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caffeinated-cryptid · 4 years ago

Text

ashes, ashes.

10.8k | AO3 link | tags/tws: intrulogical, serial killer/deity of death au, lots of death (murder, mentions of a previous suicide attempt, and brief descriptions of animal death), injury, violence, swearing, morally grey characters, crime.

““You’re not supposed to be able to see me.” Logan blurted out with a start, eyes wide and looking at Remus like he had just killed a guy in front of him. Oh wait-

“Mamma always told me I was special.” Remus replied with a woozy grin, leaving back against the cool bricks of the alleyway. Seeing things that weren’t there was a new level of fucked-up for his brain, but hopefully that was just a side effect of hitting his head and not something he’d have to take pills for later. Either way, at least this spectre was pretty to look at. Trauma had its benefits.

“You think a deity of death is pretty?” Logan asked wryly, cutting through the stream of subconscious babble he’d accidentally spilled into the frigid night air. “I’d be flattered, if that didn’t sound like such a red flag.””

(aka: remus chases death like it's his favourite pastime, since it means he gets to see logan again. understandably, logan has some objections to this.)

--------------

Case 1: the man in the alley.

The first time Remus and Logan met, it was more or less a complete accident.

As a part-time warehouse operative slash freelance artist, Remus had a lot of free time between jobs, and one of the things he enjoyed doing most while waiting for his next gig to come around was spray-painting obscene images into the side of alleys.

His latest project was a 7-foot tall purple unicorn with generous proportions. Pretty tasteful by his standards, all things considered.

If nothing else, the piece of work would give passers-by a topic of conversation, and that was always something Remus aimed to inspire with his art. These topics, however, often happened to be the ‘why’ variety. Most commonly, the old classic (and his personal favourite): ‘why are you like this?’.

Regrettably, the evening passed pretty quickly with no curious pedestrians passing by his alley and starting up such a conversation. By the time Remus finished, it was past midnight and by now the only people around were the regular nightlife-- primarily the local college kids who had recently come home and were enjoying their break from classes, and adults like himself who were trying to chase away their loneliness with some other kind of high.

...Woo, and that’s enough depressing thoughts for tonight. Remus declared to himself. After all, he had a new piece to admire! Stepping back, he spent a moment taking in the completed artwork by the light of his phone’s torch before deciding it was as perfect as it could get. He’d come back later and get a picture during the daytime to show off to his friends, so for now he begun preparing to leave by packing his paint cans into his backpack.

It was when he had collected the last can of magenta from the ground that he felt something grab the back of his coat hood. Remus had no time to process the fact that someone had snuck into the alleyway before he was shoved against the same wall he'd painted his mural on, coming face-to-face with a hooded man waving a rather pathetic-looking pocket knife at him.

“Give me your money. Now.” The man demanded.

Remus blinked in delayed surprise. Usually he was the one being the creep in the alleyway. He had never expected to come across an actual creep. Heck, this situation felt like it was pulled straight out of an old PSA with how stereotypical it was.

“What?” He blurted out unthinkingly, because of that exact train of thought.

“You heard me! I want you to get your wallet and hand over everything you’ve got.”

What an unfortunate victim this man has chosen.

“You think I have any money to my name? I’m practically the starving artist every parent warns their kid about becoming.” Remus said with a huff of amusement.

“Don’t try to bullshit me!” The hand clutching the front of his coat tugged him forward before violently slamming him back against the bricks. The back of Remus’ head ricochetted off them roughly with the sudden movement, and the small grin he had been wearing quickly faded with flash of pain and the realization he may actually be in trouble.

“I saw the paint you’ve got in your bag,” The man continued over his dawning concern. “Somebody who’s broke wouldn’t have all that.”

Remus’ thoughts halted for a second. His bag…! He knew the paint can he was holding onto for dear life wouldn’t do much in the way of self-defense given that it was practically empty, but a whole bag of them? Hitting this guy with that much weight would make him think twice about trying to stab him, at least.

“Okay, okay. You got me, I’m rich as hell. Just let me get it, alright? My wallet's in there.”

The man gave him a skeptical look, but stepped back slightly, continuing to hold the weapon in his direction. “I know how to throw knives. Try to run and you’ll have a hole in your back quicker than an onset stroke.”

Yikes, and Remus thought he was bad at metaphors. He didn’t even need Virgil here to tell him that that made no sense. Still, he grinned placatingly. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye: I won’t run.”

Finally, bad-metaphor guy let down his guard and allowed Remus to side-step around him. He walked a few paces towards where he dropped his backpack in his initial shock, putting the magenta spray in before he picked it up by the straps. True to his word, he didn't run; instead he swung around on his heel, slamming the full force of his hardback sketchbooks and cans of spray paint into the face of the hooded man.

He instantly dropped his knife, falling backwards and clutching his nose as blood erupted from it. Under the low-lighting of the street lamp, Remus was transfixed for a second, feeling like he was in one of those gritty r-rated movies he watched with his babysitter as a kid. The moment was ruined when he realized that 1) the man was approaching again very quickly, and 2) he couldn’t get the momentum quick enough to swing his bag around and hit him a second time.

Before he knew it, Remus had accidentally let go of the makeshift weapon when he was tackled to the ground, wind completely knocked out of him as the two of them collided against cobblestone moistened with rain.

“You fucking bastard.” The guy hissed furiously. His voice was nasally now that his nose was crooked and broken-looking, and Remus almost wanted to poke fun of him for it until he felt two hands wrap around his throat and start to choke him. “‘Could’ve just made things easy, but now you’re gonna die with all the other trash.”

Why? Remus wanted to ask. Over the 7 dollars and 15 cents he had?

But as he tried to tear away the vice grip on his neck, he couldn’t find the voice to talk back, even though the seriousness of the situation was hitting him like a freight train. Maybe it was his own fault for escalating things instead of playing along. Go figure, he had overestimated his own abilities after years being the off-putting one; the person others thought they had to watch over their shoulder for. Either that, or maybe it was the fact that his wallet carried more sentimental value with it than monetary. It was small and made of orange ducktape, but it carried so many things that Remus wanted to protect; a photo of his family, one of Virgil's guitar picks, the ticket to the last Tenacious D he went to, and of course, the receipt for his first condom purchase.

His mind flashed to his friends and family, and he wondered how they’d feel about this; him dying because of some dumb robber in a dumb alleyway because he was painting his dumb artwork. That was hardly the kind of death one could look back on and regard with pride (Hell if it wasn't funny to imagine how everyone will react to the news, though). But as he focused on the face above him, he realized with some panic that the grip wasn’t loosening, even as he could feel his lungs burn and a near-soothing feeling telling him to just let go.

As a final act of desperation to save himself from becoming a wholly embarrassing funeral eulogy instead of having a rockstar’s death in his 40s like he always imagined for himself, he patted the ground frantically, looking for a loose rock or something to stop this with. That’s when he felt it; the slightly warm plastic handle of the knife the guy had been holding. Remus’ heart pounded as he realized what he needed to do, and he barely even considered the repercussions of the action before he was plunging the knife into the side of the guy’s neck.

Finally, the grip around his throat loosened as the guy gasped, his expression flickering back and forth between anger and shock. Remus ripped the knife away, inhaling air greedily when the sudden action caused the man to loosen his grip and move off of him, trying to cover the stab wound with his hands and failing.

Remus quickly scrambled back and pulled himself up the wall, watching and waiting for the guy to fall still. He did, after what felt like a few minutes, and Remus didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. He’d just killed a man. It was self-defence, but still… even the morbid thoughts he had over the years couldn't have prepared him for what it would have actually felt like to go through with any of it.

In that moment of pause, his injuries caught up with him as both his head and neck begun to ache. He was so disoriented that he barely even noticed the third person standing in the alley until they spoke up.

“Well. I didn’t see that coming.”

Remus snapped his head towards the source of the voice, and immediately regretted it when the hasty motion made him dizzy. The only reason he didn’t immediately jump into fight mode was because of the unusually casual way the voice had spoken. Beyond that, the figure he saw standing a short distance away didn’t really… look like a regular person. Beyond the odd formal clothing that had no discernable modern style to it and the shock of white hair that could only be achieved with hella bleach, his skin was a cool grey like a cadaver and he had a ghostly appearance to him; transparent and misty around the edges.

Definitely not the sort of thing Remus expected to see, but he was always one to accommodate the unexpected.

“...You and me both. My only goal for today was to draw unicorn porn.” Remus replied lightly, once he decided it wouldn't hurt to entertain whatever was currently happening.

The figure turned, startling at the sight of Remus staring directly at him.

“You’re not supposed to be able to see me.” He blurted out with wide eyes, looking at Remus like he had just killed a guy in front of him. Oh wait-

“You think a deity of death is pretty?” The man (deity???) asked wryly, cutting through the stream of subconscious babble he’d accidentally spilled into the frigid night air. “I’d be flattered, if that didn’t sound like such a red flag.”

"I can't believe my own brain is kinkshaming me." Remus whined, slipping down slightly as the worn-down soles of his boots lost their grip on the concrete for a second.

Death frowned, until a metaphorical lightbulb lit over his head. "Ah- you think you're hallucinating. Well, that's not an unfair assumption. Keep believing it, by all means."

"That doesn't sound like something a hallucination would say." Remus pointed out.

"Well then, I'll gladly prove my non-existence by disappearing." Death said as he took a step towards the body.

"Wait!" Remus called before he could figure out why. The ghostly figure stopped, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Remus’ composure slipped as his eyes darted between the body and Death. "I...I need to know that this is real. That I'm not making this up. This feels like something I'd dream, but…"

His hand clenched around the knife, feeling the squelch of blood and the tremor of his hand. Despite the mixed signals he was currently getting on the state of his sanity, it felt solid and real, and Remus wasn’t sure what to make of that.

"Fuck. Please tell me! Am I being as messed up as usual or did I really just kill someone?"

Death’s eyes softened. "You did. This is real."

"Well shit. Okay…" Remus looked back at the body with a deep resignation. He wondered if he should do something about that. Probably not; that would look even more incriminating.

"...If it makes you feel better, he has hurt people in situations like this before, and completely unnecessarily; his only motive was to achieve a rush.”

That did make Remus feel better, actually.

"Good. I’m glad I killed a piece of shit and not someone down on their luck." Remus sighed, eyeing the spectral figure. "Speaking of, if this is real, then I guess that means you are too right?"

Any sympathy on Death's place quickly faded as he was caught out. "Erm-"

"It's cool." Remus leaned his head back again. "Talking to a cute ghost man? Sounds like a typical Thursday night for me."

Actually, this was the furthest thing from a typical Thursday night for Remus, but he didn’t want to admit that to the cute ghost man and risk looking uncool.

"You shouldn't get acquainted with it. Seeing me is hardly a good thing." Death replied, though his cheeks were distinctly a darker grey.

"Aww- don't sell yourself short. I love your work!" Remus waved away vaguely. He always had a strange relationship with death in a way that others didn’t; always the first to laugh at a funeral or smile instead of grieve. That was probably why he felt so comfortable right now. “Besides, we’ll all be food for the dirt and worms eventually, anyway. Why get uncomfortable with it?"

Death met his eyes again, seeming slightly more firm. “Perish those thoughts, it's hardly your time yet."

Remus pouted. "It's still inevitable, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I didn’t die today and got to meet you instead, but what’s so bad about something that’s going to happen either way?”

“I’m starting to think I was right by judging your attitude as a red flag.” Death muttered.

“But I'm right aren't I?” Remus prodded.

“Indeed.” Death begrudgingly conceded. “And do you know just how inevitable it is? Approximately 2 people die per second; 106 per minute. There have been 6435 events of armed conflict in the past year alone, and over 690 million people who are undernourished as we speak. Beyond that, there are even more people losing their lives to case-by-case natural events and incidents. So if you’d be so kind, do not be so eager to create more work for me.”

Remus absorbed that information, tilting his head. “Despite all that, you’re still here?”

“...I am.” Death agreed after a heavy pause, in the same manner most would admit their own defeat. “I’ll admit, I’m not used to… talking so much. It’s an unusual feeling, but it’s been pleasant, I suppose.”

“Death likes my company.” Remus laughed. “That’s gotta be saying something.”

Death rolled his eyes. “My name is Logan, not Death.”

“Huh. I’m Remus.” Remus replied, a little baffled. He didn’t expect a deity to have such a normal name.

“Remus ‘Tsukio’ Kaneshiro, I already know of you. We’ve met before.”

Remus’ bafflement only grew. “We have? I think I’d remember meeting someone like you.”

“You wouldn't; you were unconscious. It was after you overdosed on cold medicine. Thankfully your parents got you to the hospital on time before I could do my job, but I remember it being a close call.” Logan looked at him knowingly.

“...Oh.” Remus laughed nervously. He definitely remembered that. Finding out you could overdose on a lot of common household items was pretty dangerous for him to learn as a teenager, and he’d never forget how furious his entire family was with him for being so reckless. He never knew how to tell them that it wasn’t quite the accident they assumed it to be (needless to say, his adolescent years were pretty shitty to him, being the outsider in this town in more ways than one). Thankfully, the taste of cold medicine had become too repulsive for him to try anything like that again.

“...I am glad you’re alright. It’s always unfortunate when a life ends too soon.”

“Well…thanks. This has been pretty trippy, so I’m glad I met you too, Logan.”

Logan hummed and looked towards the end on the alleyway. “By the way, you should think about leaving soon. There’s a group of people approaching us.”

Shit, Remus had almost forgotten that he had just committed a crime. Given how awful this scene looked, there was a big chance he’d get thrown into jail for this if he got caught. But at the same time, he was almost hesitant to leave behind the spectre that had enchanted his heart within a few minutes, even if his mind was still trying to catch up with the overload of information.

“Why would you help me?” He asked quickly and somewhat suspiciously.

Just as Logan finished his business with the body, he looked at him over his shoulder with an almost sly expression. “You seem interesting, Remus. I’d hate for you to lose your life over someone so unworthy of one.”

And with that, Logan disappeared like a cloud of fog. Remus stood there transfixed, until he remembered Logan’s warnings and snatched up his bag, shoving the knife into his pocket and dashing into the night.

--------------

Case 2: the man who couldn't leave well enough alone.

The next time Remus and Logan met, it was slightly less of an accident, but fuck if the guy didn’t deserve it.

When Remus got home after the night he first saw Logan, he was more grateful than ever that he lived in such a run-down part of town. There were barely any security cameras to look out for, let alone people who were willing to be out during the early hours of the morning.

He was able to slip into his apartment complex unseen, avoiding his early-bird roommate long enough to wash away his crimes in the shower.

After that, he fell into his bed, completely unable to process everything that had just happened. So instead he fell asleep and left the deep thinking to his future self.

As expected, he needed plenty of time to collect his thoughts. First of all, he knew he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing because after weeks and months of taking it as easy as possible, he hadn’t seen anything else as strange as a personification of death named Logan. Logan...what kind of name even was that? It felt like the name of a teacher, not something that should be as grim and macabre as Remus himself.

But that was the other thing; Remus couldn’t get the thought of Logan out of his head. He was like the angel who had come down to bless him in a moment of weakness, saving him from further misfortune. He knew he had little to no chance of seeing their deity again, but that didn’t stop him from plaguing his mind constantly.

Remus figured the best chance he’d probably get at seeing Logan again was to become involved with death once more. His mind immediately jumped to animals, the easiest targets; he pictured slipping into a farm late at night and slitting the throat of one of the sheep, going to a pet store and buying a hamster for the night before ‘accidentally’ leaving it in a box to suffocate, picking up a stray from the street and snapping its neck quickly. But just as soon as those thoughts came to him, he waved them away with a grimace. He wouldn’t be able to go through with any of that, even for Logan.

People had always talked about him like he was a serial killer in training. They would keep a wary eye when he picked up sharp objects and ask his brother if Remus had ever hurt one of their pets as kids, as if because he had unconventional ideas, he was a complete sadist towards the innocent. (And yes, perhaps he did have thoughts of that nature too, but they’d always fill him with sickness because he fucking loved the pet dogs they had as kids, damn it). In any case, he knew that going through with those ideas would only be proving those people right, that he was a dangerous individual who’d murder an innocent creature just for someone his brain maybe made up.

...Perhaps he was losing his mind after all. What was he doing, plotting out the best way to see Death? If anyone else could hear his thoughts, they’d think him half-mad or suicidal. It seemed like the best thing so do was to try to push this out of his mind, so eventually, that's what he did. He wasn’t so good at that usually; his mouth ran a mile a minute and the people who knew him would often say that his brain-mouth filter was non-existent. But this felt like something he’d like to keep for himself, especially when news of the murder made it onto the local news, presumed to be the outcome of ‘gang activity’ simply because the victim was successful and had a loving family and what else could explain this?

He decided to not think about making plans anymore, and he only thought about Logan when his mind was otherwise unoccupied. It stayed that way until the very next week when he found out about the situation with his roommate’s ex.

Remus didn’t have many people in the world who were willing to put up with him, but the one’s that did, he cherished dearly. So when Nadia, the woman he’d describe as belonging among the Valkyries (if only she could get past her deal of not wanting to hurt a fly), came to him looking uncharacteristically shaken and upset, Remus felt something in him snap.

She told Remus about how her ex-boyfriend was following her to her workplace and making threats on her life. He’d even begun showing up outside their apartment late at night in an attempt at intimidation, and that detail alone pissed him off considering he’d been too in his head to even notice.

“All because I decided I deserved better.” Nadia told him tearily. She was so strong usually, both physically and emotionally, so seeing her so close to crying felt like a punch to the gut. “I just want for him to be gone… But James would probably kill me before I could even file a restraining order.”

“What if he was gone?” Remus blurted out. “Hypothetically.”

Nadia blinked at him, wiping a stray tear. “Honestly? I think the world would be a better place. But that’s never going to happen.”

Remus nodded. “Right. Of course. Do you still have his number, by any chance?”

Remus’ plan was simple: Nadia would call her ex and ask him to come over to ‘reconcile’, and when he did, Remus would confront him. Scare him enough to stay away for good. He was pretty great at being intimidating when he wanted to that the both of them assumed it would work out.

Well, James came as planned. Their apartment complex had one massive security flaw in that anyone could get in without keys or permission, so the only clue Remus got that James was coming was the sound of footsteps bouncing off the walls of the stairwell. Remus stood upright and waited, until he saw the top of James’ head slowly ascending up the stairs, pausing on the second-top step.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” James scoffed disbelievingly as Remus moved in front of him. “Did Nadia seriously send out the guard dog? What? Suddenly too afraid to talk for herself?”

Remus considered barking at him in response, but considering how James was way above the common creep in terms of persistence, he crossed his arms instead and glared steadily.

“Hell yeah she did. You should know why, given how much of a low-life asshole you’ve been acting all week. When are you going to give up the big guy act, huh? Curley called and he wants his complex back.”

James, in all of his 5-foot-no-thoughts glory, only squinted as the insult went over his head.

“...I knew I never fuckin’ liked you. Don’t get involved in our relationship, you little freak.” James tried to pass him, and Remus quickly blocked him, taking out the knife he’d stolen months ago.

“Take another step and this is going in your goddamn eye.” Remus raised his voice, confident that most of their neighbours were already out at work. “You’re not going near Nadia ever again, do you hear me?”

“Or what?! What’ll you do, Kaneshiro? Stab me? Put the toothpick away and step aside, for god’s sake. This is embarrassing, even for you.”

The two of them stood in a standstill, staring each other down as the echo from James’ exclamation faded out.

“...Fine.” Remus said finally. He slipped the knife back into his pocket, and James smirked smugly until Remus grabbed the front of his shirt instead. “It’ll be more fun to do this, anyway.”

With that he shoved James backwards, who quickly lost his footing and fell down the long and narrow flight of stairs. He tumbled for few moments, hitting each step, until he landed on the ground floor with a distant thump.

Remus stared after him, preparing for James to get up and start making a scene like he always did when he didn’t get his way. He didn’t.

Frowning, Remus descended the stairs, and as he drew closer to the slumped-over body, he noticed the puddle of blood around James’ head and the odd way he’d landed.

“Damn.” Remus commented under his breath. “Nadia’s going to kill me.”

He heard a sigh somewhere ahead of him, and fearing someone had walked in on his compromising position, Remus quickly glanced up, excuse at the ready.

“It was an accident-!” He exclaimed, before he realized it was Logan standing there, looking between James and Remus with a pinched expression.

“I know you pushed him, Remus. That’s not exactly what the law would define as an ‘accident’.”

For a second, Remus was starstruck (and opting to ignore the consequences of his actions). “You remember me.”

“Of course I do. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, though.”

That almost sounded like an accusation, so Remus held his hands up defensively. “Hey, in my defence he was just asking to die. The dude's a dick!”

Logan sighed. “Regardless, you shouldn't go around killing people. Sooner or later you’ll get caught.”

“Well, I’m 1 for 1 so far! But if you’d rather me not get in trouble… Have any tips on how to cover this?” Remus joked, winking.

Logan frowned at him before he truly considered it, looking around at the scene thoughtfully. “...Double check to make sure you left no evidence. Move quickly, before anybody stumbles across the scene. And if you have time, plant something which will make this look more like an accident-- for instance, a spill on the stairs.”

Remus’ eyes widened. “I wasn’t expecting actual tips. Holy shit- okay.”

He went over to check the body, feeling his cheeks heat up. He absolutely should not be getting flustered over advice on how to cover up a murder, yet here he was.

“I feel like you shouldn’t be encouraging this.” Remus said jokingly as he smoothed out the creases on the front of James’ shirt. “Didn’t you say something about having more work to do? Who knows, you might be giving me a new hobby.”

Remus laughed. Logan didn’t. When he glanced up, the deity was frowning.

“Perhaps not. Forget what I said; I shouldn’t be interfering in matters like this. I shouldn’t even be appearing to you now.”

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s the matter? I thought you liked talking.” Remus hastily stood upright, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I- regardless of my personal feelings, I have a job to do. I can’t allow myself to become so partial over one human.” Logan replied, rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows.

“Why? What’s the worst that could happen?!” Remus argued.

“You could cheat death, for starters.”

“You already know how I feel about that.” Remus whined. “I’ll off myself when the time comes, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Don’t-” Logan exclaimed, before he reigned himself back in. “Just. No. You’re supposed to go naturally. Neither you or I should interfere with that.”

Remus frowned. He wasn’t so sure he liked the thought of such a boring death. If anything, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Otherwise, he’d be just another body no one would remember-- like loverboy over there.

“That means no more meetings like this.” Logan continued on.

“But what if I want to see you again?” Remus muttered. He looked across the room to Logan and found him wearing a similar downtrodden expression, until it grew serious.

“You’ll just have to deal with that, because we were never supposed to meet in the first place. I have a duty to fulfil and you have a life to live. Our paths are as parallel as can be.”

“This is bullshit, Logan.” Remus said, but he didn’t argue any further. Not when Logan walked around him to complete his business. Not when he prepared to leave, either.

“Don’t do this again.” Logan said finally, giving him a stern glare. “I mean it.”

--------------

Case 3: the woman in the streets.

The next time Remus and Logan met, Logan was starting to think Remus was making a habit of this after all.

In Remus’ defence, he totally wasn’t.

Logan’s parting words just wouldn’t leave his head. It was even worse than last time; the knowledge that he could kill anyone and get to see Logan again plagued him, and he found himself pulling away from his family and friends after the questioning from the police was over and done with.

They were all worried for him, but especially Nadia who knew exactly what he did and assumed it was because of the guilt that he was becoming uncharacteristically withdrawn. Although she was shocked at how things had escalated, she tried to apologize multiple times for letting Remus confront James, which he would always blow off. It wasn’t killing James that had gotten to him, not at all; in fact he was glad that prick was out of their hair. Rather, he grappled with the idea of never seeing Logan again, one of the few people who truly saw the worst sides of him and accepted them nonetheless.

He didn’t deal with it well.

The night of their next meeting, Remus was out drinking alone. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he didn’t want to justify why he wanted to get absolutely wasted to his friends, so being sad and lonely for one night it was.

He had stumbled out of the bar late at night, beginning his unsteady trek home since he had accidentally spent too much money and couldn’t afford an uber to drive him back. Stepping onto the street a couple blocks from his apartment, everything was quiet until the person ahead of him crossed the road, just as a car sped around the corner and knocked them over with an awful crunch.

Remus stood in shock. He looked after the swerving car to get the licence plate, but it was already too late and they had hit the gas upon noticing him. Swearing, he stumbled over to the person left in the road.

“Shit- Are you alright? Of course not, you need an ambulance.” He was struggling to unlock his phone when he noticed how still the person-- a frail old woman-- was. It didn’t even look like she was taking breaths, though it was hard to tell through his swimming vision and the thick coat she was wearing.

With unsteady fingers, Remus pressed against the pulsepoint on her neck, and felt the moment her heartbeat stopped.

“Oh…”

And then he turned on his heel and threw up.

Death wasn’t supposed to bother him like this. He had always been proud of his ability to frighten others with his dismissive attitude towards life’s eventualities. But this was different. He had just watched the murder of a complete stranger right before his eyes, and there wasn't even anything he could do. What the fuck?

He didn’t even feel better when the person he’d been longing to see all night appeared right in front of him, arms crossed and ready to give a lecture.

“Again, Remus?! What did I tell you?! No more murder!” Logan threw his hands up at the sight of Remus next to the body, that was until he noticed the cause of death and Remus’ sickly appearance,

“I-I didn’t do anything this time, I swear. Logan I promised myself I wouldn’t.” He picked himself out of the gutter he had been puking into, trying to look at the deity, just so he could feel some sense of reassurance. “I thought I’d never see you again. ‘Thought I was okay with that, but I’m not. I missed you.”

Logan only stared at Remus when he began crying. He was a sappy emotional drunk when he got through the fun tipsy phase, sue him.

“...I apologize for yelling at you.” Logan said, awkwardly hovering his hand over Remus’ shoulder until it shuddered with a sob and accidentally brushed against him. Remus jolted at the cool touch, as did Logan, who quickly retreated his hand, eyes darting around worriedly.

“‘Always thought you’d be like mist.” Remus slurred, awestruck enough to forget his sadness. He reached forward to prod at Logan, who furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully.

“I… Yes, that’s definitely strange.” Logan cleared his throat and straightened up. “In any case, you need to get off the street, report this incident, and go home. Being around so much death isn’t good for your mental health.”

“Maybe.” Remus sighed. “I quite like hanging around you, though.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re drunk. You’re going to feel a lot worse about seeing me in the morning, I promise.”

“I never feel bad about seeing you.” Remus said, picking up his phone from where he’d dropped it. “I only feel bad that it’ll be a long time before I get the chance to see you again.”

“...I don’t get it.” Logan replied softly after a heavy pause. “You shouldn’t want to see me at all. I’m a bad omen. You’d only ever get to meet me in times of tragedy.”

“‘Bad omen’... And I thought Emo was dramatic.” Remus chuckled weakly. “You’re not so bad, Lo. You guide people to the end. You care for them even when you have so many people to watch over. You’re opinionated and you’re easily curious when things don’t go to plan. You don’t mind when I’m weird and you’re fun to talk to. I like you.”

Logan blinked rapidly with surprise, clutching his chest. “I wish we could be having this conversation away from the recently deceased. But... I suppose I feel the same way. I still don’t know how or why you can see me, but our conversations haven’t been unpleasant.”

“Death likes my company.” Remus said, smiling softly to himself. “...You’re right though. I should probably phone this in. I just wish I could remember the licence plate… Something like XQ... ugh.”

“XQR 460.” Logan supplied helpfully.

“That’s it!” Remus cheered, sloppily kissing Logan on the cheek. “Thanks babe!”

Logan floundered for a second as Remus begun calling an ambulance, struggling to regain composure. “I hope we don’t meet like this again soon. Three times over the span of a year is already too much.”

“I don’t know.” Remus looked at Logan slyly. “I’ve always had pretty bad luck.”

--------------

Case 4: the bad doctor.

The next time Remus and Logan meet, it’s completely coincidental and under less stressful circumstances for once.

Well, still stressful. Just for different reasons.

Roman was in the hospital because of some dumb motorcycle crash he got into, which near-gave Remus a heart attack when he heard about because he may often ask for death these days, but not like this. Never like this.

Anyway, he was more or less alive in the end. Just a broken leg and a lot of scrapes and bruises since he always refused to wear the proper protective clothing when he went riding (due to it ‘not fitting his aesthetic', apparently. Remus assumed it was pussy talk for ‘I don’t look badass enough to pull off leather’).

Remus had stopped by to visit, bringing some of the fancy name-brand crackers Roman liked since he kept complaining about how stale and awful the hospital’s ones were, and to say hello to Virgil while xe was on shift. The three of them even managed to sit down while Virgil was on break and catch up, too. Roman and Virgil seemed glad Remus was doing a bit better after his downward spiral a couple of weeks ago, even if they didn’t mention it.

After a few hours spent catching up and teasing one another, he decided to leave Roman to get some rest. His plans for that evening were to take a load off and perhaps call for some takeout with Nadia. Honest to God, he didn’t plan on looking for any trouble.

But still, trouble found him when he noticed Logan walking the halls of the hospital, following a doctor to the elevator.

Remus double-taked. Though he shouldn’t really be surprised to see Logan here in a place with so much death, it was still odd witnessing the cloaked figure walk around normal people, none of them noticing his presence.

Remus quickly jogged over. "Logan!" He hissed under his breath.

The deity startled (startled!) before turning to him, just like the doctor he was following.

"Do you need something?" The doctor said, raising an eyebrow.

"Uhhhh, nope! Just… getting into the elevator." Remus replied, stepping in and standing next to Logan.

"Why must you have such awful timing?" Logan sighed stressfully as the elevator doors slid shut. Remus looked at him, unable to verbally reply with the doctor standing right next to them. Fortunately, his unspoken request to elaborate was picked up on.

"This doctor is going down go the morgue. I was here to see a patient that died under his care, and I noticed how death seemed to latch onto him. I got curious."

Sounds like a bad doctor, if even a deity of death was interested in him. Heh, that probably said a lot about Remus too.

Logan elaborated for Remus’ misinterpreting amused expression. "Remus, he murders patients purposefully. You should not have gotten on this elevator."

...Oh. Remus looked past Logan to the doctor, who had noticed his glances.

"...Hm, aren't you supposed to be in your room? Broken leg, road burn, lacerations?" He questioned, eyes flicking down to where he assumed Remus must be injured.

"Nope! You’re thinking of my twin. I came to visit him today." Remus responded as chipper as he could manage, suddenly a lot more unnerved knowing that this apparently dangerous doctor knew about his brother.

"Ah! I see. I did wonder how you managed to grow a full moustache in a day." The man chuckled. "Twins… quite fascinating."

Uh oh spaghetti-os. "Yeah… people say we're like two unrelated people, we’re so different." Remus laughed dismissively. It didn't seem to bother the doctor.

"Interesting… Say, a partner of mine is conducting a study on the differences in the individual psychologies of monozygotic twins. I'm sure it would please her to get more data, if you'd be interested in participating. There would be monetary compensation for your time, of course."

"This is such an unethical form of recruitment. What kind of professional are you?" Logan argued in frustration. Remus almost burst into laughter on the spot from the bizarreness of the situation, but he somehow managed to turn it into an agreeable grin instead.

"Sounds good, doc." Remus said.

"What-?!" Logan exclaimed. Remus spared him a glance, hoping it would let him know he knew what he was doing. Logan didn't look placated in the slightest.

"Excellent! I'll pass the details onto your brother and we can arrange a meeting sometime this week.”

At that moment, the elevator stopped to let a few other people on. Remus took the opportunity to head out before they could reach the basement floor.

“See you later!” He called to both the Doctor and Logan.

“REMUS!”

--------------

Case 4.5: the dead doctor.

The next time they meet, Remus fully expects it.

Roman asks him over text why he volunteered them for a study, and Remus makes some vague excuse like ‘sexy doctor’. Thankfully, he bought it.

Before the date sent to them by the doctor, Remus decided to do his own research first. To do so, he contacted Virgil and asked for details on the man.

After copious amount of friendly jabs (like 'oooh Remus, I didn’t know tall, straight, and boring was your type'), Virgil told him his name and not much else, given that xe wasn't exactly close with the older staff member. That was fine; Remus used the information to find online profiles, where he found contact details and photos, where he found business accounts, where he found history.

After pulling a few more strings from people that owed him one, he managed to gain access to the vital records from the hospital. It didn’t take long to discover that Logan was right, there had been a spike in deaths since the doctor, a mister 'Stacey’, had begun working there. It was a mystery how no one had noticed the pattern honestly. Weren't doctors supposed to get their licences taken away after a certain number of incidents? As he begun looking through the files more closely however, he realized that the deaths were often chalked up to accidents; small things that could have been due to anything, from mistakes during operations, to the patients overdosing on their prescribed medication, to incidents days after they’ve been discharged.

As Remus closed his laptop, he begun feeling very glad he had impulsively accepted Stacey’s offer.

The meeting ended up being scheduled for Friday evening, and by the time it rolled around, Remus was fully prepared and waiting outside of the agreed location. He dialled Roman’s number, looking out to the empty parking lot and familiarizing himself with the location.

After a few rings, Roman picked up, sounding slightly agitated. “Yes, Captain Dookey?”

Remus snickered at the old nickname-- it was practically a relic from when they played pirates as children. Perhaps Roman was feeling sentimental after his accident.

“Aye aye first mate. You should know that I’m not gonna make it to the study. I already called Dr. Stacy to let him know we’re cancelling for today, so you can stay home.”

“Really Remus? I just got ready.”

“Yeah well, you’re supposed to be resting anyway. Unless you want to drop a visit by yourself that is, but Virgil told me he’s straight, soooo...”

He heard a retching sound on the other end of the line.

“No thanks.” A sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess.”

“Bye, ugly.”

“Later, Rat Bastard.”

“Rats are cute, that’s not an insult. Byeee~.” Remus quickly hung up, his grin quickly fading as he took in the apartment complex.

It didn’t look like the sort of space that would house an office, but Stacey didn’t look like the type to break the Hippocratic oath either, so perhaps the world wasn’t as straight-forward as it seemed.

Slipping his phone away, Remus buzzed the number he’d been given, and it wasn’t long before the good doctor himself came down to answer the door personally.

“Remus.” Stacey almost looked surprised to see him. “Is your brother not coming?”

“Oh, no.” Remus waved a hand. “I just got off the phone with him and he told me he’s running late. He said to get started without him.”

He received a charming smile. “That works just fine. Come on in.”

Stacey led him up the stairs to his apartment, and the whole time Remus felt the weight of the kitchen knife in his pocket. When they got to the ‘office’ (which was really just a living room with minimal furnishing), he offered him a drink.

“No thanks, I’m good.” Remus said, looking around. “...Seems pretty empty in here for an office.”

“Ah… Yes, unfortunately my colleague is having renovations done in her usual space, so we’ll have to collect our data here. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

A fair enough explanation on the surface, and one his brother would probably accept if he was here, but Remus wasn’t nearly as trusting as Roman was. Nor was he as ignorant to the true purpose of this meeting.

“I see… That makes sense. Or at least it would, if I didn’t already know all about your dirty little secrets.”

Stacey glanced up from where he’d been looking for a pen. “...Pardon?”

Remus smiled back; a grin with all teeth. “You have quite a few skeletons in your closet, doc. Even for a fine medical professional like yourself.”

The doctor very carefully didn’t react to that. "My apologies, do you have the right person? To the best of my knowledge we've only spoken once."

"Yeah." Remus agreed. "And once is all it took. I found out about all those little accidents that follow you, doctor. Weird how many times your patients pass away from nicked veins and potassium chloride overdoses, hm?"

The only outward response Stacey gave was the clenching of his fists. Subtle, but Remus noticed it. "Be careful Mr. Kaneshiro, because that sounds an awfully lot like a baseless accusation. People sue for that, you know."

"I don't doubt it. But you already know it's not so baseless, don't you? You know exactly what I’m talking about, which is why you invited us here to a shady apartment late at night, no colleague in sight."

"Remus what the hell do you think you're doing?!" A familiar voice chimed from behind him.

Remus startled out of his focus, whipping his head around. "Logan?"

"Don't look at me, you ignoramus-! You met a serial killer alone after I told you to stay away?!"

"He knows my brother, I couldn't just-!"

Remus looked back at the doctor was closer now, looking down at him pitifully. "I see now. The talking to air, the erratic behaviour, the pushing your delusions onto others… you mustn't be well. It's alright, Mr. Kaneshiro, I could easily refer you to a mental health facility who will take care of you."

"Remus, you have to get out! Now!"

"I know!" He wasn’t a complete idiot, damn it! But he needed to get Stacey to confess or-

"Ah, perfect! If you wait here, I’ll go and make a call."

Remus stepped backwards, hand going to the knife in his pocket. He needed Stacey to confess, but if he didn’t-

Unfortunately, Stacey noticed his movement and quickly grabbed his left wrist, putting way too much pressure in his grip than was necessary.

"Ah-ah. I told you to stay put, didn't I? Come now, don't be difficult. I'm only trying to get you the help you need."

If he didnt-

"Let go of him!" Logan demanded to the man who couldn't hear him.

Stacey froze, feeling the cool touch of Death on his arm as Logan tried to pull him away, and at that moment Remus pulled his knife out and stabbed him in the chest; slipping the blade right between the ribs.

Red pooled around the knife, staining his crisp white shirt vividly. Stacey stared at the knife, and dug his nails into Remus’ wrist.

"Fucker." Remus yelped with pain, pulling the weapon back out.

Finally, Stacey let go and stumbled back, hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor. His expression didn't recover from the shock from when Logan touched him; he didn't even try to apply pressure to the wound as he bled out. He just sat there until the light left his eyes, and the only sound left in the room was Remus’ laboured breathing.

"I… shouldn't have done that." Logan muttered, eyeing the limp body.

"Done what? I'm the one that killed him. That was my backup plan all along." Remus replied numbly, looking at the scene he had caused.

"I gave him the touch of Death, it's- it's an omen. I'm not supposed to use it ever."

"Gee, I'm flattered. I promise murder was always on my brain though." Remus said as he took the tape recorder out of his pocket. No need for this anymore. He wanted to get a clip of Stacey saying something incriminating so that he could defame him and ruin his reputation, but well, him not being able to benefit from a reputation at all was the next best thing.

Logan watched him, taking in the claw marks across his wrist. "...Right. He scratched you, so remember to clean under his nails."

Despite everything, Remus smiled softly at the advice. "Aww, you really care about me, don't you?"

"I- no. Absolutely not. That’s absurd" Remus snickered as Logan flushed an adorable shade of paynes grey, which he hid by going to deal with the corrupt doctor’s soul.

"...Why did you show up, by the way? There isn't anyone dead in this apartment is there?" Remus realized belatedly, looking around the empty space.

"Ah… No. Admittedly, I've been keeping a closer eye on this town than I really should, and after what happened the other day, I figured I needed to be here when I noticed you two meeting… I probably shouldn’t have.” Logan conceded.

"Well, at least you can't say this wasn't a business visit." Remus giggled to himself, wiping the blood from his knife with a tissue. Maybe he was a little giddy from the endorphins of confronting a prolific serial killer, or perhaps it was the confirmation that Logan cared for him, but either way he felt really good right now, like he could take on the world.

Logan looked at him and sighed. "I should've known you'd be trouble. No more killing, Remus. This has to be the last time."

"Of course, pinky promise~."

"...I can see you crossing your fingers behind your back, you brat."

--------------

Case 5: the one who tried to get away.

The next time they met, Remus broke his pinky promise. No surprises there.

It was hardly even a promise to begin with, but for some reason Logan expected him to stick to it. Quite foolish, if you ask Remus, given that he now had a total of three murders under his belt, and stopping there almost felt like giving up.

Of course, he had to lay low after Stacey however. The hospital was holding a memorial for his death and Remus later found out that it was ruled a break in. (Made sense, since Remus took a few of his fancy cleaning products on the way out, as a treat to himself.)

It was a shame Stacey was being remembered so honourably, but he couldn't really do anything about that. At least he wasn't out in the world hurting more people.

But unfortunately for Remus, the ruling of Stacey’s murder didn’t stop the incident from trickling into his normal life, as Virgil and Roman seemed to grow suspicious of him. Virgil didn't bring up the topic to him directly, but xe begun acting sketchy when the two of them hung out (Though that could easily be wariness after having one of xyr co-workers be killed). Oppositely, Roman brought the topic up at the first chance possible.

"Dr. Stacey was murdered the night we were supposed to meet him." Roman commented the next day they were able to have lunch together, arms crossed confrontationally. "Funny that."

"Yeah. Sounds like we had some pretty good luck, if you ask me." Remus grinned.

"Wha- why are you smiling?! A man died!" His twin hissed at him. Under his breath, as to not alert the other tables.

Remus’ grin faded. "Listen Ro-bro, I didn't want to tell you this but our good doctor wasn't as kind as you think he is. I called you off that night to help you. Trust me. It’s better off that neither of us went through with that ‘study’."

Roman leaned back, looking unconvinced. "What were you doing instead, Remus?"

"...Huh?"

"You heard me. Where were you? What's your alibi?"

"You're not accusing your own flesh and blood of murder, are you?" Remus sipped his drink casually; ice coffee with as many pumps of peppermint syrup as the barista would allow.

"Just answer the question." Siiigh, what a tightass. How did they come out the same womb?

"I was meeting an old friend, for your information. Logan." Remus smiled to himself at the inside joke.

"Logan? You've never mentioned a Logan before." Roman raised his eyebrows.

Remus leaned back in his chair with a shrug, opting to look out the window instead. By doing so he missed the flash of complicated emotions that crossed his twin’s face at the dismissive gesture.

"I don't tell you everything about my life, brother dearest."

"Clearly…"

A week or two passed since his conversation with Roman, and during that time Remus didn't get to see Logan again once. That wasn't such a terrible thing, most people would assume, to not run into a deity of death, but Remus was so bored! He wanted to see his favourite death pal again, but no opportunities arose to do that, and nothing was striking his murder-fancy.

That was until the day he saw a familiar licence plate parked outside a shop.

Remus froze in his tracks, remembering the night he last saw that car.

A woman crossing the street, a body too still, a car speeding away with no remorse-

Remus had given the licence number to the police, but clearly they hadn't done anything about it. Or perhaps they'd tried and the asshole bought them off.

He growled at the idea, startling a passer-by who was crossing around him.

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long before he found out who his ire belonged to. A familiar face left the shops and begun walking towards the car; Anton, a guy who had been a year above him back in high school. Remus’ memory of the man was vague; primarily made up of snapshots of cruelty and entitlement towards those around him.

He looked exactly the same, with his annoyingly polished appearance and ugly overpriced clothes. So he was right about the police being paid off, then. Typical.

He'd just have to do something about this himself.

“I suppose there’s no point in trying to convince you to stop this, is there?”

“I mean.” Remus begun, looking down at the body he had just finished suffocating and rubbing at his bruised arms. There was more of a struggle than tv had led him to believe. “I kinda had to do this one. What? Was I supposed to connect the dots on a murder and not stalk and kill the guy who got away unpunished?”

“Most people would say yes.” Logan groaned, in the sort of tone that said he already knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“We’re not like most people though, are we?” Remus grinned, fluttering his eyelashes.

“You’re most certainly not. I’m barely a person.” Logan replied with finality.

--------------

Case 6: the one who pushed their luck.

And then shortly after;

“Come on man, don’t do this.” The masked person pleaded, hanging onto the fire-escape for dear life. Literally.

Remus raised an eyebrow, making a show of contemplating the request. “Hmm, I don’t know. You did try to pull a gun on me.”

“It wasn’t loaded, jackass!”

Remus tutted and held his foot over the person’s clammy hands. They shook violently at the unspoken threat. “And now you’re gonna wake up the whole neighbourhood too? No consideration!”

His joking tone must have angered them, because they began struggling to hoist themself back up again, red in the face with strain. “I swear, when I get up there-”

Promptly losing his interest in hearing the rest of that threat, Remus stood on their fingers, causing them to let go of the fire-escape and plummet to the street below with a strangled yell.

“Whoopsie daisy.”

He leaned over the banister, whistling innocently as a familiar presence appeared next to him. Logan joined him in peering down at the body, eyebrow raised.

“At least this one was merely an accident?” He guessed by the cause of death, a twinge of hope in his voice.

“Nah, they’ve tried breaking in at least 3 times this year. It was getting annoying.”

As Logan scolded him for his recklessness, Remus decided not to comment on it when their topic of conversation turned back towards the casual banter they usually shared. The two of them stood on the fire escape until the sun was on the edge of the horizon and Remus had to dash back to his apartment to avoid being seen by the early-commuters.

--------------

Case 8: the innocent.

And then:

Remus curiously nudged the raccoon with the tip of his boot. He’d just stumbled upon it and it still looked fresh; given that he was standing by a busy road, it was no wonder what had happened.

He was making a mental note to come back and collect the bones at a later date, when Logan appeared in-front of him in a blink, looking completely unsurprised this time around.

Remus on the other hand startled before regaining his bearings and shooting the deity a smile. “Our paths are looking less parallel by the day huh, Psychopomp-ous?”

Logan raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the word play. “It appears so. It’s quite the pleasant surprise to find you not getting into trouble for once.”

“There’s always tomorrow.” Remus wiggled his eyebrows back. “That said, I really didn’t expect to see you. I was wondering for a while if you dealt with this kind of thing too, y’know.”

Logan looked down, seeming to really notice the raccoon for the first time. He nodded after a beat. ”She had a life too. My brother brought her into the world, and so I must escort her out.”

”Yeah? Anything of note happen?” Remus asked, eyebrows raised with genuine curiosity. He’d file away the latter half of Logan’s statement for later prodding.

”...She had a family. They stayed together under the porch of an old couple.”

“Ah, to be a racoon living under a porch.” Remus lamented dreamily. “I’m glad she got to live such a rich and fulfilling life before becoming road kill. I’m truly jealous.”

“In the wild, your lifespan would most likely be around 2–3 years as a raccoon.” Logan pointed out, attempting to contradict his idealistic tone.

“Exactly. The life.”

That earned a pinched expression from Logan that made Remus titter.

“Just messing with you, prim reaper~. Now, do you have any idea how long it’s going to take for her to decompose? I have a new piece of decor to make.”

--------------

Case 11: the matchbox.

Remus watched from afar as the house on Psyche Avenue burned. It was bright and brilliant, so of course the firefighters were already on the scene, trying to calm the fire and save the occupant inside.

They’d be much too late; the trafficker was already unconscious and likely burning to death, along with any evidence Remus might have left behind. It was the perfect crime.

Satisfied with today’s work, he took a drag of a cigarette, delighted when Logan appeared beside him instead of with the dirtbag who deserved to burn forever (and since it was a mystery whether he'd end up with such a fate, it only seemed fitting for Remus to play god and speed up the process.)

“Those kill, you know.” Logan said in greeting.

“That makes two of us.” Remus grinned sharply, even when Logan rolled his eyes and pinched out the end of his cigarette.

For the second time in a month, the two of them overlooked the sky together, illuminated by the amber blazes of the fire. It almost felt like a date.

--------------

Case 13: the one with bad luck.

He was back in the alley that had imprinted itself so clearly in his memory, knife buried in the chest of a would-be assailant. Remus was boredly watching the blood seep between the bricks when Logan finally appeared to deal with the body.

“You’re late!” Remus complained with a whine. “This guy’s practically cold already.”

“Apologies. There was a flash flood across the country, and it took more of my focus to handle than I would've liked."

Remus hummed. He thought he heard something about that on the news. Mother nature could be cruel indeed. Perhaps even worse than Remus himself.

“Anyone nearby?” He checked.

“Not in a half-mile radius, no. However, the police may be on their way.”

“Plenty of time, then.” Remus said as he pulled Logan down to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

It had been months since that first drunk sloppy kiss happened, and less time since it had become a regular greeting. Remus would never get tired of the feeling of cold skin against his lips. It was like kissing marble-- if marble had a sassy mouth and a sexy amount of knowledge.

Logan pulled back first, smudging away the trail of blood running from Remus' nostril. “Did you have any trouble?”

“Nah, you should see the other guy.”

That earned a laugh-- a quiet chime that made Remus’ heart flutter. “I see them. Good job, you’re getting rather skilled at that.”

“Why, thank you~.” Remus preened under the praise. “It only took a couple tries, but I think I finally got the technique down pat.”

“Hmm. Speaking of 'Pat', my brother doesn’t seem to like this much. He’s not unappreciative of your choices in target, although he appears to be rather disapproving on the amount of times I've been called to your side."

Logan didn't talk about his brother much: the deity of life. From what little Remus had learned from his prying and Logan’s own complaints, he seemed like a bit of a killjoy. He blew a raspberry in response.

"Tell Patton to stop making so many criminals and maybe I'll consider it."

The corner of Logan's lips quirked up. "I don't think I will, as humorous as I'm sure that would be. It doesn't quite work like that."

Remus shrugged, watching as Logan looked off to the side.

"...It seems I’m needed elsewhere."

”You can’t stay? We barely got to talk.” Remus said with a pout.

“Unfortunately so.” Logan turned to the body; what he should have been there for. It wasn’t long before his focus was back on Remus, though. “That said... It’s a busy night. Perhaps we’ll meet again sooner than expected.”

Remus’ frown tipped back into a smile as he watched Logan vanish. He then turned on his heel and retrieved his knife before walking off into the night. If he was going to make good on Logan’s expectations, he better get to work.

--------------

Case 0: the one who death followed.

It soon became an established pattern; Remus would come across someone shady, and he’d put together a detailed- or straight-forward- plot on how to get rid of them. By now his city must have noticed the string of deaths, but with such a random means and very little evidence, Remus was free to continue as he pleased.

In a sense, he was untouchable with Logan by his side, pointing out anything he left behind and giving warning for any potential witnesses. Especially when he gave up on persuading Remus away from this path. It's not like the moral argument could be made anymore; the city had seen a drastic decrease in crime once Remus had taken out a lot of big players (even if there was an air of fear that lingered in the back of everyone's minds, wondering if they'd be next up on the chopping block).

All in all, it was enough to make Remus cocky; perhaps even enough so to lead to his downfall. But how was he ever going to give up now? All his life he’d been hoping for some sort of excitement to fulfil him, and he finally found it in a surprise meeting with a deity of death. Death had gone from a distant longing to something familiar and welcome; something he could use to right wrongs and feel a sense of purpose with.

And as long as he was able to exchange a life for one more meeting with his beloved partner in crime, he would do his best to stay ahead of the game.

(No matter who was out there, trying to stop the two of them.)

--------------

Writing taglist: @just-perhaps @sashootkahoot @anxious-l0ser @illogical-immunity @overlad-of-the-snakes @varthandi @whisperinginthevoid @and-this-sword @creamiiteaa-xx

Deityfucker au taglist: @arodynamic-enby @its-the-usda-certified-trashman @overlad-of-the-snakes @aromanticwhore @haha-phrog @hetalianhufflepuff @emeryyleaf @winter-wandering @gaylotusthatexists @8bituin

#my writing #sanders sides #intrulogical #remus sanders #logan sanders #(others are mentioned)#deityfucker au #death tw #violence tw #crime tw #weapon tw #swearing tw #injury tw #(lots of warnings for this one. take care!)

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phantom-curve · 3 years ago

Note

For your prompts: 5. trepverter for Willex, please?

this one kind of got away from me, but hopefully it still mostly captures the essence of the prompt! and if not, it's at least a cute little fluffy Willex moment that I thoroughly enjoyed writing. set in an AU where the boys are alive, here is some flustered Alex ft. supportive Reggie and Luke.

trepverter - a witty response or comeback you think of only after it's too late to use (Rated T for swearing with a Trigger Warning for mentions of homophobic parents)

They say hindsight is 20/20 but Alex never really paid much attention to that until the day he found himself knocked flat on his back, elbows scratched and head pounding as if he had been hit by a freight train instead of an irresponsible skateboarder. It probably didn’t help that he had been in the middle of trying to calm himself down, all the signs of an impending anxiety attack mounting within his system until he had finally just put his feet to the pavement and started walking to get some of the overwhelming energy worked out of his system. He probably could have been more attentive, more aware of exactly where he was going and who was headed his direction, but he figured it would be fine on a random Wednesday morning in October when the tourists weren’t really around and most kids his age were in school.

Alex wasn’t in school because his parents had withdrawn tuition payments after he had finally worked up the courage to tell them he wouldn’t be bringing a nice girl home because he didn’t want to date any girls, in fact he would much prefer to date some boys, but the pressure of keeping his identity a secret hadn’t made that possible either so he was done hiding and he hoped they could accept that. Turns out they couldn’t accept that, or him, once he made it obvious he wasn’t going to go back in the closet or give any girl the chance to “change his mind”. As if that was even possible.

It hadn’t been a big blowout, more of a silent retreat, his parents completely withdrawing any and all support from his life over the course of the last few months. And apparently that included tuition, as Alex had discovered that morning when the school called to inform him they had finished completing his withdrawal forms, and they would be sad to see him go. Which had led him to the boardwalk, and then directly into the path of whatever hooligan that had crashed into him. Maybe if he had just been able to keep his mouth shut for 3 more years he wouldn’t be lying here, breathless and bruised, and still on the cusp of absolutely losing it.

Hindsight, Alex thought to himself as he stared up at the clear blue LA sky, can absolutely kiss my ass.

“Awh, man!” A voice above him whined. “You dinged my board!”

Alex toppled off of the anxiety ledge and straight into an ocean of lost control.

“Dinged your board? Dinged your board!? Dude, you ran me over!”

He punctuated his statement by leaping to his feet, which would have probably been a lot more threatening if he didn’t immediately stagger, hand held to his head as the world spun and his stomach rolled.

“Oh shit.”

The voice cursed quietly, and then Alex felt warm hands against his biceps, steadying him until everything slowly came back into focus. There was a boy standing in front of him, black cracked helmet perched on his head, soft brown eyes staring at him with a tinge of concern and remorse. When it was clear Alex was steady once more, he released his grip and offered an easy-going smile.

“You’re right, man, I totally pancaked you. My bad, are you okay?”

There was a weird feeling in Alex’s gut. Not the kind of sickening wave of nausea he had experienced when he first stood, but more of a fluttery feeling. His brain had quieted somewhat, and he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just look where you’re going next time.”

His voice came out soft and almost breathy, not at all the warning tone he had meant to use, and Alex could feel his cheeks warming slightly in embarrassment. The other boy’s smile grew. He reached up and unclipped his helmet, lifting it off and then tossing his head back as a cascade of long brown hair tumbled out. A few stray pieces fell to rest alongside his face and Alex felt his mouth fall open slightly. His stomach swooped and then dropped completely, like he had just plummeted from a rollercoaster and his mind went blissfully blank. Everything narrowed down to the absolutely beautiful boy standing in front of him, face awash in golden morning light, cheeks flushed from his exertions, dimples and white teeth on full display as he grinned yet again. Alex wasn’t sure he had ever met someone so blindingly attractive in his entire life, and then the boy winked, winked!, and lifted a hand out towards him.

“I’m Willie.”

It was the best name Alex had ever heard of. When their palms met, a spark shot up his arm and straight to his heart.

“Alex.”

Thank God he remembered how to talk, because he truly hadn’t known what to expect when he opened his mouth. Willie released his grip and Alex left his hand suspended for just a second before he pulled it back and shoved it into the pocket of his jean jacket.

“Nice to meet you, Alex. Listen, I really am sorry about knocking you over. Any chance I can make it up to you?”

It took Alex an uncomfortably long amount of time to process what Willie was asking. Long enough for him to panic and wonder if it was like a date or if it was like a pity thing or oh God what if Willie wasn’t even into guys and Alex was about to make this whole thing super weird and –

A chirping sound came from Willie’s pocket. His eyes flitted away from Alex’s to pull a phone out and check the screen. Alex felt a strange twist in his heart as he watched Willie’s easy smile fall only to be replaced by an annoyed grimace and eyeroll as he silenced the phone. Without skipping a beat, he thrust it back into his pocket and pulled out a sharpie instead. Alex barely had time to register how much he liked the way Willie’s hand felt on his forearm before the other boy was suddenly bent over it and there was a cool sensation sending goosebumps up his arm as the tip of the marker scratched across his skin. When Willie pulled back, that brilliant smile was back in place and his eyebrows were dancing so merrily Alex wanted nothing more than to watch them forever.

“I gotta go, but that’s my number. Text me sometime.”

And then, before Alex could work up the nerve to say anything, Willie was tossing his skateboard to the ground only to chase after it with a few bouncy steps before jumping onto the deck and quickly making his way down the boardwalk, away from Alex. He watched for longer than it was probably acceptable until Willie was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Only then did he look down to see the numbers sketched onto his forearm in orange ink.

(213) 555-3276 Willie<3

It was the heart that did him in. That heart had to mean something, right? It was intentional. Willie had written his name with a heart. Alex wasn’t making that up, it was inked onto his own arm! He studied it as he sat on the beach, mind silently replaying every single second of his short interaction with Willie over and over again while different groups of people came and went around him. There had to be a reason for the heart. Alex fiddled with the braided rainbow bracelet on his wrist, the motion familiar and soothing. Had Willie noticed it when he grabbed Alex’s arm to write his number on? Was the heart some kind of sign?

Alex let out a groan and fell back against the sand, the texture scratchy against the back of his head where a slight throbbing still persisted. Another silent reminder of his morning encounter. He wished he had thought to say something when Willie had asked him about making it up to him. Wished he hadn’t panicked or let his stupid brain go into overdrive worrying about what might happen for so long that nothing ended up happening. If he could go back, he would have told Willie, yeah, he could make it up to him. Maybe take him out to coffee or dinner and a movie or ya know, just any kind of date in general? But Alex wasn’t that smooth, and he wasn’t quite that confident yet. And now all he had was a number in orange ink and a name with a heart and absolutely no answers to the millions of questions crowding his brain.

He let out a deep sigh and sat up again, before finally climbing to his feet. It wouldn’t do to sit and worry, even if that was kind of his specialty. Luke had a girlfriend now. And Julie was incredible, and Luke was a disaster, so obviously the guy had to have some kind of game. Alex couldn’t quite believe it, but maybe he could give him an idea of what to do in this situation. Alex turned his feet towards the apartment the boys had been sharing since Luke turned 18 and left his parents’ house for good and started the long walk back to their shared home.

Luckily, both Luke and Reggie were home, which meant Alex had two sounding boards for his word vomit as he paced in front of where they were sat on the couch. Reggie was kind of like a puppy in the sense that all he had to do was exist and people flocked to him, so he also had more experience than Alex did when it came to figuring out someone’s true intentions after a first meeting. By the time he had finished giving the boys the run down, he was feeling like they might be able to put their collective braincell to use and figure out exactly what the best course of action would be here.

“Yeah, man, I got nothing.”

Alex groaned and Luke held up his hands defensively.

“Look, dude, just cause I’m dating Julie doesn’t mean I know how I pulled it off! I’m just hoping my luck holds out until I can convince her to marry me, okay?”

Reggie was nodding thoughtfully, so Alex held out hope that maybe he would have some words of wisdom.

“I mean, he sounds like he wanted to at least like...talk to you some more, right? Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given you his number. And the heart is promising!”

Alex let it soak in for a second. An idea struck him out of nowhere.

“What if I just text him and tell him he can make it up to me by going on a date?”

“Bold moves, dude. I like it”

Of course, Luke liked it. It was a very Luke-inspired move. But Alex didn’t quite have the same guts as Luke. He didn’t think he could really pull it off.

“Ugh, no. My anxiety would skyrocket the second I sent the text. I just wanna know what the heart means!”

“Why don’t you ask him that then?”

Alex didn’t like how Reggie was the voice of reason here. That was supposed to be his job.

“Because if I ask him that he’ll know I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“You have been thinking about it all day.”

Alex finally reached his physical limit and stopped his pacing to fling his body onto the couch between Luke and Reggie, both boys catching different limbs and silently shifting to accompany his sudden presence.

“I don’t want him to know I’ve been thinking about it all day! That’s pathetic. Ugh, why didn’t I just say something in the moment!”

Reggie’s fingers were gentle against Alex’s scalp as he carded a hand through his hair reassuringly.

“It’s okay, Lex. You’ll think of something to say when the time is right. Release your worries to the wind and all that other junk, ya know? Just breathe.”

So, Alex breathed and tried to surrender his obsession into the ether. Reggie had been on a bit of a self-help kick lately, but honestly, it did help Alex more often than not, so he resolved to try and follow his best friend’s advice, even as his anxiety raged against the idea.

Turns out, the right time was exactly 11:43 pm when Alex suddenly awoke from a dead sleep where his dreams had been invaded by none other than Willie himself. He looked down at the number, the hastily scribbled name, and the accompanying heart bright against his pale skin even in the darkness of night and typed the message into his phone before he could think twice about it.

To: Willie<3 Considering you pancaked me, I think it’s only fair you make it up to me with a pancake breakfast. 9 am at Sandy’s Diner?

The responding message was almost instantaneous.

You’ve got yourself a date. Catch ya in the morning, pancake ;)

And for the second time that day, Willie wiped Alex’s mind completely blank, the word date playing on repeat until he fell asleep with his lips still curved into a smile, visions of a certain long-haired pretty boy dancing through his head.

#in other news this is my 1000th blog post!#feels appropriate to honor that with Alex losing his mind over Willie for 2k words straight #mads writes #willex #jatp #julie and the phantoms #alex mercer #willie jatp #willex fic

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plush-rabbit · 4 years ago

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Giran’s Daughter

On surface level, you aren’t like your father at all. You’re too caring, too open with your expressions and you’re too soft. But you were still raised by your father. Still raised by the same man with unwavering loyalty and confidence who acts as if he doesn’t care. You act like you care, act like you’re too weak to do much but you’re stronger than what others assume.

Shigaraki:

Giran introduces you to him at the same time as Dabi and Toga. He finds you insufferable at first, you’re quirk isn’t anything physical, only similar to Giran where instead of making memories vague you just give them excruciating headaches that last for five minutes. You aren’t worth the trouble with your quirk is what he tells you in front of him but what you lack for flashy quirks you make up for speed and skill. You’re quick to dodge the flames and knives and hands, quick to pull out your own and barely manage to escape Kurogiri’s portal.

You aren’t like Giran at all nor do you look much like him except for the smile. You give a wicked grin when people underestimate you, immediately showing off just how painful a headache could be when you turn the tables and end up with bloody knuckles.

You’re a simple reason for him to jerk off at night. Shigaraki doesn’t have many options when he wants a quick session and he isn’t going to spend his time looking for the perfect material when you’re already there. It’s quick and leaves him feeling good and you don’t even know about it so there’s really no harm done.

But then after one night, he’s hungry and he goes and gets a snack. You’re sitting there still dressed in the outfit from that mission and you’re just staring off. He has to snap his fingers a few times in front of you until you’re broken from your trance. You look at him with tired eyes and mumble an apology, muttering how you often just get lost in your thoughts.

It’s a long night that night. You two have a talk about nothing in particular, just about the mission as you swirl the watered down contents in your glass. You talk to him as a person and he can admit that you’re attractive but when the flickering lights of the room make you smile and joke about how there’s a ghost, he realizes that you aren’t so bad.

He follows you around for the next couple of weeks. He reminds you of a puppy in that sort of way, walking near you and sitting beside you after you offered him a taste of friendship. He’s nicer to you. He lets you tag along on missions without much complaint as long as you stick near him. He engages with you more often, offering to let you go into his room and trying (but failing) to clean up. He doesn’t like it when other members tease you, often cutting their rambling short and all it takes is a gentle hand on his bicep to calm him down.

Shigaraki won’t ask you out officially, it’s more of a slow progression into things until you’re making out on his bed, with your hands entangled into his hair and mouths wet with heavy breaths. He doesn’t bat an eye when you lean on him during meetings, only shifting so you’re more comfortable. You two already spent so much time together and he’s a lot less irritated when you’re around so it only made sense for the two of you to move onto something romantic where you stayed with him at night and pressed kisses down his neck.

The relationship is laid back. There’s nothing extravagant about it (not like there can be) but it’s still really nice to be with him. You feel safe with him, you seek him out for comfort and bury yourself deep in him, sighing in relief when his arms wraps themselves around you. Dates are spent inside, eating junk food and watching some random movie that happens to be on, ripping it apart and ending in cuddles and wandering hands.

Shigaraki is respectful around Giran but if you want to snuggle up to him while he’s talking to him, he’s not going to push you away. Your father isn’t thrilled but he has a sort of respect for the League and Shigaraki so he isn’t going to say anything other than a side glance and twitch of his hands. He’s still your father at the end of it and as much as he’ll try to look at this as a good thing, he still feels protective over you.

That being said, Giran will still pull you aside and attempt to give you a talk about dating and horror stories that he’s heard from around the block. You laugh him off and tell him you feel safe around Tomura. You have this faraway look in your eyes and your smile is something that he hasn’t seen in a long time, it’s soft and small but it isn’t fake or forced. He’ll scratch the back of his head and shrug. Your life, do whatever you want, kiddo.

Compress:

He’s smitten with you the moment he lays his eyes on you. You’re just so pretty and wow, you can cause really painful headaches, that’s just interesting, please say more. He’s genuinely excited to hear more about you, glad that his appearance covers up the redness that’s spreading across his face. He just really likes to hear you talk about your quirk and he knows that you don’t have the chance to show off very often just what it is by the way you stand up straight and have this wide grin.

If there’s ever a mission, he always asks if you want to come along, saying how you’re a good assistant and heavens! He didn’t mean it in a bad way, just that you’re good help is all. He likes having you around, likes knowing that you have his back just in case something goes amiss. During a mission, he’s much more likely to show off if you’re there. He’s a showman at heart, he loves being in the center stage and having eyes on him. But knowing that you’re watching him, well it just makes him so much more excited to perform.

He only realizes that what he feels for you is a strong admiration when you take a hit meant for him. He’s startled that you’d do that for him, he knew you were caring but you still risked your life for it. It hits him hard like a freight train and he’s left breathless and thanking you. His demeanor changing to something gentler as he tells you how magnificent you were.

Atsuhiro doesn’t leave room for doubt that he likes you. He’s always complimenting you, always throwing his arms around you and lets you be around him without his mask. If you complain you’re cold, he’s covering you with jacket and buttoning it up until you’re snug. He’s patting your head and letting his hand slide down to cup your cheek and only giving you a smirk when you turn flustered.

When he asks you out, he has to make sure everything is perfect. He knows you like him, you stick around and give him applause after he does something extraordinary. You go out of your way to spend time with him and always ask if he wants to spar rather than any of the others. But why is he still so nervous? Why is he still fretting over the little things like the place where he’ll ask you if you want to be more? The timing of it? It’s all so frustrating and he hates it.

He talks too much and it isn’t him monologuing; it’s different this time. Words are spilling out and he’s lost his composure and he feels like a teenager with his first crush all over again. But you just stay there, giving him a half smile and by the glint in your eyes, he knows you’re enjoying this all too much. Ugh, Atsuhiro really wishes he wore his mask. But then you kiss him and return his feelings and he’s stunned and flustered and grateful that he didn’t wear it.

The relationship is a lot. He wants to show you off and get you everything that you want and deserve but he can’t do that for a lot of reasons. But he’s still a villain with a rather useful quirk so most of the time, he does bring you things he think you’ll like and if the plastic chip is still on it, well that’s something he can get rid of later. He’s sweet and that’s all that really matters.

Atsuhiro likes it best when you touch him on your own accord. He loves the confidence, the shaky hands that turn steady as soon as he relaxes into your touch. He loves knowing that he has you and that you actually want him back. He melts into your touches, if you want to wrap your arms around him, he’s adjusting himself until you’re uncomfortable, if you want to lean on him, and he’s going to fix his posture. Cup his face and press kisses around his face and he’s putty.

He isn’t frightened of Giran but he does respect him. You are his child, and you are dating a villain whose quirk requires touch and he’s down an arm. He understand the odd looks and when Giran pulls you away only for you to brush him off and situate yourself back on his lap. He tries to keep the PDA to a minimum around him; he doesn’t want the man to feel awkward just because you happen to be in a loving mood.

Giran has no real bad blood with him so he’s fine with you you’re dating and fine, he gets that you don’t need his approval, but give your old man a break, he’s just looking out for you, he swears, cross his heart and hope to die. He knows you can handle your own but given your current lifestyle, you don’t make the best decisions.

#shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki headcanons #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura headcanons #sako atsuhiro x reader #atsuhiro sako x reader #sako atsuhro headcanons #sako atsuhiro headcanons #mr compress x reader #bnha giran #bnha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha headcanons #hope you like them!!

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lovelucybradford · 4 years ago

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I Pretend You’re Mine (4)

A/N: Hi all! I know it’s been a while. Unfortunately adulting sucks and I was so caught up in my work situations that I had no more left to give. Thankfully, the writer’s block has gone away (for now). I planned to have this up on Valentine’s Day, butttt *writer’s block*. So, to make up for it, I’m (hopefully) giving you two chapters this weekend. Chapter five is a continuation of four; it was just so long that I decided to split it into two parts. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for all the love!

Masterlist

Tags: @empath-bunny

@ityagirljay

@wolfarrowepz

@supernatural-crazed-girl

Chapter Four: Drag Me Headfirst, Fearless

As soon as the plane landed on the tarmac in sunny Florida, the reality of Rosalie’s upcoming situation had hit her like a freight train. She’d been a nervous wreck since. Rosalie jiggled her leg so much on the Uber ride to the port of call that Stiles, the human form of the Energizer bunny, had placed a hand on her knee and urged her to stop. At that point, Rose figured she’d better cool it before she completely lost her resolve and ‘jumped ship’, so to speak.

So, Rosalie began listing things that she could count on in an attempt to center herself. It was something that the woman had been taught and perfected over many years of intense therapy sessions. She rattled off the list in her mind as she concentrated on the quickly passing palm trees on the side of the highway.

Things That Rosalie Could Count on For the Trip from Hell:

One: Knowing Rosalie’s stepmother Evelyn, who made her career out of creating high-class soirees such as this, everything would be meticulously planned out, down to the minute. If it were up to her, she’d even plan the times that they could use the toilet.

Two: Rosalie would most likely be the talk of the event, until the gossip hounds found something, or someone, juicier to bite into. The last time that she had seen the relatives, all twenty of them (minus her Uncle Joe and Aunt Natalie, who wanted nothing to do with her father), was three days before Drew and Rose had their untimely breakup. Drew, who was more family to them than Rosalie ever was.

Luckily, if she had to go through hell, at least…

Three: Rosalie’s support system would be with her 100%. She had Lydia to give reassuring hand squeezes and the family subtle insults. Her brother Levi who, as much of a jackass that he could be, would defend his sister’s honor to the (metaphorical) death. Stiles and Rose would lounge around the open bar and mock her Uncle Tom as he attempted to ‘dance’, or Aunt Sarah who would undoubtedly flirt with Derek.

Derek… Rose’s confidante, her best friend, her anchor, who hadn’t spoken a word since they stepped foot on the extravagant vessel.

Rosalie could chalk it up to being so breath taken from the scenery that Derek had nothing to say. Even Stiles had repeatedly commented “Holy shit this is so bougie” ten times in the last five minutes. (Not that she couldn’t agree. Her father Jason was the poster child for ‘go big or go home’) To be fair, it was beautiful. The atrium was adorned floor to ceiling in shades of gold, a large diamond chandelier smack in between two beautiful staircases.

Staircases that gave Rosalie an eerie sense of déjà vu. Only because she had seen something bearing a high resemblance to them in a movie featuring her fictional doppelgänger, a fellow redhead who shared Rose’s name.

Part of her wondered if this was her father’s idea of a sick joke. Rosalie had always said that Drew and her were ‘Jack and Rose’. Turns out Drew was more of a Cal Hockley than a Jack Dawson. As for Rosalie, she was still Rose, forever searching in that freezing sea for her Jack. She should have known that she and Drew were doomed to sink beneath the waves.

Sink beneath the waves… Rosalie’s heart began to pound faster as she grabbed ahold of Lydia’s wrist, relying on her cousin to guide her through the maze of humans and staircases to the staterooms.

Derek and Stiles walked ahead of the two, the former’s back stiff with tension.

Was he predicting, too, that this plan of theirs would go down like the Titanic?

Or was he dreading playing Rosalie’s lover in front of a ship full of pompous asses and the occasional normal person?

Derek normally exuded confidence, from the strong set of his jaw to the way that he entered a room. At that moment, he looked more like a frightened schoolboy than a man with enough swagger for their whole friend group.

His blatant anxiety just heightened Rosalie’s. Before she could really process it, Lydia was pulling her arm away and gently shaking Rose’s shoulder.

“Rose? Rosalie!”

Rosalie shook her head, clearing her thoughts and focusing on the hazel of Lydia’s eyes. “Hmm? Sorry.”

Lydia let out a puff of air, blowing upwards the tendrils of hair that weren’t securely fastened in her high ponytail. “We’re here. Go settle in and we’ll meet you in a bit.”

Lydia then shoved Rosalie towards Derek, who caught her with a hand on her elbow. He took the key card from Rose’s sweaty palm and slid it into the slot on the handle, opening the door to a stateroom with a balcony overlooking the crystal sea. The stateroom… with one bed.

Rosalie tried not to hyperventilate thinking that Derek and she had to share that.

“You can take the bed,” Derek commented as soon as he too laid eyes on it.

Rose ignored him, deciding to handle that situation later, flopping full-bodied onto the plush mattress. The white comforter smelled like a swift ocean breeze, and she couldn’t help but press her nose further into it.

“What is it with you and smelling things today?” Derek chuckled.

Rosalie threw a nearby pillow at him, her face still buried in the bed. “Shut up, asshole.”

The bed shifted to the right of where she lied, the fabric dipping a foot away. That made her feel better. At least if they had to share it like when they were kids, there would be enough space between the two of them so that things wouldn’t happen. Which Rosalie would make sure of. Well, sober her would make sure of it. Drunk her could not be trusted.

“I didn’t hear a word you said, but I assume it was something along the lines of ‘you’re an asshole.”

Rose rolled onto her side. “Close, but no dice…” She lost the train of thought as her eyes caught on a glittering cardstock pamphlet lying between the two of them.

Martin Family Reunion 2019

Day 1: Thursday, June 13th

5:00 pm- Disembark from Cape Canaveral

7:00 pm- Welcome Cocktails in the Stardust Lounge, Deck 6

All must attend.

Proper Cocktail Attire required for entry.

Rosalie groaned so loudly that a masculine laugh resounded from the other side of the wall.

“What?” Derek responded to his friend’s displeasure. Without a word, the woman passed him the pamphlet, watching out of the corner of her eye as his beautiful olive eyes took in the itinerary. His face contorted into a sour expression, and he put down the paper at once.

With a pat to Rose’s thigh, Derek got up from the bed and grabbed his wallet and the aviator sunglasses that were resting on the vanity table. Her eyes followed his form, waiting for some kind of explanation as to where in the hell he thought he was going.

“You and Lydia have fun getting ready. Stiles and I are going down to that bar we saw in the atrium.”

Rosalie gaped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Wh—what? What about—”

“Would you chill? I’ll be back before seven. I need a drink before I see The Stepford Family.”

Rosalie snorted rather unattractively at Derek’s choice nickname for her father and his new family. Evelyn and her daughters certainly were like characters dragged out of The Stepford Wives film.

Derek was about to leave the room, when he paused, two fingertips grazing the golden door handle. He turned his body slightly to face Rose, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“It’s all-inclusive, right? Everything we buy with the key card goes on his tab?”

She assumed that by ‘his’, Derek meant her father, Jason.

“Yup,” Rosalie replied, popping the ‘p’.

“In that case, I’ll make sure to get the most expensive liquor that they have,” Derek smiled deviously, lazily waving the golden keycard.

She was momentarily distracted by his pretty face, and the familiar but unwanted fluttering in her stomach. By the time Rosalie snapped out of her thirstiness, he was gone.

__________________

Rosalie stumbled in her Louboutin’s for the sixth time, looking quite like the person who’d had three shots of Whiskey that was bottled before she was born.

Derek, the one who actually had, so smoothly wrapped his arm around Rose’s waist for support. The heat of his palm warmed her skin, even through the mint green cocktail dress she was wearing, but it was the last thing on her mind.

With every step that they took towards the wooden double doors at the entrance of the Stardust Lounge, the more Rose’s stomach churned, and her vision blurred. Eventually, her heart pounding through her ribcage was the only sound that Rosalie could hear.

Rosalie stopped abruptly, frantically searching for a bathroom, for a garbage can, for a balcony that she could jump off of.

Derek continued walking but was pulled back by the hand that was grasping Rose’s still figure.

“I can’t do this. Oh god, I can’t do this. I think I’m going to throw up,” she breathed shallowly, the urge to vomit slowly creeping up her throat. Rose hastily removed Derek’s grip from her waist, struggling to find her balance, and teetered towards the opposite wall. Before she could go very far, Derek’s rough hand was in hers, squeezing it in a likely attempt to bring Rosalie back to center.

“What?” She heard Lydia begin, but Derek had silenced Lydia instantly with a rushed command of “Go, stall for us. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Hold your breath, Rosie!” Stiles called as Derek led a dazed Rosalie to a cream-tiled room.

Stiles’ advice brought Rose back to the time, years ago, when Lydia had told her that she’d kissed Stiles mid panic attack after his dad was shot pursuing a perp.

“When I kissed you, you held your breath,” Lydia had said to Stiles.

Rosalie had thought it romantic at the time. So romantic. But she prayed that Derek didn’t try that trick on her. Rose couldn’t handle it, not when…

Derek grabbed hold of either side of Rosalie’s face with both hands, forcing her to look at him.

“Rose. Rosie! Look at me. Breathe,”

His face so close to hers just made her breathing speed up, not slow like he intended.

“Fuck Rosalie,” Derek voiced, sounding almost as breathless as his best friend.

He nodded once, then took a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, his eyes never leaving Rosalie’s tear-stained face. “Breathe with me, babe. In, out.”

She tried to follow his lead, but only to appease him. Rosalie couldn’t stand that desperate look in his eyes, the frantic shifting of his gaze, or the tense set of his jaw. The thought of him being in pain like that, even emotional pain,it physically hurt her.

“Good. Good, Rosie. Keep going.”

She took a few more breaths through her nose, the world-ending feeling lessening with each exhale.

“You good?” Derek questioned, his thumb rubbing lightly up and down the woman’s cheek.

Rosalie nodded softly, still not having the breath to voice any thoughts.

She leaned back on the countertop, feeling the coolness of the tile and the mirror behind her. Rose hadn’t noticed before, but they were hiding from the family in a large single bathroom. Rosalie laughed to herself. It wasn’t the first time that she’d had a mental breakdown next to a toilet. And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Thanks,” Rose commented hoarsely, not daring to look at Derek in fear of what he might think of her. Weak was the only word that came to mind. “Sorry for freaking out. Never thought you’d have to console someone in a bathroom, did you?”

Derek snorted, and Rose’s heart dropped a bit at the sound, thinking that he was mocking her. “Actually, you’re not the first crying woman that I’ve held in a cramped bathroom.”

She raised one brow at him, a wordless cue to elaborate.

“I may or may not have had a girlfriend with a pregnancy scare back in college.”

“Of course, you did,” Rosalie said before she could really think about it, heart once more dipping in her chest. What was she thinking, pretending to be engaged to someone like Derek Hale?

Derek Hale, who could have any woman he wanted. Who would think that he would settle for someone as quiet and average as Rosalie?

“Hey.” Derek stepped in front of her, further away than he was minutes ago, but not by much. “Never apologize for being human, for having feelings and fears. Especially not to me.”

All Rosalie could manage was a small smile, to which he reciprocated with one of his own.

“You’re still the strongest woman I know. Stronger than Cora, stronger than mom—”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied playfully.

Derek rolled his eyes and continued on with his motivational speech, every word loosening the tense muscles in her shoulders. “Yes, even my mom. But don’t tell her I said that. Hey, if you’re worried about your family, then fuck them. They should be thankful that you’re even here after all the shit they threw at you.”

Rosalie nodded, fingers playing absently with the sapphire ring on her left hand—thinking about the last time she had worn a diamond on the same finger. And the man that put it there. Who took it so easily and put it on someone else. Not just someone else: Ashleigh.

“No, I can see it in your face. You’re worried about seeing Drew again, aren’t you?”

Damn him for being so perceptive, and for knowing her so well. Rosalie went to deny it but found that she couldn’t lie to him.

“You know what, we’ll walk in there, I’ll see him, and you know what I’ll say?”

He was smiling again, grinning ear to ear like he thought he was hilarious. It was so rare to see him like that that she humored him just to keep that smile on his face.

“And what will you say, may I ask?”

“’Me thinks thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.’”

Rosalie couldn’t help herself as her head swung back in a fit of giggles. “Oh my God, Derek Hale. You are such a dork.”

“Ah,” he countered, holding up a finger, “You can’t say that. Not when you totally got my joke.”

Rosalie beamed up at him. “Ok, fine. We’re both dorks. Happy, Derek the Bard?”

“Yes, princess. I’m enthused. You ready to go?” Derek gestured with a thumb towards the door. The door that lead to the hallway. The hallway to the Starboard Lounge, where all of Rosalie’s family would stare at her like she was some rare creature on the auction block.

“No,” Rose said weakly.

Derek rolled his eyes again, a look that Rose was more familiar with than the Cheshire Cat grin that previously lit up his face. “Yes, you are.”

Rosalie stared at herself in the large, lighted mirror, checking over her face and hair for damages. Trust Rose’s family to point out a single flaw in her appearance. She looked mostly put together, save for the tiny specks of black mascara under her eyes and the slightly faded red lipstick. Rose grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall, wetting it and dabbing under her eyes until all of the mascara smears disappeared.

Satisfied, Rosalie tossed the towel in the garbage bin and grabbed her clutch. “Do I look okay?”

Derek’s eyes swept her form, taking in everything from the pale white of Rosalie’s untanned legs to the lace of her dress, to the retro curls in her hair. She suddenly felt self-conscious, even more so when Derek stayed silent.

Rose nudged him with her elbow, hoping he would say something, anything, and end this deafening silence. His eyes flicked back towards Rosalie. “You look beautiful.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that she knew he was just saying that because he’s her best friend and he has to.

“I mean it, Rosalie,” Derek added firmly.

“What about me? Do I look good enough to fit in with high-society?” Derek asked, hand sweeping down his body.

Rosalie took it as an unashamed excuse to study him. The unbuttoned suit jacket that he wore hugged his biceps so nicely that it was hard to not stare at them for too long. The white shirt under it was buttoned, except for the two closest to the top that were left open to show a peek of dark chest hair.

In short, he looked like a snack, and damn was Rosalie hungry. Not that she could tell him that, of course. So, she just repeated what he already knew. “Of course. You know you’re hot.”

Derek’s eyes widened, his ears turning slightly pink. “You think I’m hot?”

“You think you’re hot.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Um, yes you do. You get that look on your face when you’re flirting with girls like ‘I’m sexy and I know it.’”

“God, that was one time Rosalie! It guess I will never live it down.”

Rosalie snickered at the memory. “No, you won’t. Now be a good pretend fiancé and help me walk.”

“Why the hell are you wearing those stilettos if you can’t even walk in them?”

“Lydia made me.”

Derek said nothing, knowing that there was no arguing with Lydia Martin. He offered his friend his arm, ever the gentleman. In turn, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, trying not to get too distracted by the muscle under it.

#derek hale fic #derek hale x oc #derek hale fluff #derek hale #tyler hoechlin #teen wolf

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paulfwesley · 4 years ago

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A Split Second (Part Four) [Bryce Lahela x f!MC]

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f!MC (Dr. Claire King).

Chapter Rating: T.

Word Count: 3.3K.

Description: She might not know what her faith is, but someone reminds her how to hold on to it. TW: guns, violence, blood. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

Disclaimer: Characters, storyline, and parts of the dialogue are taken from Pixelberry’s Choices’ Open Heart. They fully own the characters, dialogue, backgrounds, etc. MC Claire King’s background is my own creation, based off of MC in-game’s personality.

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this took so long!! And I’m also sorry because there is one more part after this XD But that will be the last part, I promise!! This chapter took on a life of its own. Bryce isn’t in it, but it’s definitely something that I realized Claire needed in the development of this story. If you’d like to be tagged please let me know! I don’t count people liking the actual post because I don’t know if that’s you wanting to be tagged XD so be sure to comment and tell me!

Tagging: @commander-rahrah @jaydito-tjjd @anotherbeingsworld @shakespeareanwannabe @bitchloveskcbaseball @wisegirl9 @rookie-ramsey @mrsdrakewalkerblog @omgjasminesimone @frenchieswiftie @jamespotterthefirst @elladines @thanialis @lucy-268 @sherrylove @bloomingsivan @lahellacute @araihc-ce @ltimeisanillusionl

Enjoy!

Claire’s favourite time of the year was Christmas. She loved decorating her home, she loved watching Christmas movies, she loved giving gifts, really loved getting gifts. But despite her favourite holiday centering around the birth of the figure of the religion, she didn’t know if she could call herself a Christian.

But that didn’t stop her from sitting in the back pew of the hospital’s multi faith room. It was a small place, roughly the size of the diagnostic team’s room, with three pews on either side of the room. She had expected for there to be a giant figure of Jesus painted in stained glass on the window, but because of the place being a multi faith room, they couldn’t. A tall podium sat at the front of the room, probably for when leaders of the faith came to speak to the people desperately seeking any kind of reprieve from the worry that plagued their every waking moment.

Admittedly there were a lot of places Claire could have gone. The cafeteria, where she could have stress ate until Bryce’s surgery was over, but with G.S.Ws there was always the chance that complications could arise, and she wasn’t sure how much her poor stomach could handle, especially when she thought about eating anything her stomach clenched.

She briefly considered a supply closet, but she could still remember the burning shame she felt when June found her there crying her eyes out at the news of Kyra’s relapse. It was too risky, especially because of the coming and going that arose with the need for supplies in there.

Then she thought about waiting it out in the resident lounge, but there she’d be surrounded by her friends. She’d have to talk with them, listen to them give reassurances that nothing would happen to Bryce, but Claire didn’t want to listen to empty promises. Her friends had seen her in bad states before: blood soaking her scrubs, exhaustion draining her face, the occasional stench that emitted off of her when she was so caught up in a case she forgot to shower. But she didn’t want them to see her like this: eyes bloodshot, nose red, tissue tucked into her sleeve for easy access when a rack of sobs hit her like a freight train. She just wanted to be somewhere she could shut her brain off.

That was when her mind flashed to the multi faith room. It was always quiet in here, save for the odd sniffle or sob that came out of a person while they prayed for their husband to make it through the night, their sister to make it through her surgery, their grandfather’s diagnosis to be anything but what they feared the most. Otherwise, it was a place where people came to find some shred of peace. The silence was comfortable; it was a recognition that everyone in the small room was suffering somehow, but who found companionship with each other in the sense that they all sent their pleas to a guy sitting on a cloud in the sky.

Tonight, though, the multi faith room was surprisingly empty. Someone had to have been in there earlier, because the collection of candles that sat on the table in front of the podium were lit, the flames of each individual candle small but creating a larger, stable symbol of hope. Each candle represented an unknown person, a life no one knew, a story untold, but every tiny wick created a sense of solidarity, the knowledge that someone was thinking of you, that this point in time, there was a place in the darkness where all hope was extinguished, but burning on as a deliberate point to prove that your life mattered, that it was being prayed for, that you were being fought for. An ember to glow with the reminder that someone wanted, needed you to stay.

All the same, she chose the pew in the very back. She huddled against the armrest, tucking her knees under her and curling into the side as much as she could. She rested her joined hands under her head in the hopes that she would be less tempted to check the watch on her wrist and despair at how long the surgery was taking. She made Dr. Emery promise that she’d page her as soon as the surgery was over, but she didn’t know how long that would take, so Claire settled in for what could possibly be the longest night of her life.

Her eyes hurt, her head aching with exhaustion now that all the adrenaline had flushed out of her system. She was still in the blood soaked clothes she had been in when she tried to cover Bryce’s wound, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up and change out of them. Instead she lay there, the high air conditioning blasting through her clothes and stiffening the material, chafing against her chest. Still she didn’t move. Her memories of Bryce paralyzed her.

She relieved every single moment backwards right from the moment he had been whisked into the O.R. room all the way back to the first time she had seen him in the changing room on her first day in Edenbrook, when she had no idea who he’d become to her. Back then, he was just a meat headed jockey; someone fun to hook up with, but who Claire thought was the ‘no strings attached’ type, which was fine with her, because as each day passed she found herself more and more enamored with Ethan. But then Ethan left, and Bryce stepped up to help, and she finally started to see him in a new light. No, he wasn’t the type to buy you a drink at the bar, flirt with you just the right amount, laugh when he knew you wanted him to, knew just what to say to reel you in, and then go with you back to your place and then be gone without a word before you even woke up the next morning.

No. Bryce Lahela was the type to make terrible jokes. He talked during movies. He bought shots for his friends because he had heard they were going to compete against each other. He laughed at everything you said: your good jokes, your bad jokes, especially your terrible jokes, the ones you made because you knew only he would laugh at them. He’d bring you back to his place, lavish you, make you feel warm and loved and safe, and then the next morning he’d bring you breakfast in bed to share, even if it was just toaster waffles and he ate all of the strawberries even though you pleaded for him to spare you at least one. Bryce was safe. Bryce was loving. Bryce was home.

And she didn’t know if he’d die not knowing how much she loved him.

The idea twinged her chest, slowly spreading through her like a parasite, devouring all threads of hope and spitting out something that was ruined and beyond repair. She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt tears brimming, and she curled herself into a smaller ball, if that was even possible. It was as if she was hoping that the more she compressed herself, the more she’d be able to crush the pain that snaked her muscles.

She faintly heard the doors to the chapel opening. The thought of sitting up crossed her mind, because she was technically in a place of worship and she really shouldn’t have her feet up in a pew, but then she thought that this was a place people came when they were desperate, when medicine and hopeful statistics and the comforting words of doctors weren’t enough for them. Those people who were in no place to judge how she dealt with her emotions. So she kept her eyes shut, drinking in a shuddery breath through her mouth.

Movement in the chapel, footsteps echoing softly on the carpeted floor. The footsteps grew louder, and suddenly the seat next to her dipped with a weight of someone sitting down, the body heat of their dress pants brushing against her feet. She still kept her eyes shut, though. If someone needed her presence just to feel like they weren’t alone, so be it.

“I’ve known you for a little over a year, yet I never knew you were religious,” the agonizingly familiar voice said and Claire’s eyes immediately snapped open. She dropped her feet to the ground and sat up, turning her head so her eyes met his soft blue ones. Ethan gave her an easy smile, the look you’d give a child to reassure them that a needle was nothing to be scared of. “You didn’t peg me for the type to be singing Christmas carols about Jesus.”

Claire sniffled, blinking heavily before finally turning to face the front. “I mean, I decorate a Christmas tree and I paint Easter eggs, but I don’t know about church every Sunday or not mixing certain types of cloth.” She tilted her head back, letting her neck rest on the back of the seat. “But when I needed a place to be by myself, to be quiet, to feel some sort of peace… this is where I ended up.”

Ethan stared at her. At the wrinkles around her eyes. The dryness of her nose that came with the repeated rubbing of tissues. The redness in her swollen cheeks. “Lahela’s still in surgery.”

Her chest dipped. When she didn’t respond, Ethan continued. “That was the last update I could get from Harper. She’s the best. She’ll do what she can for Lahela. She--”

“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know, Ethan,” she cut in dryly. The words came out harsher than she intended. She always spoke cordially with Ethan, professionally, nicely even, considering that their split hadn’t really been… amicable. But now, tonight, she didn’t have the room to decipher the lingering tightness in her chest whenever she looked at him. Any emotions she felt tonight were for Bryce, the man she had only become certain of when she was on the verge of losing him.

Ethan went silent. “Then what do you need?”

“Just distract me.” She turned her eyes to him without lifting her head. “How did you find me here?”

“Aurora Emery saw you in here,” he responded. “She didn’t want to disturb you, though. But when I ran into her and asked if she’d seen you, she told me.”

She wasn’t sure if she should murder Aurora or thank her. She didn’t necessarily want to see Ethan but… but even after all this time, she still associated him with comfort, especially when he wasn’t open about it, which wasn’t what she wanted.

His leg bounced, his foot tapping against the floor. “The cops were looking for you. They wanted a statement.”

She cocked a brow. “And?”

“And I told them I didn’t know where you were,” Ethan answered. He gave her a once-over, taking in her frazzled appearance. “I figured after what happened, you wouldn’t be in the mood to really talk to anyone. Besides, Sienna had already filled us in on what had happened, but they wanted an eyewitness report.”

The corner of her lips turned up slightly. “Thanks for that.”

“I know this is probably a stupid question,” he started. “But are you okay?”

“Someone pointed a gun in my face today,” she hummed. She lifted her head and gave Ethan an incredulous look. “Would you be okay?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m honestly surprised you’re as calm as you are.”

The anger she thought she had suppressed, that she hadn’t felt in months, flashed through her. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”

“Right,” he acknowledged, the word lingering in the awkward air she had created. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her arms over her chest, sinking back into the weathered cushion while ignoring the discomfort of the wooden top.

After a few more silent seconds, Ethan finally said, “So… Lahela, huh?”

She didn’t even bother opening her eyes. A snort escaped her lips before she could stop it. “It’s a little late to play the jealous ex, don’t you think?”

“No, I know,” Ethan quickly backtracked, his tone filled with alarm, but with a forlorn undertone that Claire only recognized because she was well versed in the language of Ethan Ramsey. “I just meant… he’s a good guy, if you had to pick someone.”

Claire couldn’t help but wonder if Ethan was trying to imply that he wasn’t a good guy, but she didn’t have the strength or energy to launch into that discussion. Instead, she said, “He is a good guy. The best, really. It just took me a while to see it.” Her shoulders deflated. “Too long, if I’m going to be honest.”

“I’m no stranger to feeling like you’ve waited too long,” Ethan said quietly. The words cut through Claire, though only deep enough to leave a superficial wound. “But I’m sure Lahela knows how you feel.”

“He doesn’t,” she retorted. She opened her eyes to see Ethan staring at her, confusion raising his brows. Claire pushed herself up so she sat properly. “He thought all he was to me was just a rebound. But he’s not. He’s everything to me. He makes me happy, feel warm, feel safe…” To her horror tears blurred her vision. She didn’t want to be the type of person that cried to her ex about her current boyfriend (though Claire wasn’t even sure that was who Bryce was to her) but here she was. Yet instead of making her feel awkward, Ethan just waited patiently, his face neutral, his eyes betraying none of the emotions she wondered he felt hearing her talk about someone else to him. He dipped his chin for her to continue, and encouraged, she did. She bit her lip to keep it from wobbling and sobbed, “But I couldn’t do the same for him. He got shot because of me.”

Ethan put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Rookie, pull yourself together.”

That nickname. One she hadn’t heard since her final day as an intern, when he had accidentally let it slip before correcting himself with the reminder that she was no longer an intern. It was a nickname she had loathed when he gave it to her; it made her feel impossibly small and feeling like she had to live up to it. But over time she began to associate the challenge that came with the word rookie, the drive that made her want to work harder, the validation when she realized that at some point, the word had turned from a nickname that Ethan had given her because he hadn’t known her name to a name that she had built a positive reputation around. Claire King: the Rookie of the intern year of 2019. The best of the best, the woman who refused to let herself be broken. And now, with Ethan using it just now, those feelings came rushing back to her.

She straightened her back and instinctively raised her chin, like she was poised to report a diagnosis or defend her actions. Ethan gave her an approving smile. “Bryce didn’t get shot because of you. If he did, it was because he loved you, and he would rather it be him in pain than you.”

“But I didn’t ask him to do that!” Claire sobbed, unable to contain the despair slugging through her veins.

“You didn’t have to,” he pointed out. “The moment Bryce had seen that gun pointing at you, he had made up his mind.”

She gave him a look. “And how do you know that?”

“Because if it were me, I would have made the same decision,” he revealed,

The tension was so thick in the air around them it could have been cut clean through with a knife. “Ethan…” she breathed.

“I know,” he said, whispered. The words were so simple. Short, one syllable each. Yet they were heavy, wistful, filled with the joyous memories of a life that had been, haunted by the possibilities of a future that might have been. If she wasn’t Claire King, junior fellow on the diagnostic’s team. If he wasn’t Ethan Ramsey, the country’s best diagnostician, and the leader of the diagnostic’s team. It was a truth that went unsaid, the mournful melodies hidden by the words of a promising love song. Their love was one that was fleeting, never meant to thrive, never meant to see the light of day, never meant to go beyond the secret wishes that things were different.

She darted her gaze away from him, focusing on the stain on the patch of carpet that she was praying was coffee. Ethan cleared his throat. “You can’t blame yourself for Bryce’s choices, or even for the gunman’s choices. All you can do is have faith that Harper is amazing at her job and that Lahela is strong enough to make it through the other side.”

She chuckled humourlessly, giving the empty space around her a long look. “Ethan Ramsey, I had no idea you were such a poet.”

Ethan snorted, and that launched the both of them into a fit of laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks and clutching their aching sides. They would finally sober up, but then one of them would break again, and then that would make them lose it again.

The door to the chapels opened, and a short old lady took one step in and turned to find the source of laughter. When her disapproving gaze landed on Ethan and Claire, they both stopped laughing. Instead of stepping inside, the woman clicked her tongue in disbelief and shook her head in disgust before stepping out. Ethan and Claire looked at each other again before dissolving into another round of laughter.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Claire’s laughs ceased. She wiped at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you, Ethan,” she said. “I needed that.”

“Hey, I’m a doctor,” he offered, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “It’s my job to make people feel better.”

A smile graced her face, while the ghost of one tugged on Ethan’s lips. It was a gesture of understanding between two people who had loved and lost, and who recognized that while ending things had been the right decision, they would always need each other in their lives. It was in that moment that Claire realized that she and Ethan had needed each other, but were never meant to end up together. In Ethan, Claire had found a mentor, someone who understood her passion and who recognized her talent, who could push her to be the best she could be. In Claire, Ethan had found someone he had been wandering for years without-- a true friend. Someone who listened without judgment, who offered solutions, who reminded you of what mattered in life, someone who was just there when they needed you to be.

And in Bryce, Claire thought, she had found a true partner. In Bryce, she had found the person she was meant to end up with, who would swing their joined hands obnoxiously while they walked down the street while she apologized to passerbys but who did it because it brought a smile to her face. In Bryce, she found someone she knew she could count on to never run away. In Bryce, she had found her soulmate.

Her pager buzzed. The vibration froze her, rendering her unable to move. With an encouraging nod from Ethan, Claire sucked in a steadying breath. She was ready.

She pulled her pager out of her pocket. Looked down at the words that, regardless of what they were, would change her life forever.

He made it.

#open heart #playchoices #bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #open heart fanfiction #open heart fanfic #bryce lahela x mc fanfic #alinas fanfic #my fanfic #choices: stories you play

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wacem · 4 years ago

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Alone in the Dark

An Until Dawn fic by Wacem

Read it here or check it out on AO3, where everything is definitely formatted properly, because I suck at Tumblr.

Chapter 1

Chris --- 5:35 AM

Tunnel to Sanatorium

Chris stumbled back a few steps and craned his neck to watch Sam clamber up the wall like a spider monkey. He shook his head. He'd never understand how a person could make that look so effortless. Hell, he'd never understand the appeal of rock-climbing in the first place. He supposed it was useful in circumstances like these, but heights just weren't his thing. At all.

“Guess it’s just you and me now, A--”

He turned around and stopped dead in his tracks. He thought Ash was right behind him, but his eyes met nothing but darkness. With the agonizingly slow pace he'd been able to keep up, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t catch up. Hell, that's the only reason he hadn't waited for her back at the manhole. She had just groused at him for moving too slowly, so he figured he might as well get a head start. That way, she could overtake him, and no time would be wasted waiting for his crippled ass to keep up.

Only she hadn't.

And now there wasn't so much as a glimmer of reflection on a rock to indicate her existence.

"Ash?" he'd meant to call out, but it came out as more of a trembling whisper.

The wendigo got her. The thought sent a cold dagger through his heart and made his legs feel heavy. No. Not her. I've already lost enough tonight. Please, God, not her, too. His throat tightened, and unwelcome tears stung his already aching eyes.

"Ash??" His voice tore through the lump in his throat and cracked. It sounded way too shrill to his ears, and the way it echoed through the caves filled his soul with dread. As far as he knew, the wendigo could hear just fine; it was just its vision that was funky. Biting his lips to hold in the rising panic, he took a shaky step forward. The pain in his ankle, objecting to having been temporarily forgotten, vigorously reminded him of its existence. He grunted softly.

Images of the stranger, alive one second, gone the next, flooded his mind for the umpteenth time since it happened. Only this time, it was Ashley's body dropping to its knees. Ashley's head thudding heavily into the snow while he stood paralyzed with fear, clutching the stranger's shotgun uselessly as the air filled with the monster's shrieks. First, the wendigo, he'll render you immobile. Then he strips the skin off of your entire body, piece by piece.

Nononono. She can't be dead. I'd have heard something, right? Screams or something. I didn't hear anything, so maybe she just got lost.

"Y-yeah… yeah... she just got lost," he murmured to himself, hoping its utterance would make it true. Chris continued limping toward where he'd seen her last. He'd noticed a path branching off to the left on the way here. Maybe she took that by mistake. She did have a notoriously wretched sense of direction, and they hadn't exactly marked their passage.

As he moved, his mind wandered to the time he and Ash had gone to see Star Trek Into Darkness in IMAX. There wasn't an IMAX theater in their hometown, so they'd had to drive all the way to the city-- an hour away. Chris had just gotten off an overnight double and was utterly wiped, so he'd given Ash the keys to his car and let her drive. He'd figured that way he could catch some z's on the way up and actually be conscious for the movie. Big. Mistake. Next thing he'd known, Ashley's sheepish voice was waking him up saying, "We're here!" When he'd looked at the clock, he saw that they were four and a half hours late for the movie. They couldn't even catch a later showing! Turned out Ash had driven them to every single movie theater in the city-- during rush hour traffic, no less! --before she finally found the one their tickets were for. It wasn't a total loss; they were able to get a refund on their tickets, since they weren't torn or anything, and they tried again (successfully) the following week, thanks to Chris' superior mastery of navigation. Now that he thought of it… that had been the first time they'd really gone anywhere together without someone else tagging along. Purely coincidentally (he told himself), that was also when Chris first noticed how very, very frantically the butterflies fluttered their wings in his stomach whenever he was near her.

After that day, she was firmly forbidden from ever driving them anywhere again. From then on, her official job on road trips was to be the in-flight entertainment. This normally took the form of her reading one of her books aloud like a live-performance audiobook. It was a duty she solemnly accepted and performed with gusto; she even did voices for the different characters. The memory made soft laughter rise up out of him like a bubble, and, like a bubble, it abruptly vanished at the thought that he might never hear her silly voices again.

Oh, God, Ash. Please be okay. I could probably handle losing Emily and Jess… maybe even Josh. But not you.

Emily's face, pale and gray in the light of the monitors, mouth drawn open in a silent scream, dark blood oozing from the hole where her eye had been. The contents of her blown-out skull adorning the wall behind her head like a macabre rorschach. The image he'd been fighting to suppress since it happened hit him like a freight train. He doubled over and retched the nothing he'd had for dinner onto the cave floor. The sudden shift in balance irked his ankle and made him stagger against a rock, aggravating the tender spot in his ribs and jarring his aching jaw. He groaned. As he pushed himself away from the wall, he wiped at a tickle under his nose, and his hand came away bloody. Great. His nose was bleeding again.

Shit, he was a mess.

At least his nose wasn't broken. Or… he didn't think it was broken. His jaw, like the proverbial fat lady, sorta dominated the chorus of facial maladies, and he'd had other things on his mind when he'd rammed his face full-speed into that damned tree. Like, for instance, not getting eviscerated by the wendigo hot on his heels. You know… something that could be happening to Ash right now?

Come on, Ash, where are you? Please be okay.

Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he picked up his pace. It wasn't long before he came upon the drop he'd completely forgotten about. Only, going this direction, it wasn't a drop. It was a climb. A string of curses and obscenities ran circles around his brain. The ledge wasn't low, coming up just above his shoulders. Even his attempts to gently lower himself when coming the other way had yielded a sharp pain in his ankle on landing. How the ever-loving fuck was he supposed to get back up? "Dammit, Sam…" he muttered. "Remind me why you left the gimp to navigate these tunnels alone?" Of course, she’d been just as oblivious to Ash’s absence as he was, but that was beside the point.

Why had they even come here? Something about Mike and the sanatorium and the wendigo and needing to warn him about something and hell if he knew. He hadn't read the journal that had Ash and Sam up in a tizzy. Nobody thought to volunteer to him any information they'd found out, and frankly… he'd been too relieved at the prospect of getting away from Emily's body to ask questions. Now he regretted not asking. The decision to leave the safe room might have gotten Ash killed, and he needed to know it was for a worthy cause. At this point, though, even if it was for a worthy cause, if it was down to a choice between Mike's life and Ash's… well… was that even really a choice? Especially since Mike just…

A deafening bang, reinforcing the ringing in his ear. Ghostly face, mouth stretched open in a scream cut short. Dark blood trickling down from the blackness of her eye socket.

"Oh, God…" Chris stumbled against the wall blocking his way, using it for support as his lungs tried to explode out of his aching chest. His body rocked back and forth; the arm holding the flashlight hugged his ribs in place, while his free hand clapped over his mouth to hold back his sobs. The burns near his mouth shouted their protest, and he stifled a moan.

Oh, God, how had this night gotten so fucked? This was supposed to be a good night! A night of remembrance and catharsis. A night of reconciliation and rekindling estranged friendships. A psycho? He could handle that. It was horrible, but he at least understood a psycho. But curses? Monsters?? How do you fight something like that? How do you escape something that moves that fast? How do you protect someone from a fear so pervasive that it makes them murder their own friends?

Oh, shut up with that 'they' and 'them' bullshit. You helped, Christopher. By sitting there and stoking that fear, you might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.

No, no, no. He hadn't wanted Emily to die!

You should have done something, then. Should have helped Sam calm them down. Should have disarmed Mike. You could have forced him to stop. Overpowered him. Something! You call yourself a man, but you just sat there like a pussy and let it happen. Just like with the stranger!

His head was swimming, and his ribs were on fire. Somewhere along the way, he'd sunken down to his knees, still rocking. He was hyperventilating.

Let's face it, Chris. You didn't do anything, because you didn't want to do anything. You were just as afraid as Mike and Ash, and just as willing to sacrifice Emily to save your own ass.

"I didn't think he was going to shoot her." The words were rapid, small, and gasping, barely audible. Mike hadn't shot Josh. He’d bitched at Chris for even thinking he would. So why would he shoot Emily? It was a bluff. Had to be. Just to scare her out of the room. Chris wasn't about to ruin Mike's bluff again.

Her small legs falling from the desk, limp and lifeless, making her whole body jerk when they stopped short of the floor. Her head settling on the wall beneath the Jackson Pollock pattern of her blood and brains was the last movement she'd ever make. Chris squeezed his eyes shut, but the image persisted.

How is that even better? You didn't think Mike would shoot her? But you were perfectly content to let him sacrifice her to that thing out there. You've seen what it does. You, more than anyone else here, know that compared to that? The bullet was a mercy. You didn't care if or how she died. You just didn't want to see it happen, you selfish asshole. You killed her, and you killed her for no damn reason.

"We didn't know, we didn't know, we didn't know…" His hands and face were tingling. Shit, he was about to pass out. Now was not the time for this; he had to find Ash. He forced himself to take a deep breath in. The pain in his side kept him from holding it as long as he'd have liked, and it all came out in a pitiful sigh. But his head felt clearer, at least. He repeated this exercise until his thoughts stopped spiraling, sliding his free hand up under his glasses to wipe away the tears blurring his eyes.

Now wasn't the time for self-recrimination or excuses. Ash was in here somewhere. The wendigo might have her. He keeps you alive and aware and feasts on your organs, one piece at a time. He couldn't let that happen to her. Melting down in a cave wasn't going to help anyone, and Chris refused to have another death on his conscience because he was too wrapped up in himself to lift a finger to stop it. Especially not Ashley’s.

He sighed, pushing himself back onto his good leg and regarded the ledge. How the hell was he supposed to climb this? Even at the best of times, he was a pathetic climber. He'd damn near broken his neck trying to clamber over the wall by the broken gate at the bottom of the mountain. And now? With a bum ankle, a jacked up face, probably a concussion, and whatever the hell was going on with his ribs? He groaned, grabbing the ledge and hoisting himself up until the edge was under his armpits. His legs scrabbled uselessly for purchase on the sheer rock. His ribs protested strenuously. He was just about to lose his grip when his right foot found an outcropping and pushed off hard enough to get his left leg over the edge. But the momentary victory was promptly shat upon by the blinding agony in his ankle.

"Aggghh!" he hissed "Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwwww!!" Each syllable gave him strength as he pulled himself up the rest of the way and rolled over onto his good side. He curled into a ball of misery and grabbed his throbbing leg. "Shitshitshitshitfuckingshiiiiiiit!"

When the pain died back down to a dull throb, he slowly pulled himself up to his feet. It was more miserable than ever to put weight on his ankle, but it still held him, so he hobbled onward. Had to be getting close to the branch-off now.

He felt, more than saw, the side tunnel open up to his right. The air was suddenly less close, and through the passage, the wind sang a soft and haunting song. Dripping water served as percussion. It vaguely harmonized with the ringing in his ear. He flicked his flashlight over to the opening.

"Ash?" His own voice startled him, deafeningly loud against the cavern's subtle symphony. What if the wendigo could hear? What if he was just broadcasting his presence?

C'mon, dude. Pull yourself together. Your nerves are fried.

He thought maybe he heard something further down the side passage, but he wasn't sure what. It was hard to tell over the persistent ringing in his ear, but… it could have been Ash. Then again, didn't the stranger also say the wendigo could mimic human voices? If that was the wendigo, then Ash could already be dead, and he'd be walking to his own demise. Even if the thing hadn't gotten around to killing her yet, a rescue attempt would almost certainly end in his death. He wasn't even armed.

But if it wasn't the wendigo… if Ash had fallen somewhere and couldn't get back up or something. If she was hurt, if she was calling for help... could he forgive himself for not checking?

Gingerly, he opened his mouth and felt the swollen skin from his cheek to his adam's apple pull tight in protest. The right hinge of his jaw popped enthusiastically. That was new.

Ah, what the hell. He'd already sacrificed himself for Ash once tonight. Why not do it again? Maybe this time it'd actually matter.

His free hand hovered over his jaw, afraid to actually touch it, lest it reawaken the fire in his skin. Bright flash, deafening bang, a ringing that drowned out Ashley begging him to shoot her instead. Shockwave smashing into his jaw and knocking his head back hard enough to give him whiplash. Burning agony in his face making him want to scream. But he wasn't dead. How was he not dead?

He shook off the memory, "I- I'm coming, Ash. Hold on. I'm coming." And he limped forward.

The entrance to the side passage wasn't level with the main passage, and Chris almost tripped over it. Which, he discovered, would have been very bad. There was a pretty sizable drop on the other side. He climbed onto the berm, hanging his legs off the far side, and just stared at the drop with his flashlight. You gotta be freaking kidding me.

This was even higher than the drop in the main passage, and that one had hurt badly enough. Even if he didn't straight-up break his ankle, he didn't know if he'd be able to climb back out of this on his own. But, short of Ash noping back to the lodge without telling anyone, which seemed unlikely, there was no other direction she could have gone. He should have just waited for her to close the grate. Dammit, he was such a moron. She was only lost because, after she’d refused to leave him behind, he’d gone right ahead and done it to her. There was no way he was going to abandon her again.

That settled it. He took a deep breath and slid his butt off the berm. His stomach had an out-of-body experience for a second of freefall. His landing was rough and graceless, but he managed to keep his feet by reeling into a wall. There was a loud, painful pop from his ankle that he badly hoped was just his joint settling. His jaw snapped shut at the impact and its muscles seized up painfully, cutting his cry of pain into a muffled groan. His hand came up instinctively to massage the tension out of his fucked up jaw only to aggravate the burns. He hummed miserably through his nose. Damn it all. Josh, more than any one of them, should have known how dangerous blanks were at point-blank range. Chris wanted to believe that Josh, his best friend, hadn't meant for him to damn near blow his face off for a prank. But he also had a hard time reconciling that with all the rest of the batshit crazy bullshit Josh had pulled on him tonight. That and the fact that Josh seemed neither surprised nor particularly concerned by how badly Chris had been hurt by the muzzle flash. What chilled him to the bone was the very real possibility that Josh knew exactly what he was doing when he gave Chris a gun loaded with blanks and encouraged him to put it up to his own head and pull the trigger. He was damn lucky he'd decided to aim it under his jaw instead of at his temple. The latter probably would have killed him.

Had Josh wanted that? Did he really hate Chris that much? God knows Chris had blamed himself plenty enough for his part--or lack thereof-- in Hannah and Beth's disappearance. If he hadn't had so much to drink, he might have been able to stop things before they got out of hand. Or at least he could have been the one to go after Hannah, instead of Beth. But no. He'd been too shitfaced to be of use to anyone. Classic Chris maneuver. Always present when things went tits up, but his presence was never beneficial. He'd had to find out what happened second-hand, despite being there. If Chris was being honest with himself, he deserved a good, healthy, superheated blast of explosive decompression to the face.

But if Josh felt that way, too, how had Chris gone a whole year without noticing? He wasn't completely blind. He'd known things weren't good with Josh, but he had no idea they were anywhere near homicidal levels of bad. Was he really so self-absorbed that he couldn't see how deeply his best friend was hurting? Had he been so busy pining after Ashley that he'd completely missed how much Josh hated him?

That would make sense, wouldn't it? Just a couple hours ago, he'd literally sacrificed Josh to save Ash. Flipped a switch, knowing full-well that it would send a whirling blade of doom over to cut his best friend in half. It didn't matter that it wasn't real. He hadn't known that at the time, and Josh knew he didn’t know. And now Josh knew that Chris was perfectly willing to kill him for a girl. What an awful truth to discover about someone you thought cared about you. Chris knew he'd be upset if their positions were reversed. So perhaps this was his punishment for prioritizing Ash above everything else. After all, nobody would have been hurt if he'd chosen to shoot Ash, right? She'd been across the table from him; too far away to be affected by a blank. But no…no... the thought of shooting her… it was unthinkable. It made his stomach tie up in knots. Even now, knowing the gun had been filled with blanks, he'd still rather shoot himself.

The pain in his jaw subsided as the muscles slowly relaxed. He pushed himself off the wall and limped through the tunnel, hoping there weren't any more branch-offs to complicate things.

All right, jackass. You're down in a hole, playing hero to impress a girl who may or may not still be alive, armed with a flashlight and bad puns. You haven't even touched the wendigo yet, and you're already beat to hell. Like a dipstick, you left the shotgun back in the lodge. What, exactly, is your plan?

Find Ash? Not die? That was pretty much the extent of it.

That's not much of a plan.

Much as he hated his little Voice of Better Judgment and loved few things more than ignoring it, he had to admit it had a point. He'd be no help to Ash dead.

The earth shook. Like, legitimately shook, making him stumble. A deep rumble resonated into his very soul. Rocks big and small were shaken loose from the cavern's ceiling, pelting the ground all around him. One of the bigger ones nailed him in the shoulder. The blow, only slightly softened by the padding of his coat, drove him to one knee.

"Shit!" he cried, raising his other arm up to shield his head. When the patter of falling pebbles tapered off, and it seemed the cave wasn't planning to collapse on him after all, he lowered his arm and tilted the flashlight beam up toward the ceiling. "What the hell was that?" But the stalactites above him had no answer. They just dripped menacingly, promising that, next time, one of them would fall on him and leave him with more than just a bruise. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Don't even think about it. I've got my eye on you. All of you."

One of the stalactites dripped directly onto his glasses. "Aw, c'mon. Really?" He dropped his head and snatched his glasses from his face, unzipping his sweater to go to town on the soiled lens with his t-shirt. "Whyyy?" Chris did the best job he could cleaning them, but his shirt was drenched in sweat, and the water was… not clean. That lens was thoroughly smudged now. Wiping it might have actually made the situation worse. Squinting through that nonsense was gonna give him a headache in about three seconds. He put his glasses back on and glowered at the ceiling with one eye. "Not cool."

Defiantly, the stalactite dripped at him again, but this time he dodged it and got back to his feet, grimacing as he put weight on his right leg. "Onward and upward," he muttered and continued deeper into the tunnel.

The tunnel wound and twisted. The floor was uneven and threatened to turn his ankle with every step. The walls and ceiling closed in around him, making him want to duck his head, to avoid the jagged rocks above. The path was so dark and claustrophobic, the beam of his flashlight seemed barely capable of cutting through it. Why would Ash ever come this way?

"Ash?" He paused to listen for any response, but the tinnitus was just too damn loud. He reached up to vigorously rub and bat at his ear, hoping to clear the stupid out of it, but, stubbornly, the ringing persisted. Who knew discharging a gun right next to your head could fuck up your hearing so bad?

He sighed. Well… you knew that. That's why you always wear hearing protection at the range. But, like an idiot, you still did it. In fairness, though, he hadn't exactly been expecting to survive the gunshot. His hearing had been pretty low on his list of considerations. Now though? He was kinda starting to think maybe Van Gogh wasn't quite so crazy for cutting off his own ear.

The passage turned sharply to the right and opened up again into a room held up by mining beams. Moonlight filtered in through the cracks of a boarded up shaft, casting god-rays on a table beneath. In front of the table was a trap door, and in front of that…

"Oh no..." Chris blinked, not wanting to be sure of what he was seeing. Maybe it was just a trick of the light passing through his filthy glasses. He closed one eye, cutting off the interference from the lens smudged in cave crap, but that didn't help much. He'd have to get closer.

But he really didn't want to get closer. Because that thing on the floor looked a lot like Ashley's beanie. And it was in a massive puddle of blood. If he moved closer, the comforting arms of doubt would vanish from around him. And he couldn't bear the thought of knowing something had happened to her. But what was the point? He already knew, didn't he?

"Oh my God, no..." his legs buckled, and he staggered forward to keep upright, dropping to his knees in front of the offending object, only faintly aware of the blood soaking through his jeans. There could no longer be any doubt. That was Ash's beanie, and it was covered in blood. The wendigo had gotten to her. Chris had seen what it does, how fast it works. He could see all the blood. So much blood. Surely nobody could survive that much blood loss.

Ash. His Ash… with her long-suffering indulgence of his sense of humor, her big doe eyes, her adorable button nose, and the soft, warm lips he'd only just gotten to touch with his own…was....

The last beam supporting the mental dam that had been holding back his steadily mounting despair finally cracked. His grief came pouring out of his mouth in a flood of tears and sobs, unmindful of the danger he, himself, must be in. "Oh my God, Ash. No. No!" He scooped her beanie into his free hand, feeling the soft wool slither over his fingers, leaving in its wake streaks of blood. Fresh blood. His hands felt like they were a million miles away, as he rubbed the blood-- Ash's blood-- between his fingers. The room around him wobbled and swayed; everything was surreal. It felt exactly like a nightmare. Yes. This was a nightmare. It had to be. But if so, why couldn't he wake up??

"I can't stand it…" he whimpered, his voice cracking. "None of this can be happening. This can't be real! Please tell me it's not real!" He lifted the beanie to his face, imploring it to respond. Begging Ashley to appear from around the corner or out of the trap door and tell him it was just a joke. A prank. A nightmare. That she was okay. But she didn't. The beanie reeked of iron, not corn syrup. Tears poured down his cheeks as he lowered the beanie and tucked it into his pocket. "No… no… no…" His eyes dropped to the cavern floor, looking for something-- anything-- to latch on to. Any sign that it wasn't hopeless. All he saw was a trail of blood connecting the puddle to the trap door, where it ended. If there was any chance whatsoever of finding her, it'd be down there.

Numbly, he got back to his feet and shuffled over to the trap door. There was the gnawing sensation that he was just throwing his life away, but he couldn't be bothered to care anymore. If she'd died because he left her behind, then maybe he didn't deserve to survive the night. He bent down stiffly and opened the trap door. There were more support beams down there, some ancient, leaky hazmat drums, and pipes leading into darkness. The air was rank with the smell of must and whatever was coming out of those barrels. More blood pooled at the base of the ladder. Shit, there was so much of it. It trailed off in the direction the pipes were running.

Setting the trapdoor down clumsily against the legs of the table, Chris started down the ladder. But after all the climbing, jumping, and… even just walking, his ankle picked that exact moment to decide it'd had enough. The first moment he put all his weight on it, it crumpled, and his foot slipped off of the rung. His hands, hampered by the flashlight, lost their grip on the ladder, and down he went, landing hard on his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his chest to expand and let new air in.

God, this is how I die? By falling off a ladder that's like two inches high? After everything else, this is how it ends? For f-- Then his diaphragm started functioning again. His endless, involuntary groan stopped, and he took a huge, shaky breath. Nope. Not dying. His ribs hurt like a mother-- more than they already had-- but nothing in there seemed to be moving in an unnatural way, so he supposed he must be all right. Just knocked the wind out of himself. Slowly, he rolled over and fumbled for the flashlight that had flown out of his grasp during the fall. Once he found that, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his ankle grumbling like Yosemite Sam.

With one hand, he rubbed at his leg conciliatorily; with the other, he cast the beam of the flashlight down to the pool of blood at the base of the ladder. Its structural integrity had been obliterated when he landed in it, but it was easy enough to follow the trail.

He didn't have to follow it far.

A few yards beyond the reach of the moonlight streaming through the trap door, his flashlight beam fell upon a big, red lump on the floor. Chris felt his stomach seize up into a tight ball and cram itself into his throat. For a long moment, he absolutely could not get his feet to move. When they did, they felt so heavy it was like moving through mud. Everything around the shape disappeared from his consciousness, and the closer he got, the more clear it became. Soon, it was impossible for him to deny the truth of what he was seeing. It was Ashley’s hoodie. But it was like those old crime scene photos from the Manson murders that Josh had shown him once. One of the victims was wearing a white nightgown so saturated in blood that the investigators initially thought it was red. Ash’s hoodie was the same way. You’d never know from looking at it now that it was gray. But there was something else wrong with it. It wasn't lying right on the cavern floor. It should be lying flat. Why wasn't it lying flat?

You know why, Christopher.

"No," he hissed viciously. "It's just her hoodie. If she was in it, I’d see her head sticking out. Maybe her hoodie came off while she was fighting."

But down beneath the waistband of her hoodie were her shorts, and coming out the bottom of those were her leggings and boots, and those were definitely not empty. And there’s no way all of that would come off in a fight. But there was still nothing coming out of the collar of her hoodie! Then his eyes drifted down to her sleeves. Poking delicately out the ends were small, pale, crimson-streaked fingers. Unmistakeable.

The ramifications of what he was seeing hit him like a ton of bricks. The stranger. Alive one second. Gone the next. His head toppling from his shoulders and thudding heavily to the snow. But it had Ashley's face when it landed. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." He wanted to deny it. He needed to deny it, but no matter how hard his mind whirled for anything to latch onto, there was nothing but the truth.

Where was her head?? Letting out a horrible yell, he dropped his flashlight, fell to her side and found her hand, but there was no head to cradle. No eyes to look into. No hair to stroke. No cheek to caress. And her lips… the memory of her kiss haunted him, a ghost of warmth on his icy lips. The sensation was so intoxicating, and now he would never experience it again. He had no way to feel close to her but to take her blood-streaked hand and sandwich it between his own.

Noise was coming out of him, maybe he was saying something, but hell if he knew what it was. He didn't even know if there were words, or if it was just a mindless outpouring of pure anguish. His vision swam as it locked in on the perfectly manicured fingers of the hand he held, took in the blood caked in the cuticles and under her nails. Was it hers or the pig's blood Josh had used to fake his death? Did it matter? Did anything matter? Then he couldn't see anything but vague blobs. His vision was obscured behind a flood of grief, and even blinking couldn't clear his eyes. So he closed them and doubled over into a hopeless, rocking ball. Unaware he was doing it, he pressed the back of her hand to his mouth, sobbing into it, washing away the blood with his tears. Her hand was still warm. Still warm! Maybe if he'd realized she was gone sooner… if he hadn't wasted so much time being an emotional wreck… if he hadn’t been an idiot and hurt his ankle in the first place… he might have been here in time to help… to do something…

To take her place.

Yes. That, more than anything else, was what he wanted right now. He wanted to die knowing that she'd be all right because of it. But he'd never get to do that, because… because... Ashley was--

His mind recoiled violently from the word. He just couldn't accept it. This was clearly someone else's body. Someone wearing her clothes. One of Josh's horribly realistic dummies, maybe, with the head ripped off. He desperately wanted to cling to that idea. It felt warm and comfortable. But deep down he knew better. The smell of her hand, like peaches and vanilla mixed with old books. The soft warmth of her skin against his cold cheek. They were as familiar to him as the weight of his glasses on his nose-- impossible to mistake for anything else. For anyone else. There was no escaping the reality. This was Ashley’s body. Ashley was dead. Her words echoed back to him.

It's just not fair!

His face stretched in a rictus of grief as he lowered his head to her chest, using it to muffle his sobs.

It's too late, Chris. What's the point?

Her chest was silent and still. No heartbeat to be heard. No whooshing of air through her lungs. No rise and fall of her breast. Each observation came like the fall of a hammer on a nail being driven through his heart.

We've wasted everything.

"Oh, God, Ash. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." His voice was too high and broken, muffled by the fabric of her hoodie and coming out in quick, wavering gasps amidst the rapid heaving of his chest. "It should have been me. It should have been me. I should have saved you. I'm so sorry." His head was swimming. His face was heavy and tingling, and his lips were numb. His hands, still clasping hers, felt a million miles away. Chris was vaguely aware that he was hyperventilating again, but there was no stopping it this time; he didn’t want to stop it. He just didn't care anymore. If he died down here, what difference did it make? He’d failed in the one thing that mattered most to him; there was no living with that. Spots bloomed across his vision, even though his eyes were closed. Vaguely, he heard the sound of something clamoring in the room up above. He sat up, opened his eyes, and still couldn't see through the swarm of darkness blooming across his vision. At the movement, he felt the blood drain out of his face. Suddenly, his head lolled heavily forward, his shoulders went limp, and he slumped over Ash's body in a dead faint.

#until dawn #chris hartley #fanfiction #elliepollie #wacem scribbles

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taylorisfine · 4 years ago

Text

The Eyes Have It

It starts with a word. Two letters are not where they’re supposed to be. One blink and it’s gone. You chalk it up to a lack of caffeine, maybe too much of it, and continue on your day. Everything happens as it normally does, and you think nothing of it. In fact, maybe you imagined the whole thing.

A few days later, it happens again. Only this time it doesn’t go away with a blink. You do, however, rub your eyes for a second which seems to do the trick. It must be the lack of sleep you’ve been getting and you promise yourself it’s lights out before ten tonight.

A few days later, it’s entire paragraphs. Words and letters are jumbled, making no sense, and you know you can’t blame this one on caffeine. Maybe lack of sleep though. You’ve only been getting a few hours each night, even with the newly imposed “lights out before ten” rule, but that’s no cause for hallucination, is it? A panic starts to rise in your chest, your breath starts to quicken. What if you have a disease? What if you need eye surgery? What if it goes wrong and you’re blind forever? What if you’re crazy? I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with? You squeeze them shut and count to ten, certain that when you open them back up, everything will be normal.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Sixseveneightnineten

Slowly, you pry one eye open. You breathe a sigh of relief as the words have found their way back to the rightful place on the page. Everything makes sense again. Except why they were jumbled in the first place. You think back and realize it’s been forever since you’ve had a physical, and now seems as good a time as any.

The doctor says everything looks fine, save for a slightly high cholesterol but nothing to worry about. You even passed the eye chart test, reading all the way down to the last line. You’re silent for a minute. She asks if everything is alright, and you consider your options. Either tell the doctor what’s been happening and risk sounding like a lunatic, or take the doctor’s word that you are in good health and hope this thing resolves itself. You choose option B, thank the doctor, and leave the hospital.

A week goes by without incident. You’ve all but forgotten about your ocular mishaps until you’re writing down a grocery list. Letters, numbers, even symbols all over the paper. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. One line is even “######”. Your eyes widen in horror as you scan down the list. You don’t bother to count to ten this time, or even twenty. You know it wouldn’t do any good. You kick yourself for not telling the doctor what was going on, and call to make another appointment. By some miracle, your doctor has had a last minute cancellation and could you make it there by three? You say yes, you absolutely can. I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with?

You sit in your car in the driveway, engine on, hands on the steering wheel. There’s something nagging at you in the back of your brain, but seeing as you haven’t been able to read a word in the English language correctly all day, you figure it’s that. You say a silent prayer of thanks that you know the way to the hospital by heart. And another silent prayer that you’re not crazy.

Driving out of the hospital parking lot, you feel a thousand pounds lighter. The doctors visit couldn’t have gone better. With prescriptions for a strong anti-stress medication and a sleep aid in your pocket (of course that’s what it was, you’ve been under an extraordinary amount of stress lately and you can’t believe you hadn’t noticed it before), you drive to the pharmacy. While you’re there, you stock up on the usual; shampoo, deodorant, a razor, and those chocolate protein bars with coconut in them. You head home feeling like a new man.

As soon as you arrive home, you take your first of two prescriptions. Its only five, so you’ll save the sleep-aid for later. Something is still nagging at you, but you’re in too good of a mood to dwell on it. You’re basically cured, and can’t wait for a good nights sleep. You make some dinner and decide to watch a movie.

Finally, ten o’clock rolls around, and you’re ready for bed. You’re sitting on the bed, taking your watch off, when suddenly, it hits you. The thing that’s been bugging you all day. You couldn’t put your finger on it until now, but the realization hits you like a freight train.

The grocery list.

You run downstairs to the fridge. It’s still there, held to the fridge by a stupid “I Went to Vegas and All I Got Was This Magnet” magnet. You rip it off and scan the list. The words are still jumbled and as cryptic as they were a few hours ago, but this time you notice. “Bread” is “aberd”. “Spaghetti” is “itehtpsga”. “Eggs” is “stiemit”. “Cereal” is “yeobogb”.

The words are jumbled and as cryptic as they were a few hours ago, but this time you notice. Eggs and cereal. Eggs and cereal. Eggs. Cereal. Those words are jumbled, but with the wrong letters. You heart drops into your stomach and a cold sweat breaks out over your body. You make your way to the dining room table with the pen and the list and collapse into a chair.

The seconds turn into minutes, which turn into hours. You’re trying your best to unscramble the words but you can only do so much thinking before your eyes have to blink and the letters are once again scattered over the page. One step forwards, three steps back. You’ve somehow become a prisoner to your own eyeballs, but finally, finally, you have it. You stare at the words for as long as you possibly can before the sting becomes unbearable and you force your eyes to close.

It’s time. Goodbye.

You sit back in your chair, defeated, eyes still closed. A single tear slips out from underneath your eyelid and down your cheek. It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. Your eyes open and you stare upwards, enjoying the simplicity of the white ceiling. No symbols, no codes. Just white. You think. What do you do? Going back to the doctor seems like the logical choice, but you know she would just tell you to let the medication do its work. You know it’s not that, though. You know you’re past the help of pills. This is something else. It has to be. Yes. That’s it. It’s a setup. Someone or something is trying to get to you. They’re using you as a host to carry out some kind of mission. Who are they though? Aliens? The government? Yes. That has to be it. Okay. You’ve figured out their plan. Now you have to figure out how to stop it. How to stop it. How. How. How. Stop. How to stop it. I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with?

You get up, casually as to not let any potential spies watching know you’ve figured out their plan. You walk over to the garbage to throw the grocery list out. That’s when something catches your eye. You didn’t notice it before because you were so preoccupied with the eggs and the cereal. You scan the list a few times just to make sure. Yes, it’s there, plain as day. “Eggs” is “stiemit”. “Cereal” is “yeobogb”. “Razor blades” is

“Razor blades.”

You blink once. Twice. Three times. You rub until you see television static behind your eyes but when you open them, it’s still there. Unscrambled. Razor blades. Razor. Blades. Razor. Blades. Blades. Blades.

Are you cured? Of course you’re not. That’s probably what they want you to think. You can’t let them win. Think. Think. Razor. Blades. How to stop it. Stop. How. Blades. Eggs. Cereal. Blades. It’s time. Goodbye.

Of course. How did you miss it? When the puzzle pieces finally fall into place, you know what you have to do. Unlike the first realization, this washes you over with a serene satisfaction. Your whole body feels like when you finally remember that song you’ve been thinking about all day, or when you scratch a hard to reach itch. You stand up, content, and head upstairs.

The blades were harder than you imagined to get out of the plastic razor casing, but nonetheless, you persisted. You stand in front of your mirror, doing nothing but studying your features. Who knows the next time you’ll see them. Your hair starting to grey at the ears, your five o’ clock shadow (which you could have taken care of had you noticed before performing an autopsy on the razor five minutes before), the bags under your eyes which you’re sure wouldn’t be as bad if not for the toll of the past few weeks. You stare. The logical part of your brain tells you this is not the solution, but it’s nowhere near as loud as the voice telling you it is. Will it hurt? Probably. But that pales in comparison to what they’ll do to you if they catch you. And you can’t let that happen. You won’t. You thought your hand would be trembling as it makes its way up to just underneath your lower lash line, but it’s as steady as a rock. You really should’ve gone to medical school. Just a few minutes more and this will all be over.

I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left wiht?

#horror #horror story #creepypasta #horror stories #scary stories

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andythane · 5 years ago

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M A R C H 4 T H

i. 2009.

He’s pretty sure it’s three in the morning. It’s not entirely clear -- Well, nothing really is right now -- and honestly, he doesn’t care much. Andy had gone on this Vegas trip with Rowan in the name of attending a medical conference with her, and the second it was over, they were on the strip. What comes next is to be expected, the two of them stumbling out of bars, clubs, casinos all night long, throwing back drinks without question. What happens in Vegas, right? He’s not sure where they are when they come across a neon-lit wedding chapel, open twenty-four hours and happy to marry whatever couple comes in. Andy’s too drunk to remember the full details of their conversation, but it went well enough for him and Rowan stumble in hand in hand, asking for the first Elvis they had available. This isn’t exactly spur of the moment — They’ve been engaged over a year by this point, just trying to wait until the time is right and they can plan the perfect ceremony. He’s sure if his Ma knew what was happening, she’d have a heart attack. They’re married in a quick ceremony, with Andy wearing an oversized suit coat and Rowan having a yellowing veil clipped to her hair.

The next morning comes with an impressive hangover. They somehow made it back to their suite after their stop at the chapel -- Andy’s got a pounding headache and Rowan’s lipstick smeared across his cheek, half naked with his head leaning off the side of the bed. It takes a moment for him to realize he’s not at home in his bed, blinking until his eyes focus and he’s reminded of the night before. He remembers the conference, drinks at the hotel bar after, wandering the strip most of the night… Then the lights of the chapel come to mind, his eyes glancing down to his left hand, realizing their a plastic ring on his finger. For most, there’d be a wave of regret that comes with the new found discovery, panic following just as close — But for him… it makes sense. It’s unorthodox, sure, but the thought of being married to Rowan just feels right. Whether it’s a big ceremony or a shitty drive thru chapel. The panic doesn’t come, no regret or concern. Instead, he moves (slowly, mind the hangover) to lay next to her, pulling her in close to enjoy their first morning as a married couple.

ii. 2015.

They’re going to have a baby. They are going to have a baby. The words keep replaying in Andy’s head, but they still sound so strange and far away he can’t quite wrap his head around it. He and Rowan had been trying for so long, having spent so many years trying and trying and trying again -- Only to be met with disappointment and heartache each time around. Having a family was never a question. The conversation about children has always been on the table, both on the same page about wanting a big family. /We want four,/ they would tell anyone who would listen. It’s been a difficult journey, with the emotional struggle of infertility becoming the forefront of their lives with the stress of Rowan’s residency and the club coming right up behind it. There struggle has gone on for years, many doctors visits ending with Andy holding Rowan close while she cried, stroking her hair as he reminded her that things will work out.

Years and roughly six positive pregnancy tests later -- Everything begins to come together. Their family of two is going to have a new member in less than nine months now. She’s in her second trimester when their sixth wedding anniversary comes along, the two opting for a quiet night in to celebrate. Though he’s over the moon about what’s to come in the next few months -- Andy’s trying to remain realistic. This hasn’t been an easy road, and he feels a bit like they’re walking on eggshells through this journey. He knows the feeling is mutual, that this is something of a miracle baby, and they’re both terrified they’ll fuck it up. Admittedly, he can be a bit overly cautious -- Rowan’s not made of glass, but he can’t help but act like it sometimes, quick to swoop in, even if she’s doing something as simple as swap a load of laundry. So he opts for a night in, snuggled up on the couch together, Andy dressed in old sweats and Rowan clad in one of his old Primordial MC shirts. Their night is spent with scary movies and popcorn, with his wife curled up between his legs and Andy’s hand resting softly on her bump. His fingertips make small shapes against the fabric of her shirt, silently hoping he’ll feel a kick. Rowan’s fast asleep by now, head resting against his chest as Andy struggles to keep his eyes open too. He’s sure, despite his half-awake self, that nothing can ruin this for them -- Not his father, not Tyson, nothing.

iii. 2016.

Up until now, he’s spent most of his life surrounded by people in one way or another. Whether it’s his family, other club members, Rowan -- He’s never been by himself long. It’s not something Andy’s ever really thought over, naively assuming that he’d always have some sort of constant in his life. And admittedly, he assumed that constant would always been Rowan. After the last seven years, he had no reason to believe anything else. She is his family, his person -- Every cliche and title in the book. They’ve spent every holiday, every birthday, every day together in some way since he was a teenager. It’s not until he’s laying in his prison cell, staring at the underside of an empty top bunk that he realizes how truly and utterly alone he is right now.

It’s terrifying, suffocating. He’s been locked up for three months now, and his roommate was released earlier this morning -- So he’s by himself for the night, until a CO shows up at breakfast with some new kid. He’s been by himself before, lived on his own briefly before Rowan moved in -- Andy doesn’t mind being by himself, he never has. He’s always been a glaring introvert, preferring the company of himself, his wife, or their dogs, ideally. He’s never felt lonely from it, never had an issue -- Until he finds himself here, orange jumpsuit and all, struggling to steady his breathing. It doesn’t hit him until the lights have gone out and he’s supposed to be asleep, but the absence of someone else in the room with him is unnerving enough to keep him awake. He’d done as well as one can in prison thus far, kept his head down and nose clean, but once he’s by himself, it hits like a freight train. Everything he’s bottled up, all the things he’s told himself not to feel . Especially tonight. Regardless of his best efforts, the date and the silence around him make for a terrible combination. The sinking feeling only persisting as the clock moves -- March 4th.

He wonders what Rowan’s doing right now, if she’s left with the same feeling swimming through him. Andy wants to believe she’s sleeping peacefully, with a baby monitor on her night stand and Scout curled up close; He wants to believe that she’s not feeling like him, that she’s not watching the ceiling fan in their room spin and wondering if he’s awake too. Part of Andy doesn’t want to ever know -- Because he’s the one responsible for her spending her nights alone, the reason she’s celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary by herself. At least, until visiting hours began and they can be together, separated by a glass window and a shitty phone, with their nine month old daughter in her arms. He always thought they’re anniversary would be a celebration, that he’d never think of it as a time of regret or longing -- Only now, it won’t leave him. He replays the night he confronted Tyson in his head, the arrest, the trial. He tries not to think of the look on Rowan’s face, the tears silently rolling down her cheeks when he hugged her goodbye. He does’t want to spend their anniversary going over all o his past mistakes, but he doesn’t seem to have any other choice now. The rational part of him tells himself that this will be over eventually, he’s only got to make it through this two more times and then they'll be back together -- Soon, they’ll be able to celebrate like they have before, only now they’ll have Maddie along with them. A family of three, celebrating together without a concern for prison cells or memories keeping them up at night. Only them against the world. He tries to remind himself of that. Somehow he doesn’t believe that day will come.

iv. 2018.

Three years pass, and now he’s finally able to lay in his own bed with Rowan tucked into his side and Maddie fast asleep against his chest. He hasn’t been home that long, now pushing three months, but in a short amount of time they’ve found their happy medium. The initial return from prison hadn’t been easy -- He’s been gone for three years, Rowan’s been essentially a single mother (despite his best efforts) for that time, and now they have to relearn this life together, with a three year old in the mix with them. There’s an adjustment period for them, with ups and downs -- Maddie tells him all about the things around town and introduces him to Scout and Noodles, but he and Rowan find themselves butting heads on how to raise their daughter. They figure it out -- They’re /still/ figuring it out, with the aid of a therapist and their family. He’s just grateful he’s there at all, able to begin this part of their lives together finally. There’s a certain guilt that follows him, over the fact that he left Rowan on her own for three years, something he’d never forgive himself for. He can’t change it, but he can do better now, they truly can start their lives together, free of any threat. Tyson, his father -- Both are six feet under, far far away from wreaking any sort of havoc on their happily ever after.

There had been a pretty big storm that night, prompting their daughter to come running into their room before leaping into the bed with him and Rowan. Maddie is a Daddy’s girl, no question -- In the short time he’d been home, the two bonded easily. Whether he’s at her tea party with a tiara on his head, or she’s holding his hand and pulling him around town to show off all of her favorite spots -- They’ve become two peas in a pod. It was their anniversary, and all he wanted was to spend a night together with his girls. So they dress up, taking Maddie along with them, and go out to dinner (Nothing fancy, given that Maddie is only three -- They make do with a Chilis off the highway.). It’s a simple night, but one he’s sure he’ll always remember, the thought of Rowan tucked under his arm and Maddie in her booster seat, explaining everything she learns in daycare to them. Andy finds himself caught up in the simplicity of it -- The fact that the three of them can just be together, even in some shitty restaurant. There’s nothing keeping them apart, no CO making sure his reactions aren’t ‘startling’, nor the underlying reality of him being away. This is his life now, the one he dreamt of and built with his wife, now finally within his grasp.

There’s a silence that settles over the three of them, once both of his girls fall asleep and Andy’s listening to the steady sound of the rain. It used to frighten him, storms and having to hear them -- Now he finds it oddly soothing, feeling himself relax. His hand cards through her wife’s hair, eyes watching the ceiling fan go in circles. Even though there’s a balance and order restored to his life, he’s wide awake. Only now, it’s not from his own self destruction -- Rowan’s pregnant. It’s a bit of a miracle, but one he’s cautiously optimistic about. They’ve always wanted a big family, and they know what to do now -- They can make this work, go about it in the best way possible, rather than strict on hope and a gut feeling. Considering their reunion, it’s not all that shocking, though. After three years apart, they spent plenty of time relearning the other, welcoming the other back home again. He’s content, rather than plagued by the worst case scenarios he makes up his own head. This is how their life should be, he tells himself. No prison cell or court room, no CO or Visitor’s Room. Just Rowan and Andy, and the family they’ve created. .

v. 2020.

It’s odd to think they’ve been married for eleven years now. It seems like only yesterday that they were stumbling around Las Vegas before wandering into some Elvis themed chapel. But at the same time -- It all feels miles and miles away. Their wedding, Tyson, his time in prison. They’re settled into this life they’ve created, with their two children and the home they’ve built along the way. The storms they’re forced to weather are far and few between now, without someone threatening them and their home in some way. Most consistently had been his own father, creating a war zone with any room he walked into; Then Tyson putting a new kind of fear within both of them; And his Parole Officer, threatening to send him back to prison for something as simple as a parking ticket. It’s refreshing to be away from it all, able to embrace a life that’s sickeningly domestic and calm. They’re a team and a force, having gone to hell and back together.

The celebration is a simple one, given that it’s a school night and they have more elaborate plans for later on, thanks to him winning Rowan at the Bachelorette auction. So for tonight, they put on their best and leave the kids with a sitter, heading out to a nice dinner at Calliope before returning home long after bed time. It’s simple enough, they laugh together and reflect on the last eleven years while sharing a bottle of wine, simply enjoying the company and the reason to go out. It feels simple, right to the point -- The obvious answer for them, really. Their wedding anniversary serves as a reminder each year of the choice they made, of how much he loves Rowan. He tells her every cliche in the book, always happy to take an opportunity to be corny with her. She’s the love of his life, and whether they celebrate with a nice night out or spend the night struggling their way through bath time -- He’s just grateful for another year together.

#rothane #lomk:chardev #anniversary.#whatever souls are made of; hers & mine are the same. rowan.

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captainderyn · 5 years ago

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Deryn’s Full Fic Rec Masterpost

The fanfic writer appreciation day post here reminded me that I’ve been wanting to do a big fic rec post...so we’re gonna do it. It isn’t all the fics I can recommend, but there’s gonna be at least a handful and you can read these author’s works further if you so wish (and hopefully you will wish!)

*word count only included so that people who want a shorter read can get a shorter read, or people looking for long fics can read long fics~

Complete:

By the Guidance of the Stars by @greyias : SWTOR, 47,544, F!JK/Theron: Look, Grey is adorable and precious and we don’t deserve such an adorable bean. Exploring the aftermath of Yavin IV, this fic takes a look at what happens between the final battle and the goodbye our characters face and does so with just the right amount of jaunty moments and heartfelt interactions that pull at your heartstrings. 10/10 would recommend.

Courtship and Lies by @riajade01 : SWTOR, 117,287, F!SW/Quinn: Regency AU! R e g e n c y AU! That should be enough to make you read it but if it isn’t then it is wonderfully written, more Mara and Quinn interactions and plenty of spice to keep things ah, spicy if you will. A really interesting twist of the Sith Warrior story and characters into a blend of SW and history that makes nerds like me very happy lmao.

Where the Light Doesn't Reach by rosegardenlake on AO3: Voltron: Legendary Defender, 229,972, Shiro/Keith: Read the tags on this! But wow, okay, it’s the high school murder mystery AU I never knew I needed. I consumed this fic, was glued to it with how well it was written, how twisted the story was and how nothing you thought you knew seemed to be right! Would recommend if you like a good murder mystery and some really good angst.

In Progress:

Rising Son by @lumielles : SWTOR, 19,329,/ This fic follows the life of Idan Lumielle--eventually a Jedi Consular--with a stunning attention to detail and plotpoints that make you promptly make and/or join the Idan Defense Squad to protect him at all costs.

Reduced To Ash by @riajade01 : SWTOR, 260,314, SW/Quinn/ Follows the Sith Warrior storyline; constantly melding both personal character points and takes and the canon storyline seamlessly. Just the right blend of spice, angst, and action to keep you reading until oh-god-it’s-3am o’clock

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Weak by dramasweety on AO3: DA,106,460, Dorian/M!Lavellan: Read the tags carefully on this one. A beautiful AU fic exploring the angst of an Inquisitor losing their memory and what it takes to rebuild a relationship that one side doesn’t even remember. Hurts like hell in an amazing way and has some truly tender moments in all the hurt.

Chaos and Opportunity by @inquisitorhotpants : SWTOR, 259,446, F!SI/Marr: Kryn is a snarky gift upon the universe. Unhappy with canon? Good, canon is merely a suggestion here and it is AMAZING. Glorious amounts of worldbuilding make you scream for what SWTOR’s Empire could’ve had and when we get into the politics--and you guys know I love my political intrigue stories--everything is intricately tied together in a way that keeps you riveted.

Scenes From the Boundless by @spectrum270 : SWTOR, 39,593, M!Smuggler/Risha: Want some jaunty, wholesome character interactions within the smuggler story? Longing for the crew of the smuggler to seem more like the family you’re dying for them to be? Then this is the fic for you! Wonderfully written with references from this world tied wonderfully into the SW-verse it’s a fun read and worth the time!

Equivalent Exchange by @inyri : SWTOR, 189,622, F!IA/Theron: Follows the end of SOR and onward, beautifully written and you can’t help but get attached to--and a little afraid of--Nine. Weaves in some personal flair within the story itself and really builds on character relationships where the game sometimes lacks. And there’s some top tier spice, if that’s a benefit for anyone ;)

Kintsukuroi by @storyknitter: SWTOR, 38,099, F!JK/Theron: A collection of scenes from Fractured Alliances that have one point either made me squee or sob or both depending on which one! Knitter really does angst beautifully and the moments between Sanna and Theron are always so, so emotionally filled that they either hit you like a freight train with feels or melt you onto the floor...with feels.

a star in another sky by neonheartbeat on AO3: Marvel, 148,348, Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter: Look, I’m not usually that into Marvel or fics but I was on a Peggy and Steve kick after rewatching Captain America: The First Avenger and found this gem. It takes what happens at the end of Endgame and makes it make sense. Want some angst? Bam! Want some wholesome family interactions! Whoo! Are you a history nerd like me and want some research in your fic dammit? Here you go! Worth the read even if you know nothing about Marvel.

And I’m Your Lion Heart by Lee_Whimsy on AO3: The Hobbit (Movies), 71,701, Bilbo/Thorin: Did the end of the Hobbit make you cry and wish you’d never read/seen it? Good, you can forget it happened here. A beautiful fix it fic where things end up happier, beautifully building on the relationship between Thorin and Bilbo and what the reclamation of Erebor means for them.

Eternal War by @anchanted-one : SWTOR, 40,097, M!JK/Lana: I have not officially finished this fic yet, however, it’s the KOTFE retelling you definitely need. Arro is an intensely interesting character and from what I have read and seen of this fic it is shaping up to keep you riveted and draw you into walking the path alongside him throughout KOTFE.

The Hands of Fate Are Your Own by @elveny and @kunstpause: DA, 31,196, F!Hawke/Cullen F!Hawke/Isabela F!Hawke/Fenris: I haven’t had the pleasure of reading this fic yet but from what I have read from the teasers posted and the snippets given it is shaping up to be absolutely divine. Writers who can collaborate on a big fic have the dedication beyond measure and I’d truly suggest giving it a read!

Heat by @elveny: DA, 13,386, F!Lavellan/Solas: Another fic I haven’t been able to sit down and read yet but would highly recommend from the teasers and snippets posted! It’s on my to-read list!

This isn’t my full fic recommendation list, mostly missing a lot of tumblr exclusive prompts, however you can check out my “fic rec” tags and my “other people’s writing” to find some more fics! Hopefully this was helpful to any readers looking for some new material and go show these authors some love!

#fic recommendation #fanfiction #fic rec #I don't even know how to start tagging this so #swtor #dragon age #swtor fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #the hobbit fanfiction #vld fanfiction #feel free to reblog or make your own fic rec posts #this was a lot of fun to do #make me remember all the fics I really love #also felt very wholesome to do

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introvertguide · 5 years ago

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Swing Time (1936); AFI #90

The next film on the AFI list that we watched was the dance classic Swing Time (1936) with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The movie was nominated for two Oscars and won Best Song for “The Way You Look Tonight.” The film was rather recently recognized by the US Congress and inducted into the American Film Registry in 2003. The film is mainly known for the dancing and the music, but I want to do a brief overview of the plot:

SPOILER ALERT!!! BTW, these are not even good spoilers because the movie is 80 years old and the plot is a little light. I did my best.

John "Lucky" Garnett (Fred Astaire) is a gambler (apparently a viable profession in the 30s?) and dancer who is engaged to marry a woman named Margaret (Betty Furness), but his friends make him late for the wedding with a rouse about cuffed trousers (I guess...) and the bride’s father phones to call the whole thing off. His friends get the message but don’t pass on the information and instead bet Lucky that he will not be getting married, and he agrees to the bet. Margaret's father tells Lucky that he must earn $25,000 to demonstrate his good intentions. (Why? Not sure. If it was my daughter, I would either accept his apology or tell him to get lost and never return. There would be no bartering over my child’s happiness. Instead, the father makes it into a bidding war and is suddenly OK with this man standing up his daughter because he might have good financial prospects)

Lucky and his friend "Pop" Cardetti (Victor Moore) try to buy train tickets, but his friends take his money due to the rigged bet over the marriage. Lucky and Pop do their best hobo routine and hitch the first freight train to New York. Broke, they wander around the city and eventually run into Penny (Ginger Rogers), a dance school instructor, when Lucky asks for change for a quarter. It's his lucky quarter and Pop feels bad that Lucky had to exchange it. They attempt to get it back, but Penny is in no mood to deal with them. When she drops her things, Pop sneaks the quarter out of her purse, but she blames Lucky. Quick note, there are screwball romantic comedy beats throughout the film because there are constant mistakes and misunderstandings that are “whacky” and simultaneously move the plot along. They are cute but often make no sense.

The two follow Penny back to her work so that Lucky can apologize, but he has to take a dancing lesson from her for an opportunity to talk to her. She's still furious and, after a disastrous lesson, Penny tells him to "save his money" since he will never learn to dance. Her boss, Mr. Gordon (Eric Blore), overhears her comment and fires her. Lucky dances with Penny to "prove" how much she's taught him. The dance that the two are able to do “spontaneously” is blatantly choreographed and perfect in every way. For the purpose of the movie, however, it is meant to be improvised. Not only does Mr. Gordon give Penny her job back, he sets up an audition with the owner of a local venue to showcase his new student and his talented teacher.

Lucky and Pops check into the same hotel where Penny is staying for the audition. Lucky does not have a tuxedo to wear to the audition so he tries to get a tuxedo off a drunk man, but he ends up losing his own clothes instead. Like I said, not everything makes sense so you just have to roll with it sometimes. The pair end up missing their audition and Penny gets mad at Lucky all over again. Lucky is able to arrange another audition then he and Pop picket (literally with sandwich boards) in front of Penny's door until she gives in and forgives him. Also, Penny’s friend Mable and Pops seem to be in a relationship even though they don’t seem to really like each other. Also, Pops always sounds drunk. I don’t know why, it just is.

In the strangest plot twist yet, it turns out that they cannot audition because the club has lost their band leader, Ricardo Romero (Georges Metaxa), to a casino. They go to Club Raymond where Lucky gambles to win enough to get Ricky back. Meanwhile, it turns out that Ricky Romero has been hitting on Penny for a long time and wants to marry her. Lucky is about to win enough to marry Margaret, but he takes his last bet off in time... proving he is no longer interested in her, but in Penny, instead. This is rather strange because there is nothing forcing Lucky to go back if he makes enough money since the father of Margaret never comes back, but it is seems to be a driving force to prove that he loves Penny. He is willing to remain somewhat poor for her. The owner of Club Raymond bets Lucky on a single card cut and the wager is all of Lucky’s winnings versus the contract of the band leader. Upon seeing that the club owner intends to cheat, Pop cheats as well, and Lucky wins the contract. I am not exactly sure how all this happens, but I see why Lucky is a considered a professional gambler since he is consistently betting in an attempt to win people.

Lucky and Penny dance at the club and it is beautiful. They are dancing together all the time, but Lucky does not trust himself around Penny because he feels guilty about not telling her about Margaret. He's avoiding her, which Penny notices, so she and her friend Mabel Anderson (Helen Broderick) conspire to get Lucky and Pop out to the country. There is a most awkward number when Pop lets slip the information about Lucky and Margaret and a very flirty Penny becomes very cold as it seems that the two cannot be in love at the same time.

Mabel basically dares Penny to go in and confess to Lucky that she loves him and they finally have a moment. But as these movies tend to go, Margaret shows up and ruins everything. Penny decides to marry Ricardo and Lucky will go back and marry Margaret. It turns out the Margaret has decided she wants to marry somebody else so Lucky runs out and breaks up the wedding using the same trouser cuff gag that was used on him at the beginning of the movie.

Ricardo is without pants so Penny says that she guesses she is going to marry Lucky and then Ricardo plays a song with his band celebrating Lucky and what a great guy he is. Lucky and Penny finally have an on screen kiss and that is the end of the movie.

It was noted by my parents that the music and dance numbers are not evenly dispersed through the movie, but are instead bunched up in the later two-thirds of the film. It is a good 20-25 minutes before the first song while musicals at the time normally had a big opening number (along the lines of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in The Wizard of Oz). This was apparently due to the first number, ironically named “It’s Not in the Cards,” to be cut from the film as it was judged as being not up to the standard of the other songs.

A cinematography note (or lack of one, really) concerning the dance skill of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, many of the dance sequences have 3-5 minute uncut shots in which the camera barely moves. Astaire famously said on many occasions that he was doing the dancing, not the camera. With his perfectionism and the general toughness of Rogers, the two would do dozens of takes for these complicated dance numbers to the point that the high heels would rub in Ginger’s feet causing them to bleed. Every dance scene is a testament to both actor’s dedication to their art.

The movie was similar to painting a room in that it took much less time to complete the aspect that people would actually see than the time it took to prepare. Months of developing the choreography and rehearsing was filmed over weeks despite the multiple takes insisted on by both director George Stevens and Fred Astaire. Dance director Hermes Pan was a very creative choreographer that developed highly technical and extremely complicated dance numbers and Astaire insisted they were done flawlessly. Ginger was a talented dancer that brought the best out of Fred because she continued on take after take and was able to keep up with Astaire’s almost manic work ethic.

The number that Astaire performs when Margaret shows up to see him in a tribute to Jim “Bojangles” Robinson and involves Lucky being in black face. The number is a little weird and he goes through a good five minutes of shenanigans following the number still in black face. It is just weird. I just kept thinking he needed to wash off his face already, but he deals with both of the club owners and again loses Ricardo’s contract. I has awkward moments with Penny meeting Margaret and it is just so much more so since Lucky is still in black face. It is pretty uncomfortable in today’s society

Although I personally like the simple sound of his voice, Astaire has never been recognized as a very good singer. He also is not known for his acting, especially in his younger years. He was a world recognized phenomenal dancer from age 10 when he danced with his sister to the day he died. He was also not a classically good looking man being oddly proportioned with large facial features (especially the ears). All this being said, he successfully plays a suave gambler, sings beautifully, dances spectacularly, and truly embodies a confident man that makes women swoon. This was a perfect movie for Astaire in that it challenged his dancing skill and he was able to play off Ginger for his acting. He was not given much to sing but a very simple little piece that worked well his voice. He was dressed well with a top hat throughout the film. The film is truly the all around best of Fred Astaire (at least I think so).

So would I recommend the film? Absolutely, but I would mention the Bojangles in Harlem number because the blackface is a little off-putting. I think most people will either just skip it, watch it and not care, or watch it and think the 30s was a very different time. Everybody is different, though, so keep it in mind. Should this film be on the AFI 100 list? I think that the way that Astaire was filmed due to his talent and perfectionism is something that has been lost to film trickery so something like this which highlights the best of Fred Astaire should surely be searched at and ranked as one of the best parts of American cinematic history. A great film that is a lot of fun to watch.

#fred astaire #ginger rogers #swing time #dance #musicals #film critique #AFI movies #introvert #introverts #1930s movies #vintage film #black and white #choreography

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sugarcoated-pain · 6 years ago

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Heavy Rotation Part 8

Alright guys, this is the final part of this series! I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! A GIANT thank you to @sublimehood for all your help on this part especially! <3

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Ashton’s POV

My head is splitting. I must have drank a lot more than I remember last night. I haven’t even tried to open my eyes yet because the thought alone hurts like a bitch. But something about my surroundings doesn’t feel right. This doesn’t smell like my room, but the smell is comforting and familiar. Emma. It smells like Emma. I open my eyes quickly to discover I’m in her room. What the hell? What happened last night? How did I get here? I try to remember as I sit up and look around. The sun is shining through the window, but she isn’t here, and I soon discover, that most, if not all, of her stuff is gone as well. I jump out of bed, immediately regretting moving so quickly as my head starts spinning.

I run out into the living room, hoping for some sign, but find nothing and head to Cal’s room. Without knocking, I barge in to find him and Georgia laying in bed talking softly.

“HEY! Do you guys know where the hell Emma is? All of her shit is gone. What’s going on?”

Georgia is startled by the sound of my voice and jolts a bit, but Cal just groans.

“What do you mean?” Georgia asks, a hint of concern in her voice. “... didn’t she say goodbye to you before she left?” There is a notable sadness in her tone that alarms me.

“What the fuck are you talking about ‘goodbye’?? Where did she go?” Memories from the night before slowly start to come back to me. A hazy voice I assumed had been in a dream starts to ring more clearly now.

“She took the job in New York, man. She’s gone. She left for the airport a little while ago.” Calum answers, a look of sympathy crossing his face.

His words hit me like a freight train. And I realize it hadn’t been a dream at all. Emma HAD said goodbye to me, I was just too drunk to fucking stay awake for it. A weight sinks into the pit of my stomach and I’m afraid I might be sick. I missed my chance. How could I have been so fucking stupid. The girl of my dreams was right there in my arms and I let her slip away. Then I realize something. It doesn't have to be too late. I can’t let it be too late. I have to at least try. I rush out of the room without another word and into my bedroom.

“Wait, what are you gonna do?” Calum calls from the other room.

“I’m going to the airport to try and tell Emma how I feel about her.” I reply, heading into my room.

Cal and Georgia step into the room, both grinning.

“Fucking took you long enough, mate.” he smirks.

“This is so exciting. It’s like a movie!” Georgia giggles.

I roll my eyes at them, shoving my wallet in my back pocket and that’s when I notice the piece of paper lying on my dresser with my name on it in Emma's handwriting. I hurriedly grab the letter, and head out the door. Ordering an Uber as I run down the stairs, I worry that I might be too late. Before the car has even stopped moving completely, I climb into the backseat, and immediately start trying to research flights leaving from LAX for NYC within the hour. There’s only one option, and it’s departing in 42 minutes. I’m starting to panic and ask the driver to step on it.

After I’ve officially started freaking out, I decide to read the letter. It says everything I thought I had dreamt her saying and more. She feels the same way I do, and I might have missed my chance. How could I let this happen? I reread the letter several more times, until we finally arrive at the airport, 10 minutes before the flight to NYC is scheduled to depart. SHIT. I’m really getting nervous now. Could I run there in time? Will they even let me through security? Should I try to buy a ticket to see if I can get on the same flight? I’m willing to do whatever I have to. Thankfully the line for security to get into the terminal isn’t too crazy this early in the morning, though I do have to plead with some guards to let me through without a ticket.

I run in the direction of the gate with the flight heading to NYC. Please don’t let it be too late. Don’t let her be on the plane yet. PLEASE. I finally make it to the right gate, and the doors are already closed. Despite my desperate pleads to open the damn door, the annoyed attendant refuses. And then the plane starts to take off. I stand at the window, in complete shock, watching it move farther away from the gate. I was too late. I missed my chance. The weight sinks back into the pit of my stomach, and I don’t even know how to process what is happening.

Slowly, feeling utterly defeated, I make my way to the exit and slump to the ground while I wait for my Uber to arrive. How could I have let myself get my hopes up? She’s gone. I blew it. Lost my chance. I get into the car and try to think of what options I have now. I could call her, leave tons of pathetic messages and hope she calls me when she lands? I could go home, get my stuff, and try to fly to New York on the next available flight? It all feels like too little, too late. She made her choice. She took the job, she’s moving on. This is the worst I have ever felt in my life. Cal and Georgia have both apparently been texting and calling me, but I don’t have it in me to talk to anyone right now.

When I make it back home, the walk upstairs feels like climbing a mountain. I feel defeated in every sense of the word. How could I have let her slip through my fingers like this? The one girl who understood me, and still loved me despite it, was gone and she wasn’t coming back.

I lazily turn the key in the lock to the apartment, hoping to slip past Georgia and Calum without having to talk about anything that just happened. So when I open the door, I almost miss her.

Emma is sitting on the couch. In our apartment. She’s nervously picking at her fingernails until she hears me shut the door. I’m completely in shock. Is my brain playing some kind of trick on me? Could she really be right here?

“Hi.” She says softly, as she stands up from the couch. Hearing her voice is almost melodic.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Em? I watched your plane leave…” I step towards her, and I’m desperate to get my hands on her to make sure she’s real, but I wait.

“I couldn’t go. Not like this. Ashton I…” I can tell she wants to apologize. But I can’t let her do that.

“No...Em, I need you to listen. Just let me get this out, okay?” I know my eyes are pleading, and she nods in response.“I’m an idiot, first and foremost. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’ve been so scared to admit how I feel about you. And maybe it’s because it’s just felt fucking right from the beginning. When we’re in a room full of people, you’re the only one I see. I’m immediately seeking you out before I even realize I’m doing it. I love your loud laugh, the one that comes straight from your stomach. I love that when you’re really caught up in something, you tap your foot and scrunch those adorable eyebrows together. I love your mind and every beautiful word that comes out of it and into your lyrics. I love that you’re crazy enough to even think about spontaneously getting on a plane to New York. And if all that didn’t say it, I love you. I’ve loved you from the start, and I’m sorry that it took me this long to tell you.” I let out a deep breath, watching her eyes slowly swell up with tears and her chest heave up and down. “You don’t have to say it back if you don’t feel that way anymore...but I would follow you to the ends of the earth, and if New York is where you want to go, then I’ll go with you.”

“Ashton…” she finally says. I stay put, waiting to hear her response. I can see her contemplating for only a second, before she practically jumps across the distance between us and crashes her lips down on mine.

There is nothing and no one like this girl. She has the biggest heart and the most beautiful mind and the fact that she’s kissing me, is everything.

Taglist: @cheyenne-in-wonderland @drummerboy794 @harrysgucciclothes @emmamarshmellow @rbforsmileycal @asht0ns-world @aspiringwildfire @lockthisheartinchains @post-traumatic-mess @ihatemyself21

#5sos #5seconds of summer #5 secs of summer #5 seconds of summer #5sos fanfic #5sos imagines #5sos smut #5 sos #ashton irwin #calum hood #luke hemmings #michael clifford #5sos fanfiction #fanfiction #5 seconds of summer fanfiction #ashton 5 seconds of summer #luke 5 seconds of summer #michael 5 seconds of summer #calum 5 seconds of summer

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signalsfromvega · 6 years ago

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Endgame hot take. (contains spoilers)

Haven’t done one of these in a while because, well...life. But this is the end of an era, so it seems like a good time.

Spoiler free: 10/10. Actual emotional roller coaster. Fantastic.

Spoiler review and take on what I’ve seen via this shit stack of a social media site below. You’ve been warned.

Yeah so I spoiled it for myself when it was released in OZ/NZ, almost immediately. Because I do that...yep.

Honestly, I get that these are some of people’s favorite characters and what not, but some of the dumb ass shit I’ve seen on this hellscape is really naive.

The endings we got for the first 3 main Avengers was perfect. Widow made sense. If you didn’t see that coming when they said those two were going to Vormir well...I can’t help you there. Clint has a family. Natasha has nothing but the family she made via the Avengers. Saving them became her purpose. She fulfilled it.

(Plus ScarJo previously stated she wanted a say so in her ending and for it to be unpredictable but suiting.)

Tony was one of the lucky ones. Parker getting dusted was a hard hit for him, yes, but Pepper survived. He got 5 years of happiness that no one else was allotted. He had the knowledge that his little girl and love of his life would go on just fine. He had succeeded in his life in all avenues.

Let’s step into the real world for a sec: Did you really think RDJ was going to continue to type cast him self? He started this freight train my dudes. All of the OG cast wanted to move on. I think if they kept him alive they’d just keep calling him for Stark appearances. (Same with Widow and even Cap)

Tony needed a resolution, and he got the most heroic and selfless one yet. He had been one of the most selfish Avengers. (Tony fans don’t @ me.)

Now on to the most selfless Avenger.

LOL@ y’all for picking apart not only Cap but Bucky AND Peggy to boot.

Hard pills to swallow: Stucky is fan fic.

I can’t believe people don’t see that after all these years, Steve, who has been living his life for literally everyone else BUT himself, finally decides to be selfish just this once. After the deed is done, the safest time to finally indulge. He finally has a chance to get his dance.

Couldn’t have asked for a better ending for him.

To those who don’t know anything about the multi universe and time travel levels/paradoxes that can and have been created in comics: it is kinda like BTTF. (Scott was right.)

Specifically BTTF 3, when Doc goes back to the 1880′s and stays there, because he’s the happiest there. Meets the love of his life there. Marty has to come to terms with that and understand that it is Doc’s life and decision to do so.

You also had to be paying attention to the Ancient One and Banner’s conversation. They literally mentioned alternative timelines if the stones were taken into different eras.

Basically, Steve created an alternative timeline (IE: a tangent) when he went back to have a life with Peggy. Either he contacted Pym or Stark in that alternative timeline and was able to create another Quantum Leap to come back to the present timeline, or the two timelines joined back up to ‘heal’ themselves with old Cap on a bench.

Bucky immediately knew when Steve said goodbye to him. He also immediately knew who it was on that bench. Hell, you could assume they had a convo prior, where Steve told Bucky his entire plan. Buck knew Steve had longed for a simple life with the woman who helped shape him into the man he was today. The life he lost; the one he sacrificed for the greater good.

So you’re trying to tell me that Steve isn’t an infallible human that just wants happiness?

He was injected with super soldier serum, not turned into a robotic plaything for SHIELD. Let the man have his life.

As for Peggy’s alternate life via her series: That wasn’t the life she chose, it was life given to her. It was the life she had to make in place of the life she wanted with Steve. It was a scorned and unfortunate timeline, brought about by everyone else except them. She had to move on because there was literally no hope or accurate technology back then to actually find Steve. She had no other choice, and it wasn’t the choice she wanted to make. It was a “play the cards you’re dealt” situation.

So you’re telling me that if you had access to time travel, with little to no repercussions, after you fulfilled a life of selflessness, that you wouldn’t go for it?

It seems there are now multiple tangents, specifically Loki, created by the removal of the stones in different timelines. It syncs up to the ludicrous amount of tangents in comics anyway. Theoretically it seemed that Cap bringing them all back healed the time wounds. Except he might have made a deal with Howard and the time stone (creating his tangent) to keep him in that timeline until a specific set date. That date being the day Cap goes back in time.

This does not mean that the current history has been erased, it means the tangent is running along side the timeline we know. So those timelines still exist. Cap lived the life with his love in the tangent, Peggy more than likely passed before Cap, since he seems to age slightly slower. But it was a loving parting. Not like the one from Winter Soldier or Civil War; they got to say goodbye naturally and be at peace with it. All old Cap had to do was wait for the day of his time travel, and the two timelines became one again.

Everything in young Cap’s past was his. Everything in old Cap’s past was his as well.

Cap is a man between two times, like he always was.

Everything else? Awesome.

Though I do want to know what Cap did with Mjölnir in the 40′s? That’s one of plot holes I have questions about. EDIT: Duh, he had to put it back when he took the Reality stone back, since Thor took it out of that timeline.

Captain Marvel? I thought her amount of screen time was fine. Her fans are always going to want more, naturally. But I’m assuming since her movie came out a month prior, she is now the future of the studios with Parker and this movie was mainly about tying up the OG cast’s loose ends...they’re saving her for future films. They played her light and safe in this one. And she is really OP, so seeing her over taken by the Power Stone was a good counter balance. Technically, they were still semi-screwed without her. She took town the flagship quicker than anyone else could have.

I absolutely adored the way she took Thano’s head butt without a god damned flinch.

Honorable mentions:

The Dude Thor is life.

Scott Lang is a national treasure.

Hulk dab.

America’s ass.

Lang and Banner taco friendship goals

Ronin.

Holy shit the de-aging and thinning CGI.

The one guys in our theater that yelled “THAT’S IT, WE’RE DONE.” when Cap got the hammer.

Fortnite.

No but I want more Thor Lebowski.

That’s all I have to say on this one.

All in all it was a fantastic ride, that didn’t take it’s self too seriously. It rounded out the movies and cast poetically and in line with their stories.

#endgame spoilers #avengers spoilers #spoilers #i said spoilers you asshole

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womenofcolor15 · 5 years ago

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SOMEBODY GET BOBBY LOVE A MOVIE DEAL, STAT! Escaped Convict Turned Family Man Tells 'Humans Of NY' How A 40-Year-Old Secret He Kept From His Wife Almost Ruined Their Lives

Bobby Love – aka Walter Miller – and his wife Cheryl Love share how a 40-year-old secret almost ruined their lives in the newest Humans of New York Instagram posts. Get a peek into how it all almost came crumbling down in an instant inside….

This was the best story roll out we've seen on the 'Gram in a while, and it even had celebs like Jennifer Garner commenting on every post in shock and suspense.

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(1/11) “It was just a normal morning. Almost exactly five years ago. I was making tea in the kitchen. Bobby was still in bed. And we get this knock on the door. I opened it up slowly, and saw the police standing there. At first I wasn’t worried. We had this crazy lady that lived next door, and the police were always checking up on her. So I assumed they had the wrong address. But the moment I opened the door, twelve officers came barging past me. Some of them had ‘FBI’ written on their jackets. They went straight back to the bedroom, and walked up to Bobby. I heard them ask: ‘What’s your name?’ And he said, ‘Bobby Love.’ Then they said, ‘No. What’s your real name?’ And I heard him say something real low. And they responded: 'You've had a long run.' That’s when I tried to get into the room. But the officer kept saying: ‘Get back, get back. You don’t know who this man is.’ Then they started putting him in handcuffs. It didn’t make any sense. I’d been married to Bobby for forty years. He didn’t even have a criminal record. At this point I’m crying, and I screamed: ‘Bobby, what’s going on?’ Did you kill somebody?’ And he tells me: ‘This goes way back, Cheryl. Back before I met you. Way back to North Carolina.’”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 6:53am PST

Bobby Love and his wife Cheryl Love lived a good life together. They were married for forty years and raised four children. However, they’re happy home almost came tumbling down after the police showed up at their home one morning.

In 2015, Cheryl Love was making tea in the kitchen of her Brooklyn home when someone came knocking on her door. She opened the door and was met with a heavy police presence, including the FBI.

At first, Cheryl didn’t think much of it because there was a “crazy lady that lived next door, and the police were always checking up on her.” So, Cheryl assumed they had the wrong home…until she realized they were exactly where they wanted to be.

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(2/11) “Back in the day my name was Walter Miller. It was a pretty normal childhood. We grew up poor, but nothing really dramatic happened until I went to a Sam Cooke concert at the age of fourteen. I was excited to be at that concert, so I pushed my way to the front row—right near the stage. The crowd was really moving, because it was dance music. And Sam Cooke didn’t like that. He kept telling people to sit down. And after only two songs, he got so angry that he walked off the stage. So I screamed at the top of my lungs: ‘Sam Cooke ain’t shit!’ And in North Carolina, back in 1964, that was enough to get me arrested for disorderly conduct. Things went downhill pretty quick after that. My mother was raising eight kids on her own, so she couldn’t control me. I got into all sorts of trouble. I lifted purses from unlocked cars. I was stealing government checks out of mailboxes. I got bolder and bolder, until one day I got busted stealing from the band room at school. They shipped me off to a juvenile detention center called Morrison Training School. I hated everything about that place. The food was terrible. The kids were violent. I still have scars from all the times I got beat up. Every night, while I was falling asleep, I could hear the whistle of a freight train in the distance. And I always wanted to know where that train was going. So one night, when the guard turned his back to check the clock, I ran out the back door-- toward the sound of that whistle. And that was the first place I ever escaped from.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 8:20am PST

The police and FBI agents hauled her husband Bobby Love away. But why? Well, Cheryl learned about a 40-year secret her husband had kept from her. Bobby Love was actually Walter Miller – a small time bank robber who escaped from a North Carolina prison and had been on the run since 1977.

”I heard them ask: ‘What’s your name?’ And he said, ‘Bobby Love.’ Then they said, ‘No. What’s your real name?’ And I heard him say something real low. And they responded: 'You've had a long run,’” Cheryl shared with Humans of New York.

Humans of New York is a blog that shares crazy stories told by New Yorkers about their lives. Remember the story told by former stripper Ms. Stephanie aka Tanqueray? If not, get her story HERE.

Back to Bobby…

Before Bobby and Cheryl met, the convict-turned-family man was one of seven kids. His mother had a hard time keeping him under control because she had so many kids, so he was out in these streets acting up. He used to steal purses from unlocked cars and he stole government checks out of mailboxes. One day, he got caught stealing from the band room at school and was sent to juvenile detention.

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(3/11) “I followed those train tracks all the way to Washington DC. And for a minute, it seemed like everything would be alright. My brother lived in the city, so I started sleeping at his place. I enrolled in a new high school. I was going to class. Playing a little basketball. Things were going smooth. But I hadn’t learned my lesson yet. My old ways caught up with me, and I fell in with the wrong group of kids. These guys were robbing banks—and getting away with it. So I decided to tag along. We’d drive down to North Carolina because those banks had less security. And we got away with it a few times. After every score, we’d hang out on the strip at 14th and T, and act like big timers. We felt like gangsters. I have nobody to blame but myself. I just enjoyed the feeling of having money. But the fun didn’t last for long. Because one of those banks had a silent alarm. And while we were stuffing our bags full of money, the manager pulled the trigger. The police were waiting for us in the parking lot. All hell broke loose. I tried to get away, ducking and weaving, running through cars. But I got shot in the buttocks. The bullet went right through me. I woke up in the hospital-- with a hole in the front and back of my coat.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 9:27am PST

One day, he decided he would escape from prison and that’s what he did. He followed some train tracks from North Carolina to Washington D.C. and ended up moving in his with brother. He enrolled in a new high school and everything was seemingly good.

Bobby started hanging with a group of kids who would drive to North Carolina to rob banks since they had less security. They got away with it a few times, until one day they robbed a bank that had a silent alarm and the cops met them in the parking lot. While trying to escape, he got shot in the butt and he woke up in a hospital bed.

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(4/11) “It was all over for Walter Miller. The judge sentenced me to twenty-five to thirty years. I held out hope for awhile. I was doing appeals. I kept hoping to win on a technicality, or at least get a new trial with a better lawyer. But I kept hitting dead ends. And reality soon set in-- I was going away for a very long time. They sent me to a maximum security facility called Central Prison. Gun towers and everything. There was no way out, so I sorta got used to it. My mama died during this time, and that really shook me up. Because my entire life she’d been praying for me to turn my life around. And she never got to see it happen. So I committed myself to doing better. I became the perfect inmate. I never had a mark on my record. My behavior was so good that they transferred me down the hill to a minimum security facility. This place was more like a camp. They still had gun towers and everything, but there was a lot of freedom. They let us walk around the yard. We could make phone calls. I even had my own radio show. It was a lot of fun. I recorded it every Wednesday, and they played it on the local college station. I was relaxed. I was feeling good. I had no plans to escape.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 10:36am PST

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(5/11) “Everything changed for me when someone screamed ‘punk ass’ at the prison captain. He was walking through the parking lot. It was early in the morning, and it was still dark, so he couldn’t see who did it. I was working in the kitchen, so there was no way it could be me. But the captain said that he recognized my voice—and he wrote me up. After that he started picking on me. I tried to keep my head low. But the more I tried to do good, the more I got punished. He wrote me up for all kinds of phony things. He accused me of stealing a newspaper. He accused me of faking sick. The negative reports kept piling up, until I was one mark away from being sent back up the hill. And that’s when they started putting me on the road. It was the worst job in the prison. They’d call your name before sunrise, and you had to get on this bus. Then they’d drive you all over Raleigh to clean trash off the highways. It was awful. People would be throwing hamburgers and milkshakes at you. And it was almost winter, so it was starting to get cold. That’s when I started planning and plotting. I saved up my money. I memorized the bus route. I noticed that we always stopped at a certain intersection—right next to a wooded area. And I figured I could make that distance in no time at all. I also noticed that the guard who worked on Tuesday never searched the prisoners as they boarded the bus. So one Monday night, while we were watching the Colts game on TV, I made the decision. That was going to be my last night in prison.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 12:01pm PST

Bobby went to court and a judge sentenced him to twenty-five to thirty years in prison. He was sent to a maximum security prison called Central Prison. He eventually escaped by flinging open the rear exit of a prison transport bus, hopped on Greyhound bus (thanks to a man who bought him a ticket) and made his way to New York.

While on the bus to New York, a woman was making small talk with him and asked him his name.

“She asked me my name. I thought for a moment, and said: ‘Bobby Love.’ And that was the death of Walter Miller,” Bobby told Humans of New York.

Bobby made it to New York in November 1977 with $100 in small bills, a single pair of clothes and a brand new name. Bobby was able to get a social security card and then a driver’s license thanks to a few people who “overlooked” documents he didn’t have. He ended up getting a job in the cafeteria at Baptist Medical Center and that’s where he met Cheryl.

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(6/11) “I cleaned out my locker before I went to sleep. I wanted to leave nothing behind. No phone numbers. No addresses. Nothing they could use to find me quick. Because I worked at the radio station, I was allowed a single pair of civilian clothes. I put those on beneath my prison garments and wore everything to bed. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Every three hours the guards did a head count, and I kept seeing that flashlight shine on the wall. When the sun finally came up, I jumped out of bed and splashed water on my face. Then I glanced out the window. The careless guard was stationed at the gate. The one who never patted down the prisoners. So I said: ‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’ I got on the bus and went to the very back row, right next to the emergency exit. It was a five minute drive to the wooded area. As we slowed down for a stop, I swung open the back door-- and I was gone. I could hear the alarm blaring behind me, but I didn’t look back. I peeled off my green clothes and just kept running. The sweat was coming off me. I looked like trouble, so I did my best to keep out of the white neighborhoods. Every time I passed a brother, I asked for directions to the Greyhound station. Everyone kept telling me: ‘Keep going, keep going, keep going.’ When I finally got there, I found a brother in the parking lot who agreed to buy me a one way ticket to New York. I waited until the last minute. I jumped on the bus right as the driver was closing the door. Then I slunk down in my seat while we drove out of Raleigh. Once we got on the highway, the girl next to me started making small talk. She asked me my name. I thought for a moment, and said: ‘Bobby Love.’ And that was the death of Walter Miller.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 1:19pm PST

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(7/11) “Bobby Love arrived in New York in late November, 1977. I was glad to be free, but I was still in a tough spot. I had to build a life from scratch. All I had was $100 in small bills, a single pair of clothes, and a brand new name. I moved into a fleabag hotel, and for two weeks I survived on hotdogs and marijuana. Then my money ran out and I started sleeping on the trains. I had to figure out a way to get a foothold in life. I wasn’t even a person. I had no papers, no ID, no nothing. Believe it or not, the first thing I got was a social security number. I walked up to the window and told the lady a story about losing everything, and she gave me a card. On the spot. I still have it today. Next I got hold of an original birth certificate, scratched out the name, and typed ‘Bobby Love’ on the line. Then I took it to a print shop and copied it so many times that it didn’t look fake anymore. It didn’t take me long to find a brother at the funeral home who agreed to notarize it. He wouldn’t sign it, but he’d stamp it. And that was enough for me-- because I found a brother at the DMV who pretended not to notice. And that’s how I got my drivers license. Then I used all my new papers to get a job working in the cafeteria of the Baptist Medical Center. And that’s where I met Cheryl.”

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 2:31pm PST

Bobby NEVER told Cheryl about his past (even though his family encouraged him to) and he said she never really pressed him about it. They got married in 1985 and raised four kids together.

Throughout their marriage, Cheryl said she felt something was missing. There was no affection in their relationship even though the sex was amazing. By Christmas 2014, Cheryl had “reached the end of my rope” and she prayed God would change her husband’s heart. That was a few weeks before the arrest went down.

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(8/11) “Cheryl was innocent. The opposite of me. And that’s why I was so attracted to her. I never wanted to date someone like myself: who drank, and smoked, and had a past. Cheryl was soft. Almost naïve in a way. I never told her about my history, and she didn’t really press me. I did tell her that I grew up in the South-- which was true. And that I’d come to New York City to try something new. That was true too. But I never told her about Walter Miller. I didn’t see the need. Walter died a long time ago, on that Greyhound bus out of Raleigh. I was a new man. I was Bobby Love now. And if that was enough for her, why complicate things? We got married in 1985. Time went by. We raised four children together. I just couldn’t risk it. My family in North Carolina kept telling me: ‘You’ve got to come clean. You’ve got to tell her.’ But they didn’t know my wife. Not like I did. Cheryl is a righteous woman. Most people, when they see a dollar dropped on the street, will put it in their pocket. But not Cheryl. She will stop everyone on the sidewalk, looking for the owner. She’s that kind of woman. And that’s not the kind of woman who could keep a secret like this. I’m not trying to say that she’d have called the cops on me. But she’d have made me call the cops on myself. She’d turn up the heat. So I just couldn’t tell her about Walter Miller. And there was no need. Bobby Love didn’t have a criminal record. Bobby Love was a family man. Bobby Love was a deacon at his church. Every Sunday our pastor would preach about forgetting the past, and forgiving ourselves, and looking ahead. And that’s exactly what I was doing. That part of my life was buried back in North Carolina. And it wasn’t coming back.“

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Feb 5, 2020 at 3:37pm PST

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(9/11) “There was a piece missing. All these years I loved my husband. And he loved me— but something was missing. First, he never liked to be in photographs. And he always thought people were watching him. But I just thought it was vanity. I kept saying: ‘C’mon, Bobby. You aren’t that exclusive.’ But then there was the deeper stuff. We had some beautiful love making. But other than that, there wasn’t much affection. Not many hugs. Not much cuddling. Not much communication. I could only get so close and he’d shut down. Sometimes, when we were arguing, I’d be pouring myself out to him. And he’d just sit there with a scowl on his face. I thought it was me. I kept thinking: ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be here.’ But Bobby was a provider. He was always working two or three jobs. He’d cook, and do laundry, and spend time with the kids. I thought to myself: ‘Everyone is different. People have different upbringings. This might be how Bobby shows love.’ But it was hard. It wore me down. I cried so many tears about it. I remember during Christmas of 2014, I was on my knees in church, saying: ‘Lord, please, I can’t do this anymore.’ I begged God to change my husband’s heart. I’d reached the end of my rope. That was a few weeks before everything went down.“

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The life Cheryl knew came crashing down right before her eyes when the police showed up at her Brooklyn home.

"Bobby’s arrest was all over the papers,” Cherly said. “It seemed like the whole city was laughing at me. People at church would pull me aside, and whisper: ‘You knew about this right? You had to know.’ But I never knew. Forty years of marriage, four grown children, and I never knew. How could I be so stupid? I wanted to hide. I wanted to disappear.”

Mrs. Love said she knew she loved Bobby when she realized she still wanted to comfort him during this time. However, she wasn't going to continue to accept the bullsh*t.

”The whole world knows now. We’ve got no secrets. But I think this whole mess was for the better of things: better for me, better for the kids, and better for Bobby. He doesn’t have to hide anymore. He can look at me when I’m speaking. Not only that, he’s hearing me too. My voice is heard. I used to walk on eggshells. I used to just go along. But I told him one thing. I said: ‘Bobby, I’ll take you back. But I’m not taking a backseat to you no more.’ Because I got my own story to tell. I can write a book too. I might not have escaped from prison, and started a whole new life, and hid it from my family. But I forgave the man who did,’” she shared.

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(10/11) “My world came crashing down. Bobby’s arrest was all over the papers. It seemed like the whole city was laughing at me. People at church would pull me aside, and whisper: ‘You knew about this right? You had to know.’ But I never knew. Forty years of marriage, four grown children, and I never knew. How could I be so stupid? I wanted to hide. I wanted to disappear. When I went to work that first day, everyone was gathered around the front desk. And they got real quiet when I walked in. But I told them: ‘Don’t just stand there. I need some love. Give me some hugs.’ Of course I was embarrassed, but I was more hurt than anything. Bobby had deceived me for all those years. There was no truth in our house. I’m walking past this man every single day. We laughing. We joking. And he’s not telling me anything? I was so angry. But I never hated him. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to hold his hand. I told Bobby later, ‘That’s how I knew I loved you. Because even in the worst of it, I was thinking about you.’ When I first visited him in prison, he broke down crying. His head was in his hands, and he told me: ‘I know, you’re going to leave me.’ I told him: ‘No Bobby Love, I married you for better or for worse. And right now this is the worst.’”

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Bobby was extradited back to North Carolina where his sentence was later paroled. He was released from prison in 2016 – less than a year after the feds picked him up. His release made headlines too.

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(11/11) “I got to work. I wrote letters to the governor. I wrote letters to Obama. I gathered testimonials from everyone that Bobby ever knew: all the kids he used to coach, all the people at our church, all of our family members. I testified on his behalf. I didn’t know a thing about Walter Miller. But I told them all about Bobby Love. And the parole board took mercy. After a year in prison, they let him come home. The day after he was set free, I sat him down and asked: ‘What is it? Are we the Loves? Or are we the Millers?’ And he said: ‘We Love. We Love.’ So I had him change his name legally. And now we’re moving on. I still have my resentments. When we get in a fight, I’ll think: ‘This man better appreciate that I forgave him.’ But the thing is-- I did forgive him. And when I made that decision, I had to accept all the territory that came with it. I can’t make him feel that debt every day of his life. Because that’s not the marriage I want to be in. The whole world knows now. We’ve got no secrets. But I think this whole mess was for the better of things: better for me, better for the kids, and better for Bobby. He doesn’t have to hide anymore. He can look at me when I’m speaking. Not only that, he’s hearing me too. My voice is heard. I used to walk on eggshells. I used to just go along. But I told him one thing. I said: ‘Bobby, I’ll take you back. But I’m not taking a backseat to you no more.’ Because I got my own story to tell. I can write a book too. I might not have escaped from prison, and started a whole new life, and hid it from my family. But I forgave the man who did.”

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The 69-year-old has since changed his name to Bobby Love legally and is focused on trying to put his life back together…with his wife.

Gotta love it!

Photo: Brandon Stanton/Humans of New York

[Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/02/07/bobby-love-speaks-escaped-convict-turned-family-man-explains-how-40-year-old-secret-he-ke

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