put a hesitant hand on Dean’s bare shoulder, “What you said wasn’t stupid, it was true. I mean, it may not have been the best course of action, but you were upset. And let’s be honest, Lisa is kind of a bitch. If it makes you feel better, Jo shared the sentiment.”

Dean chuckled quietly, then rolled his head to the side so that he could look at Y/N. Although the puffiness had mostly gone away, his moss green eyes were still bloodshot. Y/N’s chest tightened at how sad they looked. “What am I going to do, Y/N?” Dean asked quietly, his voice low and gravelly. Tears glistened in his eyes, trapped on his thick eyelashes, and Y/N had to look away before she started to come apart as well.

“Well, for now,” she said as she cleared her throat and stood up, “you’re going to sit here on this couch and watch television while I fix some breakfast. The greasier the better. Then we’ll move on to step two: getting you into some pants.”

Dean grimaced, “I don’t know about that. And good luck finding anything, Sam’s the kind of person that likes to put spinach in his pancakes.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks and gave Dean a disgusted look, “Seriously? Who does that?”

“The kind of person who wants to live to see forty,” Sam interrupted as he wandered into the living room and plopped down on the couch next to his brother. “I think today though we could probably forego the spinach pancakes and eat whatever we want to soak up all this alcohol. I’ll be in there in a minute to help you.” Y/N smiled and disappeared down the hall. Sam gave Dean a long look before speaking, “You okay?”

Dean shrugged, “Well, my fiance left me at the altar, half the town saw it and the other half have probably heard about it by now, and I threw up on myself. I’m batting a thousand, Sammy.”

“I’m sorry, man. If it makes you feel any better, Chuck did a pretty good job of distracting everyone last night, although Cas is a little bent that you disappeared on him. He was worried, Dean.”

“Yea, well...I don’t really remember much, so if I somehow gave him the slip, I’m sorry. Although I’m not sure how that happened. I’m not even sure how I walked on flat ground, it couldn’t have been hard to catch up to me.”

Sam laughed, “Yea, well, you slipped past him. It’s a good thing Y/N was around, huh?”

Dean nodded, “I guess so.” He paused, not wanting to ask but knowing he had to, “Have you seen Lisa? Has Jess heard from her?”

Sam sighed and shook his head, “No... Jess saw her right before the ceremony, and she said she had to use the bathroom. That’s the last time anyone saw her. Jess texted her, but she’s not answered. I’m sorry.”

A clattering sound in the kitchen interrupted their conversation and Sam looked towards the source of the noise, “I should probably check on her. Are you gonna be alright?”

Dean stretched out on the couch, the blanket wrapped tightly around him, and grabbed the television remote, “Considering the circumstances, yea. I think I will be.” Sam stood, stared at him for a moment as if contemplating what he wanted to say next, then quickly walked to the kitchen to help Y/N. Dean took a deep breath and willed the pain in his chest to go away. He’d been sad before, heartbroken even, but this was almost too much to stand.

He heard laughter come from the kitchen, and he closed his eyes. Laughter was the last thing he wanted to hear right now, but it was nice to hear Y/N do it. Despite not knowing her for very long, her presence this morning had helped.

For not the first time that morning, and probably not the last, Dean had this singular thought, “What the hell am I going to do?”

Like what you see? Would you like to see more? My Masterlist is here and the lovely @pinknerdpanda can be found here. Thanks for reading! :)

The Wedding Singer - Series Tags: @nanie5 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @tiffanycaruso @faegal04 @bethbabybaby @aesthsuggestion @escabell @lavieenlex @letmusicguideu @charliebradbury1104 @ericaprice2008 @kathaswings @feelmyroarrrr @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @journeyrose @kudosia @spnfangirl1965 @pickupthatamulet @faithfullpanicmoon @castianityislife02 @hexparker

Forever Tags: @trexrambling @pinknerdpanda @wheresthekillswitch @emilywritesaboutdean @arryn-nyxx @emptywithout @escabell @charliebradbury1104 @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @deanssweetheart23 @canadianjelly @super-not-naturall @aubreyreadsstuff @dean-winchesters-babydoll @melissaj616 @fandomismyspiritanimal @keepcalmandcarryondean @assbutt-still-in-hell @owllover123 @rosie-winchester @amionthetumbler @duubaduu @hiimaprofessionalfangirl @goldenolaf25 @authoressskr @nanie5 @mrssamfuckingwinchester @zincomms @kathaswings @crazynerdandproud @barbedwireandbubblegum @sandlee44 @boxywrites @justanotherdeangirl @smalltowndivaj @captainradicalpassion @myloveforyouxx @atc74 @mrsbateshotel53 @easelweasel @there-must-be-a-lock @masksandtruths @thelittleredwhocould @jotink78 @amanda-teaches @ilsawasanacrobat @squirrel-moose-winchester

Dean Only: @akshi8278 @lavieenlex @valkyrieslament @highonpastries

#The Wedding Singer Series #dean winchester au #supernatural au #Dean Winchester x Reader #dean x reader #reader insert #spn reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #HanPan Strikes Again

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novantinuum · 7 years ago

Text

Breaking Point (2/2)

Part of the “Smaller Than He Seems” AU, in which Ford was accidentally de-aged into a kid during his multiverse adventures, while retaining all his memories. He appears about 12 at this point.

Last one shot here.

AO3

Rating: T (for some language)

Word count: ~5000

Summary: In which an apology is given. Stan gains a bit of insight into his brother's time apart from him. Ford allows himself to be honest for once.

“Sweet Moses, stop actin’ like a damn child and just pick a pair!”

…

“Ford.”

No response.

“Ford, talk to me, please!”

He could see his brother’s small body curled up against the door in the rearview mirror. His face entirely blank, his eyes trained on some landmark of interest outside the window but bleary, unfocused. His jaw clenched.

“Ford. Sixer. Come on, listen ta’ me, please! I said I was sorry…”

The moment Stanley Pines set his car into park alongside the Shack, he heard the rear passenger door swing open and little feet storm up the steps of the gift shop into obscurity. He didn’t even have to see his brother’s no-doubt tear stained eyes to gain explicit confirmation of what he already knew. After all— while his grasp of some of the more unique quirks and intricacies about his twin had faded over forty plus years of estrangement— the one detail he knew he’d never forget was the sound of Ford crying.

Notably, the few times Stan witnessed him cry when they were kids, he actively avoided making a spectacle of his emotions. (Men like me sure as hell don’t cry, his pa had constantly chided them.) Unlike other children in their age group, Ford’s sobs always remained strained and purposefully held back, as if he were ashamed at himself for crying in the first place. From the sound of it Ford’s anger and hurt still materialized precisely the same way now. It was almost as if the clock had reversed and suddenly Stan too was twelve again, watching his twin run away in muffled tears after getting his face busted up by one of their childhood bullies.

Almost…

After all, this time it wasn't the bully Ford was running from.

“You an’ yer stupid mouth sure messed up this time,” he muttered bitterly, yanking his keys out of the ignition.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, a gnawing hollowness settling in his soul. Cloud cover smothered the sun. A hopelessly stubborn part of him wanted nothing more than to immediately chase after his brother and console him as he always did in their youth, but that desire was quickly overrun by whatever sense of reason he still possessed. He’d only make things worse if he followed now. He always did make things worse.

Guilt raged within his mind like a hurricane, uprooting insecurities and blowing old emotional wounds to the forefront of his consciousness with terrifying force. He did this to Ford. He made him cry. In his utter carelessness he jabbed at what he imagined was one of his greatest insecurities: that ultimately— even in mind and spirit— he was nothing more than the childlike appearance chance forced upon him. That all his years of experience were for naught, that somehow he’d... regressed. Stanley wrung his hands together so tightly he nearly popped his joints out of place, his mind cycling between tides of self-hatred and incomprehensible shame at the memory of watching the light of his brother’s soul eclipsed by his thoughtless comment.

Old bones creaking with trepidation, he exited the car and began to make his way towards the Shack. A few stray raindrops splattered atop his head in the seconds before he reached the covered porch. He strode into the gift shop, in search of any physical sign of his brother. However, the vending machine door was closed. Same with the entry to the house. Stan halted for a moment and listened, dimly wondering if he could pick up auditory clues as to where his brother went. As much as he’d love to avoid confronting his guilt for as long as possible, deep down he knew that this would threaten to completely overturn what little camaraderie they had left. (Because at present, the sad reality was that their relationship was riding on a thin wire no more dependable than a pathological liar in an interrogation room.) He doubted he’d forgive himself if he lost Ford all over again merely a day after getting him back.

His eyes slid with disinterest over the shelves of useless overpriced wares, focusing momentarily on the rain— now falling steadily outside— and then the keypad of the vending machine. Mind now firmly set on finding his brother, he strode towards the hidden passageway and entered the code. Miraculously, Ford hadn’t changed it.

At least, not yet.

Stan crept down the steep staircase, gently running his hand over the faint six-fingered handprint immortalized in glowing ink on the cracked stone. Despite not understanding his reasons for it, his twin was obviously drawn to this place in some manner. Yesterday evening, he had to fight to convince him to sleep anywhere except the thin cot he’d shoved in the corner of the basement lab. And early this morning Ford exiled himself downstairs long before anyone else woke up, only venturing to the main floor at, presumably, the insistence of his growling stomach. He’d bet his first dollar in sales that Ford holed away to his ‘lair’ in this instance, too.

The closer the elevator dropped to the basement however, the more tongue-tied he felt. What was one supposed to say in situations like these? Had he already made a fatal mistake, stalling for as long as he did? Or were the wounds still too fresh? How did he know that he wouldn’t bungle everything up all over again like he always seemed to do whenever he interacted with him, or that Ford would even be receptive to an apology? How long would he have to tip-toe around him, interact as if he were only fragile glass?

By the time he reached the lab, his skin felt clammy to the touch and his nerves were twisted into a steel ball. A sum of him just wanted to get this over with, like ripping the soiled dressing off of an infected wound, and yet he couldn’t deny that insidious voice within his core that desired nothing more than to run away. When had he ever improved the quality of his life by bending on his knees and groveling for forgiveness anyways? In his experience, ‘sorry’ hadn’t driven him any further than the Stanmobile running on two flats and fumes.

Besides a few computer backlights that were active and a few dull red lamps fixed around the perimeter, the lab was dark. Stanley felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he inhaled the stale air. Euugh. Despite spending years of solid time down here, he’d never gotten used to just how damn creepyFord’s sci-fi mystery basement felt. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his brother hadn’t hidden down here, however. Rather, the lab was empty and near-silent, except for the faint whir coming from one of the old IMB computer’s fans. He peaked into the portal room out of curiosity, finding much the same. Though interestingly, it appeared someone had begun to dismantle the machine.

The twisted metal frame was detached from its girders and wires, with a choice few parts cannibalized and scattered across the bedrock. So thismust have been what kept Ford so busy early this morning. Stan didn’t understand how his brother managed to disassemble this much that quickly considering his size, but leave it to him to figure out a workaround, he supposed. He couldn’t help but sulk at the sight of thirty years of his work lying in ruins, even though he knew he’d succeeded in the end.

As he turned to leave, a glint of reflected light coming from Ford’s bundled up overcoat on the desk caught his interest. Tentatively, he approached the small mangled coat. Whatever caused the light to bounce astray, it appeared metallic. Intrigue brewed within him as he captured the edge of the object with his index finger and thumb.

“Let’s see what you are,” he murmured, pulling it into the rosy glow of the safety lamp that was mounted over the entrance to the portal room. The object was a nondescript metal tin the length of his hand, with a clasp on one side. He unlatched it gently.

Inside were… photographs, mainly. A few scraps of paper with windswept notes or sketches on them. The photos were mostly polaroids, but a couple were fashioned out of a holographic material that projected the images into the air. Stan filtered through the contents, his gaze lingering with awe on a rather impressive photograph that depicted— he assumed— the night sky on an alien world. A lot of the objects inside the tin were similar, each acting as a small window into Ford’s travels: images of exotic, almost unearthly landscapes, rough sketches of creatures even stranger than those contained in his journals, a thin strip of blue dyed cloth, an elongated, pointed tooth. His hands brushed against a slip of paper covered in tallies. Written below those lines were a series of numbers ranging anywhere from fifty-five to sixty-four that had long since been scribbled out and replaced with a question mark.

The edge of Stan’s lips slumped downwards the longer he thought about what that hesitant question mark really meant. He set this piece of parchment aside to look at the next object in the tin.

To his surprise, Ford was actually pictured in the next photo— an adult Ford like he remembered, but appearing far older than he'd last seen him in 1982. In the photograph, his brother stood with his arm slung around another man’s shoulder, a wide smile on his face. His tousled hair had gone almost completely grey— peppered with silver around his ears— and deep creases lined the corners of his eyes and the contour of his cheeks. The wrinkles suited him, honestly. Made him look distinguished. Nonetheless, Stan’s heart dropped in his chest at the sight. He held the thick paper with white knuckles as the significance of this hit him. This was close to how Ford would have appeared if he hadn't been reverted into a child. Now obviously, Stan only needed to glance into the mirror to imagine what his brother would have roughly looked like at sixty two, but actually seeingthe way age settled on his face- even merely memorialized as a polaroid- was its own shock to the system.

Stanley stared at the photo for a long while, committing the image to memory. He flipped to the next photo.

His eyes blew wide. His wrists trembled as he held the last object in the tin with nothing less than reverence, than proof that perhaps he and Ford might still see eye to eye more than he initially realized. That maybe, they still had a chance to truly be brothers again.

“Oh Sixer, you old sap…” he said in a half-laugh, trying to blink away his tears.

In the tattered, faded image he held, two young boys stood proudly on a wrecked sailboat at the edge of the sea, shirtless and sunburnt.

The rain still pummeled away at the roof and walls of the Shack by the time Stan returned to the main floor. He frowned for a moment, distantly wondering if Dipper and Mabel brought anything to keep them dry while they tromped through the woods, but these fears quickly faded. They were resourceful kids. He knew they’d fare fine. He couldn’t say the same for Stanford, who hadn’t uttered a peep for the past goodness-knows-how-long.

As he quietly made his way through the hall, his eye lingered on the door of the spare room his brother slept in last night. The door was shut, but he could swear he heard something rustling inside. A hunch brewing in his gut, Stan knocked on the ornately carved wood.

“Hey, Ford?” he called softly. “You in here, buddy?”

As expected, no response.

He bit at his lip, considering his options: steel his nerves and face him while the wound was still fresh, or bide his time and risk destabilizing what little of a relationship he had with his brother all together. Inhaling steadily, he placed a solid hand on the door and pushed.

“Ford?”

He found the man in question huddling on his side against the couch cushions, his face hidden away and his legs curled tight to his chest. Both pairs of boots- shoplifted and his original- sat together on the floor, lined up perfectly side by side. Stan almost hated himself for letting his mind linger on such thoughts after what he’d said earlier, but... when juxtaposed by the size of the couch, Ford looked every bit of his apparent age. Slight. Defenseless. Perfectly childlike, like he were peering through a looking glass into the shadow of their glory days.

And yet there was a clear dissonance between the brother he remembered then and the person who wore his face now.

“I’m not in the mood for your excuses,” his brother muttered bitterly, burying his head further into the cushion.

“I- uh, I mean I’ll leave if ya’ really want me to,” he replied, scratching at the nape of his neck. “But just for the record, I didn’t come in here to make excuses, I came to—” Stanley swallowed his pride— “to apologize.”

At those words, his twin turned to glance at him with a dry, withering expression, mouth slackened and eyes hooded with distrust. “All right, cut to the chase. Which fey kingdom do you originate from and why did you replace my brother?”

The doubt of his sincerity sent a spike into his chest. “Come on,” he insisted, opening his hands. “It’s me, I swear.”

“The Stanley I know doesn’t apologize for anything,” Ford said bluntly, further narrowing his eyes.

Both brothers fell silent at this statement. Truthfully, Stan couldn’t argue with its accuracy. He took the occasion to drink in the sight of the brother’s face- to truly see him as he was in this moment- Ford’s seemingly youthful yet haunted gaze caught in Stan’s own. He tried to ignore the recognizable trail of dried tears that crossed his cheeks, or the lingering dampness of his eyes. They were messed up, the pair of them… old men with a lifetime of troubles to sort through and now on top of that, appearing generations apart. But Stan desperately wanted to make it up to him. His heart sank at the idea of his twin truly believing that his rare, vulnerable word- his apology- wasn’t sincere.

“Listen,” he began, slowly sinking to rest on the couch, adjacent to Ford. “The last thing I ever want ta’ do is hurt you. But I have ,” he said, voice wavering slightly. “And I hate seeing you like this, especially when- uh, w-when I know it’s ‘cause of me. I know it may not be worth nothin’ to you after everything I’ve done to ya’ over the years, but... I am sorry. You deserve better. I’ll try better.”

He took a breath, and he could swear the rainstorm outside paused alongside him within the span of that inhale. None of the oscillating emotions expressed in his brother’s features were anything he could easily recognize. The quirk of his lip or the incline of his brow possessed no meaning, for at this precise instant in time, Stanley simply couldn’t determine whether Ford intended to throw him out of the room, break into tears, or envelop him in a hug tighter than a person his size had any right of giving.

Instead, Ford sighed deeply, hunching over on the couch and cupping his cheeks into his hands. “I really appreciate that,” he said quietly. Then, his words bleeding into one another: “Of course, it’s not fair to say this was entirely your fault. I could have at least attempted to communicate my needs beforehand, o-or not have reacted so strongly, o-”

“Ford. Ford. Who’s sayin’ sorry here? Stop hijacking my apology, you nerd.”

This made his brother laugh a little, softly, but an unmistakable laugh. The sound of it touched Stan’s heart in a way he couldn’t quantify in words. Dimly, he came to the realization that this was the first laugh he’d heard out of him in over forty years. But same as the seasons changed, same as all the days Stanley’s bombastic, dramatized work persona slipped away past closing to be replaced with a long withered melancholy, so too did Ford’s brief moment of peace pass. A shadow passed over his countenance.

“I only wish I could find my place in all this,” he said in a broken whisper, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Stan frowned, feeling the creases in his face deepen. “W- whatdya mean?”

His brother shrank into himself, pulling his knees to his chest.

“All that happened earlier only served to prove in my mind that everything’s just… wrong . It feels wrong. Changed. Put simply, I- I guess the world’s moved on without me.” Confession released to the world around him, he buried his head from sight once more, and took a deep, shaky breath to- Stan assumed- calm himself down from a cliff’s edge of emotional release.

“Oh, Sixer…” He attempted to lay a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, but to his disappointment Ford shrugged away from the affection entirely. “Come on, there’s gotta be some way we can fix this, right?”

“There’s no way to reverse this,” he said, voice cracking with emotion. “Trust me, I’ve tried nearly everything, but I’ve still been like this for three goddamn years."

“Three years?” Stan exclaimed, face painted with a polarized mixture of horror and remorse. “And this was when you were alone in that space sci-fi dimension?? Threatened by enough danger ‘round the clock that you were forced ta’ keep a damn gun at your hip at all times?”

Ford nodded slowly, eyes meeting his for an instant before flitting away.

He pressed his face into his calloused hands, roughly rubbing at his temples. “Sweet Moses. How the hell did you stay alive?”

“Honestly? I can’t rightly say.”

The two sat in relative silence for a while after that, allowing each other’s mere presence fill the gap their lack of words left. Outside, the storm continued- rain pouring in rivulets down the glass pane of the window. At some point, Ford had let his legs back down, allowing them to lightly swing over the side of the couch. Stan sat hunched forward, leaning on his elbows. He couldn't say for certain at this point what Ford’s opinion of him was, but in all honesty he supposed this was the vital difference between the predictable, amicable brother who existed for thirty years in his daydreams and the real item. Perhaps it was better not knowing.

Whatever the thoughts the man held towards him however, he was fairly confident that hatred was not one of them.

“Stan,” the man in question said eventually, wringing his hands together. “Can I tell you something?”

Hearing his name pass through his twin’s lips, he instantly perked up. “Yeah? What's on your mind?”

“Despite what I said yesterday, despite the anger I held towards you then, I'm really, really glad you rescued me…”

As he spoke his voice faded into obscurity, masked by a crushing sense of fear that no person bearing the childlike appearance he possessed had any right of knowing. He crossed his arms tight around himself, chin sinking into the folds of the dark maroon scarf he hadn't taken off since his return home. Fledgling tears dotted the corners of his eyes. Before those could gain any traction, he blotted them away with tightened fists. Watching this, Stan froze, worried that even the slightest movement or uttered syllable might be enough to burst the emotional dam Ford evidently wanted to remain closed.

Luckily, Ford himself chose to orient the direction of their talk once more, taking the conversational anxiety off Stan’s shoulders completely.

“It comes to my attention that I haven’t been forthright with you yet,” he said, staring at the wooden floor slats- and knowing him, likely analyzing the patterns formed by the grain to keep his mind stimulated. “About- well, about how all this came to be.” He gestured broadly at himself, at his gangly twelve year old body.

“Now, I don’t wanna force ya’ to talk about somethin’ that obviously bothers yo-”

“No. No, it’s okay... I want you to know. You deserve as much.”

“You sure?” Stan confirmed.

His twin nodded resolutely, and curled up on the couch so that he was facing him, legs crossed one over the other. His eyes peered as far up as they could reach, a clear signal that he was searching through his memories, beginning to piece together his past from the scattered recollections those neurons held.

“Not to complicate the story with superfluous detail,” Ford began, nervously clasping his hands together, “the events that lead me to this point started with… well, with the desire to construct a weapon powerful enough to eradicate an enemy who was hunting me down throughout dimensions.”

“And this enemy was, what, strong enough that your normal weapons wouldn’t do the trick?”

He gave a short, staccato nod. “Correct. Essentially, to destroy them, I needed to find a way to destabilize their very molecular makeup at a quantum level. I knew how to build it, but one of the required components could only be found in a single dimension, colloquially known by its inhabitants as the ‘Do-Over’ Dimension. And yes- where you think this is going is probably right” he said, jabbing his finger at him, and Stan knew at that moment that his attempts to conceal the fledgling dread he felt was all for naught.

Ford began gesturing with his hands as needed as he continued to explain his experiences. “You see, the problem with this dimension is that their time stream was fragmented. The very nature of time was in constant flux. Here, time could move forwards or backwards in any sequence without pattern or warning. Inhabitants might experience hours, weeks, or even entire years of their lives completely over again, all while still retaining full memory of every cycle. Even visitors to this world weren’t absolved from its effects”

“And you willingly stepped into a place like this?” Stan asked his twin quietly, brow furrowed.

“I had no choice. Like I said, this dimension was the only place I could find the specific isomer of a rare element stable enough to use in my weapon. I knew the dangers of entering far in advance… and yet I went anyways.”

“So, you made a gamble.”

“Put bluntly, yes. It was a gamble against the universe that the time stream would remain relatively stable during my visit. One that, ultimately, blew up in my face. Ironically however,” Ford continued, his eyes narrowing with deep irritance, “the Do Over Dimension hadn’t experienced a Great Rewind for centuries until the one I was caught amid.”

Stanley watched as his brother limply fell backwards, meeting the rear cushion of the couch. Frustration and bitter anger painted his face when simply recalling his story; as such, Stan couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to live through such a traumatic experience. Slowly- so as to not spook him with unexpected movement- he slung his arm over the couch back.

From outside, a distant roll of thunder sounded alongside the July rainstorm.

“And I was so close to completing my mission!” he growled, shaking a tight fist that likely had little half-moon indentations in his palm where his nails were. “I had the element in hand, I was only hours away from exiting the dimension… when without any warning, time slipped about fifty years into the past, and I found myself physically reverted to the size of a eight or nine year old kid. What’s scary is that despite my misfortune, I still got lucky. For any visitors to the dimension who weren’t over fifty years of age, they would have simply perished. Ceased to exist.”

“Well damn,” Stan muttered, right hand pressed to mouth and left still lightly slung around his brother’s shoulder, resting on the seat cushion.

“Damn is right. I had a hard enough time traversing the multiverse as an adult, so to add this as a hinderance?” Ford looked up, meeting his gaze. “It was hell. Most days I barely managed to get the nutrients I needed to remain healthy in this growing body. I’m sure I’ve fallen close to malnourishment more than once. Adding onto that, physically defending myself the way I used to became a near impossibility. And thanks to the constant threat of… of the interdimensional child slave trades, I feel like I can’t trust anyone in a crowd anymore.”

Fresh teardrops prickled at the corners of his eyes as he spoke, glistening in the dim lighting of the parlor. Ambient light from outside shone through the blue and green stained glass window. It cut a clear path through the shadows cast by the rest of the room, illuminating one side of each of the brother’s faces. With a soft, sympathetic sigh, Stan let his hand drop onto Ford’s shoulder. Letting him know he was there beside him as he blinked through the tears.

“I’m sorry you had ta’ go through this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ford said with a shrug, voice thick in that way it gets when one’s deliberately trying to hold back the full brunt of their emotions. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just… time, really.”

It’s not your fault, his mind echoed his words. And inwardly, he’d love to believe that were true. He’d love to delude himself that he were entirely blameless. But as much as he wanted to take Ford’s statement to heart, all he could see was the memory that had replayed in both his nightmares and in every waking moment he spent fixing the portal, flickering through his subconscious with a frightening vivacity. The force of his hands against Ford’s chest. His terrified screams, “Stanley! Stanley please,” shredding his vocal cords in unbridled desperation. The almost sickeningly blue glow of the portal swallowing his brother whole while he, in his worthless, wounded body couldn’t do anything more than gape in abject horror.

Frankly, everything that happened to the guy on the other side was his fault, far as he was concerned. But fat luck trying to convince Ford of this. Ford, whose abject blame of the universe only served as deflection from the blame he truly placed on his own actions. Stan wasn’t an idiot. He recognized what guilt spiraling looked like.

He glanced towards his twin from the corner of his eyes, and gave his shoulder a pat. “Well I’m sorry for ya’ anyway.” Another relevant thought from earlier today entered his mind then, and he turned towards him inquisitively. “Hey, so don’t feel like ya’ gotta answer this if it’s anythin’ too uncomfy, alright? But... why were you so adamant on the townsfolk not thinkin’ I was your pa, or grandpa, or whatever?”

While it was subtle, he could visibly see the muscles in Ford’s shoulders flinch at the movement of their conversation to this topic.

“Okay, we uh, w-we can talk about something else then,” he said hastily, pulling his arm back to allow him some space. Or perhaps it was time to leave him alone entirely. “Guess I shouldn’t ‘ave brought it u-”

“It’s because you’re my last connection to the past,” Ford blurted out suddenly. “Of who I really am. I don’t- I didn’t want that perverted by having to spend every day in public living a lie. Not now. Not when I’m like this,” he said, gesturing broadly down at himself.

Stan frowned at the unclear wording in his statement. “What do you mean, ‘perverted?’”

He stared down at his six fingers, wringing them together. “Well, I uh- sometimes, these past three years… I often found myself in a place where it felt like my memory almost- I guess, like my mind wanted to forget. Over time, it became hard to remember that I’d ever had any other childhood. And now,” he said more quietly, looking for all the world as if he wanted to slip through the floorboards and away to his basement, “faced with the reality of having to grow up all over again, I- that still scares me.”

Stan nodded slowly, thinking he understood the scenario from his perspective a little more. He placed his hands firmly on either side of his twin’s shoulders, looking at him earnestly.

“Ford, no matter what we tell those townsfolk, you’re my brother. First off. You better believe I’ll remind ya’ every day for the rest of my life, if I have to. And that’s never gonna change, y’hear? It doesn’t matter to me if ya’ look like a kid, ‘cause far as I’m concerned, you’re still you. Still as nerdy and annoying of a twin bro as I remember, anyways! Hah!” he exclaimed, and gave Ford’s head a noogie, fist ruffling through his untamed brown locks.

His brother let out a giggle, pushing his hands away in protest, and for the first time the smile on his lips truly reached his eyes.

“But hey,” Stan continued, expression growing genuine again. “From now on, whatever explanation we give ta’ other people about ‘who you are?’ We’ll figure that out on your terms. I won’t force ya’ to behave a certain way in public or in private because of some perceived ‘relation.’ That fair?”

“Yeah.” Ford nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Good. You… d’ya want a hug?”

He held his arms open. To his delight Ford accepted the offer of affection without hesitation. He wrapped his smaller arms as tight around his middle as possible, and buried his face into his shoulder.

“Stanley?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Beyond the walls of the Shack, the rain stopped.

#my writing stuff #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #stan and ford #gravity falls fanfiction #smaller than he seems au #THERE we go #there's the tumblr text version #its by habit that i always like posting it in full text form here too

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