#tally hall shirt save me

[cfrog]

Its finals week. I did this in 15 minutes 👍

My one cool final: oc blanket.

Look at my squares :]

Good squares.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Datura Pt 5

Summary: Trapped Under the Mountain you're trying you best to learn to navigate Amarantha's Court and your own, budding powers.

Content Warnings: Allusions to assault, slavery, mild cursing

Author's Note: This one hurt me to write, but my depression got the better of me and I needed to let my angst out somewhere; I'm so sorry.

Pt 1, 2, 3, 4

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It’s been three weeks since you’d been dragged under the Mountain, each day counted with a little tally scratched into the wall behind your bed post where no one can see. Two weeks without word from your uncle. Two weeks without sunlight. Sometimes you sit in the dark wondering if, when this is over and you finally get to step into the sun again, if your eyes will be able to bear it, or will they be permanently altered?

The weeks are taking a toll. The girl you see in the mirror each morning is paler and paler each passing day, the lines of your face a little thinner as hunger becomes a constant companion. Amarantha has tasked someone with feeding you, but meals are few and far between, save for the assortment of stale snack Rhys has been sneaking into your training sessions. The male has spent hours each day running you through shielding techniques, followed by sparring sessions to “keep you limber” he’d said, and has only just begun to touch the well of power that sleeps beneath your skin. He’s still tight lipped about what he suspects it was, no matter your questioning. Things are, well you wouldn’t say pleasant necessarily, sometimes he still makes you want to hurl things at his head, but there has been no more threats from Amarantha to enforce upon you and so things are fine between you. The Queen has kept to herself for the last three weeks, until the Attor came knocking on your door.

The creature has the decency to not attempt to carry you by the back of the shirt this time. Instead, it walks ahead of you, leathery wings and talons scrapping the floor, it’s every breath a horribly, squeaking, rasp through it’s crooked teeth. It’s only spoken to inform you that you’re being summoned to the Queen’s chambers and than it clamps it’s thin lips shut and shoves you into the hall.

No throne room today, for that you’re relieved, most nights you can still see the bodies pinned to the wall when you shut your eyes. Instead, the Attor leads you up and up, the climb stealing your breath as you head to what you can only assume is the Mountain’s peak. Someone has painstakingly carved steps into the rock, each stone smooth and worn down over time. The door at the top is the same carved stone as all the other doors, but this one is guarded by masked sentries, both armed to the teeth. Spears glisten in their gloved hands, and you keep your questions about how well those could be wielded in such a small space to yourself. Questioning Rhys about her operations is one thing, the Attor and the rest of her cronies is another.

The sentries knock twice before pushing the door open for you.

Unlike your room, the space of her chambers is cavernous, the walls smoothed over and held by pillars of marble and sandstone. Faelights glitter and twist around each pillar, bathing the room in an unnaturally red glow.

Red seems to be her favorite color.

Her sleeping chambers are set in the side of the space, hidden from you by a crimson curtain. The rest of the room is left open, decorated with plush couches and chairs around a roaring fireplace in the shape of a lion’s head. Beneath the worn coffee table, currently plated with tea cups and scones, is a pelt of some sort of monster, the head bearing curling horns and an open mouth of jagged teeth, the glassy eyes starring right at you as the Attor all but shoves you into the room.

There’s a heavy scent of mirthroot and incense in the room that makes your head feel fuzzy.

The Queen emerges from behind the curtain wearing little other than a silk robe, the bare expanse of her legs on full display.

You reign in the disgust you feel at seeing her, try not to picture what she was doing back there, so flippant after she’d ordered an innocent male killed simply for knowing you. She’s a monster. But she’s also the monster with the power of the High Lords and you’re not so foolish as to upset her here in the quiet of her chambers where no one will hear you scream if she decides she wants to punish you for any slight you might offer.

“Y/N,” she says with a grin that looks wrong on the sharp planes of her pale face. “Glad you could join me! Come, sit.”

The Attor watches you move towards the couch opposite her like he thinks you might pounce on her and drag your claws across her throat.

The couch sinks in when you sit, like it’s been used a lot. You try not to think about why.

“Tea?” She asks as she grabs her own cup, her red lipstick smearing across the rim as she takes a deep drink.

Your stomach rumbles, a reminder that they’d forgotten to feed you again. You pull your hands into your sleeves, trying to keep your hands from reaching out to take what’s offered on instinct. “No.” The chances of you being drugged in here are high, you’re not taking any chances. Mentally, you do a quick check of your shields, just as Rhys had shown you, to ensure the doors of your mind are shut from whatever power of his she can wield over you.

She frowns. “I can see that you’re scared of me.”

You lean back in the couch, arms across your chest.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like that,” she says as she sets her own cup down. “I’ve been training with Hybern for many years, I’ve often thought of him like a father, and so I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward when I say I hope that some day you’ll see me like a sister.”

The urge to unleash your claws and slash them across her face is overwhelming. You’re thankful you’d had the good sense to pull your hands into your sleeves, it hides the way you dig your nails into your palms to keep yourself still. “Oh?”

She clasps her hands together, the eyeball in her ring swiveling to look at you. “My relationship with my own family was… rocky, I’d like to think fate is giving me another chance with you.”

You’re not so desperate to get out that you buy it, but you know, from somewhere deep inside of you that if she’d waited a few more weeks, if the hunger and the dark were really starting to get to you that she could have been convincing. That’s what scares you the most.

“I know I come across extreme,” she continues like she hasn’t noticed your reservations. “But, girl to girl, I really want to see you thrive. Rhysand has been telling me of your progress. He says you’re a fast learner.”

He’d told you that too. “He’s a good teacher,” you say carefully. You mean it, he’s very patient with you, even if he is an ass about how he gets results, he’s never been harsh, never pushed too far--not since that first day had he come into your mind uninvited--but you can’t have her getting suspicious of why you’ve been such a dutiful student. If she suspects you’re trying to awaken your powers too soon, you’re as likely to end up chained to her as the High Lords are. Hybern needs a weapon, not a time bomb, you have to play your cards steadily to unsure you can get out of here at the end of this.

“Charmed, are we?” She asks in what feels like it’s meant to be conspiratorial girl talk, but the look in her eyes... You swear the eye on her finger widens in warning.

“I haven’t had any training before this. It is nice to have a guide for my questions.” As close to the truth as you can get.

Amarantha leans back in her seat, arms spread across the back of the couch, as she studies you. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black, nothing but cold calculations in a gaze you know has been wielded with extreme precision on the battlefield. It’s like she’s pinpointing all your weak spots when she looks at you. You can’t look her in the eyes, not without fidgeting, you find yourself picking at the fraying edges of your shirt sleeves instead.

“You poor thing,” she coos. “You must have been so confused.”

That much is true too. You still haven’t been able to figure out why they’re doing all this. What terrible power does she think you posses that she’s so desperate she’ll invite you into her personal chambers instead of attempting some dramatic event in the throne room?

You stare at the wall. You can’t give her the satisfaction of asking her those questions. Maybe she does have the answers, but they’re from her mouth and you know better than to trust a damn think that comes out of it.

“I thought everybody was ahead of me,” you admit. “We travelled a lot so regular schooling was out of the question.”

“Oh I’m sure your uncle was a master at weaponizing your naivety. Most males are.” She brings her hand with the ring up to her chest and begins to trace a pointed nail over it, as if she’s thinking about something else.

“He’s a good male,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

She huffs a laugh, “Good males do not steal children from their parents.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“Your parents were very powerful people once, and your uncle had always been jealous of your mother. I wish you could have seen her, Y/N, when she stepped onto a battlefield, males coward. I watched them piss themselves just at the sight of her. She was everything I hoped to be as Hybern’s general.”

You’d always imagined your love of books and ancient things had come from your mother. In your mind she’d been a soft woman who grew gardens and was always reading books under big oak trees. In your mind she was kind and gentle and had lost you tragically in some sort of accident. To hear anything else, from Amarantha of all people, made you want to throw your hands up over your ears. Your uncle had alluded to your father not being the best of people, but you had never imagined it would be this bad either.

“Your uncle couldn’t stand it,” she continues, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “I tried to warn them that he was a jealous and dangerous male, but your mother loved him too much to see it. And when he stole you out of your room that night, well, her heart couldn’t handle it. That’s our curse as women, I suppose, we care too much.”

You look into the fire. That can’t be true! You don’t want it to be true. Because, if it is, you’re not only wrong about your parents, you’re wrong about your uncle too and then you will have no family left at all.

“And look at you, following in her footsteps,” she presses. “Caring so much about him that you’ll sacrifice your own peace of mind to spare his miserable life. He’s a monster, Y/N, why are you protecting him? All he has ever done is hurt you.”

The flames dance in the fireplace, reaching towards the carved teeth of the lion’s head. You trace the ash that’s dusted up the creature’s face with your eyes, anything to avoid looking at her. Your shields might be in place, but your face will betray you all the same.

She stands and comes to sit next to you, the heavy scent of earth and incense a cloud around her. “Your powers could have driven you insane without the right teaching. He very well could have killed you. You want to protect a male like that?”

 Maybe it is all true, gods above you can barely stomach the thought, but even if it is, you can’t sell him out to her. “I already told Rhys where he would be. I’m not protecting anyone.” These last few weeks, no news of him had been a relief, it meant he was safe, but as time ticked on, the doubts were starting to get to you. None of her huntsman had even heard whispers of where he’d gone. Was it possible he’d abandoned you?

She reaches out and places her nails under your chin, turning your head until you’re looking into her eyes. “You poor thing. I feel for you, I really do. I know the terrible sting of betrayal all too well.”

The eye on her ring swivels to stare at her, like it’s questioning the statement.

Maybe it really is alive; the thought makes your stomach roll.

“What do you want?” You ask.

She laughs like you’d told a joke. “As I said, I want us to be friends.”

“You killed a male to threaten me into submission and suddenly you want to be friends?”

She stiffens a little.

“This is about the twins, isn’t it?”

“Do you smoke?” She asks instead.

The shift makes you pause for a second, long enough for her to shout for someone behind the curtain leading into her sleeping quarters. A moment later, the same male from the throne room appears, shirtless, wearing nothing but his boxers and a glittering, golden collar. In his hand is a small, silver tray and as he seats himself on the arm of the couch, he holds it out to her. A rolled cluster of cigarettes sits on the tray next to a golden lighter and she grabs the nearest cigarette. Out of what can only be habit, the male sets the tray on the table and lights the cigarette for her as she brings it to her mouth. You’ve been in enough taverns to know mirthroot when you smell it, the smoke making the room hazy.

“Helps with my headaches,” she says, holding it out to you.

You glance at the male, now draped over the edge of the couch like this is normal. Like it’s normal that there are scratch marks across his chest; a collar clinging to his throat. So much had happened the last time he’d been around you hadn’t really noticed what was happening, but now…

Amarantha is speaking again but you honestly can’t hear what she’s saying.

What kind of female does this to people?

There’s something prowling beneath your skin, a caged animal pacing the bars of it’s enclosure. The first bits of your talons poke through your skin, digging into your palms to keep it at bay.

“Y/N?” She asks, and by the tone its clear this isn’t the first time she’s called you by name.

You force yourself to draw a breath, then another. You cannot fight her here like this, no matter how badly you want to. No matter how much the sight of that collar makes you want to destroy everything she’s ever touched. She has the power of the High Lords and if you fight her here in her chambers, untrained, you will loose.

You draw another breath. Rhys had said that half the battle was knowing when to throw the first punch. It isn’t time yet.

You repeat it to yourself, to the thing that slumbers in your chest until it quiets.

You know Amarantha is watching, can feel that oily gaze on you. You draw another breath and force yourself to look at her. “I’m sorry, I… I was just wondering…” You should placate her, pretend your just some untrained, naive little girl she found on Calanmai. At the start of this conversation you might have, but the shift you feel beneath your skin…

You need to get out of the room before you implode.

And you need her to know you’re not just some stupid pet.

“I was just wondering what’s so bad about the twins that’s got you rattled, Your Highness?” Maybe you can’t meet her gaze yet, maybe you can’t win a physical fight, but you’re not some helpless toy at her whims. The last couple weeks have weakened you, but they haven’t beat you.

She growls at you, eyes flashing dangerously.

The male on the end of the couch scatters out of range, ducking behind the curtain long enough for you to get a flash of the room, see another body laying in her silk sheets.

You’re going to rip this mountain apart brick by fucking brick if you have to.

“Is this what you’d rather do, little mouse?” She asks, her voice dangerously low. “Play games with me?”

It's too late to take it all back now. The words are out and despite the shiver running down your spine, you know if you back down now she will hold it over your head forever. Might as well stand your ground and see what she'll reveal to you if you keep pushing. “I’m bored in my cell,” you counter.

She takes a drag of the mirthroot. You'll ask Rhys later why she needs so much of it. Is it possible that holding all that power is effecting her physically somehow?

“How forgetful of me to not keep you entertained.”

“Isn’t that what friends do?” You over emphasize the word, put all your venom into it. You can’t spar with her physically yet, but you’ve always been quicker with your words than your fists anyway.

She flicks the cigarette away. “You should come to dinner tonight, if you’re so bored.”

You hope she can’t hear the way your heart thunders in your chest. This is dangerous, so very dangerous. You’re almost sure you can hear Rhys screaming in your head. “I’d be delighted,” you say as sweetly as you can.

Amarantha motions the Attor over, a dismissal. “I was hoping to protect you from the cruelty of this court until you were ready. My subjects aren’t always as kind as me, but since you’re so keen on getting out of your room, I suppose I can’t help you.”

She’s going to throw you to the wolves.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ll have to get acquainted with my father’s court eventually.”

“You’ll remember this conversation after dinner,” she hisses as the Attor grabs your shoulder and lifts you off the couch.

“I’m sure it’ll be a good laugh for both of us,” you say like you don’t hear the threat.

As the door opens, you throw over your shoulder, “I’ll see you tonight.”

The powers she’s stolen rumble as the door slams shut behind you, the mountain shaking.

You tuck your trembling hands into your pockets as you walk back the way you came. At least no one is dead this time, but still you can’t shake the feeling that you’re royally fucked.

Doesn’t help matters that, as you turn the corner back towards you room, Rhysand is there, frowning as he leans against the closed door. That intense violet gaze roams over you as you approach, as if he’s cataloging every detail of you, then the Attor.

“Why is she out?” He snarls at the Attor.

“Well hi to you too,” you grumble.

You’re not entirely sure what powers come with being High Lord of the Night Court, but you’re sure he once was able to burn holes through people’s heads, judging by the intensity of the anger in his eyes. He won’t even make eye contacting with you, only the Attor, who lumbers past you, chuckling.

“Her Majesty requested an audience.”

“She’s only to leave her room with me,” Rhys snarls, pushing away from the wall so he’s standing at his full height. Wisps of darkness unfurl from his shoulders, thrashing behind him like living things.

You shiver a little. These last few weeks had made you forget the male you had seen on Calanmai--what Darkness Incarnate was capable of given the right push.

“Funny,” the Attor rasps, unbothered by the display. Maybe when you spend so much time with Amarantha, only big, powerful displays matter. “She hasn’t mentioned you all morning. Maybe she’s gotten tired of you.”

“And maybe,” Rhys prowls forward, the stars you can sometimes see glittering in his eyes winking out with each breath he takes. “I was out dragging Tamlin’s sorry ass in for you.”

The Attor pauses, wings twitching. “Spring surrendered?”

“His time is up,” Rhys snarls. “He didn’t even fight me.”

Shit shit shit. She’s actually done it. Tamlin had been the last High Lord on his throne. When Hybern came in a couple of months, there’d be no one standing in his way. Amarantha would have all the High Lords sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted with them.

You look at Rhys, really look. There’s no damage on him, no cuts or bruises, not even dirt, no hint that he was lying about bringing Tamlin in. He doesn’t look at all bothered by it either, as if this is just another part of the job.

The Attor makes a hissing sound, “Guess we both didn’t get what we wanted today, lordling.”

“This will be the last time you take her anywhere,” Rhys snarls, his voice wholly taken over by a High Lord. Not the male that sits on the floor in the training room, showing you how to shield; not the male who sneaks you snacks to ensure you’re not starving to death in the dark. There is no room for argument, no room for a fight, he is High Lord and he will get his way. “And if I find out any harm came to her while she was under your watch I will take my gods-damned time flaying the skin from your measly bones.”

Measly? The Attor is twice Rhys’s size, yet you know, just by looking at him that he’d win. It’s no idle threat.

“You talk a lot of game, whore,” the Attor snarls as it backs away. It knows it’ll loose too. “But lets see you put that same energy out in front of Her Highness when she has her new pet out for dinner tonight. I’m sure with the Lord of Spring joining us, things will be interesting.”

It scurries away before Rhys can ask what that means, or before you can tear it’s ugly face off it’s bones. Yours claws are piercing into your palms, blood pooling between yours fingers. You hadn’t realized you’d done it, they’d slipped, your control waning at his words. Rhys hadn’t seemed to notice them, hadn’t reacted at all, just as he hadn’t that night in the throne room, but you can’t stand it. And you can’t even explain why.

“Are you hurt?” Rhys asks as soon as the Attor is gone. The wisps of darkness disappear in a rush, like all the energy needed to summon them had suddenly vanished.

“No, I’m fine,” you reply, but you can’t stop yourself from looking down at your hands, the indents you’d left in your palms. Little tendrils of your own darkness slip from them, like it’s leaking out of your skin.

Rhys is on you in an instant, taking your hands in his own, looking at the damage.

“Guess I was clenching my fists a little tight,” you say.

The world tilts and spins, the sound of wind rushing in your ears, and then you’re standing in another bedroom. It’s as barren as your own, lit with a dozen, half melted candles, most of the space taken up by a bed with black silk sheets. There’s some furniture covered in dust around a cold fireplace; it looks less used then your own had been when you’d arrived.

Rhys’s hand is around your wrist, pulling your towards the bathing chambers. He’s breathing hard, as if the winnowing had taken a lot out of him; his skin a little more pale, dark circles around his eyes. How much of his power does Amarantha steal on the daily?

“What did the Attor mean about tonight?” He asks as he motions you to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s bigger than your own, not by much, but there’s enough of a lip around the edge that you can sit without falling completely in. He lets the water run until it’s warm.

You pinch your eyes shut. “She gave me this whole speech about how she wants to be friends.”

He guides your hands under the water and you wince against the sting.

“I was going to wait her out, just not say anything at all, but…” but you kept seeing that male in that godsdamned collar, and the bodies pinned to the wall of the throne room, and the male who had been murdered on the floor.

You know you should be careful here too, no one has explained what his role in all of this is. Was he like Tamlin once? Dragged in when he ran out of options? Or had he come on his own? And you can’t shake the queasiness you get in the pit of your stomach when someone calls him a whore, because all you can do is wonder if Rhys has any say at all what happens to him down here?

“But?”

“But she’s a monster and the last fucking thing I want to be is her friend.”

He steps away long enough to get a towel and dab at the open wounds, still bleeding, the water red as it runs down your hands.

“So I guess I kinda goaded her into doing something with me instead of leaving me in my room all the time.”

Rhys huffs, but you can’t tell if it’s annoyance or anger. He doesn’t say anything beyond that as he shuts off the water and start rummaging through the cabinet under the sink. There’s a lot of vials and bottles and hand towels organized in the small space, the only real sign that anyone ever stays in the room at all.

“You’re lucky she didn’t tear you apart,” he growls as he comes back with a bottle of what looks like antiseptic. He dabs some on another towel and presses it to your palms, ignoring the hiss you make at the sting. “She’s ripped off people’s arms for less.”

“Yeah well one of the joys of being me is she needs me alive,” you drawl.

He tosses the used rag in the tub and then opens a small bottle of salve. It’s half empty, the contents clinging to the sides of the container. It’s applied to your hands with the care of someone who has done this over a dozen different wounds.

“How’d you find all this stuff?”

He’s got gauze too; wraps your hands carefully. “One of the joys of being me is she needs me in one piece,” he returns.

When your hands are all wrapped, he puts all the stuff back and washes his own hands.

“What…” this is dangerous ground, it sounds an awful lot like you care about him. You run a finger over the bandage, trace the sleeve of the shirt you only have because he’d given it to you. You’d still be in a shift in this frozen place if it wasn’t for him. You’d be a lot worse off, if it wasn’t for him.

“What exactly do you do for her?” Do you even want to know? Why torture yourself with the truth when you find out he’s done all of this for her because he wants to? Because he was born a monster just like she was and had only decided to latch onto you because maybe you were as much a ticket to Hybern’s graces as you were for Amarantha?

You watch the way his back shudders as he draws a shaking breath.

Something in your chest cracks and you jump off the edge of the tub.

“Whatever she wants,” he says so softly you almost can’t hear him.

You take a step closer, then another, until you’re right behind him. “And do you… want to do that?”

He turns slowly, head to his chest.

You take the final step so that you can look up into his eyes. So you can see him. There is so much there, in his eyes, in the shadows across his face that you’re pretty sure you have an answer. But you can’t be pretty sure of anything Under the Mountain. You need to hear it said.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he whispers.

“Yes it does,” you press.

He shakes his head, onyx hair falling over his eyes. This is the most rumpled you’ve seen him, he’s always so put together. “Not with what I stand to loose.”

“What could be worth all this?” You’ve unconsciously brought your bandaged hands up on his chest, the beat of his heart quickening beneath your palms. He lets you, as if that pulse might show you that he really does have a heart that works under his shirt.

He brings a hand up slowly, gently running his fingers over the back of your knuckles. His mouth opens, and closes without an answer.

“Rhys-”

He pulls your hands away, straightening, whatever emotion had been on his face before is gone, that cold mask of indifference in it’s place once again. “I am High Lord,” he explains, “my duty is to protect my people at all costs.” Whatever he was going to say before will remain buried behind that mask. You don’t know how he does it so easily. Just when you think he might open up, might let you in, might show you that the male you had met on Calanmai was real, he shuts it out behind this mask.

“And who protects you?” You dare to ask, because even though you know you can’t get past that mask, you can’t stop yourself from trying.

“I don’t need protecting,” he says, but it’s not confidence in his voice, nor pride, it’s… broken, as if he doesn’t think he’s worth protecting. “Careful, Y/N, I might think you care about me.”

Caring in a place like this very well may get you killed. But if you stop, if you find your own mask and shut down every piece of yourself behind it, aren’t you just as bad as him?

 “Would it be so bad?” You whisper. You can’t help but feel small in a place like this, would having a friend be so terrible?

“Yes!” He snarls and darkness leaks from him again. “The more people you care about in this gods forsaken mountain the harder it is to get out! You might only get one shot and if you don’t take it, you’re likely to get stuck here forever.”

Somehow this is worse than Amarantha asking to be friends, this feels an awful like some sort of rejection and that chasm you often feel after Calanmai, when you’d ignored him, cracks and splits wide open in your chest. You feel yourself tumbling down, down into the dark void.

“Why do you care so much if I get out then?”

“Because you’re-” he bites down on the rest of the sentence, shakes it off with a deep breath. “No one else will tell you the truth, so here it is: You will be the death of all of us if you stay. So yes, I want you out of here. I want you as fucking far away from here as possible!”

You can’t breathe.

The chasm swallows you, drags you under until you don’t know what way is up. You know you’re crying, but you can’t stop the tears that stream down your cheeks. Rhys doesn’t bother to try and wipe them away this time.

“Fuck you,” you whimper.

“It’s not my fault you were so damn isolated the first scrap of attention you got you confused with something else,” he replies. “I’ve kept you alive out of necessity and I will continue to do so until it is no longer required of me. And when the time comes for you to get out, you’ll take it and not look back, understand?”

The world spins again and you’re suddenly back inside your own room.

“Do you understand?” He repeats again.

“Perfectly,” you hiss.

“Good. Now let’s fucking hope I can get you out of this gods-damned dinner before your throw away your chance.”

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Tag List: @mariahoedt, @lovelydove, @twsssmlmaa, @sleepylunarwolf, @judig92, @willowpains, @annaaaaaa88, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @myheartfollower, @uniquecolorwizard, @eternallyelvish

*I've seen that some of my tags aren't working for this list, I'm trying to figure out why it will let me tag some of you and not others, but I'll keep trying until I figure it out. :) As always, if you want to be added to the list, let me know! :) Thank you all for your support in this fic you guys are amazing! <3 *

[nekole-doodles]

[Extra notes below the picture]

1. I only recently mostly phased out of my Gacha phase because no one made satisfying enough videos. Those reaction and AU Crossovers videos used to go so hard thoooo!!! This is where I found my love for AU Crossovers and making AUs :D I always had very high standards for GC videos though which honestly probably saved me from being one of those questionable people who pushes the fandom's boundaries.

2. Still LOVE FNaF and fnaf fanartists have been saving my mental health these past few weeks after DSMP started falling off

3. I have a few closeted/subtle DSMP cosplays like C! Wilbur(who I dressed up as for Halloween) and C! Tommy and TCFSV! Siren is in progress(looking for the iconic white and red t-shirt and working on getting a black coat and my friend is making a shimmery blue blindfold for me :D) I'll be dressing up as TCFSV! Siren for the hero/villain day at my school :))) So excited

3. Anime(specifically Haikyuu) was my first hyperfixation but Violet Evergarden remains one of my tops (Also, Yuri!!! On Ice recently joined the ranks since I just watched it. It has changed my brain chemistry)

4. I can recognize soooo many tiktok audios despite only getting TikTok last year because I always watched FNaF and Haikyuu compilations.

5. No comment :/ (I like women :])

6. A Mitski song was just playing a minute ago agsksnj

7. So many YouTubers raised me omg, especially MCYTubers(clearly) DanTDM, LDShadowlady, Ihascupquake, etc, those were fun days :]

8. I still remember her obsession with bread, like that one time she made a tower of bread in Job Simulator

9. Honestly, Hot Topic doesn't have great stuff for me but I've been there several times

10. Only a few of her songs but I think it still counts. I mostly listen to her through DSMP animatics/animations (which says a lot as is)

11. TALLY HALL, no further comment :]

12. I stopped using it as much but yeah. I love emoticons, especially TvT :) :] :') =>= :D TwT etc

13. MY MUSIC IS BUILT OFF OF ANIMATION MEMES!!! Before I found my groove with indie music, this was basically 99% of my music

14. Just look at my page. That says enough. Longest and strongest hyperfixation and has had the most impact on my life despite me joining late. Haikyuu was my phase while I was getting out of a bad time but DMSP was there as I found myself and it helped me find a lot of the things I enjoy now(art, writing, cosplays, fanartists, content creators like Philza, a love for animatics and fanart, etc) You can tell how much this fandom means to me

15. I wouldn't say I'm "good" per say, but I still love art and like to think I'm improving :> I still have a long way to go but DSMP and QSMP makes for good inspiration to practice drawing through fanart :]

16. ... Do fish count??? I mean- I have owned 3 hamsters and guinea pigs that one time but it never really worked out. I'd love to have a cat but I'm really allergic which is devastating :[

Anywayyyy, I rambled a lot :D I always ramble. I AM the ramble :)

[doorsclosingslowly]

Do You Remember the First Time?

A Dregs member with a grudge, a cruel ambush—but to Kaz’ luck, a boy named Jesper Fahey has just joined the gang and he happened to tag along.

3.1k | pre-Six of Crows | warning for attempted rape, violence, ableism

By the time the door closes, it’s too late. Kaz is curled belly-down on the floor just past the entrance in a room with Beertjie and his mates Kert, Frans and Sonna, and Beertjie—well, he’s a much better actor than Kaz gave him credit for. Or Kaz is still more naïve than he believed—it’s probably both—but before two seconds ago when the truncheon hit his head, he never expected Per Haskell’s old enforcer to pull this off. The man’s neither creative nor ambitious enough. He’s been with the Dregs for longer than Kaz has been alive, and he’s still occasionally pulling bouncer duty when Haskell doesn’t need a brawler to second for him: Kaz, meanwhile, in less than three short years, has worked his way up to doing the accounting for all the Dregs’ gambling halls. He’s working on building up Fifth Harbour. Kaz has plans.

If this trap isn’t Beertjie’s own idea, though—then whose? Kaz has watched him, and he doesn’t have any contacts outside the Dregs. Outside his three accomplices, really, and a couple of bar men. It could’ve come from the boss, but Haskell’s at least clever enough to know that he needs Kaz.

So what—

“Nothing to say now, you little brat, eh?”

“I’m trying to understand how even you could be stupid enough to attack Per Haskell’s favourite second.” Kaz uses the lowest rasp his teenage voice will go to. “Give me some time. It’s an enormous amount of stupidity to tally.”

When in doubt, rile up. Kaz isn’t holding any cards at all right now—he doesn’t know who ordered the hit, he’s outnumbered and outmuscled, Frans over in the corner has his foot on Kaz’ cane and his hand on a gun, the three new Dregs who accompanied them—who lulled him into a false sense of security—they’re on the other side of the locked door, plus they might be in on the attack anyway, and when Kaz blacked out from the truncheon for a second someone locked his hands behind his back in some iron contraption, not Grisha thank the Saints but unfamiliar enough that he’ll need a few seconds to unlock it.

When all their attention is on him—and by his position, his back— they’ll notice if he fumbles a lockpick from his coat, but if they get angry enough… well, angry men make mistakes.

Unfortunately, angry men with truncheons also hit him in the head again.

“Is that your only trick?” Kaz smirks through the pounding blur in his eyes, not that they can see it when he’s face-down in the dirt. Beertjie’s not worth straining his neck to look up. Still, it doesn’t hurt to keep the acting impeccable. “No wonder you never got further than bouncer.”

“Thieving little bitch. Just ‘cause you suck Per’s cock just right doesn’t make you a big man,” and Beertjie’s genial ruddy cheeks are stained crimson with hatred now. “Stick to your books, cripple.”

So that’s what this is about: jealousy.

“If you’re worse at your job than a fifteen-year-old with a bum leg, I’m sorry to say, that reflects more on you than it does—”

Another blow, this time to the back. It glances off, no real damage done, and Beertjie’s even terrible at his actual job. He’s losing his cool.

So is Kaz, unfortunately, although he has enough sense to conceal his growing unease. No matter how subtly he wriggles his hands, the shackles are ratcheted too tight to slip out, so tight he’s starting to lose circulation. It might not even suffice to dislocate a thumb. He’s trapped. New plan. So if he’s going to stay prone and tied up and unarmed and anger’s only making Beertjie hit him more, that does not rob him of all his weapons. He’s talked his way into and out of far more dangerous situations before. Threats? No, Beertjie doesn’t have any connections outside the Dregs. No spouse, no family. Extortion? He doesn’t have any secrets either, save the insecurity he just revealed. He does jobs for Haskell with his buddies, he drinks in Haskell’s bars with his buddies, he plays poker in Haskell’s bars with his buddies. He’s a profoundly boring man. Maybe that’s why Haskell has kept him for so long: boring men provide no leverage, much to Kaz’ current detriment.

The next strike is to Kaz’ bad leg. Another, same location. Then the healthy one. Not enough force to break bone, but still, it hurts enough that he has to bite his lip to stifle a moan, and worse yet is the way Beertjie’s bending over him in order to aim. The bouncer’s got enough core strength that he doesn’t need to prop himself up, doesn’t need to touch Kaz with anything but the truncheon, but—every rush of air from the body above him makes his heart jackhammer. He screws his eyes shut. It’s hard to think of a plan, now; hard to even have the presence of mind to be grateful his humiliating position is hiding even more humiliating panic. Another strike. Another close movement. He’ll lose another leg. Another—

“Everything alright? We heard scuffling.”

The screech of the door as it opens wider—the pain as it hits Kaz’ bad leg—Beertjie cursing as he hurries out of the way, and then three pairs of footsteps. The new Dregs. Kaz swings his throbbing aching good leg until he’s turned on his side—the wrong one, he still can’t see any faces—but though that would’ve been useful, he doesn’t strictly need it. He knows the new Dregs. He recruited all three of them, and that interruption was Jesper Fahey’s voice. Jesper is the newest, and the one with the most potential.

Their presence makes the whole unfortunate situation slightly more embarrassing. However, any mix-up also presents new opportunities, and Kaz just has to think…

“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Jesper, again. Insufferably confident for a teenage dropout gambling addict with debts in the thousands of kruge watching the person who recruited him a month ago get roughed up by a washed-up old guy.

So confident it even catches Beertjie on the back foot. The man opts for nonchalance. “Fine,” he says. “Just teaching a little rat some respect.”

The constant references to his height are starting to grate uncomfortably against Kaz’ skin. Sure, he’s almost fifteen and still hoping for another growth spurt, and the malnutrition of a Barrel kid probably didn’t do him any favours if he was ever meant to grow up tall, but in Beertjie’s wide mouth, the word takes on a more dangerous hue. Something predatory.

“Well, I was. Seems like he needs something a little bigger than a truncheon to teach him some respect. Something to replacethat stick in his ass.”

The implication alone is enough to leave Kaz’ reputation in tatters. If this gets out—if the young Dregs leave, and he wants them to leave now, but he can’t—none of this can leave this room, ever. Kaz can’t see the obscene leer on Beertjie’s face, but he doesn’t need much skill to imagine it. He can feel the movement of his vicious greedy eyes deep in his bones, can feel them travelling through his layers into his skin, and he’s wriggling in his fetters with more and more urgency. He’s managed to pull a tiny lockpick from his shirt cuff during the beating, and with just a little time he might be able to…

“Got any room for one more?”

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. There is no honour among thieves, and the Bastard of the Barrel’s only friend is his vengeance, but still. The new Dregs were supposed to be his. Jesper was supposed to be his. After all, it was Kaz who saw the potential in the Zemeni gambler in the first place. His quick, easy charm, his steel under pressure, his skill with a gun.

And Jesper is not as subtle as he probably likes to think, when his eyes keep flickering down to Kaz’ mouth—yeah, Kaz knows about the crush, even had vague notions on how to put it to use, but somehow, he’s never expected the other boy to just want to take what he’s been denied. Stupid, stupid.

Kaz led him to the Dregs. He had great plans for the boy. Had. Jesper’s going to die bloody. What a waste.

Something about his loathing must have bled through in Kaz’ posture, because Beertjie chuckles.

“Brekker makes his enemies quick, eh?”

Jesper laughs, too. It’s a grating sound, somehow: Kaz has heard him laugh often at the gambling tables, doing trick shots, making friends, and that’s what helps him pick out the new nuances. This laugh is breathy, high, almost hysterical. He sounds like it’s slowly sinking in what he’s planning to do. He sounds terrified. Good.

“They’ll remember your death in Ketterdam for decades,” Kaz vows. It’s all he can do, because the lock still won’t give in. “Centuries. It’ll be so gory and painful they’ll use it to terrify their children into submission. If you wanted your name to become immortal—well, congratulations, Jesper Fahey.”

“I’d like to shut his smart mouth,” Jesper says, his voice still wrong and shrill. “Stuff it, if you catch my drift.”

And then, Jesper’s on his knees next to Kaz, heaving him up. Kaz refuses to be of help, until one of the hands holding up his clothed upper arms moves down to the knee of his bad leg to bend it. Heavy boots move closer as if to offer help, either Beertjie or Sonna or young Peer, and that’s—it’s too much, not when Kaz still hasn’t found a way out of his handcuffs, not when he knows what’s going to… thank the Saints he’s still clothed and he won’t get torn bare this soon, won’t have to endure as much skin touch anywhere except his head and that’s bad enough, though at least it will thoroughly spoil their fun when he spews vomit all over…

He bites his lip bloody to halt his thoughts. There’s still time to escape. Maybe on his knees, picking the lock will be easier. Maybe—it’s Peer who came up pull him into position, Kaz can see the boy now, and that’s too much, too many people around him when Jesper’s bad enough, and so he gets onto his knees of his own accord. Peer stays.

Jesper’s hands fondle Kaz’ wrists for a second. Even through the gloves and the shirt cuffs and the jacket and the steel shackles, the trembling touch makes Kaz sick.

The fucking traitor rises to his feet, and then he’s standing right in front of Kaz, so close Kaz can smell leather and gunpower and sour sweat, his groin right in front of Kaz’ face. His still-clothed dick, as far as Kaz can tell, is soft. Good. At least he isn’t enjoying this as much as he expected. At least this won’t even be worth it for him. For a fraction of a second, Kaz steels himself by imagining biting his way through that soft rat bastard belly and tearing out Jesper’s liver with his teeth. The blood. The screams.

Jesper, though, has other concerns.

“I guess you’ll be a biter,” he says softly, as if to himself. Kaz can see his eyes flick over to Beertjie, though: he’s playing to an audience, though for what— “I happen to prefer my dick attached,” and he pulls out a gun. Uses it to caress Kaz’ temple with a parody of tenderness. “You know what’ll happen if I feel a tooth. You can touch your stick now, boss,” even more quietly, and—

As if Kaz was gonna get off from this. Is if he’s going to let Jesper pretend it’s consensual, as if his arms aren’t cuffed behind him, as if—Jesper’s grey eyes are staring down past Kaz’ face even though his chin’s still raised, and despite himself, Kaz follows his glance.

Next to his knee, there’s the bottom end of his cane. It must’ve rolled over, and before he can bury the child straining to hold onto any security that drowned in the harbour years ago he’s reaching for it, and—his hand moves.

The cuffs are open.

They clatter to the floor before his hands locks around the cane, and Jesper spins around and shoots Frans right in the head.

Kert and Sonna are next, before they even manage to take a step closer; and Peer stumbles when Kaz’ cane meets his foot and dies when the cane meets his neck. Another couple of bullets for Beertjie. Screams. Otto the other new recruit desperately rattling the handle of the locked door and Jesper glances at Kaz and Kaz shakes his head and then the boy’s brain paints the door.

And Beertjie’s still screaming.

“I’m out of bullets now, boss. Only brought the one gun.” Jesper looks almost shy now, standing in the blood splattered room. It’s strangely at odds with the ruthless fighter he was a second ago; the eager rapist he—pretended to be, with admirable quickness of mind and acting acumen, for a few minutes. Now, he’s only meeting Kaz’ eyes for a fraction of a second and then glances away again, as if it was him who was humiliated here. As if—

“He’s yours, boss.”

As if he’s an eager cat who fetched Kaz his revenge and is hoping it’ll please him. Because Jesper shot Beertjie in both knees, Kaz realises. Deliberately. He shot him in the knees and left him for Kaz to kill, and it’s almost—almost—enough to paint over the terror and humiliation of the past few minutes. He was right. Jesper will be useful.

So he stands on his aching bad leg and his throbbing bruised good one and ignores his trembling as he works his way up, breaking bones, from the thighs to the arms and ribs and, finally, the face. The shaking’s just adrenaline, pleasure, leaving early. He’s fine.

Jesper is proving his mettle even more by studiously ignoring the way he can barely stand, can barely limp over to the door.

The door. That’s what he almost missed. The unlocked door that was locked when Otto tried to escape, and unlocked when Jesper got in, and locked before that. Just like the shackles were locked until they weren’t.

Jesper’s going to be very, very useful indeed.

+

It's been six days since The Event, and Jesper’s in the Crow Club, losing badly at poker. This time, he knew he was going to lose even before he sat down at the table, but his head’s spinning, and there’s something about the familiar banter and shuffle and the weight of the cards in his hands, the practiced movements, that often helps him think. That might help him now not lose himself in bouncing questions and worries left over from The Event, even if it’ll lose him a hundred kruge.

The Event. That’s how Jesper has taken to referring to what happened, even in the sanctity of his own head: because despite what happened in the leadup to The Event, he’s not entirely convinced that Kaz Brekker isn’t a mindreader Grisha, and if Brekker’s gonna murder him for—for pretending to go along with raping him, oh Saints—if Kaz is gonna kill Jesper as the last witness, well, not provoking him needlessly will maybe buy Jesper time to write a last letter or two to his Da.

So he’s waiting on hot coals, and drinking, and losing at poker, and not thinking about What Happened. Or What Didn’t Happen, because whenever it comes up Jesper’s been going along with Kaz’ version of events: that creepy old guy was a traitor who’d turned all the other guys to his side too, and Kaz confronted and eliminated him, with minor assistance from Jesper himself. If underplaying his own initiative, quick planning, superb acting skills and cool under pressure—not to mention his perfect kill shots, but then Kaz did go back and set the house on fire to get rid of the corpse evidence—if letting Kaz rest on what should rightfully be Jesper’s laurels is what gets him another lease on life, so be it. He’ll have more chances to prove himself. Unless Kaz murders him.

He doesn’t regret the impulse that made him save Kaz. It was wrong, what that creep planned, regardless even of the fact Jesper’s maybe a little only here with the Dregs in the first place because Kaz asked him and even that first time, he liked Kaz. Maybe Kaz would stop planning to murder him if he explained—but on the off-chance that Kaz hasn’t realized he’s Grisha yet, and Kaz hasn’t brought it up so there’s at least a possibility… He was close to picking the shackles himself, after all. On the off-chance he doesn’t know, it would be pretty stupid to tell him—case in point, Jesper’s still fifty-fifty on whether Kaz will murder him—but the only explanation for why he went along with the rape pretence in the first place is that he needed to get close enough to those shackles. Maybe Kaz will just calm down on his own. Fifty percent non-murder are still good odds, after all. Better than Jesper winning today at poker.

More worrying—and just plain unfortunate, because even if he’s fucked his chances now Jesper really does like the guy—is that Kaz hasn’t exchanged a single word in private with him. They’ve barely been in the same room, and when Jesper clapped him on the back two days ago the guy actually jumped. If it wasn’t for the fact that this is Kaz, Dirtyhands, Bastard of the Barrel, who did torture a man to death a week ago even if that guy deserved it and Jesper did help him, so he really can’t claim any white vest there—if this wasn’t Kaz, Jesper would almost think he’s afraid of him now.

So he’s going to get murdered by his crush who’s also scared of him. And he’s just lost another two hundred kruge. Life is great.

But when he’s waving to the dealer to signal he’s up for another round—it’s Tom today, who’s always nice to Jesper and kind of pretty but he’s definitely no Kaz, so maybe later once Jesper’s nursed his sore heart… But the dealer’s not even paying attention to him. He’s staring straight behind Jesper. Not even a chance of a rebound tonight, then. Saints, Jesper’s luck just sucks.

A hand raps on the table next to him. Slim fingers, black gloves.

“Fahey, with me,” Kaz rasps from behind him, closer than he’s been in a week. “Geels wants a talk. I need someone reliable at my back.”

Or, just maybe, Jesper is the luckiest man in Ketterdam.

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 11

The past several minutes were piecemeal to Tommy. He could infer what had happened based on the clues around him, but when he tried to recall the actual event occurring, details slipped away, like he was remembering a dream.

The facts were these: he was sitting on the floor. That was good - the floor was solid and he always found lowering his center of gravity stabilized him. Gordon was beside him. This was also good. He was trembling slightly and he looked severely rattled, but had incurred no further injury. Dr. Coomer was there, too, sitting cross-legged in front of them.

And there was another Dr. Coomer laying a few feet away. And another one beyond that. And another. And another. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the room just as much so with the bodies of clones. They were riddled with holes.

Tommy could connect the dots. He was the only one present who was armed.

What stuck in his memory quite well, however, was the look Gordon gave him after it happened. Frightened and dazed and a little awestruck, pupils blown wide and mouth parted in shock. Tommy wasn’t sure what it meant; whether he had scared Gordon with that act of unbridled violence or if the man was just grateful to still be alive or something else entirely. It was a weighty look. Settled heavily in Tommy’s chest.

Dr. Coomer - the living one, the original - was smiling mildly at them, as if Tommy hadn’t buried two slugs of lead in his chest only moments ago. Tommy stared distractedly at the crimson soaking into his shirt while Gordon pried information out of the scientist. What was his near death experience tally up to now? Double digits, at least. Gordon’s voice was remarkably steady for what he had just gone through, but when Tommy slid his gaze toward him, he noticed how shaky his hands were, how stark the whites of his eyes stood out. He was still very much afraid.

He wordlessly shifted so that his knee was pressing into Gordon’s leg. Just enough to give him an anchor. His hands were otherwise occupied with his rifle, which he had laid across his knees in a latent threat. Having to murder Dr. Coomer dozens of times had taken a swing at Tommy’s resolve, but he’d do it all over again if it meant keeping Gordon alive. He could carry this burden for him, at least.

Tommy swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away. Now wasn’t the time to lose his composure.

Dr. Coomer, to his credit, seemed relatively unbothered as he answered Gordon’s questions. “Well, Benrey and Bubby have been… whispering for some time about how to handle a problem.” he paused delicately. “I believe the problem is you, Dr. Freeman.”

Gordon was doubtful. “A pro – why am – is it my trackers? The GPS trackers?”

“I think they’re just spiteful,” Coomer guessed.

Tommy snorted. Sounds about right.

“What have I done to th - t-?” Gordon stammered, outraged. “They’re fuc - they’re assholes, man. I don’t - I have like-” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “We’ve all killed people,” he iterated.

“Yes, but we all have our passports,” Coomer pointed out.

“Passport?” Tommy repeated.

Benrey was really fixated on that, huh? He idled over that thought for a moment, wondering if it was all an elaborate stunt to fuck with Gordon or if there was more to it than that.

Dr. Coomer responded congenially. “Passport!”

Beside him, Tommy felt the shaking in Gordon’s leg grow more pronounced. “If I – if it’s-“ he took in a steadying breath, then spat out the rest of his words in frustration. “If this is over a goddamn passport, I will strangle that bald fuck with my own one hand.”

The old scientist’s eyes lit up. “Can I help?”

“Yeah, you could d – you could do the other hand,” Gordon allowed, giving him an appreciative look. “That’d be fun for you, I bet.”

“Exciting!”

Gordon laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, well, at least you can give me a chuckle. Did you know – where’d they go, where are they?”

“Well, I lost them,” Coomer admitted. “I was spending the past few minutes trying to hunt you down and find out where you were. We got separated, you see.” He cast a somewhat bemused look at the bodies littering the floor at the bottom of the stairwell. “I see you encountered my clones.”

“The nightmare,” Gordon echoed hollowly. “I encountered the nightmare.”

Dr. Coomer furrowed his brow in a serious look. “Now, Gordon, it’s only safe to warn you. I felt everything they felt.”

Tommy couldn’t suppress a flinch. He didn’t remember how many bullets he’d fired in the past few minutes, but judging by the carnage it had been quite a lot. Having been shot before, he was intimately aware of how much it hurt to have a bullet rip through one’s body. Trying to reconcile that kind of pain all at once in rapid succession made Tommy unable to meet the scientist’s gaze.

Gordon’s laugh was all nerves. “He was the one that did that,” he clarified, and he gave Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze in an attempt at reassurance. “Just so you know. Tommy killed all of those.”

Coomer was still smiling. “Oh, I’m quite aware,” he remarked, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fine shooting, Tommy!”

Tommy grimaced and didn’t respond. It wasn’t forgiveness, but he’d take it. Gordon rapidly changed the subject.

“Okay. So… do you have any idea what we can do about this?” he asked, gesturing to the stump where his hand used to reside.

Dr. Coomer scratched his jaw contemplatively. “Well, clearly climbing inside of your arm and wearing you like a puppet didn’t work, so perhaps I could help you find… something to help.”

The distant sound of water dripping was all that could be heard for a moment while Gordon paused.  “That was the scariest sentence I’ve ever heard,” he finally muttered. “Okay, let’s – s – so let’s go. Yeah.”

Coomer nodded. “Hello, Gordon.”

“Is there – augh, man – Maybe we can h–” he broke off, suddenly remembering. “The Cybernetics Department! Where is that?”

“Oh, I believe it’s next to the Lambda Department,” the old boxer answered.

Gordon’s broad shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh, so it’s on the way,” he sighed gratefully. “Oh my god.”

Tommy finally spoke a full sentence for the first time since they’d sat down. “I know where that is,” he commented. “They – I wandered in there once because they have a lot of cylinders that look like soda cans, but I was told they’re batteries.”

He felt Gordon shake slightly as he let out a soft guffaw. “Did you drink them?” the other man asked expectantly, brows raised, eyes twinkling, cheeks dimpled with humor.

Tommy smiled fondly at him. He could replace the sun with Gordon’s dazzling grin.

“I tried.”

---

Navigating Black Mesa’s maze of conveyor belts was a headache, but they managed. It took a lot of spatial interference on Tommy’s part to keep Gordon from plummeting to his death every few minutes. His sense of balance was completely shot. At least the mood had somewhat been lightened by Dr. Coomer’s grim joke about the ‘Skull Grinding Facility.’ The old boxer was in much better spirits now that his clones had been eliminated, and while Tommy didn’t necessarily trust him, he at least wasn’t posing an active threat.

He was past the point of finding Black Mesa’s batshit insane experiments humorous anymore. He just wanted to go home.

They inevitably encountered more aliens. Crates full of them. Were they being held here purposefully? He didn’t give himself much time to think about it as he mowed down the creatures, rifle in hand. Coomer flanked him, wreaking havoc with his fists, while Gordon - unarmed, unhanded - very wisely took cover.

“Sucks being helpless, man,” he sighed once the room was still.

Tough. He could be helpful by taking advantage of that med kit beyond the sliding door. Tommy kept an eye out for any encroaching monsters while Gordon fiddled with the cabinet. He heard him let out a crestfallen exhale.

“It had like, two… fucking seconds of juice left.”

Tommy passed him a snicker. “Two blood?”

“Two blood,” Gordon confirmed, an elastic smile leaping onto his face. “Two CCs.”

“Maybe if we bump the machine, there will be some more hidden in there,” Coomer suggested, quite reasonably, before emitting a startlingly loud shout and hooking a punch at the med kit.

Gordon leapt away from the dent in the metal, but he was laughing.

“Usually that works,” Dr. Coomer intoned, while Tommy’s shoulders shook with amusement.

As they headed down the hall, Gordon’s laughter could still be heard in between footsteps. “Honestly, guys?” he began, a smile in his voice. “Really, I think I - I love you two.”

Tommy’s mouth was halfway open to form a response when he remembered what a collective affirmation was. He bit down on his words. God, how hopeless could he get?

He was saved from having to dwell on that when they encountered Bubby’s cloning tube. Tommy felt a surge of loathing when he saw the prototype encased inside, trapped, pathetic, and oh so guilty. Sure, he couldn’t kill the guy permanently, but he could undoubtedly make his death agonizing.

Something in Gordon’s voice, however, stayed Tommy’s trigger finger. The way he growled, “hey, motherfucker,” low in his throat made his scalp tingle. Bubby looked to Tommy pleadingly, palms pressed against the glass, but he just returned his stare coolly before leaving Gordon to handle it. He deserved his revenge.

“Gordon, I just want you to know-” Bubby began, but Gordon cut him off.

“Do I look any different to you?” he asked, displaying his injury.

The scientist cringed away like it was a brand. “I never told them to do that,” he claimed. “They uh, they fooled me!”

Tommy scoffed. He didn’t want to hear Bubby’s sob story. Siding with Benrey was like cuddling with a cobra, and it was Bubby’s own fault he’d been bitten. Shouldering his rifle, he began poking around the room, tuning out the conversation while Coomer remained at Gordon’s side.

In summary, Bubby pleaded ignorance, managing to assure Gordon that he had been coerced by the entity into betraying him. Tommy was less convinced, but if Gordon wanted him to come along, he’d let him. Dr. Coomer vented some of his frustrations by whaling on the glass for a while, and his disposition was much more agreeable than it had been when they entered. Gordon gave him the go ahead and the boxer hit the release button.

As Bubby, wholly relieved, stepped out of the shattered remains of his tube, Tommy made a point to send him a threatening glare. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be coming along with them at all. But he still tossed the prototype a weapon and half a chance. Slip up and you’re dead, his stare told him. Bubby snatched the gun out of the air and gave Tommy a tight-lipped smile. He got the message.

Their progress through the facility was much quicker with an additional team member. They cleared the way ahead for Gordon, who stumbled along after them, leaking out blood. Tommy’s satisfaction with their pace was soured somewhat by the appearance of a skeleton that flickered in and out of his line of sight. So the entity was loose again. Took the lazy way out of spatial entrapment by offing himself, it seemed.

Gordon, visibly shaken by the entity’s presence, suddenly found himself unsteady on his feet. Tommy urged him onward with a reassuring hand at his back, throwing a spiteful look over his shoulder at the skeleton as they went.

---

A few more hellish sectors brought them to a series of industrial lasers. Tommy stepped thoughtfully from room to room, quickly realizing that this puzzle was essentially just designed to blast through the facility wall. Would be nice if they could just use a door, he thought with some disdain. What an expensive, impractical stunt.

Gordon was woozy and nauseous - a state that probably wasn’t helped when Dr. Coomer had nearly rendered him unconscious with laughter by calling him “Dr. Pussy” a few minutes earlier. While he sagged against a doorway, barely managing not to barf, Tommy elbowed him in an attempt to distract.

“‘Nother triangle, Mr. Freeman,” he said, indicating the sizable prism being used to refract the laser’s beam.

Gordon gave him a foggy look, uncomprehending. “I don’t think those have to do anything with any of this.”

“I believe they do,” Bubby contended, striding confidently past them into the control room. “I have deduced that lasers can blow a hole in this wall for us to escape.”

Coomer chimed in as he jogged after him. “Gordon, it’s very important that we don’t obstruct the laser shield, as the sign says up here.”

“I’m going to obstruct it,” Bubby said.

They followed the scientists into the control room. Tommy matched his pace with Gordon’s in case blood loss caused him to lose his footing again. God, he was tired. But Gordon was halfway to death and steadily slipping closer, so there wasn’t exactly a wide margin for rest.

“The power from the triangles will guide us through this,” he quipped, and he was rewarded with a thin, breathy laugh.

“So, hey,” Gordon called to the group. He halted, stationary, in the middle of the room while the rest of them puzzled over the laser. “I lack the mental fortitude to refute anything you say to me. Who wants to be the de facto leader?”

Bubby pounced on the opportunity from where he stood at the console. “Cool. I call dibs.”

“Hey, hey.” Gordon backpedaled immediately. “Wait, wait. No,” he cast a complicated look in Tommy’s direction. “It’s Tommy,” he said, and his voice held the weight of truth in it. “It’s only Tommy. I only trust Tommy.”

Tommy reeled, pressing a hand unconsciously to his chest and feeling his heart beating out a rapid rhythm beneath. He had to grab the coattails of time and yank. Pause everything around him for just a few seconds so he could study that exposed, vulnerable expression on Gordon’s face. It was the same look he had given him after he’d lain waste to Dr. Coomer’s doubles earlier that day - open, fragile, a little wonderstruck. Eyes so deep Tommy thought he might fall into them.

It’s only Tommy. I only trust Tommy.

What a badge of honor. What an indescribable burden. He allowed himself a few moments to stand there, unknotting the emotion in his chest, before finally releasing his hold on time. The Science Team moved on without noticing the interruption. And Gordon’s words pounded in Tommy’s pulse for the rest of the day.

Chapter 10 <-----> Chapter 12

[foxtophat]

here’s chapter 4!!! it’s been about a week and a half, two weeks since John Seed reappeared, and now nick is ready to take his vengence!  by... having john do basic tasks to repair the homestead.  hey, this isn��t eden’s gate -- what do you expect, skin flaying and long-winded religious diatribes?  (weird, that’s exactly what john expects, all the time, from everyone!)

i really love this story and am so thrilled that other people seem to enjoy it too!!! it’s fun to write, and since i know it’s just full on self-indulgent bullshit, i don’t feel guilty for not being ~~realistic~~ about the whole thing.  fuck it! nick is a pacifist now!!!

i’ve included today’s chapter under the cut so you don’t have to leave tumblr if you don’t want to.  if you’re enjoying this story, please consider reblogging so your friends can also enjoy my hellscape! or, you know, do what makes you happy, it’s not like i can force you to ruin your aesthetics blog on my behalf. stay frosty my dudes, i’ll see you in 2 weeks!

Well, John doesn't die. Despite that being the only good thing the man could possibly do, he manages to hang on through the first night, looking better before the week is out. It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Nick no longer feels like he's serving a skeleton its last meal; on the other, it means that John is more than likely here to stay. Every time Nick goes to give him food, he finds the room just a little bit more lived in, the tarp turning into a makeshift bed as John struggles to settle in. Just yesterday, Nick had noticed a short series of tally lines scratched in the wall, marking each day of his sentence as though he were confined to solitary.

Nick should probably be happy with how smoothly things are going. He should probably be glad that John is keeping quiet and politely recuperating without so much as a snide remark. It's what he wanted, after all — for John to wave a white flag and agree to an unconditional surrender. And yet Nick can't help but feel short-changed, as if John owes him at least one opportunity to punch him in the face for being an asshole. It used to be something Nick dreamed about doing; he'd fantasized about beating him to a bloody pulp even as John had ripped his skin from his chest. Now, he's not willing to deal with the guilt that would undoubtedly follow.

Nick wishes he could go back to his "fight everyone" thirties. Being a mature adult sucks.

It's bright and early one morning when Nick decides it's past time to do something about the ceiling, which is warped and sagging beneath the nursery. Nick suspects it's a cracked joist, but considering his lack of carpentry skills, he doubts he can do anything to repair it. Right now, all he can do is try to support the weight of the second floor with something other than a wish and a prayer. Thankfully, he saved some of the posts when he dismantled the back porch — now if only Kim weren't going to be busy all day with Carmina, they could actually get some work done.

Except, maybe not!

John has been looking a lot better these past two days, since all he's been doing is resting and regaining his strength. Nick's heard him rummaging around at night, and he's been making himself something of a nest out of the crap left with him. Nick's even heard him talking, although it's anyone's guess who he thinks is listening. Considering how quiet and withdrawn he is when Nick brings him his meals, he doesn't seem interested in what real people have to say.

Honestly, if Nick hadn't been an integral part of John's survival for the past week, he'd think the whole thing was some kind of ploy. Nick's not sure what John would be planning with this act for sympathy, but he isn't going to make the same mistake he did all those years ago and write him off as some rich, coked-out jackass with no thoughts to his name. He's not going to let John sit around and finalize whatever evil machinations he's got brewing in his mind. He's gonna work that sad-sack until the only thing John's thinking about is collapsing from exhaustion.

Nick doesn't reveal his plans until after breakfast. He doesn't want to ruin his favorite meal of the day, not when he can rest aimlessly beside his family around the table, eating ham and eggs while Kim brews coffee. It's the closest they'll ever get to the way life used to be, and Nick can pretend that everything is back to normal as long as he has a cup of coffee in hand. Hell, it's not like watching his eight-year-old daughter methodically clean the family rifle during breakfast is all that weird for Hope County, with or without the apocalypse.

It's probably a good thing that Carmina is distracted. If she realized today was the day John would be seeing sunlight, she'd refuse to go anywhere until her curiosity was satisfied. They've told her as little as they can get away with, given that they're keeping a man prisoner across the hall from them. Mostly that he's a very sick stranger who could make little girls very sick too. She'd bought it for the most part, but Nick's afraid that she won't be able to contain her curiosity for much longer.

"Think I'm gonna get some stuff done while you're gone," he tells Kim, glancing significantly towards the stairs while Carmina isn't looking. "We need to deal with the second floor sooner rather than later."

"Are you sure?" she asks, raising her eyebrows meaningfully back at him. "Is this something you can do on your own?"

"Better to not put it off anymore," Nick replies. "It'll be easier if I have the place to myself, anyway. Less, uh, confusion."

That said, he puts the chore off for almost half an hour after Kim and Carmina head out. He tries to prepare, but there's not much he can do to close off the exits, and it only takes a few minutes to drag all the necessary supplies into place. All he can do at this point is hope that John is only strong enough to help, and not strong enough to run at the first chance he gets. If he does that, Nick's going to have no choice but to shoot him.

Nick does his best to hide his nerves as he unlocks the door. It feels weird to knock so he doesn't, pushing the door open slowly enough for the hinges to creak. John should just be thankful Nick bothers to try giving him any sort of head's up.

John, ungrateful bastard that he is, sleeps through Nick's entrance. He's found the cheap wool guest blanket that Nick would never dream of actually offering to guests, which seems fitting. His shirt is crumpled next to him, leaving Nick with the unfortunate view of his bare torso.

Nick's seen John shirtless a few times now, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. His skin is stretched over his jutting shoulder blades, clinging to every sharp, bony angle of his spine. Nick knows there's not much else for it to cling to - he's seen the way John's stomach sags, too much skin with not enough meat to hang on to. It's all been eaten away from months, maybe even years , of malnutrition and inactivity. The only thing left of the man Nick remembers is a goddamn shadow. Looking down at John, Nick's left to wonder how he had survived at all.

Nick nudges John unkindly with his boot, ignoring the grunt of discomfort he gets in return. "Come on," he snaps, "It's morning. If the sun's up, you're up — this isn't the goddamn Hope County Hilton."

John groans, biting his tongue against whatever snide comment might come to mind. That's too bad — Nick would love to start today off with an ethically-sourced beat-down.

Even though he wants to, Nick refuses to look away as John sits up, revealing all of his tattoos and scars. The tattoos are nothing new, and some of the scars look pre-Collapse old, but John obviously didn't let the bunker curb his self-mutilating tendencies. Some of the tattoos have been ritualistically carved out, leaving flat slabs of scar tissue behind. Others have been scratched out less completely, seemingly at random. The worst part is seeing the ten deep, half-moon gouges in his shoulders, leaving behind raw, fresh scars. Nick can only imagine what led to their creation, but he would really rather not.

"Put your shirt on and eat quick," Nick tells him, setting the plate near enough to John before retreating to wait by the door. The more space he has between them, the better. If John is going to pull something, Nick wants to have room to grab his gun, or at least to brace for a fight. And anyway, John still eats like a mongrel and it's uncomfortable to watch.

"Time to put me to work?" John asks skeptically as he drags his shirt over his torso.

"You bet," Nick replies. Should he be a cagey dick about it? Part of him thinks so, out of spite, but realistically he should temper John's expectations. Nick isn't going to be capable of putting John through the kind of torture he's probably expecting. So, he points out the dipping corner and says, "This whole floor is gonna give out if we don't do something about it. Well, I say we , but I mean you ."

John regards the spot with more skepticism. "That's it?"

"You haven't even seen how much of the house you're going to be digging out of the dirt," Nick points out. "Come on, hurry up already, I don't have all day."

——

Despite being sick as a dog, John's strength is still something to be reckoned with. Nick watches uneasily at first as John makes short work of clearing space for the beam to stand, heaving shovelfuls of dirt out the open window without regard to his wasted muscles. If John decides to come at him with that shovel, it's going to be Nick's reflexes that save him, not his brute strength. Nick's reflexes aren't exactly the best these days, so Nick hopes it doesn't come to that.

It doesn't seem like John is interested in fighting, though. Nick sets him to work with the shovel and he takes it up without so much as a snide comment about Nick trying to order him around. He slings dirt silently, practically zoning out over the manual labor as Nick watches from his side of the room. It's almost like he's in a trance or something, and it's only broken when the shovel scrapes against the wooden floorboards. He comes to a sudden stop, staring at the floor in surprise. He looks up and around, fixing a sour glare at the wide-open back porch that Nick is standing guard in front of before finally looking at Nick himself.

"That's it?"

"Hell no, it isn't," Nick sighs, gesturing towards the beam that he'd dragged in from the woodpile outside. It doesn't rain much nowadays, so it hasn't gone to rot, and it should be just about level with the supports in the ceiling. Plus, it's already got the right hardware attached, and most of it even survived the nuclear blast.

"Come on," he tells John, "You're putting this up."

Still no backtalk, not even as Nick gets his own hands dirty and helps John prop the beam up. He remains silent as Nick fastens it in place with the only three-inch bolts left in America. It's a temporary solution, but Nick's proud of it anyway, and he steps back to admire the work. He has to admit, even if John is planning something, at least his plan involves actually being useful.

"That should work for now," he says. He scratches the back of his head as he regards John — what does he do with the guy now? It seems like a waste to just... jam him back up there. He's obviously capable of working, and that's what Nick said he'd do — break his back with manual labor, right?

"Well, now that we're done with that... I guess you can get to work shoveling the rest of this dirt outta here. It's been pretty low on the list, but it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"No, I suppose not."

"Hey now, what happened to just saying yes ?" Nick grins, feeling mean but still pretty funny for it. John scowls, but he's just not the right audience for the joke, so his opinion doesn't count.

" Yes, sir ," John replies. He's probably just being a dick, but the way he says it roils Nick's stomach on impact.

"Hey, none of that shit," Nick snaps, even though he probably should lean into the boss role while he can. "Just — don't be a fucking weirdo about this, okay?"

John frowns and doesn't respond. He doesn't need Nick to instruct him any further, returning to work with the shovel as though he's forgotten he ever stopped. Nick keeps an eye on him as he has lunch, waiting for John to drop the weird, quiet obedience act that he's been putting on. It has to be an act. John's just using their mercy for his own ends, using them for shelter and food while waiting for the opportunity to strike. To take the house and the guns, to take control of everything that he'd felt so obligated to eight years ago.

An hour goes by in silence. John works steadily, almost meditatively shoveling down to the floorboards, dumping shovelfuls of dirt out the nearest window to him. He's lost in his thoughts, so much so that he doesn't seem to notice as he clears out nearly half of the living room, the shovel scraping against wood like the beat of the drum that's distracting the poor motherfucker.

Eventually, Nick can't help but point out, "You don't talk as much as you used to."

John doesn't so much as look at him, which is more irritating than Nick wants to let on. What, is he supposed to shut up now, too? Forget that !

"I mean, you used to never shut the fuck up. Guess even you couldn't stand listening to yourself for eight years solid, huh?"

John grunts in response. He doesn't look so hot; his face is pale and drenched in sweat, and he seems to be relying on the shovel to steady himself. Nick squints, trying to figure out whether or not the guy is trying to pull a fast one on him — it's exactly the kind of thing Nick would do, if he were being held captive — but John doesn't seem to notice Nick's scrutiny at all. He seems miles away from the house, from himself.

Goddamn it. The more Nick watches, the less comfortable he becomes. "Alright, come on," Nick sighs, exasperation masking his discomfort at seeing John near-fainting. "That's enough for one day, now sit down before you fall down."

It's a toss-up which of those options John takes, but moments later he's flopped backward into the mound of dirt. He leaves streaks of mud across his face where he wipes away the sweat. Nick watches, waiting for the asshole to spring his trap, but John looks sincerely too beat up to try wrestling the gun away or making a break for it. His hair, thick with dust, clumps over his face, dropping into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to smooth it back.

To his personal horror, he finds himself offering John his canteen. He should leave John to drink his own spit with their fresh water supply as low as it is. It's what the man deserves. But they've wasted too much time and supplies on John to be stingy with the water now.

"Don't get too comfortable lying in the dirt," Nick points out, "I'm gonna put you back before Kim and Carmina get home."

John nods without complaint. He takes careful sips of water, like he's trying to mind how much he's taking, which is a fucking riot coming from the guy who did nothing but take, take, take for years.

"It's the nursery, isn't it?"

Nick stares down at the dirty bastard in confusion. "What?"

"The room," John repeats with a suspicious lack of irritation. "It was going to be the nursery."

Nick scowls. "Yeah," he says. "Not that it ever panned out."

John holds the canteen out for Nick to take back, which he does. "No," he admits, "It certainly did not."

"No thanks to you." Nick takes a thirsty swig of water. "None of you got a chance to raid our bunker, but there were a lot of other people who weren't so lucky. Lots of people didn't even have a house to hide in."

"Yes," John sighs, "I know."

The nerve John has to brush aside the damage he's done momentarily overwhelms Nick, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's chucking the canteen at John's head in a vicious game of dodge-ball that John just barely wins. "No, you don't know. You managed to find somewhere to survive for eight years, while good, honest people were left to rot away on the surface and suffer through nuclear winter because you burned down their houses, you stole their supplies, you ruined their lives! You destroyed everything before the police ever showed up! You sorry assholes kept talking about the Collapse while all of us were already living through it! Because of you ! You know ? Fuck you!"

Nick reaches his hand out to grab John, to — to strangle him, to shake him , anything to stop him from sitting there and staring cow-eyed up at him. Waiting for Nick to exact a physical price for all the anguish that he's caused, waiting for the inevitable retribution that he deserves.

But eight years is a long time to carry so much righteous anger. Nick must've set it down somewhere along the way; now that it's time to resume that bitter loathing, he finds himself coming up short. Honestly, he's too goddamn old for it. He's too tired. Eight years of fatherhood and living past the end of mankind has run the rage right out of him. The idea of expending that much effort just exhausts him. What would even be the point? John isn't even worth it.

"Just — get up," Nick sighs at last. "Kim'll be back in a while and I... don't want to look at you anymore."

John slumps into himself as he stands, shoulders caving in as he avoids looking higher than Nick's boots. He proceeds without complaint or comment up the stairs; despite that, Nick still braces himself for a surprise attack, his hand clinging to the holster. He stops at the doorway behind John, waiting for some trap to spring and feeling oddly put out when nothing happens.

"I'll bring you dinner later," Nick tells him. "From now on, you're only getting a second meal on days you work."

John nods in response, falling into his makeshift bed with as much grace as he had the dirt pile downstairs. Nick's not sure he's gonna be awake the next time he checks in, but that's probably for the best. Nick doesn't like watching the guy eat, and he hates having to interact with him.

When John fails to say anything, Nick uses his silence as an exit and quickly locks John away. He'll probably sleep until dinner, which means he'll spend all night muttering to himself again. That's just what Nick needs.

There's still time before Kim gets back with Carmina. Nick drags the dining table into the living room, taking a minute to marvel at the amount of dirt John managed to clear out. Maybe tomorrow, Kim can take Carmina on a hike or something so that he can have John do the rest of the room. Once the dirt's all cleared out, they'll be able to build proper doors for the back porch, instead of leaving it open to the elements and potential prison breaks. After that, who knows? Maybe they'll be able to string lights up in here like they did back at the Spread Eagle. They could actually find a use for the generator. Hurk was on the radio recently, boasting about party liquor and gasoline — maybe they could barter for fuel?

Thinking more than a year ahead is jumping the gun a little, especially considering they have to get through another winter without heat, but this is the first time Nick's let himself imagine that far. Kim is already prepping for next year, of course, but Nick's still a little stuck on bunker time, where everything felt like a tightrope walk to survive and keep sane. But now, well — there's floor space, and Nick's even stacked plates and silverware on the kitchen counter for dinner. It's progress that he can't miss, and for once he breathes a sigh of relief and actually feels relieved.

Kim and Carmina come back before dusk with three rabbits and, in Carmina's case, a turkey so big that it nearly drags on the ground as she carries it on her back. "Shot it herself," Kim tells him, dropping the rabbits on the table. She does it almost without a second thought, wrapping her arms around Nick before realizing, "Oh, the table's back!"

Nick grins. "Figured we could use the extra space. Look at you, kiddo!" Nick turns his attention to Carmina, who still has the turkey slung triumphantly over her shoulder. "That is one big bird."

"Yeah," she says, trying to look as casually confident as her mom. She can't help but brag, "It was coming right at us. I had to do something. "

"That's my girl," Nick says, "I need somebody to protect your mom whenever I'm not around."

"Hey," Kim protests, playfully shoving out of her supposedly loving husband's grasp, "I can protect myself, you two. Carmina, take that thing into the kitchen and start plucking."

Heaving a very exasperated sigh she must have lifted off of her dad, Carmina drags the limp poultry away. Kim watches her go with a satisfied smile, telling Nick, "She's got great eyesight. I didn't even notice it in the grass."

"Thank God. Can you imagine if she needed glasses out here? We would be royally screwed. So! What do you think?"

Kim looks back at the clear floor and the table with four legs on solid ground. "I admit, I'm impressed," she says. "I expected to come back to a funeral pyre. But look, you even got the support in!" She furrows her brows at him. "Did you have any trouble?"

"Nah. Actually, it was... uh, painfully easy. He didn't put up a fight or anything."

"Hmm."

Nick's not sure what Kim's thinking as she eyes the progress that's been made. Maybe she's wondering what John's endgame is, the same way Nick wonders. She's probably worrying about how to explain it to anyone who might ask about it — Grace, mostly, maybe Jerome, if he'd ever come out this way. Nick's sure he can just take credit and leave it at that, but maybe she's seeing some hidden angle that he hasn't caught on to yet?

"If we string some lights up in here," Kim points out thoughtfully, "We might actually be able to use the bottom floor, instead of camping outside all day."

"Hey," Nick laughs, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Am I supposed to pluck this whole thing myself ?" Carmina exclaims in horror from the kitchen.

"I'll be right there, honey," Nick calls, offering Kim a chair at the table. She takes it with a grateful smile, leaning into his hand as he briefly strokes her hair. "Not bad for a day's worth of work, huh?"

"Not bad," Kim agrees. Nick heads for the kitchen, unable to keep from humming some old-world song he can't remember the words to, happy to put aside his doubts about John for a couple of hours yet.

[leviathan-says-hi]

Ask 21 / Tag 21

Answer 21 questions then tag 21 people you’d like to know a little better. Tagged by @fahrenflame Hope you're doing well! 😊

× Nickname ×

Levi, I guess? Not too many nicknames, most people think my actual name's bizarre enough and just go with that 😅

× Real name ×

Leviathan

× Zodiac ×

Pieces 🐳

× Height ×

Uhhhh...like 5.7"-5.8" ish??? Maybe???

× What time is it? ×

13:03

× Favorite musician ×

Marilyn Manson, Ghost, My Chemical Romance...idk honestly. I don't really listen to whole artists anymore, I just find random songs I like by all different people and throw them in a huge playlist, so most of my 'favourites' I literally know like 1 song by ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ whoops. Individual songs I've been enjoying lately though are:

° Nightmares - Easy Life (hence the recent animation lol)

° The Bidding - Tally Hall

° Boys Will Be Bugs - Cavetown

° Carnal Carnival - Here Come The Mummies

× Favorite sports team ×

Ngh...not so much a sports person ngl, but my dad gave me his Oakland Raiders baseball jacket he had as a kid and I wear that a bunch so er...go Raiders?

× Other blogs ×

Oh god I have a whole bunch. I have the really bad habit of making a new one everytime I get wrapped up in something then kinda abandoning it...I'm probably most active on my Ghost one @cardinal-cornucopia

× Do I get asks? ×

Nah, not so much

× How many blogs do I follow? ×

Christ, like...4,000 I think. I've been here a while, what can I say 😅

× Any tumblr crushes? ×

Eh, more so admiration than crushes, but there's a few people who are pretty rad, yeah

× Lucky number ×

13! 6 is pretty chill too

× What am I wearing right now? ×

Having a slouchy day revising for uni stuff, so grey sweatpants and my Unus Annus shirt 👍 Comf

(Quick side note, imma be pretty busy until the start of February when the new semester kicks in / spring exams are over, so hopefully I can start back up drawing/animating then!)

× Dream vacation ×

Maybe a road trip? I'm not really one for travel but a long, chilled-out drive to nowhere sounds really good rn

× Dream car ×

Welp, my sucky health means I would be considered the biggest of liabilities on the road so was basically told it's not even worth getting my licence 😅 BUT teenage me was really into motorbikes and was actually saving for a Suzuki GN125 👌

× Favorite food ×

Probably mac n cheese? Any form of instant noodle/pasta that can be microwaved at 3am between assignments. University broke me, what can I say

× Drink of choice ×

Blue raspberry jolly rancher soda / Pink grapefruit Fanta / Vanilla coke are my sugary weaknesses, but I also really love weird tea flavours like strawberry cupcake green tea and pineapple with grapefruit!

× Languages ×

English...barely 😅 Tried learning Russian but got sick so had to stop. Brain don't work so good ✌️ Think I still rember the alphabet/1-10 though!

× Instruments ×

Okay, okay so like, hear me out...I play banjolele. Well? No. Enthusiastically? Very! For anyone who doesn't know it's like the ungodly amalgamation of a banjo and ukulele and I love it to death. I also have a full sized banjo and ukulele not smushed together too so I guess they count separately too? But yeah, banjolele's my main squeeze 🖤

× Celebrity crushes ×

🤫

× Random fact ×

I've got a few months of neuroscience left before I should get my psychology degree, and I've been (unofficially, shh!) invited to stay on and complete a masters degree in research methods! Whoo 🎉🎊✨ Sounds boring, I know, but my academic dream would be a PhD in evolutionary psychology/neuroscience soooo...Slowly, slowly doing the thing 👍

× Tagging ×

Been out of the loop for a while so no idea who's done this already or not, sorry!

@pierlerett

@cardicishot

@markipliersin89

@nameless-jinx

@haunted-kazoo

@goodboysatan

@copias-caboose

[magicmysterio]

2019 Top 9: Albums

agI was tagged both for my main and my sideblog (@gay-ouijaboard) by @johanna-swann to list the 9 albums most important to me in 2019! I’ll just make one post here and reblog it! Thank you so much <3

Unfortunately this will also expose me as the huge fucking emo I am.

1. A Lesson in Romantics - Mayday Parade. I’m gonna start off with one of my all time favorite albums ever! I don’t know what it is about this album that just makes me love it but literally all of the songs are so good. 

2. Infinity on High - Fall Out Boy. It wouldn’t be me if i didn’t mention fob so I thought I might as well get it over with, probably my favorite fob album ever, Hum Hallelujah and GINASFS are songs that mean a lot to me so when I finally got this album on vinyl earlier this year I was so happy!

3. Good & Evil - Tally Hall. Shout out to my buddy Rachel (@phriskiphriski) for getting me to listen to Tally Hall, it’s such a good album and whenever I listen to it I think of her <3

4. Tell All Your Friends - Taking Back Sunday. God it was so difficult to decide just one album for Taking Back Sunday especially since my favorite song by

5. Enema of The State - blink-182. I got into listening to blink this year and my favorite album of them was Take Off Your Pants And Jacket until I accidentally bought Enema on vinyl instead and now I love it! Plus! It celebrated 20 years 2019 so I feel like it deserves the spot!

6. Nothing Personal - All Time Low. Speaking of, NP celebrated 10 years in 2019 and it’s come to mean a lot to me thanks to a friend and a whole lot of really, really bad pick up lines. 

7. Sorry, Mom - Destroy Boys. What can I say except that it just slaps, 2019 was a year of discovering a lot of new music for me and Destroy Boys was one of my favorite discoveries!

8. Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge - My Chemical Romance. I am wearing my three cheers shirt as I am typing this. They’re back and ready to kick ass and I could not be happier.

9. ¡Viva la Cobra! - Cobra Starship. I saved the best for last y’all, Cobra Starship fucking slaps, Gabe Saporta is a Legend and I can not help but stan. 

I’m just gonna tag a few mutuals and buddies but please feel free to do this and just say I tagged you if you want to.

@raz0rrat @agaytoremembr @phriskiphriski @citri-ne @officialbabet @unicorn-double-barrel-special @universebabyy @eccentric-eli

[mia-cookie-uwu]

Day 30: Stories

Loop

Warning: This story has death in it

-----

Henry slowly opened his tired brown eyes and stared into the distance of the hall. Carefully he sat up, rubbing his head, feeling a little pain from the last loop. He'd gotten to the lift with Boris but it'd fallen before he was ready and thus, he died again. Now he had to start this all over again, another tally to add to the hundreds he'd already made. He stood up, using the wall for support for his poor tired body. Glancing at his hands he saw that the ink was still on them, as well as a few new scars. With a deep, heavy sigh he began walking. 

"Henry?" Came a voice from behind him. He froze. That voice..it felt like so long since he heard it. The cursed voice of an old friend he wished he'd never come to see. Henry turned around, angry and frustrated. But those feelings suddenly melted away as he was nearly knocked over by a hug. "Henry! Oh good I'm so sorry. I-I was worried about you since you didn't come out so I came to find you but- oh God"

The old friend of Henry's carefully squeezed him, holding him so he couldn't leave. At least not yet. Henry was still for a moment then came back to his senses and pushed the slightly taller man away from him, causing them to fall back onto their ass.

"What are you doing here Joey?" Henry asked as calmly as he could. The urge to punch Joey was very strong but he knew this would be the best time to try and get some long needed answers. "And don't lie to me."

Joey stood up, some ink from his own hands leaving two handprints on the wooden floor. Clearing his throat slightly he began to explain. "As I was saying a second ago, I sent you in and when you didn't come out I started to worry. So I came to find you and well.." he rubs his hands together, looking around nervously. "Interested of finding you I found Bendy, but not the Bendy we made. He was tall, melting, skin and bones somehow." He explained, closing his eyes when he spoke of the ink demon. Of course, Henry already knew this, and so much more. 

"He jumped out from the ink machine room and grabbed me," he put his hands to his neck to show how he was grabbed. "And he squeezed until everything went dark..then I woke up here again. Then I went back to trying to find you and the same thing happened over and over again" the man put his hand over his face, shaking his head a bit. "I didn't know that this was here.." 

Henry frowns. He wasn't sure if what his friend's words were true or a lie. But what he had explained was simpler to his own experience here. "How far have you gotten?" He asked after a minute of silence.

"I've gotten to the door but then I fall and everything goes black again." He answered. "Why? Have far have you gotten?"

"I've reached the end a few times. Of course whatever I do it never works. I just come back to the beginning." 

"Oh.." There was a long silence until Joey suddenly burst into tears, staring Henry.  He'd never really seen Joey cry, at least not like before. He began apologizing profusely to Henry, begging for him to forgive him.

"Joey. Please pull yourself together." He said, putting his hands onto his friends. "We can talk about forgiveness when we get out of here." 

"But, how?" 

"Maybe you and I need to go through this together and fix it. Just like the only times." 

Joey used his cleaner sleeve to wipe his eyes and then gave him a small smile. Henry smiled slightly and let him go, starting to walk. The two men went around the studio, getting the things needed to turn the ink machine on. Have they worked they got talking and then laughing, rekindling what they'd lost so many years ago. It made them both happy, lifting Henry's spirit with hope. Maybe, just maybe they could get out and he could see his family again.

"Alright, that's the last thing." Joey said after pulling the pump switch. "I really hope things work out.." he mumbled as the two left the room. Henry patted his back and gave him a small, reassuring smile. They walked to the bow boarded up doorway and stopped a few steps away. They exchanged looks before slowly walking up to the boards.

At first nothing actually happened. They waited for awhile then Joey hesitantly spoke up. "Maybe he's not here?" He suggested quietly. Henry frowns a little. Something was wrong and he didn't realize what it was until he was grabbed from behind then thrown into the wall. He grunts and collapsed on the floor that was being flooded by ink.

He managed to sit himself up enough to see Bendy slowly cornering Joey up the boards. The man was completely terrified, he could barely even muster up the courage to say words he wanted to speak. "B-Bendy please I'm sor-" he was quickly cut off by the ink demon's hand around his neck. Joey's eyes widened as he was lifted into the air, his way of breathing being cut off by the pressure.

Henry couldn't get up fast enough to save him. The sickening crunch of the man throat and then his last moments of struggling. Then the sound of a body hitting the inky floor below. The one left alive was frozen, staring at the lifeless body of his friend. He felt all that hope get ripped out if his chest as forced himself to stand up. He started running away from the ink demon that began chasing him.

Poor Henry wasn't used to this. In the last few loops Bendy hadn't attacked him like that. He never was able to grab him and Henry was able to get away safely. But this time he could feel the unholy presence of the demon behind him, getting closer and closer until he was able to grab the back of his shirt. He yelped as Bendy pulled him back and them pinned him to the wall by his neck. The demon growled angrily as he moved his face closer. 

Henry kicked his legs around, grabbing the the ink hand holding him. But no matter what he did he couldn't escape. He was going to die and at such an early stage. Henry's brown eyes widened with terror as the demon opened his mouth, revealing the hundreds of sharp, jagged teeth. He barely had time to scream before the pain of being bitten and the blood flowing down from his head. Then it went black.

This time when Henry opened his eyes he sat up quickly and looked around. His head hurt but he didn't really notice it over the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears. A few tears escaped his eyes as he felt the anger and frustration of his failure boil in his chest. It was so overwhelming he ended up screaming as loud as he could possibly muster. No one heard him of course. He was alone in another loops. He would be trapped here just like everyone who dared to enter. 

Once you enter there is no escape. There is only death, pain, and misery. Maybe someone will be able to break the doomed cycle but it's won't be Henry, or Joey. Or Henry's wife and daughter who enter later in an attempt to find him, taking one of Joey's precious creations with them.

-----------

Oh boy this was fun to write. Now please remember that I am not the best writer but I tried my best here. I even you Google docs to help me out a little. But yes, remember the post for family? Well this is a continuation of that story, place a couple years after that one. Also sorry there isn't any art for today, I thought it be more fun to just stick with the story today. But I hope you enjoyed it! And maybe I'll even make more stuff for this Loop au if y'all want me too uwu

Original by halfusek, story by me

[sweetlangdon]

Strangeness & Charm (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: Hawthorne!Michael. Halloween fluff. Michael uses his powers for good, and a girl finds herself charmed by this mysterious boy from the Hawthorne School. 

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Some blood, swearing, and a group of boys being creeps. Nothing explicit, but there’s some rough handling of the protagonist. 

[Repost of a previously published fic from my main blog.]

Coming here had been a mistake.

A thunderous bassline rattled inside her ribcage, the lyrics drowned out by the beat. She lingered by the table of refreshments, dodging stray elbows and keeping a mental tally of how many versions of sexy beloved childhood characters crossed into her path. There wasn’t a single person here that she knew, at least not directly. The house—a sprawling mansion full of white marble and high ceilings and far too many sculptures—belonged to someone in her parents’ social circle, and she was supposed to stop by for some bullshit reason. It hadn’t been her idea of a good time on her favorite night of the year. Far from it, actually. It wasn’t like she had plans, anyway, now that all of her friends were miles and miles across the country. But there was no way in hell she’d be making any new ones here.

She hadn’t been motivated enough to dress up, either, and this California weather was not kind to layers. She’d seriously misjudged the flannel button down now that she was gridlocked in a sea of humanity buzzed on alcoholic punch. There had been more alcohol than punch, she found out early on, once she’d tossed back two of those small glasses. She’d been here just over an hour, but it felt like an eternity. Was it socially acceptable to nope the fuck out of this place yet?

The refreshments spread was impressive—she had to give them that at least. It had been the only reason she’d hung around so long, shoveling Halloween cookies and candied apples into the bag draped over her shoulder in the least discreet manner possible. If she had to endure her own personal slice of hell, then she should’ve gotten something out of it. It was only fair to take advantage of free food.

She dropped a handful of assorted fun sized candy bars into her bag, well aware of the unsolicited leering gazes across the room. A trio of fuckboys had been eyeing her since she walked in. She was someone new, someone unknown, so of course they had to sniff her out like prey. That look was universal no matter what coast you lived on, and she wasn’t here for it.

Elbows and shoulders jostled her as she merged into the traffic of mostly costumed bodies. They followed behind, thinking she didn’t notice.

She did.

She hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and continued toward where she thought the front door had been, though this house was laid out like a maze. She attempted to use the crowd as a buffer, but it thinned out faster than she’d anticipated. The hot, sweaty presence of them hovering behind her was too close, too much. Their expensive cologne choked her senses and mingled with whatever combination of booze had been in the punch. She veered down a hall, intending to take off at a brisk walk when a strong hand latched onto her wrist.

“Where’re you going, sweetheart?”

They stalked her, surrounding her, boxing her into a corner. She struggled against the iron grip around her wrist and tried to kick at their shins. If only she could’ve bashed them across the face with her bag full of candied apples and Halloween chocolate when she had the chance.

“Fuck off.”

“Aww, come on—”

“Let her go.”

The steely command filled up the hall as if a layer of ice had suddenly formed on the lavish end tables and lamps and portrait frames. For a moment, the predatory trio relented, and she turned her head to find who the voice belonged to.

A Hawthorne boy. It had to be.

Tall, yet leaner than the trio of dumbasses holding her hostage, he managed to somehow appear more intimidating than the three of them combined. He wore a tailored black suit paired with a crisp white shirt, a thin, glossy black bow tied around his neck. Definitely a uniform, she mused absently, while she gaped at him in something akin to astonishment. He had the most impressive head of strawberry blond hair she’d ever seen.

Slender fingers clenched into fists at his sides and his jaw tightened. She’d heard stories about the boys who went to Hawthorne from her own classmates; they were often spoken about in conspiratorial whispers like they were eldritch beings, the stuff of myth and legend.

Maybe they were.

“Yeah?” one of the trio taunted. “Why don’t you mind your own business?” His fingers pressed deeper into her skin and she imagined a handprint-shaped bruise around her wrist like some macabre bracelet.

“Get your hands off her,” the Hawthorne boy demanded. His voice was even, but she saw the impatience, the anger building in his tone. “I won’t tell you again.”

They laughed. They kept laughing—his nails digging into her skin until her fingers went numb—and she was the only one who caught the smirk that passed over the boy’s lips before they all heard a sickening crack. He dropped her wrist with a cry of agony, holding up a hand full of twisted, mangled fingers. His blood pattered onto the expensive carpet beneath their feet, the white bones that protruded from his broken skin shining in the glow of the orange Halloween lights.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

“What the fuck, man?”

The two uninjured assailants rounded on the Hawthorne boy while their friend stood there, sobbing and uselessly clutching his obliterated hand to his chest. She watched the growing stain of red across his shirt and pooling around his shoes with more satisfaction than she was willing to admit.

“The hell did you do to him, freak?”

He’d barely taken two steps toward the Hawthorne boy when he flew up into the air and careened onto the floor on the opposite end of the hallway, attracting a chorus of screams and horrified looks and dropped cups of punch. She saw the boy’s fingers flex, his knuckles white as he confronted the third attacker. The one who’d been bleeding had finally fled the scene, leaving a trail of blood behind.

“Don’t,” her would-be assailant pleaded with wide eyes. “Please, I didn’t—”

Hawthorne boy titled his head. “It’s far too late for that now.”

The third attacker flew into the opposite wall, pressed flat against the mahogany paneling as if someone had their hands around his throat. His hands seemed to be restrained by some unseen force, his feet dangling a few inches from the ground. He sputtered and gurgled trying to take in a breath, all attempts to force out a single, desperate syllable made in vain. She watched the veins pop out of his forehead and neck, his face veering from a gross shade of beet red to a bruised purple.

Hawthorne boy seemed unconcerned—and really, neither was she—but the attention they’d garnered had gotten out of hand, quickly. And then she saw it: she swore Hawthorne boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he convulsed like he was having some kind of seizure. Blood started to drip from his nostrils.

“Whoa…whoa, easy,” she said, very aware of the shouting and bodies moving around them as she surged forward and grabbed the front of Hawthorne boy’s sweater vest. “Come on, we have to get out of here. Like, now.”

She bulldozed through the crowd to the front door, her fist still curled around his sweater despite the fact that he was a good several inches taller than her. She didn’t even know if he was coherent at this point, she just knew they needed to disappear fast before someone got wise and called the cops on him. She moved like nothing else around them existed, tuning out the whispers and yells until the cool evening air finally hit her in the face.

It was dusk outside. Night encroached on the horizon, orange and purple lights winking to life on the houses they passed. The sidewalks had become flooded with kids in costume. She could breathe when they were at least a block away from the house, and finally let go of Hawthorne boy’s formerly pristine sweater vest after another block. When she turned on her heel, he was blinking slowly, taking shallow breaths while he stared down at the blood on his fingers.

“Are you okay?” she asked, though it sounded pointless after it left her mouth. Of course he wasn’t okay—he was trembling, there was blood all down the front of his starched white shirt, and the terror on his face made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.

“Here, sit down. Careful…deep breaths, that’s it.” He sunk down onto the stone wall of the house they’d stopped in front of. She joined him, cautious of the carved pumpkins that flickered with candlelight to her left.

“There’s too much of it, sometimes,” he said. She could still hear the tremble in his voice, all traces of anger and mischief gone. “I get lost in it. I…don’t even notice until it’s almost too late.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about, but whatever trance he’d been in had looked scary as fuck. She dug around in her bag until she uncovered a few napkins pilfered from the refreshments table. It seemed like the blood flow had stopped, but it’d made a mess of his face and the front of his clothes. There wasn’t much she could do about the uniform. But she pressed the napkin to his nose, gingerly, then wiped up the trails of crimson that had dripped down his lips and chin. He had a jawline for days and crystalline blue eyes that made the breath in her throat catch just a little.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking the bloodstained napkins and tucking them away into the pocket of his jacket. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You saved me from those creeps. It was the least I could do,” she answered. “Actually…” She pulled open her bag again, settling it between them. “I dohave a lot of stolen chocolate in here, and there’s no way I’m going to eat it all myself. Do you like candied apples? ‘Cause I took like five of them.”

He laughed, and so did she, because he had the kind of infectious, charming laughter that made her insides turn into complete mush. He unearthed a KitKat bar from the depths of her bag and she tore open a Reese’s peanut butter cup. She couldn’t stop staring at his long, slender fingers and the candlelight that spun his hair into gold.

She was sitting here on Halloween night casually eating stolen chocolate with a Hawthorne boy. What the hell kind of luck had the universe thrown her way?

“I thought all of those stories about you Hawthorne boys were bullshit,” she confessed as the empty wrappers began to pile up between them. “But I’m new here, so what the hell do I know, right?”

He folded one leg underneath him on the stone wall, the other left over the side. She’d settled cross-legged, the wrappers drifting down into her lap.

“Well, I’m Michael,” he said. He flashed a megawatt smile, and it took her a second to register the cheesy albeit adorable joke. “And I don’t know what you’ve heard about Hawthorne but I can guarantee at least half of it is bullshit.”

She laughed. “Yeah, maybe,” she agreed. “But what I saw…what you did…I’m impressed with whatever that was. You’ve made me a believer.”

Michael ripped open another KitKat and shied away from her confession. “Where’d you move from?”

“New York,��� she answered. “Y’know, where autumn actually exists and the leaves change color like they’re supposed to.”

“You miss it.”

“You have no idea,” she said.  

Michael hopped down from the wall and brushed off his pants. After shoving the discarded chocolate wrappers into his pocket, he held out one of his hands to her. She pushed the wrappers in her lap back into her bag and took Michael’s hand, letting him help her off the wall. His skin was warm and soft when he laced his fingers between hers.  

He smirked. “Come with me.”

They walked for several blocks, weaving in between bands of costumed kids and dogs. Houses were strung up with lights and fake cobwebs, lawns inundated with artificial fog and tacky decorations. Her eyes wandered to the Jack O’Lanterns displayed on almost every porch and front yard, from the simple, toothy grins to the intricate, pop culture-inspired works of art. High-pitched shrieks pierced the air from somewhere a couple blocks away; across the street, there was the rush of children’s quick footsteps. For a moment, if she closed her eyes, she could conjure the rich scent of wood smoke and damp leaves.

Michael led her into a small wooded park through an elegant wrought iron entranceway. They passed circles of teenagers and kids gathered on the grass trading their trick-or-treat spoils and looking for mischief.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

The two of them moved away from the crowds to a quiet little corner where Michael relinquished her hand. She watched him, one eyebrow raised, as he circled a massive tree. He considered it like the tree itself was some kind of challenge, until he stopped and took a deep breath. Michael lifted one arm, then the other, his palms splayed upward to face the network of branches, his movements fluid and graceful.

She only took her eyes off him when she realized the leaves were beginning to fade from their bright verdant color to a golden yellow. One of them floated off the branches and curled into her palm. She studied it, her mouth dropping open as it turned again, this time toward a burnt orange hue. The rest of the leaves followed, dissolving and changing before her very eyes, from gold to dark orange and every shade in between until the tree became a brilliant display of scarlet.

She laughed, twirling under the shelter of the branches while they let go of their leaves, a crimson storm swirling around her. She felt them land on her head, and gathered them up into her arms just to toss them into the breeze again. Her boots crunched through the piles when they accumulated around the tree trunk; for just a moment, she was a kid in her backyard in New York.

Once the last one had fallen, she dove face-first into the most gigantic pile of bright red leaves she’d seen in months. Their rich, earthy fragrance filled up her senses, and she flopped onto her back cocooned by them, feeling blissfully content. Michael towered over her, that ever-present smirk lighting up his face.

She tugged on his pant leg. “Come on,” she beckoned. “Join me—it’s fun.”

Michael toppled backward into the leaves and landed next to her, his hair slightly tousled from the fall. He had a few leaves stuck in those golden curls, another one edging toward the collar of his shirt. His arm brushed hers, his fingers instantly seeking hers out until they were laced together again. She moved closer, the leaves crackling and crunching under her, and rested her head on his shoulder.

She breathed in deep. “So this is what they teach at Hawthorne.”

“…Some of it.”

She was comfortable—way too comfortable. If they stayed here like this all night, she wouldn’t argue. Would he?

“I have to say, I’m jealous.” She let her eyes close. “Thank you…that was the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me since I moved here.”

His thumb brushed across the back of her hand. “It was worth it, to see the look on your face.”

“Hey, Langdon,” a new voice hollered from somewhere behind them. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Michael sat up and she followed, craning her neck to find a small group of Hawthorne boys in their crisp black and white uniforms. She plucked a couple of leaves out of Michael’s hair, then traced the curve of his cheek with her fingertips.

“I have to go,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck it, she thought, before she pressed her lips to his. It was a tentative kiss and far too chaste; she wasn’t sure if she’d miscalculated his feelings. But when she started to pull away, he drew her back to him, his fingers tipping her chin upward. He kissed her deeply, both of them ignoring the howls from his friends until they broke apart, desperate to catch their breath.

Michael left another kiss on her forehead, soft and lingering and delicate.

“See you around, Hawthorne boy.”

He gave her one last grin, and then he was gone, back to his group of mysterious, ethereal friends, back to his strange school of myth and legend, nothing but a silhouette fading into the shadows of this surreal Halloween night.

@lastregasolitaria  @mylippo  @zeciex  @lvngdvns  @langdonsdemon  @yourkingcodyfern @sojournmichael  @gabnelson98  @rainbowrosesjas  @antichristlangdxn  @keavysmithxoxo  @artistlunadrayne  @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride  @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998  @gentianea @cryptid-coalition  @langdonsrapture   @kinlovecody  @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @langdonscurls @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus  @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon   @queenie435  @holylangdon  @weareallevilmotherfuckers  @langdonfern  @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @sapphronrose @micheallangdons  @lostin-fern  @crazedcatcuddler @satansapostle @monsucre  @softlangdvn   @ritualmichael    

[queseraphita]

21 questions *~*

Answer 21 questions and tag 21 people

tagged by @ancestrallizard

Nicknames: Jun 

Zodiac Sign: Aries

Height: 5′7

Hogwarts House: slytherin?? idk man i’m not too big on harrypotter

The last thing I googled: That’s Catch 22: Lux

Favorite Musicians: Tally Hall, Shoji Meguro, Ken Ashcorp, Lizz Robinett, AmaLee, MotherMother, Glass Animals, Humming Urban Stereo, Mili, IDKHBTFM, 

Song stuck in your head: Hell Frozen Rain

Following: 730

Followers: 1,096

Do you get asks?: Nope unless I do mutual ask games

Amount of sleep: 4-6 hours depends on how late we stay up

Lucky number: 8!

What you’re wearing: A grey jackbox shirt we designed with friends with a picture of serph dabbing that says “serph up” above it text on the bottom says “the fluid that sustained sera has saved you as well” and black shorts

Dream job: Uhhhh we don’t know yet but hopefully something that will let me keep drawing.

Dream trip: I would like to visit japan and or visit my family on the reservation

Instrument: Uhhh I did choir for 10 years does that count?

Languages: I took Italian and Spanish in middle and highschool but it didn’t really stick, I’m trying to self study japanese right now.

Favorite Songs:

& by tally hall

Hunter by Ken Ashcorp 

Alive from Digital Devil Saga OST

Pray by Hirota Yoshitaka

Deathly Loneliness 

Song of Ancients 

Random fact: Uhhhh besides drawing and singing, I cannot dance very well but I’d like to try

Aesthetic: practical and comfortable, one day I’ll ascend to Kaneko Aesthetic and you’ll see me walking around the department store with black upper lipstick and clothes that belong in a goth rpg and my ankles nonexistent

People to tag to do this: anyone really but I’m gonna call you out anyway if you wanna do it or not @idamdra @zanthe @ponderess @p1bres @cheir @slamjamjordan @anabelladifiori @mothgoths @kinsdura @vore-simulator 

[idkhyuck]

HERE WITHOUT YOU- A TOM HOLLAND ONESHOT

Not to be confused with my “MEETING TOM HOLLAND” Series. i heard Here Without You- 3 Doors Down and listened to it for like 3 nights before falling asleep and it hit all the right feels. still getting a feel for writing for Tom so feed back is appreciated. also for the full effect listening to here without you by 3 doors down helps. 

~summary~ Tom is SUPER busy and misses you like crazy. this one is a little more angsty but mostly just !sadTom !sadreader but still vv cute. 

i woke up to the grey New York sky.another rainy fall day, normally you wouldn’t mind. You dreaded the commute to work. you dreaded having to come home to an empty apartment yet again. you missed being held, you swore you forgot what holding Tom felt like. the pillow you hugged at night not doing you any good anymore. it’s been at least four months since you last saw Tom. from promoting his latest whenever he could, to him constantly back and forth between Vancouver and LA working on his new project it felt like forever. you would facetime when you could. He’d made many a promise to fly home for the day only to have his plans dashed. you’d made plans to go out and see him only to have his schedule change last minute. between the two of you constantly working you’d think you were never meant to see each other again. You checked your phone and saw a few texts from tom. He was telling me all he did on set that night. it was a night shoot so he wasn’t able to call me before work. he was so sorry. 

“only a few weeks darling.” he sent as a voice message. hearing his voice sent a pang of loneliness through me. I played it again and kept it. I got out of bed, the floor cold against my feet, the wind whistling through the busy streets below me. I went to the bathroom and went through my usual business. i looked at toms side of the bathroom clean and untouched for the past few months and sighed. ugh, i hate myself for feeling like this. he’s not dead, that thought only hurting my heart even more. He’ll be back, i thought to myself trying perk myself up. A few more weeks. i sighed as thoughts of something coming up, preventing him from actually coming back raced through my mind. i ended up making myself sad again. I was allowed to be sad, my feelings were valid. it’s been four months. i thought trying to convince myself a i walked into the walk in closet we shared. Four months... wow. i thought back to the last night Tom and i spent together. We were at the premiere for A spider-man movie. We shared many a kiss in that theater that night and that night at the hotel we said our goodbyes with hopes of seeing each other sooner than later. now here we are far past later. i often wondered if he felt the same way i did. was he as lonely as me, did he miss me as much as i missed him. i had no idea how insecure i really could be if left alone to my own devices for too long. a text or phone call always coming in at the right time to save me from myself. i picked a long sleeve t-shirt and one of tom’s spider-man flannels he “borrowed” from set for me.

 you worked at a record store in Brooklyn, you practically owned it with all the work you did for them. Every day off you got you had to fight for and usually ended up spending them alone and upset at ruined plans. The last four months have been less than ideal and it was all taking a toll on you. you used to love working at the record shop and now it’s just another thing to pass the day. you never knew you were capable of feeling this low because of love. you’ve dealt with depressive episodes before all with completely valid reasons. you hated admitting to yourself that you felt this way because of how dependent you’d become on another person. yet that thought alone made you so happy, and hopeful. you loved tom with all your heart after struggling to let him in and let it happen. you felt a full range of emotions with him, you didn’t have to act or hide or put a facade. as much as that could scare you it was ultimately more comforting in the end.

 I looked in the mirror one last time as i brushed through my hair deciding on a messy bun because this weather was doing nothing for my hair. i put on a little make up feeling less than inspired to look good today. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a banana from the bowl sitting on the counter. i’d have to go grocery shopping later tonight or tomorrow. I grabbed my raincoat and umbrella and my work bag and made my way down the hall of our apartment complex. i approached the door dreading stepping out into this rain. i took a deep breath and swung open the door and opened my umbrella. The sound of the rain hitting the top of my umbrella kind of soothing. i had one headphone with some sad music playing. The one perk i love working at the record store was getting to borrow records from what we had in stock. i loved asking customers for their recommendations on artists they bought that i’d never heard of. it was always so much fun discovering new music, i’d send it to tom. I can’t wait til he gets home, we’d dance around the house listening to music like we used to. He was always a great customer coming in once a week to buy some new music for us at home. The manager loved when he came into store, it was great publicity. Once at work i emptied my bag back onto the shelves and went to my spot behind til. i had to pick our rotation for the day. i picked one of the albums i was listening to that weekend, a new release from the week and some of our customer favourites. I truly loved working at this store. We had polls online and customers would vote on their favourites run by me. i’d tally the votes at the end of the week. i hoped one day i’d be able to own a record shop like this one day. The slow tracks came to life. a perfect start to my morning. i checked my phone, i sent a good morning message with a selfie to tom knowing he’d check it when he could. i could only imagine how tired he must be. I loved how much of himself he truly put into his work. He worked so hard and he deserves all the good opportunities that come his way. i will stand by his side as long as he’ll have me as his number one supporter. 

Tom’s POV 

I woke up to my alarm screaming at me. i sighed. it was all a dream once again. I missed Y/N so much it hurt to wake up in bed alone. I picked up my phone and shut off the alarm. I had a few hours before i had to be on set. 

“Good morning my love.” was what i saw, i opened my phone to see her beautiful face, i see the hurt in her eyes, the fake smile not working on me these past few weeks. i know she’s sad and lonely, it hurts me to know that i’m the reason for that. she’s at work, i wish i could call her. 

“morning love.” i send back. “miss you.” 

“miss you too.” she send back followed quickly by “What are you up to today?” 

“call time in 2 and half hours. probably go out for breakfast.” i lied, i’d be in this hotel room dreading going out. Fans figured out the cast was staying here. i was on high security to and from set. not allowed to go out much. 

“That’s good!” she sent back “call me tonight?” she asked

“yes, for sure.” i replied 

“i have customers.” she sent with an eyeroll emoji indicating she had to go. I turned on the clock radio needing something to drown out the too silent hotel room. i flipped through the room service menu. the words hit me like a knife in my chest. 

A hundred days have made me older since the last time that i saw your pretty face  A thousand lies have made me colder And I don't think I can look at this the same. All the miles that separate Disappear now when I'm dreamin' of your face.I'm here without you baby But you're still on my lonely mind. I think about you baby and I dream about you all the time.

I dream about Y/N all the time, It’s been so long since i felt her kiss, he always cold hands, her arms wrap around me from behind when she wanted my attention. All her little quirks, our dancing around the house, The way she managed to make me feel real despite whatever was going on around us. i can’t wait to go home and not have someone watching me like a hawk, to feel my bed, my home. have someone who knows the real me. i love my job, but it’s exhausting to put on a happy face when your so tired. i’d done nothing but work for the past four months. promo tours, shoots, travelling. i haven’t even been to the UK at all this year. I sighed as i listened to the song some more. i ordered my breakfast and found myself listening to the song  again and again. i did some googling and sent a text to y/n

“track 6″ and it was picture of the album. “listen to it at home off to set. love you will call tonight”

Y/N’s POV. 

i was almost done my shift, I had a good morning, a few tourists had come in and loved the vibe of the store and even tipped me. i was almost completely distracted from my bad mood. my phone buzzed a text from tom. He sent me this song to listen to at home. i searched around the store knowing we had this in stock. I found it and signed it out for myself. My replacement came in as if on cue. i was now excited to head home and listen to the record. i knew of this band but never actually listened to them. i clocked out and made the rainy commute home. i was able to enjoy the sounds of the rain on my umbrella once again soothing me. i picked up a sandwich from the diner down the road from our apartment and made my way home. once inside i resisted the urge to play the song right away but instead opted to change into something comfy enough to go out grocery shopping later tonight. i cracked the window in the living room to let the soothing rain sounds in. i grabbed my late lunch and set it down on the coffee table, i put the record on the turn table and grabbed the remote. i hadn’t realized how cold i really was until i was comfy under the throw blanket tom bought my for christmas this passed year. it was now spring. the last real date i had with tom was eating at a rooftop restaurant in Manhattan just before new years after we came back from our christmas travels. 

I pressed play on the remote and heart the sad guitar intro, oh lord. The words sounding pained, i could hear tom saying this and feeling the same way. By time the chorus hit, tears were streaming down my face, i couldn’t hold it in anymore. i let a soft cry out as the song played. i missed him so fucking much and i hated myself for it. He didn’t need to feel bad about leaving me behind. if he was as hurt as me, he didn’t need that added stress. the song ended, i pressed the button to play it again. I sat there listening to it. Tom was so sweet, he knew the way to my heart was through song. I hated that he felt sad about missing me. He didn’t deserve to be sad. Ugh i loved him so much. i wanted nothing more than to hold him. for him to hold me. tell each other we’d be okay. why does love have to hurt so much. i thought to myself as i played it again. i took a few deep breaths and composed myself. I picked up the phone and typed out a message to tom 

“hello my love. how are you feeling? i hope works treating you good. i miss you so fucking much, but you knew that.” i sent it with a picture of the record player in the background. the song now beginning it’s fourth rotation. i listened to it once last time before spinning the rest of the album. i ate my sandwich, still feeling down but feeling better after my cry. despite the song being heart wrenching it actually brightened my spirits. i thought of the next two weeks without tom and thought it would be lonely i could only await what our reunion had in store for us. our love was special, I met tom after he rose to fame but we connected on such a real level it scared me at first. i knew he was the one for me from the start and he continued to prove that to me when i didn’t believe it.

 i did a load of laundry, made a shopping list and quickly went out to the grocery store. i saw couples holding hands, men buying flowers, stealing kisses in the aisles as they pushed their cart. i knew tom would be calling me soon so i rushed home. “on my way back to the hotel. will call soon.” was a text i got in  the uber sending a small jolt through me. once home i quickly put the groceries that would spoil away, my phone on the counter, ever present in my mind like a ticking time bomb only i couldn’t wait for it to go off. i was in the freezer organizing the chicken i bought when the phone rang scaring ten years off my life. tom’s face shone across the screen. my heart racing as i struggled to answer it in my excitment. 

“Hello?” i said

“Hello love.” He said his voice sounding tired 

“Tom.” i said sighing “hi!” 

“you okay?” He asked 

“yes.” i said “just running about the house putting away groceries.”

“oh i can cal-”

“NO!” i interrupted him “i was just finished.” i said making my way to the couch

“you sure your okay?” He asked 

“no.” i said hoping i wouldn’t end up crying. “i actually hate you for sending me that song.” i laughed 

“aww darling.” he said laughing “ did i make you cry?” he asked 

“yeah.” i said as my throat got thick and tears welled up in my eyes.

“aww my love.” he said sounding so so sad and that just made me cry even more. “i didn’t mean to upset you.” he said sounding sorry

“no.” i said trying to sound normal “it didn’t upset me.” i said my voice uneven” it just made me realize how lucky i am.” i said really crying now. “i- i was doubting myself again” i admitted “ a-and i wasn’t sure how much longer i could put up with feeling like that and it was scaring me and i just love you so much and i know you do too.” i said trying not to sound like i was outright sobbing. 

“Awww darling. i hate putting you through this.” he said sounding sad 

“no. i hate putting you through this.” i said stopping him. “the last thing you need on your workload is worrying about me.” i said 

“y/n” he said sternly “worrying about you will always be my number one priority. you’re unfortunately stuck with me and all that comes with me.” he said “the only time i’ll ever stop loving you is if you ever tell me to stop.” He said “and i hope that i never drive you to that.” he said sound defeated

“tom.” you said “don’t talk like that.” i said through my stream of tears. “i’m afraid i’ll love you for the rest of my life.” i admitted 

“good.” he said “hold on.” he said then suddenly my phone was ringing with tom wanting to facetime. i answered and saw his face, his beautiful eyes tried, his lips looking as kissable as ever. his curls a mess all over his head like he’d been running his hands through them. “you look absolutely stunning.” he said i looked in my reflection i had swollen eyes and a red nose, my cheeks were damp from the tears. i couldn’t help but laugh at his comment “i mean it. two more weeks and i’ll be home to kiss those beautiful lips of yours.” he said “play the song.” he said i reached for the remote on the table and pressed play, it came on. we sat there staring at each other listening to it. “oh the dreams i’ve had of you darling.” he said. a hint of lust in his voice 

“we’re not leaving this house for a week.” i said to him. 

“can’t wait.” he said smirking at me. just like that, i felt okay again.i knew tom loved me, i knew he would always love me. “i’ve been shopping.” he says 

“really now?” i ask 

“yes, stopped off on rodeo drive one afternoon.” he said “and all i could think of was what you would like, what you would want.” 

“Tom...” i scolded 

“don’t worry i didn’t go crazy.” he said “i got stuff for my mom too.” he said “ harry wanted a new watch.”

“tom.” i said disapprovingly 

“I have nothing better to do out here!” he said “and i miss everyone so much.”

“i’ll book us a flight later tonight.” i said

“thank you.” he said. i yawned i didn’t mean to i knew he would pick up on it. “go to bed babe.” he said 

“i want to talk to you.” i said sounding sad already 

“i’ll get ready for bed with you.” he said. 

“fine.” i agreed. i turned off the music. “we have some groceries to put away.” i sighed as i put him on the counter behind the sink so he could see the whole kitchen. 

“place looks nice and clean.” he said 

“yeah, theres’ no one here to mess it up.” i said laughing as i put some boxes in the cupboard. i turned to see him make a pouy face. “kidding” i said blowing him a kiss. two more weeks and i’d be standing at the stove with tom hopefully wrapped around me. i turned to put stuff in the pantry and was bent over looking for something and i heard tom 

“missed that ass.”  i stood up 

“i’m sure you did.” i said smirking at him through the phone. i placed the last few things 

“Where to next?” he asked 

“brush my teeth and change.” i said 

“oooh.” he said i just rolled my eyes at him as i walked into the bedroom and through the bathroom. i grabbed my tooth brush and started 

“Brush brush brush your teeth.” tom sang through the phone nearly causing me to choke on my toothpaste.i heard him giggle as i was rinsing my mouth. i gave him the finger. and took my hair down to brush it. a few more flirty remarks from tom as i was changing and i was in bed. i placed tom on his pillow and looked at him. 

“good night Y/N.” he said i’ll stay right here.” he said as i was drifting off to sleep. 

4 days until tom came home,we talked every day leading up to today. He was busy busting out the few last minute days of shooting and finishing up what he needed to get done. He was so happy he was almost done. I was working hard to get things ready for tom over here. I washed the sheets, i made sure to go out and buy all over our favourite things to cook together, i had a nice coming home gift for him. a hoodie, A new pair of sweats , a nice baseball cap. everything comfy he’d need for you guys trip to the UK in a week and a half. i also had a case of his favourite beer waiting. you asked his dad to send it to you. i was all ready for him so now the the last two days have been dragging on like crazy and there was four more to go. i walked into the shop my late afternoon shift starting soon. i saw my manager sitting at the til

“did he not show up again?” i asked referring to our one coworker who was always dipping on shifts last minute. but then  i saw him coming out of the back room with a box of records. 

“i just needed to grab a few things.” my manager said as i approached the counter “can you get me the receipt book in the back real quick i don’t want to lose my train of thought” he said eyeing me a small smile on his face.

“k” i thought. he was being so weird, maybe we finally had enough for that expansion he’s been talking about for years. i thought to myself as i walked towards his office. i saw a hooded figure standning in the room. fear rose in my chest as i gasped. the figure turned the first thing i saw was the chestnut curls and my heart nearly stopped. his face came into view his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. i ran towards him, tears sneaking up on me. i crashed into his body, his arms catching me. my heart was racing, my eyes were blurred with tears. 

“oh. tom.” was all i was able to choke out. it felt absolutely amazing to feel his arms around me, i felt safe, content, ecstatic.

“happy to see me love?” he asked holding me out at arms lenght “aww don’t cry.” he said his voice soft as he wiped away the tears. “i love you.” he said pulling my back into him, taking a deep breath. 

“so, you can have the rest of the week off as well as next week.” my manager said in the door way clearing his throat. 

“are you sure?” i asked wiping the tears from my face, pulling my shirt down. trying to look presentable again.

“yes, you deserve it.” he said “i’ll be fine here.” he said 

“don’t get too used to life without me.” i teased as i walked over and gave shook his hand.

“wouldn’t dream of it.” he said looking around his office i’d spent one afternoon organizing. “get out of here.” he said “there’s a car in the back.” i smiled at him in thanks and made my way out to the ally with tom. sure enough there was a car waiting at the end of the block. i stopped and pushed tom against the wall. i looked at his lips and he looked at mine, his eyes darting up as he pulled my face towards him. our lips met all the feelings of loneliness and hurt and sadness gone now fueled by the fire in my heart and soul. recharged as we kissed in the alley. his hands wrapped around me pulling me close to him. the kiss felt like it went on forever yet i missed him the moment i pulled away. 

“let’s go home.” i said grabbing his hand and leading him towards the car. 

[askthebemorechillcrew]

Jeremy Smut X Reader

Jeremy Smut:

It was a Saturday night. Me and my boyfriend Jeremy were having our own little date night at his house. It was simple: Movie marathon, different types of snacks, and lots and cuddling. We were on our fifth movie, and third bag of barbecue chips. I was sipping my diet pepsi directly from the bottle, when I shifted my place on the couch, and accidentally spilled some on my boyfriend’s striped shirt.

“Ah!” He squealed a bit, as I gasped. I hurriedly took off his blue blazer, and panicked.  

“I’m so sorry, Jer! Are you fine?” I asked him, as he just smiled and nodded.

“I’m fine, (Y/N). It was just pepsi. Not poison,” He chuckled and got up. “I’m gonna put on a new shirt,” He was about to leave the living room, when I grabbed his arm. I put on my sexy smirk that he loved so much and layed on the couch, my legs bent, under my torso.

“You know...you can just...not wear a shirt and we can get into something more than the movie,” I giggled, seductively as he chuckled. He kissed my hand and rested in on my lap.

“As fun as that sounds, I really should change,” Before I could utter another word, he left to his room. I frowned, keeping my eyes on the TV screen. Now that I think of it, Jeremy wasn’t really craving as much sex as I was. What was up with him?usually he would love to bang me on any surface he could find. And he couldn't resist my sexy smile and cute pose. I frowned to myself, as Jeremy came back to the living room with a fresh shirt on.

“I'm back,” he sat down next to me again, and draped his arm on my shoulder. He was wearing a new blazer too. It was like….75 degrees in his house. Why was he still wearing a jacket?

“Great…” my voice trailed off, as he frowned at me and tilted my chin with his fingers. My eyes met with his blue ones, as he kissed me before asking me what was wrong.

“Is everything okay, babe?” His voice was concerned. He could usual tell if I was having an off day. That's what made him such an amazing boyfriend. But, every good boyfriend did have his flaws. Even Jeremy. I sighed to myself, but forced a smile.

“I'm fine, Jer. Promise,” I hoped my cheeky grin was enough to fool him. His eyes were sad, knowing I was hiding something. But he gave me a goofy smile of his own and kissed my cheek.

“Alright, babe,” he and I continued to watch our movies, and take greedy handfuls of chips and sweets. We eventually got tired and fell asleep on his couch after three hours. I snuggled in his chest, but he was slowly pulling away from me. I frowned in my sleep, as I tired to snuggle closer into him. No matter how hard I tried to get closer to his body, he just kept moving away, keeping me at arms distance. Was he trying to avoid me? What was wrong?

(Time Skip: School)

“I'll text you the notes,” I told my best friend, Christine, as I slammed my locker. She needed my notes for her biology test next period, and knowing her best friend was a master at AP bio, she BEGGED me for my notes.

“Thanks so much, (Y/N)! You're an angel!” She hugged me. I rolled my eyes and giggled.

“Yeah, yeah. Save the hugging for your Jakey,” I smirked as she blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. I loved teasing her about her boyfriend as much as she teased me about Jeremy. She chuckled and placed her hands on her hips, in a teasing way.

“Oh yeah, what about you and Jeremy?” She giggled, as my face turned beet red. But not in the way that she intended. I really needed to talk about the way Jeremy hasn’t really been wanting sex, but I didn’t want to push him. Christine was my best friend, and I could tell her anything. I took a deep breath, and scratched my arm.

“Actually….” My voice trailed off, as Christine furrowed her brow.

“What happened, (Y/N)?” She asked me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Well...yesterday, we had a movie night. And...I tried to be all ‘cute’ and ‘tempting’ for him,” I tried to explain best I can, without sounding like a slut. Christine giggled and continued to listen.

“But...it didn’t work. Usually with Jer, I don’t even have to try to get his attention. He loves when we cuddle really close and get all touchy. But...he’s been kinda physically distant lately. I didn’t do anything wrong, but if I did, I don’t wanna push him,” I explained. Christine’s frown got bigger, as she thought to herself, for a moment.

“(Y/N), you have to talk to him. Communication is key in a healthy relationship” Christine’s advice burned into my brain. That was a cliche to tell your best friend to just talk with her boyfriend. But she was right. Communication was key. I nodded and thanked her. After we went our separate ways, I saw Jeremy talking to Michael outside their American History class.  

“Jer! Michael!” I ran up to them. They both smiled and waved for me to join them.

“(Y/N), how’s it going?’ Michael grinned, as I stood next to Jeremy. He stepped back a bit, giving me some space. I made another tally in my head, as Jeremy didn’t want to get close to me again. I forced a smile to Michael and replied “Everything is cool”.

“Sorry guys, I’m gonna be late for class,” Jeremy adjusted his backpack on his shoulders. Michael checked his phone and cocked his brow.

“But we have--” Before he could finish his sentence, Jeremy bolted to the other side of the hall. I sighed, as Michael patted my shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He assured me, seeing through my bad mood. I looked at my other best friend. I just let out another sigh and twirled a piece of my hair.

“Is Jer alright? He’s been acting weird yesterday at his house,” I asked Michael. He scratched his pacman tattoo on his forearm.

“Actually….Jeremy’s kinda….self conscious at the moment,” He explained. I cocked my brow and crossed my arms.

“What do you mean, ‘self conscious’?” I asked him.  

“Well...ever since he started to hang out with Rich and Jake...he’s been comparing himself to them. They both have really good bodies. Jake is a jock, and Rich may be a short midget,” He giggled at his hilarious comment about him. “He does have good muscles. Jeremy hates his tall, skinny appearance. It makes him feel like he doesn’t deserve you,” He explained, twirling the wire on his headphones.

“But...Jeremy has an amazing body. I don’t care that he doesn’t have muscles. He beautiful,” I replied, as Michael just shrugged.

“That’s not what Jer thinks. He’s in love with your body, (Y/N),” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, as I just blushed. “His words, not mine!” He chuckled, as my own escaped my lips.

“I mean...that’s...kinda cute he thinks he thinks that way,” I chuckled even more. “But it breaks my heart that Jeremy hates his body. And that he thinks I don’t deserve me,” My grin quickly turned into a scowl. How dare my amazing boyfriend think like that? He’s perfect, just the way he is.

“Both of you are perfect for each other, (Y/N). I was the only person he told this to. He wanted to tell you this, but he was too embarrassed,” Michael explained further, as my heart just broke even more. How could I be so stupid? Jeremy was a walking ball of anxiety, ready to be set on fire. Of course he had insecurities. My scowl was replaced by a look of guilt. Michael patted my shoulder and smiled.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, (Y/N). Talk to him. Jeremy will understand,” I beamed with happiness at Michael, the same way I did with Christine.

“Thanks Michael. I’ll definitely talk to him. Like, pronto,” I thanked him one last time, and practically ran to my next class.

(Another Time Skip: Jeremy’s house)

I was hanging out at Jeremy’s house again. My parents were overseas, my older brother was in college for another three years, so it was kinda lonely for me. Mr. Heere also loved to have me over, so he didn’t mind that much. Me and Jeremy was in his room, playing “Apocalypse of the Damned,” He almost beat me on every level. I smiled at him, seeing his eyes glued to the TV screen. I giggled, as he looked at me and cocked a brow.

“What’s up, babe?” He smirked, as I just laughed even more.

“You’re just really cute. That’s all,” I stated. He let out a giggle of his own, and blushed a bit.

“Thanks. You’re super cute, too. Too cute, if that’s possible….” His blush deepened, as he returned to the game. I scowled, and placed my hand on his thigh.

“Jer, Michael told me what happened. There is no need to be self conscious, babe. You’re perfect, just the way you are,” I came right out of the blue. I knew I shouldn’t have dumped that all on him, all of a sudden, but I just exploded. He was way too distant for my Jeremy.

Jeremy was still blushing, but for the wrong reason. He was a stuttering mess, as he looked down and ran his hand through his wavy locks.

“I...I….uh...He….he did?!” He asked me. I nodded and stroked his thigh. Instead of lightly smacking my hand away, like the past few days, he groaned a bit.

“You...you think I’m fine?” He asked me again. I smirked and kissed his lips. The kiss was gentle and soft. I didn’t want to scare him too much. Jeremy was usually a switcher. Sometimes, he would take over, and become a dominant. Other time, he would let me take charge. Today didn’t seem like that day. As I pulled back from the kiss, he grabbed my arm, and pulled me into his lap. My eyes widen at the sudden action. I tried to get off, but he placed his hands firmly on my waist, making sure I was securely on his lap.

“Where do you think you’re going, babe?” He asked me, hit hot breath hitting my neck. I shivered at his voice. He kissed my neck softly, gradually getting more rough. He sucked, bit, and licked all my sensitive spots, making me moan his name like crazy.

“Jer-Jeremy!” I screeched, hoping his dad wouldn’t hear us. I felt him smile against my skin, as he left more hickeys.

“I didn’t hear your answer, sweetheart,” He moved down to my collarbone, biting down. I saw a glimpse of the purple bruises, as my eyes teared up.

“I...the video game?” I managed to peep out. He shook his head, and reluctantly detached his lips from my collarbone, facing me. He still had a fuckboy smirk on his face.

“Sweetheart...you said my body was fine just the way it is. We can’t let that go to waste, can we?” He chuckled, and laid me down on his floor. He grabbed my wrist and pinned them above my head. He eyes were still wide as I was slightly taken back by Jeremy’s sudden dominance. Usually he would ask me for permission first. But this...this wasn’t my anxious boyfriend. He was a totally dominant Jeremy Heere.

And I loved it.

Jeremy yanked me back to our classic missionary pose, every time I squirmed. He showed no mercy, as he brutally left 50 hickies per inch on my neck and clavicle. I groaned and screamed his name. I didn’t even notice that all my clothes were taken off, saved for my black panties and matching bra. I blushed in embarrassment, trying to cover my bare body. But Jeremy quickly resumed to hold my hands tightly. He had a death grip, as his lips traveled to my panties and pulled them down with his teeth.

I repeat: HE FUCKING PULLED DOWN MY UNDIES WITH HIS TEETH!

Now that was hot.

He removed on hand from his wrists, but still held both of them with his other hand. He took his free hand and shoved a finger in my clit. I gasped and pulled my head back, my (H/L), (H/C) hair digging into his blue carpet floor. Yeah...that's gonna leave an imprint. He smirked, still fully clothed, as I only had my bra on. I felt a cold breeze come from his AC and hit my body. I shivered, as I whined.

“Jer--” He stopped my right there, by adding another finger inside me.

“That’s not my name, babe,” His smirk became more sexy as I moaned louder, trying to clear my mind and think of something.

“Uhh...daddy?” I asked him, as he thrusted his fingers deeper inside of me. I groaned and arched my back, giving him more access.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He asked me, curling his two fingers. My moans became more and more close, as his fingers curled against my vagina. I tried my best to say something. Anything!

“I...uhh...OHHH!” Was all the came from my mouth, as Jeremy dipped three fingers in total in me.

Jeremy! It’s not fair you have clothes on and I don’t!

I wanted to say that. But I felt a pressure build up in my abdomen. I was already cumming?! Since I couldn’t think straight to even say anything, Jeremy just shrugged and continued to pump into my pussy. His teeth unclipped my bra, leaving me 100% naked. His mouth made its way to my breasts and bit my nipple. I moaned louder, as milk secreted from my breasts. He sucked it off, only making more come out. He sucked harder and harder, as he pulled his fingers out, licking off my cum. I whined at the empty feeling inside, as he rolled his eyes and kissed my forehead.

“Don’t be greedy, sweetheart. You’ll feel good soon,” He smiled sweetly and seductively at the same time. He pulled down his jeans and boxers, making his thick dick spring out. I admired his full length, as he pulled on my hair lightly, but strong enough to make me look at him.

“Wanna suck me off, sweetheart?” He asked me for permission. I nodded, as he kept his smile and lowered his dick into my mouth.

“I’m out of lube, babe. The only lube will be your saliva. Start sucking,” He commanded. I did as I was told and sucked on his length, swirling my tongue around his tip. He moaned, as he jerked his head back. I sucked harder, making him groan my name. He was getting his fair share of moans, as he practically screaming my name like a prayer. A half second later, I bit down on his tip. That’s when he pulled his cock back out, now glazed with my saliva. He aligned it with my entrance. He looked at me, for permission as I nodded. Not being told twice, he entered me. We both were moaning and groaning each other names, as Jeremy’s thrust got more rough. After an hour, his thrusts got more sloppy, but was still cumming. His fluids filled me up as mine did the same to him. I was seeing stars, as he pulled his cock out. He laid on the floor with me, holding my close to his chest. I was panting heavily, as I curled up, listening to his heartbeat to calm me down.

“Was I too rough, sweetheart?” I heard him ask me, stroking my hair. I nodded and wrapped my arms around him. He pecked my forehead and rested his chin on my head.

“I’m sorry. I love you too much, I can’t control myself,” He grinned cheesily this time. I giggled as I passed out in his arms.

“So….my body still hot to you?” He asked me, one more time. I just nodded and looked at him, before falling asleep.

“Oh babe….you don’t even know,” I giggled as we both finally closed our eyes, getting some shut eye. 

Tagging my inspiration (Hope you don’t mind XD): @i-just-love-writing-crap

[clevernewdimension]

Guardians (M)

Purge AU

1. Revenge - Kyungsoo | 2. Guardians - Sehun | 3. Coming soon |

Oh Sehun, the younger adoptive brother of Junmyeon, spends his Purge nights protecting the clinic they put on every year for innocent people. His past is dark, not wanting to remember it. Every year he wants to make people like that asshole pay. 

And he does, all the while shuffling people who are hurt into their little clinic so his brother and the few people they trust can patch them up and give them a safe haven from the night. Sehun was the muscle, listening to her over the comms as she takes out threats before they can get close and tell him about people needing help. She’s always there, his best friend. He saved her when they were young, and they’ve been together ever since. She also helps protect the clinic, an excellent sharpshooter and quick witted.

Their night starts like any other, proving the meaning of their friends with benefits relationship before getting ready to stay up all night and save people. Then things go horribly wrong, and Sehun has to face someone he wishes died long ago to keep her alive. His nightmares back. Can Sehun face them to save her?

Genre: Action

Word count: 9.2K

A/N: Trigger warnings for sexual assault, rape, child abuse, pedophilia, non con/ dub con, death, blood, guns, knives. Seriously, if these trigger you, DO NOT READ.

Sehun lights a cigarette, blowing out the smoke as the news on the TV keeps talking. He rolls his eyes, sitting on the curb. He holds the bottle of beer in his hand, taking a sip of it as he waits. The news croons on about the Purge tonight, telling everyone to either keep in doors or, if they want, go out and exercise their rights. The freedom to act like a goddamned maniac once a year.

Wonderful.

Last year, Sehun did what he’s been doing since Mr. Kim took him in. Help with the family run clinic. Mr. Kim died, and Junmyeon, his adopted older brother, took control. He’s a doctor, so it makes sense. Sehun, on the other hand, spent his time in fight clubs and training in a little bit of martial arts. Their mutual friend, Kyungsoo, taught him how to shoot and how to use a knife. Trained him to be much like himself.

Except Sehun doesn’t have an off switch for his emotions. He feels them all the time. Constantly. Something, he thinks, that he picked up from Junmyeon. His step brother was the most caring man he knows. Because of this, he’s perfected the blank, emotionless face. Keeping things bottled up until he can let it out on some assholes trying to hurt innocent people wanting some help. So, tonight, he’ll be looking out for people who try to attack their one day only clinic. He wants to make sure everyone is safe from the sick fucks who love the Purge. If he didn’t have Junmyeon in his life, he could have became one of those people. Sehun doesn’t like to think about it, though.

If anything, Sehun should be glad he only has to deal with sick freaks only once a year anymore. Visions from the past in his mind, like they always were this time of year. That basement. The knife in his small hands as he carves the letters into skin. The feeling of that man over him, smiling as he cried and cried. His begging and pleading falling on deaf ears.

Sehun closes his eyes, pinching his own arm as he tried to focus on anything but that. “It’s been almost twenty years,” He mumbles to himself, opening his eyes and seeing the ashes from the cigarette fall. “Get over it,” He says to himself. Purge day causes him to smoke. Every other day he’s fine, but today, his nerves are shot to hell. A nervous tick that he couldn’t stop.

A car stops in front of him. He looks up, seeing Kyungsoo in the driver’s seat. Sehun drops his cigarette, standing and putting it out with his heel. He downs the rest of the beer, throwing it to the trash can that was close by before getting in the SUV.

He looks up, seeing Kyungsoo in the driver’s seat. His hair growing out again, as he puts the car into drive. The woman beside him smiles at Sehun, a small wave. Sehun smiles back, happy that she was fine. Last year she hired Kyungsoo to kill the people who took and killed her kid. Sehun thought she wouldn’t survive the night. Nice to be wrong, since she’s smart and very helpful.

“I take it the two of you will be on watch,” Kyungsoo asks, looking at the younger man through the rear view briefly.

Sehun’s mind goes to his best friend. Known each other for years. He nods, “Yeah. Of course. Where else would we be?”

“I’m still shocked she isn’t sick of you yet,” He says, shaking his head.

Sehun agrees. After all, while they both were involved with fighting and getting the shit kicked out of them, she managed to get herself mostly together. Sehun works as security for some rich fucks in town. A pair of friends who own a multi billion dollar company selling who knows what. Park Chanyeol and Kim Jongin. Countless times has Sehun had to save them. He always told them that, on Purge night, they have to find someone else. They respect that, thankfully, and choose to leave the country to avoid the day. They’ve sent him pictures of themselves in Paris. He would smile, happy knowing they are safe. They’re good people.

Unlike him, she did something more with her life. She managed to get a job where she can stay at home and provide tech services. She went to college and got a degree in the city two years after they met. Sehun stayed in the shadows and won fighting competitions.

Everyone they knew had a feeling about how they are with one another. When they weren’t practicing or playing video games, they were tangled up in one another, mouths drowning in each other’s moans. For ten years they’ve know each other. Sehun was seventeen when they met. She was average height, but back then she was small and scared. Weak.

Now, not so much. She was dangerous, in more ways than one. He smirks, thinking about their little habits and how they have built their lives around one another. After the first year, they started call one another names. Sehun was Bitch, and she was Cunt. She picked the names out while completely drunk off her ass one night and they just stuck. Sehun wouldn’t have called her that if she wasn’t fine with it, after all. She was a burning light in this place. A sun surrounded by people who were nothing. Black holes trying to end her wonderful and bright light. She deserve better. But he knows she won’t leave.

He can’t help but feel as if he is holding her back, in that regard. Because of that, he can’t let himself fall deeper for her. All he sees in his dreams is her smirk. Her black hair and her light blue eyes. They way she looks when she’s asleep, peaceful. Beautiful. He holds himself back. He tastes the forbidden fruit, but never bites it. Never truly has it. That’s all he needs, because he knows that there will come a time when she finally sees she’s worth so much more than this. And Sehun will stand there, waving bye and let her go because he knows that she is like a bird. Free, and shouldn’t be caged by anything, least of all by him.

It hurts, but he knows that it’s what she deserves.

He leans back into the seat, letting out a sigh as he closes his eyes, letting him have a few moments to peace before the night.

I walk down the hall, my ragged canvas shoes squeaking. The apartment building wasn’t bad, but not exactly the best neighborhood. Drug deals common in the alley beside it, a few gang members with a ‘safe house’ a floor below. I don’t know why Sehun insists on living here, but who am I to judge. Granted, he isn’t here often. It’s not unusual for me to wake up and see him beside me on my bed or, if he’s too tired, on the couch in my living room. I’ve offered him the spare room, so that we could be room mates, multiple times but he say no every time. 

It’s not that I was scared of him living here. He can handle himself. After all, Kyungsoo taught him everything he knows. I just don’t think living there, alone, is good for him. He can try to hide it all he wants, but I know he has nightmares. Often. Sometimes he’s woken me up screaming. I had to shake him awake as he would gasp, breathing deeply like someone was trying to suffocate him. 

He needed therapy, that much was certain. But he would never agree to it. I’ve brought it up, but he shot it down. So, instead, when he is next to me when he wakes, I try to distract him however I can from whatever it is that still haunts him. Most of the time we just talk. Very rarely is it with sex, but when it is, it’s not like the other times. After nightmares, he’s so... soft. Kind. Treating me more like the woman he loves than the woman he comes to for a quick fuck. and every time, I’m left wondering why it can’t be like that more often. Why can’t he show me those feelings and mean them.

I roll my eyes, shoving my thoughts out of my mind. My black hair loose, as I knock quickly on the door. Time is running out, and I don’t need these thoughts clouding my judgement tonight of all nights. The bag on my shoulder heavy, with the clothes I’ll wear tonight while we keep watch and the weapons I’ll use to defend the clinic. Hair ties around my wrist, ready to keep my hair out of my eyes. There was always this sense of unease I had today, before it starts.

This was usual. This is what happens every year today. A bit of fun first before getting serious and working to protect the clinic at night. Once the chime happens a second time, signaling the end of the Purge,  a coma for the next day or two. The door opens, Sehun standing there. His shirt off, showing off his very toned and scared chest. Tattoos inked on his tan skin. A skull on his upper arm, and a dagger on his forearm, and a small rose on his right index finger. On his chest was tally marks. Each one for every Purge since he was eight, he told me. Never explained more than that, though I think it has something to do with the nightmares.

His hands pull me towards him, lips immediately on mine, all tongue. I close my eyes, trying to wall up my feelings and just take this at face value. Sex. Just sex. The best dicking I ever get (Not that I’d ever tell him that), but no romance, no love, just lust. He picks me up, kicking the door closed. His lips soft as his kiss was anything but.

This has been our relationship since we met. Ten years ago, Sehun saved me from some awful people and took me to his brother. We’ve been best friends ever since. I remember that day clearly. My then crush tricked me to go out with him that night. He brutally murdered his teacher, and I ran from him. He was covered in her blood, hands all over me as he tried to release the pent up rage even more. So I left him, running into the night completely defenseless. I was fifteen, alone and some disgusting asshole tried to rape me. Thankfully, Sehun got there before anything could happen. He looked so young then, even if he was two years older than me. God, how time has past.

His fingers dig into my thighs as I pull at his white hair, moaning in his mouth. My tongue meeting his with as much desperate need as he did, though I would never say it. My body lights with a fire every time he touches me, and it hurts, knowing it wasn’t the same for him.

I smirk against his lips, “Someone’s needy. Can’t get laid without me lately?” I pull my shirt off over my head, tossing it to the side. I wanted his skin on my skin now, I want that fire to come over me and turn me to ash. Overload my emotions now so that, when the time comes, I will be able to pull the trigger easily.

“Will you just shut up and let me fuck you,” He growls, biting into my shoulder. The pain made me groan, rolling my hips into his body. His voice like this always makes me wet. He doesn’t have to try to turn me on anymore. He doesn’t even know the effect he has on me, how strong it is. Seeing him like this is a blessing and a curse.

Oh Sehun is a handsome man, easy on the eyes. He’s tempting, like that piece of cake you know you shouldn’t have, but you take a bite anyways. Women all over town wanting to get a piece of him, but he never seeks them out. A lot of men, too. Seems like Sehun is attractive to people from all walks of life. There’s something thrilling knowing that, even if this relationship is purely sexual, he’s loyal in the sense he doesn’t fuck about with other people. It makes me proud, that it’s only me. I’m the only one who get’s his hands on me, his head between my thighs and his cock in me. They all try, but he only goes to me.

“Don’t like be bringing up your lack of game, huh,” I mumble, quickly biting into his shoulder, hearing him hiss in my ear. I make fun of him to keep myself from muttering my true feelings for him. It’s all a carefully placed defense mechanism.

“Like you’re any better,” He says, pushing me down onto his bed as he crawls over me. “You come to me to get dick constantly,” He mutters, grinding his hips to mine.

It’s true. He only goes to me, and I only go to him. I make up all the excuses, but the truth is, I don’t want anyone besides him. Besides, why would I want some dude who only care about his own pleasure that doesn’t know what the fuck a clit is? Pass.

The moan left me before I could stop it. He was hard already, like he’s been waiting all day for this too. “It’s because you’re easy, babe,” I say with a smile, reaching behind me and taking my bra off. He quickly pulls it away, tossing it to the side of his room. His eyes over my skin, his gaze hungry. I smirk at this, “Why work for it when I can just walk in and have your face between my legs in seconds?”

“You fucking cunt,” He mutters, teeth biting into the side of one of my breasts as he’s pulling down my sweats and panties down my legs quickly. This was our usual. Fast. Hard. Practically primal. And god did it feel so fucking good.

“Love you too, bitch,” I say, smiling as I lay back against his bed. If I say it sarcastically, he will never believe it if I just outright say it accidentally one day. Or, that’s the hope. I smile, watching him move down and feeling his tongue already licking my center. My hand in his hair, pulling it as he eats me like he’s starving. My heart racing, holding onto him as his fingers slip into me. “Fuck, Sehun,” I moan, arching my back. The feeling of everything he does to me seems magnified at all times.

“That’s the point, idiot,” He mutters quickly, before getting back to it.

That’s how our relationship is. We’re best friend who constantly mock one another while… well, fucking. The fucking part started a little after I turned seventeen. I don’t even know how it happened, all I know is that once it started, it never stopped. My thoughts pulled away from the past, feeling his fingers touch me in the best of ways. His tongue was merciless, licking and sucking at my clit while his fingers were moving in and out, making me lose myself in the feeling. He’s so in tune with my body I was already cumming around his fingers in a few minutes, groaning and moaning as he moves, licking his lips as he smirks, looking proud.

“If anyone is easy, it’s you,” He says with a smirk, “Look how quick I can make you cum, after all.”

His sweatpants were discarded as I move, getting on my knees. A hear him put on the condom, as I just arched my back, “Hurry, bitch, I won’t wait all day!”

“You’d never find someone else who can fuck you like I can, Cunt,” He growls, pushing into me without warning. I moan, my arms feeling weak as he pulls out and slams into me.

I smile, hearing the nickname he calls me. “Bitch, you ain’t special,” I moan, falling to my elbows. A hard thrust has me moaning unabashedly, my eyes rolling back with a smile.

“Hard to take you seriously when you keep moaning like that,” He growls, thrusting into me harder.

I ignore him, closing my eyes and clutching onto his blanket. This is how it was. A few jabs before we just lose ourselves in the feeling. I moaned loudly as he hit me just right, my body completely ignited from the sensation. I roll my eyes, hearing his neighbor bang on the wall. I smile, putting my hands on the headboard in order to push back so I stop sliding up the bed. I make no move to quiet myself, feeling Sehun’s hands grip my hips tightly, pulling me back forcefully as his hips slapped against me.

Banging on the wall happened again, a woman’s voice on the other side complaining.

“Get some dick of your own and shut up,” I yell, hearing Sehun laugh at that.

“If you weren’t, Uh,” He says, groaning momentarily, “Screaming like a slut, it would be fine!”

“Shut up and fuck, Bitch,” I moan out, arching my back just right.

Sehun moves quicker, knowing we have limited time. He groans, putting all his strength into fucking me into the mattress. It didn’t take long for Sehun to get me there again. I yell, nails digging into the headboard, the fire turning into an inferno. Soon it was too much, very sensitive as I was panting at the feeling. I couldn't stop the sounds if I wanted to, it felt too good. He groans, as I feel him still before he falls next to me.

I look over, seeing him breathing heavily. He looks amazing like this. For a moment, nothing is wrong. Everything is fine and he’s just a man who just had some mindless sex. Like, if only for a moment, his thoughts were put on pause. Sweat on his skin as he smiles, letting out a small laugh. I smile, feeling my heart clench.

Just like it always does.

Our relationship is purely friends with benefits. We are best friends, who fuck occasionally. Often. Problem is, I’ve had feelings for this bitch for ages. Thankfully I am able to keep it contained. After all, Sehun isn’t the type for relationships. Unless mostly sexual, that is. He doesn’t let himself get close to people. Romantic relationship is out of the question for sure. It doesn’t stop me from wanting it, though. Sometimes I think I should end this sexual side of our relationship, but I know I’m already too far gone for it to matter.

“Come on,” He says, “We have to shower and get ready.”

“Only if you let sit on your dick again after,” I say with a smirk, looking over at him and winking.

“You talk like that and then say you’re not obsessed with my dick,” He mutters, smirking before sitting up.

“Your dick is nice. Somehow you’ve been blessed with an amazing cock, but that’s not it. The rest of you is the problem,” I say, laughing as I see his face. “Come on. We need to get out there before the time starts. After all, I think your neighbor will actually kill us if we stay.”

We showered quickly, hands off one another as we are running out of time. We got dressed in our black clothes quickly. My hair in a braid as I get my rifle, making sure it’s ok. A knife in my boot and a pistol at my hip. A pair of goggles I stole to give me some thermal vision that I can turn off an on.

“Junmyeon put a portable heater up there for you,” Sehun says, pulling on his jacket. “Your little nest. The water tower has been turned into a little fort for you.”

I smile, “Nice to know. Gets cold up there every fucking year.”

He arms himself, multiple knives and hidden guns. He glances over, eyes worried as he buckles a gas mask to his side. A few years ago someone had some gas bomb that almost gave him lung problems. Now, he’s careful. “You don’t have to do this,” He says.

I roll my eyes. Every year this happens. “I know. But I owe that clinic my life. I owe you my life. So I’m going to protect both. Period.”

“Worth a shot,” He says, rolling his eyes.

“What is Kyungsoo and his boo doing this year,” I ask, looking up at Sehun.

“She’s helping Junmyeon. He’s doing whatever he usually does. Thankfully this time in this city. He’s a bit nervous after last year.”

I put on my gloves, before seeing Sehun hand me his AR. I take it, putting it over my shoulder as we walk down the hall. The motorcycle he owns was nice, as he holds the handles and I get on after him, helmets on. I clutch onto his leather jacket as we go, heading to the clinic.

The city was eerily empty. Sehun driving though open roads with no one there. I cling to him, holding on as I look at all the businesses that have boarded up their windows or have hired security for the night. I see a mother dragging her child in as they cried, trying to explain to them that it was for their own good. The streets were clean and soon, rivers of blood will be flowing. I close my eyes, trying not to think about what will be inevitable.

We got there, Junmyeon already there, taking inventory. He looks up, smiling. “Hey,” He says, placing his clipboard down on the table. “The walkie talkies are in the other room on the charger. Headsets there too. Figured you both have earned them after years of this.”

“Fucking finally,” I say with a grin, pushing Sehun’s AR into his chest before walking into the room. He just scoffs, following after me. I smile, my rifle over my shoulder as I take one, putting it in my pocket. The headset  plugging an ear, the small mouthpiece hanging down like a mic a singer would wear. I put in on, nodding. “Channel three?”

“Like always,” Sehun says, putting his own. Junmyeon also had one on him at all times, though with no head set. He looks at me. “Be careful, watch the fire escape.”

“Sure,” I say with a nod, “You be careful, too. Don’t die on me, Bitch.”

“I don’t plan on it, Cunt,” He says with a smile. A quick hug, like normal. I let myself enjoy this. Enjoy these like it could be my last one, because you never know. It was far too short, though. We pulled away and we were off. I climb the stairs, getting to the roof with ease. The wind up here was not bad, gentle breeze, but it will effect all my shots. I climb the water tower, see a newly made door in it. Open it, seeing a wooden floor made. Large cut outs of every side so I can see the surrounding area. A chair so I can sit and watch, but with wheels so I can kick it away and get ready to fire when I need. A small, propane heater that I turn on with a smile.

I put my goggles on, looking around. A pair of earmuffs over, to protect my ears from the gun sounds. All I would be able to hear is muffled gunshots and Sehun in my ear. I see Sehun on the opposite roof, waving. “I see you,” I say, “This year no fucker is getting in.”

“Agreed,” He says, nodding.

The system is in place, and we hear the warning sirens. It’s begun.

Sehun stays there, taking a walk around the building every hour, just to see if someone is too close for comfort. I shoot anyone who looks like a threat. Seems like Kyungsoo and Sehun have installed the lights on every alley that leads close. Easier to see if they’re hurt or not.

I look carefully, watching as I see a few men about a mile away. If they get any closer, I’ll shoot, as I watch them stab into someone. “That sick gang is around,” I mutter.

“They always are,” Sehun replies. “Every time I kill one of them, they always die asking me about my girlfriend.” I hear him huff.

My heart clenches at that, trying to ignore it as I see people running for their lives a bit away.

“As if any of those asshole could hurt you. Your smarter and have a way better right hook.” I smile hearing that. It makes my heart flutter when he complements me, even if it’s something like that. “Be careful,” He says, “You know how they are, once your in their sights, they won’t rest.”

“They’ll get a bullet in the face before they reach me,” I mutter, smirking. I stop, seeing a man holding an ax chasing a girl. “Gesture street, little girl. If he doesn’t get her before he’s close enough, I’m shooting him. Take her to the clinic?”

“I will,” He says, as I see him out of his seat and quickly going down the fire escape.

I smirk, getting his head in my sight. The wind will move the bullet slightly to the left before the building can shield it. I adjust, taking a deep breath. I exhale, pulling the trigger with ease.

The loud crash of the shot was dull to me due to the ear muffs. Specifically designed for gun shooting. After all, I wanted my eardrums in tact, thank you very much. The gun kicking back as I told it with experience. I see the man on the ground, head a mess as the little girl turns, crying. Just then, Sehun picks her up, putting a hand over her mouth.

“Listen, you’re safe, I promise,” He mutters quietly, trying not to draw any attention to them. He kept the line open on his side so I could hear everything, just to be sure. “I’m going to take you to a doctor, ok? He’ll make sure you’re ok. After, we’ll find your parents.”

I see the figure nod. I switch the channel of my walkie talkie to the channel to talk to Junmyeon, “A little girl, five or six. A few cuts, but over all fine. Sehun is coming in with her.”

“Thank you,” He says, as I see another hurt person hobble into the door. Starting early, I suppose.

After dropping her off, Sehun does his check, an I have to shoot another two people. That was the night, for the most part. Same as always, save for last year. Sehun was busy, quickly moving, ignoring a small cut to his face that Junmyeon quickly put a band-aid over.

Hours pass, and I only have to shoot a few people. They’ve seem to caught on quickly at the deal. Sehun would be up and down all night, helping people get to the clinic safely as I kept a close watch on it all. I stretch, watching him go down and check an alley close by. I see him, crouching, looking down the walk away, “I can’t see there, so you’re on your own, Bitch.”

No reply.

That nagging feeling gets me. Like something is wrong. I frown, seeing him clearly. “Bitch, answer me, you fuck. Give me a hand sign if you can hear me.” He just looks at the alley. No hand sign at all. I pull up the goggles, just barely seeing the headset on him. I reach for mine, freezing. The wire for the headset was cut. The walkie talkie on the small table behind me gone.

It was then I see the man behind me, a knife in his hands as he just smiled.

I turn, holding my rifle that he swats away, making it fall out of the window. I reach of my pistol, feeling it gone as he just smiles. His hair was brown, eyes matching as he just grins. A scar on his face, over his eye. The left one didn’t move, which meant it was a glass one or something.

“It’s funny,” He mutters, “Seeing little Sehun now. He’s all grown up. Armed to the teeth and too careful to sneak up on. But, you are easy prey. Just had wait for the right moment.”

“What do you want,” I say, glaring as I see blood dripping from his hand as he had the knife stabbed into his thumb as he spun it in his hand.

“My little Sehun has been bad,” He says with a growl. “So I have to punish him. What better way to punish him than to kill the one he cares about most?”

I act quickly, kicking him at the chest, the door behind him almost opens, making him have to grab onto the sides to keep himself from falling. I move, getting out of the windows and jumping down. I let out a cry of pain, feeling my ankle hurt. I ignore it, moving towards the door into the clinic. I grab it, feeling it locked as I look, seeing the man quickly moving towards me, knife still in hand.

The fire escape is my only chance. I move quick, going down and down. I look up, still moving when I’m half way and see him staring down too. I move, faster, getting to the end. My heart pumping as I go down the ladder, My jacket caught on it, I rip it off quickly, leaving it forgotten. I jump the last bit, landing on the ground. My ankle on fire from the pain. I go to move, running down the street. I know roughly where Sehun is, I just have to get there. My breath coming out in little clouds, my body not even noticing the cold. I feel around, the knife missing too as I curse, throwing the earpiece off along with the mic. He was catching up as I turn the corner, seeing a huge van blocking this alley. I curse, turning and seeing him behind me.

“This has been the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” He mutters, reaching. He was faster than I expected, but I kick at his knee, hearing him hiss in pain. Before I could run, I feel something pierce my arm. Another on my back though the shirt, his hand there holding something.

Pain. My muscles locking up as I fell. He smiles holding the taser. I feel tears come to my eyes as he smiles. Quickly, he places a handcuff around one of my wrists, as I fight back. He squeezed the trigger again, making me lock up once more as he does the other hand. Once it stopped, I scream out, my throat on fire, “SEHUN!” He glares fist connecting with my face, making me dazed as he gets a roll of duct tape from his pocket, a long piece. I scream out Sehun’s name again, before the tape was placed over my mouth.

He picks me up, holding me easily. He laughs, “He’ll come looking for you. I left him a little note of where to meet us in a little bit. But first, I have to prepare you.”

A quick hit to the temple makes me lose consciousness.

Sehun crouches looking down the alley. He rolls his eyes, seeing just two people going at it next to a dumpster. “At least have some class,” He mutters, rolling his eyes. It’s disgusting, thinking about that. If it was him, he’d at least find a place that didn’t smell like rotting food and piss. “If I ever get desperate enough to try to fuck you next to a dumpster, shoot me,” Sehun whispers over the line, rolling his eyes at the couple.

No reply. She could be talking with Junmyeon, though. It happens sometimes. She’ll get too focused, eyes glued to her surroundings. The only thing that will break her out of it is when she tells him about someone or if she shoots. times like this, Sehun has said things to her that he’s always wanted to. A way to get it out without her knowing. Helps him not to explode over it.

He reaches, getting a cigarette then heart stops, hearing the echoing scream of his name. His blood goes cold, his eyes wide in fear as he moves, letting the cigarette drop from his lips instantly. He moves, sprinting, trying to pinpoint the place he heard the voice. “Cunt, do you hear me,” He asks over the walkie talkie. The feeling of dread coming over him, “Y/N, this isn’t funny!” He knows that if he said her name, she would answer. That is the only think that breaks her out of her trance. He only uses it if it was serious.

But she didn’t.

He changes the channel, “Jun, something’s happened to Y/N,” He says, trying to calm his heart. “Stay inside, call Kyungsoo. His job is probably over by now, he’ll have to take over.”

“Sehun,” His brother says, “Be careful!”

He passes by an alley, and a glimmer from the side catches his eye. A man swinging an ax directly at his face. He ducks, glaring at the man before dodging the next swing, taking the ax from him and embedding it deep in his skull. The man’s eyes fade instantly, the blood pouring as he lets him drop. He runs, hearing another scream of his name. He turns, changing direction. The alley behind the clinic.

A van blocking the way. He moves, getting on his stomach and crawling. He sees nothing. He sees no one. His eyes catch the headset on the ground, the cord connected to nothing. Sehun turns, looking at the fire escape and sees her jacket hanging from it. He quickly goes up, glancing and seeing the door of the water tower open, her rifle on the other side, lying still. He moves quickly, getting up there.

His eyes loo around, seeing drops of blood on the ground. Her walkie talkie to the side, cord to the head set cut. Her pistol and knife on the ground, kicked under and hidden from sight of where she would be seated. He glances at the rest of the table top that surrounds the entire little room. He freezes, seeing it.

All his life, he’s hated a specific flower. His eyes going wide with rage seeing it lying there, a piece of paper next to it and a Polaroid. He looks at the picture, seeing a younger him. Lying on his stomach, naked with his hands behind his back. The date on it. He was seven then. The memory flashes to his mind before he can stop it. Tears falling down his face in silent cries as the man was pulling on his pants. The shame he felt, being used like that. The man stopped, hand over his butt before placing a flower by his face. “These always remind me of you, Sehun,” He says softly, as if he didn’t just acct like a savage animal to him. “They look like your little pout, so pretty.”

Sehun’s hand rips the pink tulip, petals falling to the floor of the water tower as tears spill down his face. The anger and rage he felt was building as he looks at the paper.

‘The old church. We’ll be waiting.’

He moves going to the roof door. It was locked, and Sehun just kicks it open, hearing the wood crack as he does so. The picture in his hand as he walks down the stairs, a few people moving out of his way, afraid. Junmyeon was there, so was Kyungsoo. They both looked over, seeing Sehun.

Junmyeon’s eyes are wide, looking at his younger brother. Sehun just hands him the picture, “He has her.”

He told Junmyeon. The only person he’s ever told the full and total truth to. He watches the doctor’s eyes go wide, looking at the picture with anger. The eldest looks up, “Go get her. Don’t let him torment you anymore.” He moves, throwing the picture into the fire close by, letting it melt. Sehun wishes it was that easy to get rid of memories too.

Kyungsoo looks over, “I’ll go too.” He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows it’s bad. One look at Sehun like this can tell him that much. He’s never seen Sehun this freaked out about anything before.

“No,” Sehun says, “Someone has to watch the clinic. Besides us, I only trust you.” He looks at Kyungsoo, eyes pleading.

The man nods, “If you need me-”

“I’ll make sure to let you know,” He says, before moving to his helmet.

When I woke up, I was tied. I feel myself being hoisted up so I wasn’t lying down. Something around my neck. A slap to the face makes me gasp, looking as seeing the man in front of me. He looks older than before. Crows feet and graying hair. He lets me go, giving me a sight of where I was. On the stage of an abandoned church. My wrists chained out by my side. A rope around my neck, which the end was in his hand. He smiles, “Good morning,” He mutters, hand moving down my chest. I felt his fingertips on my bare skin. Making me look down.

My shirt cut open, bra as well. He smiles at me, “Shame you’re not more flat chested. I could have pretended you are what I like. Gotten started early.”

“You disgusting fuck,” I growl, glaring at him.

He smiles, taking his knife as cutting a line from close to the nose to my jaw. “He’ll be here soon. I think he’ll finally come back to me if it means to save you.”

I glare at him, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you,” He asks, smirking. The church was dusty, old and falling apart. The chandelier fallen though the floor, some of the pews falling in the hole as well. Around us were candles, and hundreds of pink tulips scattered around. “Sehun and I had quite the passionate relationship a while back.”

“I’ve known him for ten years,” I say, rolling my eyes, “He’s never said anything about you.” I shake my head. He’ll, we’ve been fucking for eight of those ten, and, as far as I know, he’s never had sex with anyone else.

“He was so scared then. So small. He grew into a fine man,” He says, ignoring me, losing himself for a moment in the past. “So strong and sure of himself now. Back then he was scared. Timid. Shy. His little hand would cling to whatever it could when he was terrified.”

I feel my eyes widen. That’s why he never spoke about it. My stomach felt awful, the need to vomit coming up. The man slaps tape to my mouth, hand hitting my face and sending it to the other direction from the force.

“Why you,” He asls, glaring a little, like he was confused. “I gave him everything. I gave him love, passion... and he left me.” The man glares at me with his one good eye. “He stabbed my eye and ran like it meant nothing.”

He looks at me, hand rubbing the cut on my face, making it sting. “To think that now, all his passion is aimed at you.” He scoffs, “You don’t deserve it, you heartless whore. You’ll use him and lose him. It would have been only a matter of time before you broke his heart.”

I try to say something to him, tell him how disgusting he was, but he just looks. He smiles, “I can’t wait. He was so little an inexperienced back then. I can’t wait to see his mouth back around my cock. Back then he could barely fit it in, his little lips were so small.” He glares, “But he’s been tainted by you. I’ve seen it, though the windows of his place. His face between your legs, corrupting him more and more. It’s disgusting,” He says, pulling my hair sharply.

“But don’t worry,” He mutters, “I’m here. I’ll cleanse him again.”

I glared and him, fighting against my bindings. I wanted to hurt him knowing what he’s done to Sehun. This man deserved a painful death. He smiles, taking a gun from his side, pointing it at my head as he moves to stand by my side.

The door slams open, as I see Sehun holding is AR, anger in his eyes. Rage like I’ve never seen as he take a moment to understand the situation. His eyes widen, looking at the gun to my head.

“My little Sehun,” The man says, all the affection in his voice was real, adoration in his smile. “It’s been too long, my dear.”

“Let her go,” He says, walking up, the gun still trained on that disgusting freak.

“This isn’t how this works,” He says, laughing. “Remember? I’m the adult. You listen to me.” He smiles, “Throw your gun into the hole. Do it, or I will shoot her.”

Sehun pauses, a look of fear for a moment. Since I’ve known him, he hasn’t been afraid of anything. Though, now that I understand, I get it.

The gun meets my temple, making me whine in pain. Tears come to my eyes,my head aching even more now. “Trust me, it’s taken everything I had not to kill her already. The woman who touched my property,” He growls, pushing the gun into my head more. “Who tricked you into her bed and spread her disease! Don’t push me, because I desperately want to kill her already!”

Sehun tosses the gun into the hole immediately, hands up as he walks forward. I could see him trying to stay strong, but there was something about him that was completely shaken to his core. Even still, he glared at him, looked him in the eyes and faced his freak of a man again.

The man takes a knife from his side, tossing it right in front of me. “Sehun, I want you to decorate her-”

“I won’t hurt her,” He says, with a growl of anger. Sehun had hate radiating off of him. The anger making his hands shake as he just glared at him.

“Hurt her, or I’ll kill her,” He says with a sick, mocking grin, “your choice.”

Sehun moves, kneeling in front of me and picking up the knife. “I’m sorry,” He says, looking at me. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

“I want you to admit it to her,” He says, “On her skin. How you feel about her. Give her a reminder of what it is she will lose after tonight is done. Just like I made you to do me.” He pulls his shirt down, showing of the word hate carved there over and over. From shaky little letter to large, capital ones.

Sehun takes the knife, looking at it. It was small, a tiny pocket knife as he presses it into my skin. I whine, trying to move away from the pain but Sehun just holds me still. “I’m sorry,” He says, quietly. Trying to speak only to me. I see tears in his eyes, “Y/N, it’s ok, I’m almost done. Just a little bit longer.” Carve after carve, letter after letter. I look, seeing tears fall from Sehun’s eyes as I was whining. He moves away, dropping the knife as he looks at the look on my skin. I look, only seeing the blood and not a single letter though it.

“Wonderful,” He says, hand grabbing Sehun’s hair and forcing him to look up. “It’s good to be honest about your feelings, after all.” Sehun, for a moment, looks like a child. Scared. Small. It doesn’t last long, though, before he glares at him.

“You remember this, him?” He asks, smirking, his hand moving to his belt, pulling it lose. “Give me this, and I won’t kill her,” He says, smirking. “Resist, and I’ll make you watch as the blood leaves her head and I’ll use her blood to fuck you with.”

I was scared, hearing that. I glanced over at him, seeing my friend look small. Sehun looks ill, glaring at him, but staying still. The man shoves his pants down, pulling his dick out from his pants. He smiles, tapping it to Sehun’s lips. “Here comes the airplane, little Sehun,” He mutters, smiling. “Suck it properly, don’t half ass it, either.”

I wanted to tell him it was fine. That he didn’t have to do this. I can see how much he hated it, now disgusted and scared he was. I would die if it meant he never had to do anything this man ever wants. But I can’t. I was screaming against the tape, but no worse could reach his ears.

Instead, I watch as he glares up at him, opening his mouth and obeys. His other hand moves to Sehun’s head, gripping the hair there as he laughs, “Oh fuck,” He says, moaning, pressing the gun to my head. I try to yell still, my voice muffled by the tape. The man’s head was back as Sehun removes him from his mouth, gasping for air for a moment. Sehun moves, quickly mouthing ‘trust me, I have a plan.’

My eyes locked with him, guilt like a stone in my stomach what he’s willing to do just to save me. He turns, looking back and opening his mouth again. This time, the man wasn’t as kind. A hand tight in his hair, forcing him down, making my friend choke. But still he glares at the man. The hate in his eyes unwavering when he looked at him.

“What a good boy,” The man says, “Still as obedient as ever. I taught you well,” He says, letting out a little gasp. The sound my my friend having to do this making me feel ill. I pulled at my restraints, wanting to help him. The pain as I pulled was stinging, biting into my skin. It was nothing compared to seeing Sehun being used like this, against his will.

He pulls Sehun off of him, “Tell me you love me. Use my name.” He pushes the barrel of the gun to my temple.

“I love you, Sam” He says, eyes closed. He didn’t want to look at him when he said those words.

“Look at me and say it,” He growls, letting go of Sehun’s hair as he takes the rope around my neck, pulling it tightly

I feel it tighten as I gasp for air. He pulled more and more, tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. My eyes watering as I tried to make it stop, get some air in my lungs.

Sehun looks at him, without waiting another moment. His eyes whining with tears, “I love you, Sam.”

“I’ve been waiting for so long,” He mutters, shaking his head. “My little Sehun, I love you too.”

The rope loosens, as breathe quickly though my nose. Sehun looks at me, worried and keeping a watchful eye on me. The man’s hand goes back to Sehun’s hair, “Now, open up for me again, my little tulip.”

It hurt to see him have to do this. Pain himself for this. He does, closing his eyes and choking as the man was thrusting his hips. “Yes,” The man moans, “S-Sehun, I’ve tried to find someone to replace you, but no other boy could!”

I was trying to scream through the tape, tears falling from my eyes freely as Sehun just looks at me, his eyes worried. Soon, the man was moaning, telling Sehun he was about to cum. I feel the gun move briefly away from my face, and I see Sehun look at me, seeing it too. Sehun moves, pulling him out and shoving him. The gun goes off, making me flinch as I see Sehun knocking the gun out of his hand. He yanks one of the chains holding my hands free quickly, as if he knew his plan would work all along. The gun skids a few feet away, out of reach as Sehun straddles the man.

“You disgusting fuck,” Sehun screams, fist connecting with the man’s face. “I hate you, I despise you, you goddamn sick fuck!”

The crunch of his fist hitting the man in the face. Blood on Sehun’s hands as he hits him again and again. I pull the tape off my mouth, getting my other hand free quickly, a bit of pain at my side as I ignore it, trying to get myself ready to help Sehun if he needs.

“I don’t care what you do to me,” Sehun growls, holding the man by the collar. He was bloody, and beaten so bad he was almost unrecognizable. “I will never care so long as it is only on ME! When you bring the people I care about in it, I will make sure you never breathe ever again!” The slam of his fist again, “Y/N is a good person! She doesn’t deserve this! She doesn’t deserve you doing this to her!”

“Yes, she-” The man starts, before Sehun hits him again, letting out a guttural roar of anger.

“Shut up,” He screams, tears falling from his face, “So many years you were my biggest nightmare. What you did to me-”

The man spits out blood, sobbing, “I cared for you! I love you!”

Sehun glares, his voice dark but low. “In no way does someone who cares for a child would ever do the things you made me do. The sad fact is you're a disgusting pig-”

Sehun’s voice fades as I feel faint. I look down, seeing red on my side, near my waist. The gun... went off earlier. I felt myself stumble as I loved towards him, “Sehun,” I mutter, seeing his eyes snap to me. His eyes wide as he moves. A quickl glance around and he sees the pistol. He grabs the gun quickly, glaring at the man and putting a bullet through his head. The sound of the shot ringing in my ears. He moves, pulling me to him and picking me up.

My eyes fade closed, the image of Sehun worried the last thing I see.

When my eyes open, I see the face of Junmyeon. He smiles, placing a hand on my face, “Welcome back,” He says, leaning and pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Sehun,” I choke out, looking around, trying to sit up. The man, running... the church. It all came back at once.

“He’s… he’s ok,” Junmyeon mutters, looking up. “Purge is over. A few moments before you woke up. I think he’ll be coming back from the place, now.”

“What,” I ask, confused.

“He went and burned the old church down,” He says, “I told him to leave or else I wouldn’t have been able to sew your wound up, he was so attached to you. Just a graze,” He says, before pointing at the bandage on my chest. “I also patched that up, but it seems like that is going to scar.”

Tears spring to my eyes, remembering, “He… oh god, Junmyeon-”

“I know,” He says, “Who that man is. Sehun told me about it a long time ago. I’m glad he’s dead.”

My memories flashback, as I rip the bandage off. I look, seeing the words, finally. The pain of each cut I remember clearly. I remember Sehun crying as he cut me, hurting me, just to carve how he felt in my skin to save me.

‘I love you, but I don’t deserve you.’

I felt my heart in my throat. I looked at Junmyeon, “Can I leave?”

He nods, “Be careful, don’t rip your stitches. He’s probably in the living room here, waiting by now.”

I go to move, before he grabs my hand and shoving a spare shirt into my hand. My torso bare still, I didn’t even notice.. I pull it on, hissing at the pain from the graze bullet wound. I move, looking quickly. The clinic was getting empty, people going home after a night of hell. I smile, seeing the little girl crying and holding a woman she called ‘Mommy’.

but that wasn’t what was going to make feel at ease. I turn the corner, looking around quickly. I see him there, head in his hands as he sits on the couch, alone in the room. A cut on his fore arm still dripping, the edge of his shirt a bit burn. He looked, fine on the outside. it was his mind I was worried about.

I move, getting on his lap. He was shocked, looking at me, eyes wide. “You’re ok? Tha-”

I brush my lips to his, the kiss soft. It’s never been like this, for us. Our kisses are usually pure lust or hard and angry. When he’d wake up from nightmares and we’d have sex so softly, we never kissed. He avoided kissing me on the lips, kissing me every where else. I pour everything I had into it, wanting him to feel that I felt it too. That I’ve been holding back from my true feelings all this time. I feel him trembling, like he was overwhelmed with emotions. I was too, feeling myself shake. His soft lips pressed against mine, kissing me back. I pull away, smiling.

“Oh Sehun,” I mutter, looking him in the eyes. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. I never acted because you never showed any interest in any relationship other than friendship or purely sexual. And I… I’m s-so sorry,” I mutter, feeling tears come to my eyes. “I would have rather you let him shoot me than do th-”

He holds me face tightly, pressing his lips to mine, this time he shows me all he felt though the movements of our lips. They were so soft, making sure to not hurt me as his passion shined though. I felt his fingers trembling as he pulled away, “Never. I would have been a fucking slave to him if it kept you alive,” His eyes filling with tears, “You’re worth it, you’re worth everything and then some. More than I could ever give you.” He holds my face, “I can’t live if you’re gone. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” He smiles, looking down, “I... I never said anything because how can someone like you ever love someone like me? I’m barely together, Y/N. You deserve a man who can give you anything you want and who can love you like you deserve.”

“Oh Sehun,” I mutter again, “I love you. Only you. It’s only ever been you. I’ve been there for your nightmares, for your injuries. This? What happened? What you’ve survived though? I doesn’t change that. You’re not damaged, or broken. You just need to let people in so you can heal. And I intend to help you through that, too.”

I pull him into a hug, letting him cry into my shoulder as he held me, carefully but close. My hand rubbing his back, letting him get it all out as I mutter words of encouragement into his ear. All the pain he’s held onto for so long finally coming out as silent tears fall from my eyes.

Sehun has been the guardian for everyone for so long. It’s long past due someone was one for him.

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look.  She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.  

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv.  That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house...  “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I���m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his  days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”  

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown. 

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.” 

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!” 

Emil remained silent. 

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”  

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”  

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in. 

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”  

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?! 

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended.  If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark  squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany.  Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection. 

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are. 

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

[whistlewhileiblogit]

Telltale Batjokes/Juce Soulmate AU Fic

A/N: The long awaited soulmate Au fic!! It is longer than I intended, welp ;_; Also go easy on me because it’s been years since I have last uploaded writing and this is my first time doing so on Tumblr. ALSO I know a lot of you guys suggested I kept my original idea and not change it after the ending of S2 BUT I actually felt that this ended up working out a lot better but yeah anyway enjoy! <3

“Who- who are you?” Bruce stammered, still visibly shaken from the beating he’d just taken. The man who had saved him knelt down in front of him, a concerned expression on his porcelain face. He wore an Arkham inmate uniform, although he had a long sleeved purple shirt underneath the standard white uniform, with only his left sleeve rolled up.

“Buddy, aww buddy...are you okay?” Bruce blinked. Did this man just...?

“You don’t look so grand...more like the opposite. What would that be?” Bruce blinked, his head still fuzzy, mind racing. Had this man really just said what he think he heard him say?

 Bruce realised the man was waiting, wide-eyed and expectantly for a response.

“I...thank you. I appreciate the help.” Bruce stammered, his blue eyes locked onto the pale man’s vibrant green ones.

“You’re welcome,” the man said, snapping Bruce out of his thoughts.

“If we don’t look out for each other, who will, right?” Bruce furrowed his brow at the stranger, taking in his forest-green hair, unable to deter a strong urge to run his hands through it as a woman walked into the room. Her white coat showed she was a doctor, and she didn’t look pleased. The man stood up quickly, like a school-boy caught causing mischief. Bruce wondered if violence was a common occurrence with this man.

“What’s going on in here?” she demanded in a firm, but still polite voice. Bruce barely opened his mouth before the strange man spoke up.

“It’s like I told you Doctor! These creeps were attacking the new guy!” he held a hand out to the unconscious men on the floor. Bruce resisted a smile, rubbing a thumb lightly over his right hip under the guise of rubbing a sore spot. He needed to speak to this man alone...somehow.

“Well who did THAT? Was it you?” the doctor raised an accusatory eyebrow at the green-haired stranger.

“Of course not!” He quickly lied, “it was mostly over by the time I got in. The new guy is tougher than he looks. Right buddy?” He bent over, holding a hand out to Bruce, who took it gingerly. He wasn’t a fan of being held accountable for this guy’s violence. Even if this man was meant to be his…

Bruce grunted as he was pulled up by the stranger. His hands were surprisingly warm, Bruce noted. He had been expecting an ice cold touch to match the colour of his skin.

The doctor inclined her head towards Bruce, “Bruce, is that really what happened?” she asked.

 Bruce paused.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s what happened.” the words slipped from his lips before he had even thought it through. He glanced quickly from the man then back to the doctor.

“We have a very strict no fighting policy here in Arkham. If you can't find obey that rule...you’re going to find yourself in hot water fast.” she stated plainly.

“The orderly that was here before took money from these men and let them into my room! He gave them a taser!” Bruce could feel his blood rising again. He knew it was probably still the effects of the drug Vicki had injected into him, but he was still having a hard time ignoring the urge to wrap his hands around someone’s throat.

The doctor didn’t seem to notice his flaring temper, as she replied, “I knew that you coming to arkham could cause some...excitement. But I didn’t expect it to happen so fast. I’ll do my best to keep you safe, but I need you to be careful.” Bruce glowered at her, his temper calming down only slightly.

“Us nice guys gotta stick together. Am I right?” The stranger smiled over at Bruce, drawing his attention back in to his handsome face. Bruce was shocked as a wave of calmness washed over him.

“Thank you, I appreciate the effort.” he nodded politely to the Doctor, forcing a smile.

She smiled back at him, “I’m glad you’re so understanding after what just happened. Good thing help wasn’t far away.” She and Bruce stared over at him. Bruce bit his lip. Did he know? If he did, he hadn’t showed it.

“Hey I’m just looking out for the new guy.” He shrugged casually.

“I’m Doctor Joan Leland, by the way. Head of Psychiatry. I’ll be overseeing your case personally. We’ll get you transferred to a new room, Bruce,” she indicated the blood stains all over the room, “one that doesn’t have your...blood all over it.”

 Bruce was hardly listening, distracted as his shoulder brushed against the green-haired man. He couldn’t help but wonder if the man had done it intentionally.

“For now, follow me.” Doctor Leland ordered, leading them out of the room.

Bruce took his chance as they began to walk together, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever got your name-?”

The man paused, a discernible expression on his face, then glanced over to Bruce, an eyebrow raised and a devilish smirk on his face.

“Me?” he asked.

“He’s never given his name out to anybody.” Doctor Leland chimed in, when the man had begun to laugh maniacally to himself.

“We just call him ‘John Doe’.” she added, as they continued on.

“Bingo!” The man-or now, John, Bruce supposed- began laughing to himself once more, as though it were the funniest thing that only he knew his real name.

 “John is one of our most improved patients.” Doctor Leland began as the trio headed down the vast halls of Arkham. “He’s been with us for quite some time. I’m sure he’d be willing to show you around. Right John?” Bruce wasn’t listening, however, but rather staring at John. His hand brushed over his hip again, his thumb grazing that same spot once more. He knew what words had been imprinted there, what words had always been there. Words he had waited his entire life to hear. Words he had long since forgotten about, too busy, too hurt to bother considering that he would ever actually hear them. The very first words his soulmate would say to him.

But John...he was a patient. How could Bruce deal with whatever baggage this man carried, when he already carried the weight of the world’s on his back?

 “Oh yeah, I’ll show him the whole nine yards.” John smirked, striding casually down the halls with his hands placed behind his back.

“I think it would be best if you stay by his side for now.” Doctor Leland suggested. Bruce couldn’t believe it. This was just too ridiculously perfect for this not to be real. Ever since childhood he’d been told how soulmates not only find each other, but are always somehow...drawn to be with one another. That it was impossible to avoid your fate. Maybe his parents were right.

Bruce, lost in thought, lingered slowly behind John and Doctor Leland, only vaguely listening to their conversation on John’s improvement, when an arm suddenly reached out and gripped Bruce’s own. “I CAN’T TASTE ANYTHING!!! I WANT TO TASTE!!!” A patient screamed at Bruce as he pulled out of his grip. A couple of orderlies rushed in to handle things, and John raised an eyebrow over at Bruce, “You gotta be more careful Bruce...some of these guys bite.”

Bruce said nothing, but moved to stay on the opposite side of the hall, away from the cells.

 “Do you remember the first time you let me into the rec room, Doctor Leland?” John started up again. Bruce decided paying attention would be the better choice. After all, he had no idea how long he would have to be in Arkham for...and getting to know John could only be good, right?

“How could I forget?” Doctor Leland replied fondly.

“You had to teach me how to play checkers.” John reminisced. Bruce wondered how long exactly John had been in Arkham, if he’d never known how to play checkers.

Doctor Leland didn’t get to respond, as an inmate suddenly ran towards an old phone, “No no… you need to let me go! I have to warn the president! They’re trying to kill me!!!” He wailed, being dragged away by two orderlies quickly.

“They don’t like it when you try to use the phone.” John whispered warningly, but not quiet enough that Doctor Leland didn’t hear.

“That’s because phones are for staff use only. No exceptions.” She glanced quickly at Bruce, who couldn’t help feel slightly defensive at her accusatory stare.

“Didn’t stop that guy from trying...such persistence.” John quickly moved over the the door of the patients cell, banging on it aggressively, “Wrong number, dumbass!”

“John!” snapped Doctor Leland. John immediately stopped, a doe-eyed expression on his face.

 They finally stopped at two double doors. “I’ll come by to check on you two later.”  Doctor Leland said.

“Don’t worry about us, Doctor Leland! I’m gonna take good care of him.” John replied as he lead Bruce through the doors to the rec room. He opened his arms widely, “Welcome... to Arkham Asylum. Believe it or not, some of these people are crazy!” Bruce took in the entire room, mentally mapping out everything he could. How many guards there were, the exits, the patients, and the quality of everything within. “But everyone’s friendly. Mostly.” John added with a smile. “I’d watch yourself around those two.” He inclined his head over towards an old man with a sock puppet, and a shirtless bald man covered in scars that looked eerily like tally marks.

“Thanks for the warning.” Bruce said softly.

“No problem, buddy.” John replied casually, his demeanour like one who was showing a new employee around the workplace. “Let’s see...on the couch, that’s Sane Lewis. His favourite show’s on. Never misses it.” The television was playing static. John stood in front of the man, cupping his hands together, a sweet smile on his face. “Alright friendo- commercial break. Get up!” he snapped, but needn’t go any further as the man rushed away hastily. As Bruce neared, John had begun looking around the area, his hands placed thoughtfully on his hips. Bruce wondered if his words were in the same spot on John as they were on himself. “Where is...the remote? One of the orderlies must have taken it. Never fear though! I’ll go ask Leland. She likes me.” He boasted proudly, going to head past Bruce before pausing with a blink. “I almost forgot. Here.” Before Bruce realised what he was doing, John’s hand was in his, as he felt the weight of something chunky and metallic hit his palm. He glanced down. It was an old fashioned key.

“What is this?” He asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. John simply smiled, and walked away. Bruce decided it would be best to figure out what the key was for later, pocketing it quickly.

 Bruce spent some time listening in to other inmates conversations, and even attempting to use the key a couple of times to no avail. He refused to admit the slight relief he felt when John entered the room once more.

“Hey there, buddy boy!” John waved, “Ya missed me? I missed you.” John made himself comfortable in the old worn out armchair he had forced Sane Lewis out of, placing his feet up as he turned the tv on to the news.

Bruce watched as Harvey Dent- his old friend spoke of the Children of Arkham, how he was going to clean up Gotham’s streets. John scowled, “Never anything good on, is there?”

Bruce contemplated his next move. He by no means planned on staying in Arkham for long, but he did need to speak to John...no matter how suspicious he seemed. Sighing to himself, he walked over to John, “Your key. It didn’t work.”

John giggled inwardly, “Of course not, that’s not how you get out of here.” He grinned up at Bruce, his laughter apparently hard to control as he spoke, “You tried it though, didn’t you! That’s hilarious!” Bruce frowned, unamused, and the two men both turned their attention back towards the tv. “Politicians usually bore me to tears, but this one? This one has become a lot more interesting lately...” he turned to Bruce with a smirk, then back to the tv once more.

“In my Gotham no one’s above the law. Including Bruce Wayne.” Bruce felt John’s eyes boring into him, but was determined to keep a straight face, keeping his eyes forward. “After his vicious attack on Oswald Cobblepot I had Mr. Wayne committed to Arkham Asylum where I hope he’ll receive the treatment he so desperately needs.” Bruce gritted his teeth as his mind began reeling again. That same urge to strangle someone had returned, only this time it was directed towards Harvey.

“That double crossing, two-faced-”

“I thought you and the mayor were friends?” John smirked. He was trying to rile Bruce up, and if he had been in the right state of mind he would be able to shrug it off. But this was different. “Harvey was my friend. I can’t believe he’s the one who put me in here.”

“Sounds like you need better friends.” John muttered, a slight inflection in his voice. Was he implying himself? “Slim picking around here though. I’ve looked.” He added sadly, before turning back to the tv, catching the ending of Harvey’s speech. “Now THIS is good television!” He laughed. “‘Mayor on a rampage’ versus ‘Freaky Drug Terrorist’!” He chuckled to himself.

“Lady Arkham’s dangerous, way more dangerous than you think.” Bruce warned him, feeling the effects of the drugs calming down again, hopefully for the last time.

“Ohhhh I know about Lady Arkham, let me tell you...”

“-Tragically, there’s still no sign of Gotham Gazette reporter, Vicki Vale, after her mysterious disappearance earlier this week.” The news reporter read as a photo of Vicki-Lady Arkham- flashed on the screen.

“Very tricky, Vicki.” John commented, leaning over to Bruce, resting his chin in the palm of his hand knowingly, “I think we both know she’s quite the ‘Lady’. Right Bruce?”

Bruce felt his eyes widen, unable to hide his surprise. Who was this man? How did he know…

“Wait, you know that Vicki is...Tell me what you know-” Bruce began, only to be interrupted b John, who was clearly enjoying this.

“You want to find Vicki and her drugs huh? Get your revenge just like you got your revenge on Cobblepot? Publicly and dramatically! Something entertaining for these newscasters to talk about.” He smirked at Bruce.

“That all depends on you. If your information is good, we’ll see.” Bruce answered sternly. Soulmate or not, he didn’t trust this guy as far as he could throw him. He was starting to be relieved that this man didn’t seem to know at least that fact about him.

“I knew I liked you.” John smiled, rising to his feet. “I’ve been watching you for a while now, Bruce.” He spoke in a husky voice, one that sent chills down Bruce’s spine, and he wasn’t certain whether it was from fear, or something else. “And I can tell there’s something...darker in you.” John was staring at Bruce almost predatorily now. Bruce fought the urge to match his stare, knowing it was probably better not to compete with John. But those eyes...they were impossible to look away from. Despite all of this, Bruce still wanted to know...who exactly was John Doe?

 One Year Later…

 Bruce didn’t know what to say, as he sat across from John...or was it still Joker? Bruce realised he didn’t even know what to call his best friend anymore. He almost let out a laugh at that thought. Best friend. He knew that their relationship had long since passed that territory, yet also neither of them had ever had the guts to say so. That was until a month ago, when everything had just gone straight downhill…

 “I was such an idiot.” John’s voice rang clear as day through Bruce’s memory. “I was so busy looking at you. Admiring you. Wanting to be like you.” He had paused, hesitated. “Be loved by you.” Bruce still remembered the lump in his throat in that moment. Maybe because it was the same one he had in this very instant.

“H-hi John.” He finally stammered, forcing himself to look John right in those big green eyes of his. He hoped he’d picked the right name.

“Oh Bruce, I-I’m so happy to see you!” John’s arms reached out, and Bruce prepared himself for those infamous hugs John seemed to love giving him. But it never came, as John hesitantly pulled his arms back into his lap. “Sorry...probably not a good idea...given the circumstances.”

Bruce sighed softly, out of relief that he was in fact going by John once more. He licked his lips, feeling his mouth was completely dry, his palms sweaty...why did he have to be so nervous around John? So uncertain? He had lived most of his life faking emotion for others, being able to pretend he was cool, calm, confident. But never with John. Nothing could ever be fake with John.

“It’s good to see you too, John.” Bruce stared down at his lap. He needed to get so much off his chest. Things he had wished he had been brave to speak about long before all of this happened. But talking about his feelings did not come as a second nature to Bruce, and usually when he tried, he’d screw things up.

 “Why?” John suddenly uttered, turning Bruce’s attention back to him. “After everything I did...why wouldn’t you just leave me here to rot? Everyone else has.” John sounded so vulnerable, like he might even cry. Bruce had never wanted to hold him more. John hissed abruptly, cradling his right hand in his left. He rubbed a thumb lightly over his palm, where a dark bruised scar with stitches ran along it. Bruce winced alongside John, not even realising he had extended a hand to lightly touch it.

John fell silent as Bruce traced his finger along the ridges of the stitches, finally staring back up at Bruce.

“You’re my f-...you...mean a lot to me, John. And for what it’s worth, I’m so sorry about this.” Bruce gave him a small smile, scooting closer to examine the stitches further. “Heh...two threads in the same stitch, right?” Bruce’s smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared. “Sorry, that’s not fu-”

He paused as John slowly began chuckling, watching as it grew into full on laughter.

“That is funny Bruce...I think I may be starting to rub off on you...” He smiled over at Bruce, and for a moment it seemed like it used to be. Maybe even better.

 Bruce cleared his throat nervously, realising he was still holding John’s hand, and released it, standing as if he were merely stretching. He needed to change the subject, before he could back out. “John,” He was finding it really hard to look him in the eyes now, and knew undoubtedly that John would notice his strange behaviour.

“That’s my name.” John said lightly. Bruce spun on his heel to face the green haired man once more. “But it isn’t really, is it?” John blinked innocently. “No, I uh...guess I forgot.”

Bruce sighed again, running a hand through his hair anxiously.

“Look I- we need to talk about that night.” To his surprise, John nodded in agreement.

“I know...I was kinda just hoping you wouldn’t mention it, though.” He sheepishly added, placing a hand behind his back. “A lot of things were said and done, but we can just start over and pretend none of it ever ha-” He stared up at Bruce, who stood in front of him with folded arms and an eyebrow raised. “Can’t hurt a guy for trying, Brucie!”

Bruce smiled briefly, before drawing in a nervous breath. “I think this will work best if I just talk for a moment with no interruptions, okay?” John nodded, sitting up attentively, hugging something close to his chest. Bruce had to do a double take to realise it was a small handmade doll of...himself?

 Bruce shook his head. That wasn’t important right now. “Okay...that night you...you said you wanted to be...uhh...” neither of the men were quite looking each other in the eye now. They knew where this was going. “...you wanted to be loved by me...” he forced the words out, feeling as if he was back in school having to give a formal speech to his teacher again. He hastened a look at John, who stared back at him wordlessly. He was biting his bottom lip, as if he was trying to not burst out in denial. Bruce sort of wished he would. Denial was a lot easier than this. “But the thing is...I, err...” John’s eyes widened now, his head tilting in morbid curiosity. “You…?” He uttered so softly Bruce wasn’t even sure he heard it. Bruce closed his eyes, unable to say exactly what was on his mind, when suddenly… I don’t have to say it! He thought, and began hastily unbuckling his belt.

If John’s eyes could have widened further, they would have. “Uhh, Bruce…?” He stared on simultaneously confused yet excited, he had to admit.

“It’s not what it looks like.” Bruce mumbled bashfully, finally loosening his belt enough that he could feel his pants giving enough slack for what he needed. He placed his thumb at his belt loop near his right hip, and his left hand at the bottom of his shirt, pulling both just enough apart that his hip showed. John squinted, leaning forward off the edge of his bed, before he finally saw it. Only slightly darker than his actual skin tone, read the first words John had ever spoken to Bruce. John blinked, before lunging off his bed at right at Bruce’s hip for a closer inspection. Bruce swallowed nervously at the placement they were in. It would not look good to any orderlies checking in on them to find them like this.

“Buddy, aww buddy...are you okay?” John read softly aloud...and then again, only a little louder. Before he finally leapt up with a loud, joyous laugh. One that sounded so differently from all the others. It wasn’t manic, or eerie. It was purely...bliss. He gripped Bruce’s shoulders, shaking him fervently. “That-that’s ME! Do you know what this means, Bruce?!” Bruce didn’t get to respond as John jumped excitedly, “It means I was RIGHT! Everyone in Arkham thought I was crazy! And Harley, she had me convinced that it couldn’t possibly be you, that it had to be a mistake! She said there was no WAY someone like you….OH!” He bit his lip between giggles, clenching his fists with excitement. “Hey Brucie, you ever wondered why I always keep this sleeve down?” He pointed to his right arm. “Betcha thought I just had weird fashion sense. HA!” Without warning, John yanked his sleeve up, and there, from the length of his wrist to the end of his forearm, clear as day against his milky white skin said, “Who are you?” Bruce read aloud. He now understood John’s compelling need to reread it over and over, as he began to do the same. “Who are you...that’s really it. I-I can’t believe it...” Bruce moved over to the bed, sitting down, awestruck. It had been an entire year since he had first met his soulmate, and yet it was only now he had really confirmed it was so. And boy, did it feel…

 “This is amazing!” John exclaimed, finally pulling Bruce into the biggest hug he had ever done to him.

“It really is, isn’t it?” Bruce let out a small laugh, before pulling John back in a tight embrace. His nerves about all his feelings...they all seemed so stupid now. And there was no more need to try hide them, either.

The two men held each other for what felt like hours, before Bruce finally released John, only to do up his belt out of pure worry of someone walking in on them like that.

“Holy smokes.” John laughed, falling against the metal headrest of his bed. “I can’t believe it. I had thought maybe mine was a glitch, ya know? Or maybe it was only on my side...but...no...you’re my...we’re...” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Soulmates!” He giggled like a schoolgirl, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter. Bruce had never wanted to kiss him more, and it felt great being able to admit that to himself.

“I know...it’s...a lot, to take in,” Bruce smiled, “I wish I had told you sooner. Maybe then all of this could have been avoided...if you had known-”

“Bruce.” John interrupted. “It’s about time I...take responsibility for my own actions. What I did wasn’t your fault. It’s on me...” He stared around his cell, “I have been in here almost my entire life...that’s obviously for a reason...maybe this is just where I am meant to be.” He sighed defeatedly.

“That’s bull, John.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, gaining the courage to place his hands on John’s, “Because we both know now that there is only one place you belong.” John smiled sweetly back at Bruce, closing his hands in Bruce’s.

“That’s with you, right?” He smiled a nervous, crooked grin at Bruce, who smirked back.

“Bingo.”

 Bruce couldn’t tell who went in first. And to be honest, he didn’t care. All he knew, was that in a flash, his lips had met John’s, and his heart was racing faster than it ever had before. His chest was tight and he was kissing John with everything he had. Neither of them were trying to take it slow, it was long past that. John kissed Bruce as though he was trying to savour every last bit of the kiss, in case it never happened again. As though they were fighting for each other’s souls. Because in a way, they were. Bruce’s tongue gently tickled John’s lips, who let out a small laugh in response. As John’s lips parted, Bruce slipped his tongue into his mouth, unable to get enough of him. John moaned into the kiss, his hands moving to grip Bruce’s hair, tugging slightly harder than necessary. Now it was Bruce’s turn to moan, before hitching John’s hips up closer to his, then laying him down on the bed. It was small, and could hardly the two of them on it, but neither cared. John broke the kiss briefly for air, and Bruce began kissing softly down his neck, nibbling at John’s earlobe carefully. He could feel his pants tightening from the excitement, and was only just resisting the urge to grind his crotch into John’s.

 “I’ve wanted this for so long.” John breathed airlessly, moving his lips up so that he could return the favour by planting kisses on Bruce’s neck. In one, swift move, John clamped his teeth down just a little too hard on Bruce’s neck, simultaneously managing to flip them both over so he was now on top. Bruce had to admit, he was a little impressed. John’s moved down Bruce’s neck, almost mimicking what he’d done to him, only as he reached that sweet spot between Bruce’s neck and shoulder, he clamped his teeth down hard and began sucking, his tongue moving in circles over the spot as he did. “Leaving your mark?” Bruce smirked.

John let up only for a moment to reply, “Figured I should leave one everyone can see.”

 Bruce was more than ready to continue, but was caught off-guard when John sat back up. He was positioned with his legs on either side of Bruce, sitting right on his crotch. Bruce could feel his cheeks flushing as a look of recognition spread across John’s face. “That a batarang in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” He giggled lightly, enjoying as Bruce scrunched up his face in embarrassment.

“Umm, but Brucie...is it...is it okay if that is enough for today?”

Bruce pushed himself up on his elbows, seeing John sitting there shyly twisting his finger with his other hand.

“Oh-Of course, John.” John smiled weakly at him, and moved to the edge of the bed, allowing Bruce to sit up beside him.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that...well...” John looked away from him, “I’ve never really...you know...and I uh….kinda want that to be special. Maybe one day when I’m out of here…?” He turned expectantly to Bruce, who placed an arm over John’s shoulders.

“For the record, you didn’t have to explain your reasons to me...but of course. I think that’s a good idea. We shouldn’t rush things.” Bruce squeezed John’s arm comfortingly with a warm smile, which he returned.

“Yeah...we have our whole lives now.” John sighed to himself contentedly.

“Huh, I hadn’t even thought about that...yeah, we do.” Bruce smiled, feeling his heart leap back into his throat as John nuzzled into his side.

“Jay.” John said, his eyes closed, and a serene expression on his face.

“What?” Bruce asked, glancing down at John.

“You wanted to know my real name...it’s Jay.”

Bruce smiled to himself, lightly brushing some green flyaway hairs out of John’s-no, Jay’s face. He planted a small kiss on his forehead. “Jay and Bruce...I like the sound of that.”