#the box who loves to stomp on my foot and ankles and nearly break them

[etdraconis]

( it is truly a miracle that I am not constantly black and blue the way my dog tramples my damn ribcage wtffff )

[snarky-badger]

Sequel to that Murphy's law reader? like She super paranoid going out and because of that the reader like really observant; the point where she can use her unluckiness to her advantage in a dangerous situation, like being chased by some thugs and they have a horrible time! an oil drum burst causing them to slip around, getting run over by a piano, and attacked by birds. before finally catching the reader in a dead end only for Venom jump in after enjoying "the show".

Prompt #2 - I feel like i’m not alone to fell in love with your “serie of unfortunate Events” did you follow the story with the reader meeting eddie or just keep writing it? Because i really love it i never see something that accurate with my life! It’s amazing!    

Part 3 of what people have dubbed 'Murphy's Law Reader'. Part 1, Part 2

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It took weeks after Venom's 'visit' for the building across from yours to fix the damage from both his little rampage and his written message clawed into the brick. The gun runner that had been Venom's prey had been found headless, amidst a pile of guns, ammunition and drugs. Bullet holes had marred the apartment's walls, signs of a struggle that had been rather one-sided.

It really should have bothered you, you knew it should have bothered you - Venom calmly eating brownies in your apartment before going to decapitate a bad guy. But it didn't. Not really.

Which was why you didn't bat an eye at baking more triple chocolate brownies the next day. Once cooled, you'd put them into a large Tupperware, then duct taped the entire thing to the side of the building just outside your window.

You didn't see Venom again, though three times you checked and found the Tupperware empty, and three times you refilled it with more brownies.Things went back to as normal as they could with you. You went to work - where computers would randomly refuse to function around you, printers would start printing gibberish if you walked past, and the IT department low-key thought you were some sort of computer virus come to life.

Then came the week of hell.

Monday, after your computer monitor had mysteriously started to emit a foul-smelling smoke, you'd been forced to walk home after the bus had broken down a block before needing to pick you up, and almost twisted an ankle after a cat had just bolted out of an alley and dashed across your path.

Tuesday, you'd been demoted to the mail room since your computer was still on the fritz and had nearly sliced your palm open with a exacto knife while fighting to open a box of toner for the Xerox machine.

Wednesday, you'd arrived at work drenched because a truck had motored through a deep puddle next to the sidewalk. Then someone had decided to microwave some foul-smelling fish dish in the microwave, and the smell had infected the entire floor of the building.

Thursday, you'd been sent back to your desk and your new monitor, whereupon your ergonomic chair had mysteriously dumped you on your head when the back of it had given way. Your flailing arm had caught the cord of your mouse and ripped it out of the computer tower. IT had merely sighed and handed you a new one.

Friday, your MP3 player that kept you sane while working had died, and no amount of prayer or charging could revive it. You'd been forced to listen to your the cubical-over's horrible music on their radio. It hadn't even been in English. Or Spanish. It had been some weird, high pitched thing with screaming and bells. Weird. Migraine inducing too.

You'd been so desperate to escape the horrible music that you'd snuck out of work early.

It was a sunny day - which meant no puddles. No cats bolted out in front of you. You were hoping to get home without any insanity, because you were really, really, tired. All you wanted to do was get home and hibernate until Monday.

Naturally, fate decided to throw a monkey wrench into that plan too.

Fucking fate. That bitch.

You were halfway home, crossing the street, when a cat call caught your attention. You turned towards the source of the whistle, meeting the gaze of a man who gave you a visible look-over and a leer, before he started to walk towards you.

Fuck no. You stopped that shit by glaring at him and giving him the finger before hustling into a little coffee shop for safety. He didn't follow you in. Taking a break and getting yourself a hot chocolate and a donut wasn't what you had planned, but it was better than dealing with Mr. I-Have-No-Respect-For-Women.

Only when you'd finished your sweet treat and made certain that the asshole was gone did you leave the shop. It was late evening, and the sun was starting it's descent. You hurried, wanting to get home, wanting, more than anything, to get out of your bra and put on a tee and shorts and just relax.

You were five blocks away when you heard fast footsteps from behind. You were already starting to turn when a hand grasped your left arm and tugged you to a stop.

"You can't take a compliment?"

Fuck. Your. Life.

"Let me go." You pulled on your arm, trying to get free. The man who'd cat called you merely tightened his grip until you were certain that you were going to have bruises, his dark eyes narrowing.

"I gave you a compliment. Least you could do is not flip me off like some whore."

"You cat-called me, asshole! That's not a goddamn compliment!" Growling you kicked him in the knee, then stomped on his foot. His grip on you loosened enough that you were able to twist your arm free. You paused long enough to whack him in the face with your heavy purse before spinning and making a run for it.

No need to bother looking back either. Just fucking run. This wasn't the time to hope for the good in mankind, this asshole was off his rocker.

Not surprisingly, you heard him yell and heard the sounds of pursuit, heavy footfalls pounding the sidewalk. No one that you weaved around bothered to even look up from their phones or bother to realize that you were in trouble. You poured on the speed, dodging people, hoping that nothing stupid would get in your way and trip you up enough that idiot would catch up and get his hands on you.

Naturally, someone splashed water onto the sidewalk ahead of you, suds and cleaning fluid from a mop bucket flowing over the concrete. You were going too fast to slow down, so you braced yourself for the worst, barely managing to stay upright as you skidded through it. The idiot behind you cursed loudly as he slipped, falling to his hands and knees in the suds and screaming at the poor store owner.

Well. Murphy's Law did help now and again. Didn't think it was possible.

Still, you kept going.

Four blocks to go.

Block three, and the asshat had re-caught up to you. Goddamn dude was quick, you had to give him that. Didn't think he had it in him - he'd stunk of cheap cigarettes and cologne. Though you didn't admire his persistence. Wondered how many other women he'd manhandled into going out with him or whatever. The thought made your stomach turn a little. Gross little man.

Three blocks, and his grasping fingers touched your back. You ducked, throwing yourself under a large table that two movers were carrying into an apartment building. You scraped your knees, but idiot ploughed into the piece of furniture and went down hard. The movers weren't too happy with him either, yelling at him and showing not one ounce of mercy for the moron on the ground.

You risked a laugh as you scrambled up to your feet and forced yourself back into a sprint. Two blocks. You could make that. Hopefully the asshat would stay down - ploughing into a wood table at high speed couldn't have felt good.

"Goddamn bitch!"

Well. There was something to be said about his tenacity.

Groaning, you darted past a man on a ladder trying to change a light on a sign, rolling your eyes when he dropped the bulb just as you went by, the 'pop!' of the bulb shattering and the flying glass making Mr. Moron behind you stumble a little.

"Lookout!"

That didn't come from the idiot.

You jerked your gaze forward, then threw yourself to the side, plastering yourself against a building as a Baby Grand Piano rolled past, three men running after the escaped instrument. Caught a glimpse of your personal idiot's eye's widening before he did a Stupid Thing and tried to brace himself to 'catch' said piano.

It didn't end well.

You didn't have to worry about him anymore.

The last block home was journeyed at a calm walk, though you did quirk an eyebrow at the ambulance that roared past, heading towards the, ahem, 'incident'. You stepped into your apartment ten minutes later, sighing tiredly as you locked the door behind you. Dropped your purse onto the floor as you kicked off your shoes, then headed for the fridge and the vodka coolers you kept in stock.

Didn't bother to turn on the lights as you shuffled over to the couch and plopped down onto it, taking a long guzzle of your 'Mike's Hard Lemonade'.

Your life.

No receipt no exchange.

You hoped the piano was okay.

Sighing, you inspected your dress pants, plucking at the material at your knees that was frayed from the friction of the sidewalk. Nuts. You'd have to order a new pair, because your work didn't allow jeans.

You were trying to gather up the willpower to go get changed when you heard a tap at the window. Ignored it for a moment, thinking it was another demented city pigeon, before it happened again, louder than a bird could manage without breaking it's tiny little feathered head open.

Frowning, you got up to see what new hell was trying to break into your apartment, eyes widening when you spotted Venom peering into your apartment, his curiosity quickly replaced by amusement when he saw you.

Sighing again, you went over and lifted the window open. "Sorry, I ran out of flour for the brownies and I haven't gone to the store yet."

"OH, WE'RE NOT HERE FOR THAT, NIBBLE," he rumbled as he squeezed through the window. You backed up a bit as he entered your apartment and rose to his full height, stretching a little. "WE WERE JUST SEEING IF YOU WERE ALRIGHT."

"...alright?"

"FROM THE CHASE."

"The... You... You were there?!" Okay, you were yelling at Venom again. Not something you should make a habit out of. "Why the everlasting fuck didn't you do something?!"

Massive shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "TO BE HONEST, YOU SEEMED TO HAVE A HANDLE ON IT," he told you, before smirking. "AND WE WERE LAUGHING TOO HARD AFTER HE RAN INTO THE TABLE."

You facepalmed.

"THOUGH THE PIANO WAS ENTERTAINING TOO." A low chuckle left him. "YOU REALLY DO ATTRACT THE WORST LUCK."

"Is that why you keep showing up?" you snarked as you went to retrieve your drink, grumbling as you finished it off.

Venom huffed a little at your comment. "WE'LL LET THAT SLIDE."

Another, tired, sigh left you, and your shoulders slumped as you turned to look at him again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. In my defense, I've had a horrible week that just culminated with me getting chased by a pervert."

The exhausted, on edge, broken, tone to your voice pulled some odd thrumming noise from Venom, and you blinked as he took two large steps towards you before wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you into a massive bear hug.

You tensed for a moment, your brain trying to make sense of the fact that Venom, of all people, was offering you comfort. But considering all the fuckery as of late, you couldn't bring yourself to really care. It was a hug. You missed hugs.

Closing your eyes, you leaned into him, your own arms wrapping around his waist as you listened to that odd growling noise that was leaving him. One of his taloned hands rose to cup the back of your head, tucking you close, and you relaxed into him. Fuck Murphy's Law. Let it try to get at you now.

He bent down to exhale warm breath into your hair. "BETTER?"

"Yeah." You felt like you should pull away, but he wasn't letting go, and you felt pretty happy to stay where you were. "Thanks."

"WE WERE ORIGINALLY COMING TO THANK YOU FOR THE BROWNIES," Venom told you with another vibrating rumble that rattled your bones. "WANTED TO KNOW IF YOU WANTED TO COME OUT TO SEE THE TOWN WITH US."

"You want me, Disaster Incorporated, to let you swing me around the city on those little webs?" You rose your head from his chest to look up at him. "Seriously?"

He smirked. "WE'RE CERTAIN WE CAN HANDLE ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS."

"You realize that's just asking the Universe to do something, right?"

A laugh left him. "WE'RE STRONG ENOUGH NOT TO GET TAKEN OUT BY A PIANO."

Yeah. You were definitely off your rocker. "Let me get changed into normal clothes and we can go."

The Saturday Edition of the Paper would later cover an odd explosion at a chocolate shop. Where upon a frazzled woman fitting your description was seen running from the store, carrying several boxes of high-quality chocolates, before the Demon of San Francisco swung down, missed picking you up, and pretty much just faceplanted himself into the side of a building.

No one knew where the piano came from, but it was found at the scene of the crime with a large bite taken out of it.

.

[doodlelolly0910]

Close Encounters of the Spiritual Kind

Summary: Emma Nolan spent a lot of time alone, and that was fine by her. Because one is never truly alone. She should know. She can talk to dead people. What she didn’t expect was one of these spiritual encounters to hang around, taking her down a rabbit hole of missing women, revenge, and, least expected, love. Can she save the day and Killian Jones? Is there even another choice?

Read it from the beginning on AO3 and FFN!

A/N: This is it guys! This is the very end. I still can't believe it's over. I hope you guys liked it and I couldn't possibly thank you enough for reading and all of your amazing comments. Thank you also to @kmomof4 who has been invaluable during the whole process of writing this and just being an amazing support in general. And super huge thanks to the ever wonderful @courtorderedcake who created the beautiful artwork for this story. She deserves all the love. And away we go!

Epilogue

One year later

Killian Jones sat on his bunk and stared at the wall. The drab beige paint was peeling off the smooth concrete in several places, and Killian's mind began to imagine shapes in it, like one would imagine shapes while watching clouds. It had become a pastime for him, though he couldn't recall when it had begun. For the last year, his life had been reduced to a six foot by eight foot box, shared with another man called “Tiny”, though he was anything but. He didn't know where his cellmate was now, and he didn't care, his mind singularly focused. The slate gray polyester jumpsuit he wore felt stiff against the skin it touched, the thin white t-shirt underneath doing little to prevent the rubbing. He thought briefly about stripping it to the waist, but it wouldn't be much longer now.

The TV in the common area was tuned to a local news station, some of the older inmates having commandeered it for their recreation time, as they sat at a single table directly across from his cell. He couldn't see it but he could hear it, not that he was paying any attention. He scanned over the small space with sharp focus, ensuring that anything he had of value was tucked safely into the small box in front of him. Not that he had much. Just a few books, a couple of drawings and letters he'd received, a few plain, white shirts, nothing huge. The rest of them could fight over the remaining items he would leave behind for all he cared.

“And in other news out of Boston this morning, 62 year old Weaver Gold was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole after a long and arduous trial,” the reporter on the TV proclaimed, causing Killian's ears to prick up. He turned his head slightly so he could better hear, but remained seated on the bunk. “Gold was charged with several counts of assault, kidnapping, murder, and human trafficking, among other violations. This story broke last year when former BPD Detective Emma Nolan headed an undercover investigation into the head of one of Boston's most dangerous criminal empires. More on this story at 11. Let's go to Jackie with sports. Jackie?”

Killian smirked. It was the least the bastard deserved after all the irreparable damage he'd done to countless lives. He looked around his cell, the cramped space, exposed toilet, bars lining the only exit, and for the first time, the sight made him smile. He couldn't think of a more fitting cage for a crocodile.

The year since Killian had been sentenced for “racketeering” (in reality, the cash laundering scheme he had used to keep his operation afloat was the only thing they could connect back to him) was served uneventfully, for which he was grateful. He kept his head down and stayed mostly to himself, making sure that nothing would delay his release. He had made a promise to go on the straight and narrow and he didn't intend to break it. The police were more than lenient with him considering his own criminal operation.

As part of a plea deal including delivering testimony on Gold, he had received thirty six months in a minimum security federal penitentiary, and Will had received thirty himself.  Jefferson had stayed true to his word and helped them get the best deal possible but with the way everything had gone south, prison time became inevitable. Will had been released after eight months with good behavior to serve out the rest of his sentence on parole, as far as he had heard. He was glad for it. Killian had just had a parole hearing of his own, but he wasn't expecting any such miracles.

Until about an hour ago when a guard had stopped by his cell and told him his parole had been approved. And now he waited. His head was filled with images of his last day of freedom. It had been one of the worst of his life. He had killed a man. Watched other men (and a woman) die. He'd been beaten, broken, tortured for hours. But the thing that stuck out to him the most was Emma's pale and lifeless form in his arms.

It had been Milah all over again. Maybe worse, for he couldn't recall a time his soul had physically ached until that moment, like it had known immediately that it was missing its other half. She'd saved him, not only from the bullet, but from himself. He hadn't expected to ever walk away from the dark criminal underbelly alive. But here he was. Maybe he was a survivor after all. He didn't intend to squander a single second Emma had given back to him.

“Jones,” a sharp, commanding voice barked from just behind the bars of his cell. He looked up to see two uniformed guards waiting for him, an older seasoned guard called Spinelli, whom he knew, and a rookie officer that had just started last week. Howard, he thought he recalled. “Cuff up. Time to go.” Killian stood and obediently slid his hand and stump through the slat in the bars, smirking at the look of exasperation on Spinelli's face.

“Problem?” he asked cheekily, his eyebrow quirking up his forehead, and the rookie had to stifle a chuckle in a less than convincing cough, earning him a glare from the older guard and a grin from Killian.

“Be right back,” Spinelli muttered and stomped off towards the pod exit, leaving the rookie and Killian observing one another in silence.

“So…” Killian extended the conversation to the young officer, leaning up against the bars.

“No talking, inmate,” he replied, underconfident authority in his voice.

“Come, now. Who doesn't bend the rules every now and again?” Killian grinned, his tongue nudging his canine tooth mirthfully.

“Is that how you ended up here? All the fun of bending the rules?”

“Touché, Howard,” Killian agreed.

“It's Hendricks.”

“My mistake, lad. Didn't see a nametag,” he said. The younger man flushed scarlet.

“I forgot it this morning,” he admitted.

“Ah. Bit of a rule bender yourself then, aye?” Killian said with a wink and Hendricks bristled. “Don't worry, I won't tell. You'll do alright here, lad. Don't let these bastards get in your head and you'll do just fine.”

“No talking, inmate. Back away from the bars,” snapped Spinelli, who had huffed his way back in front of his cell as Killian finished speaking. Killian rolled his eyes and backed himself towards the bunk again. “Open!” he called out to the command center. A loud buzz rang out and the bars clicked, Spinelli reaching out to hold them shut for the time being.

“Palms, er, forearms flat on the wall, inmate,” Hendricks commanded. Killian complied. This was the very last time he had to do this. Never again. He'd promised her.

After a moment, the bars slid open and Killian was being fitted with what was called “the sleeve”, a mesh wrap with metal buckles in the back that wrapped around his body and secured his stunted arm to his torso, rendering it immobile. He was dressed with a chain around the waist next, a handcuff around his good wrist and the other end secured to the chain. The chain connected to another that hung between his feet where ankle shackles were added and connected as well. Spinelli stepped back, giving him a once over with a nod and a grunt, satisfied with his level of restraint.

“There we are, all nice and subdued and ready to leave prison,” Killian quipped. A thrill shot through him as soon as the words “leave prison” had left his lips. The rookie suppressed another chuckle.

“Just walk, Jones,” Spinelli grumbled, seizing him by the arm and leading him from the cell. Hendricks followed with his box of personal effects.

As they walked down the corridors, men yelling, cheering and jeering at him, he couldn't help but feel�� excited.

When he got here, he was fresh out of spending the first three months of his sentence in the hospital getting physical therapy on his shoulder, two weeks of which was spent with his fractured jaw wired shut. He’d been arrested before, but prison was an entirely different beast altogether. And yet it was nothing at all, compared to what he'd gone through with Weaver Gold.

The day he had shown up at the docks, he had been so sure it was the right move. He had gone to Smee's with Emma and obtained a gun that couldn't be traced back to either of them. The plan was to slip in and kill the man, consequences be damned for the rest. He never expected to make it out alive. He had been so close to making it happen when he made one wrong turn and ran smack into Malcolm and Perdu.

He had fought a hell of a fight against them, but the two men eventually overpowered him when Malcolm wrenched his shoulder from its socket. Once again, he had underestimated Gold's influence, by extension to his henchman. It was when he was presented to the man himself like a wrapped gift that he realized just how far he had actually underestimated him.

Gold had wasted no time in his fervor to make Killian suffer. He nearly rejoiced in it. As soon as he was sunk to his knees, Gold smiled, offering a quick ‘Hello, Jones’ and cracking him across the face with the gold handle of his cane. Hence the fractured jaw. The older man was stronger than his looks portrayed. From there on out, it was a series of blows with the cane and taunts with a gun, his gun usually. He wasn't sure how long it had gone on for.

Then Will was led through the door and his stomach twisted. If Will was there, Emma was no longer safe. He had held on to that last mangled little piece of hope that she was still locked up where he left her, even as Will took a similar beating to the one he had. Right up until Emma marched out from behind those crates and everything went to hell.

He clenched his jaw at the memory as the door buzzed to let him in to the discharge area. Spinelli left his side, taking the box and setting it on a dented metal table next to them, but Hendricks remained, and he opened a locker to retrieve a standard set of street clothes for Killian. Jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a set of laceless athletic shoes were set on the metal table beside the box as Hendricks worked on getting him unbound.

“Strip,” Spinelli instructed as soon as he was free of his chains and the sleeve. Killian had never moved faster to take off his clothes in front of two men in his life. Hendricks set about gathering his discarded jumpsuit and underthings, shaking them out and inspecting them as Spinelli stepped back towards Killian, who stood, hand clasped over his stump before him, naked as the day he was born.

“Arms out, mouth open,” Spinelli ordered. Killian did so, reminding himself for the hundredth time this was the last time he would ever have to do this. Spinelli searched his mouth with a tongue depressor, eyes scanning over every inch of his body to make sure he didn't have anything hidden. As if anyone would sneak something out of prison, but he was sure stranger things had happened. “Squat and cough,” he instructed next. Killian set his jaw and did that, too. Spinelli nodded. “Get dressed.”

Killian did so and Hendricks walked around him, putting things away. Once he was dressed, he picked up the box with his meager belongings and waited. Spinelli scanned his ID card and the metal door opposite to the one they had entered through buzzed and opened with a loud clank. They reached another door at the end of a short hallway. When Spinelli opened it, daylight flooded in from beyond the floor to ceiling windows that lined the room.

People milled about on the other side of the glass, waiting for a visit or for someone to answer their questions. The door at the end of the glass lined hallway led directly outside. He walked between Hendricks and Spinelli and they waited for clearance at the end of the hall before he stepped out the door into the yard. The two guards escorted him to the fenceline and opened the gate.

“Well, gentlemen, I'd say it was a pleasure, but frankly, I hope I never see either of you again,” he said, only half joking. Hendricks did chuckle at that and even Spinelli offered him a begrudging smile.

“Best of luck, Jones,” the older guard said and Killian nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes already set forward and searching for his future.

Killian Jones took his first free steps in over a year out the front gate, simply taking a moment to breathe it all in.

The rumble of a familiar engine had his head turning in a second, just in time to see a small, yellow Volkswagen Bug pulling up to the curb. Sunshine colored hair and a flushed face popped out of the driver's side door and Killian couldn't have held back his grin if he’d tried.

Emma's brilliant green eyes set on him and she smiled.

“Somebody order a getaway car?” she asked, walking around the front of the car towards him. Killian didn't care who was watching. He dropped the box of things that didn't matter to the pavement and rushed forward to the only thing that did, scooping her up in his arms and sealing lips over hers in a kiss that took both of their breath away.

His arms looped around her waist and he lifted her, her head falling back and laughing as her hands found purchase on his shoulders. He spun them around, resting his forehead against hers, refusing to let her go, not that she was even trying to escape.

“Hi,” she murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking over his less than immaculately groomed beard.

“Hi,” he replied, nuzzling into her touch, still a little disbelieving that she was here, alive, in his arms.

Emma had coded twice in the ambulance once medics were able to get to her and three more times in surgery to repair the damage in her abdomen. The last time had been the closest call. The doctor had been ready to call time of death, but Emma's heart inexplicably started beating again all on its own. No one could explain it. They had called it a miracle.

It had been a long road to recovery for her as well, but if nothing else, Emma Nolan was a fighter. She had completed grueling amounts of physical therapy and mental health evaluations, but she had never wasted a single second with Killian. Phone calls, letters, visits every weekend (with accompanying one hour drive both ways), Emma never complained, and Killian wouldn't be where he was without her. In every way possible.

Emma was released from the police force shortly after the incident, before she had even come home from the hospital. They had cited “medical reasons”, for which her resumé was grateful, but she had broken so much procedure it wasn't like she hadn't seen it coming. The women she saved had been worth it. Will was worth it. Killian was worth it. She and Will had set out to found a nonprofit for missing people, a sizeable donation from one Ivy Belfrey getting them off the ground, and she was happier now than she had ever been.

“You can't park there!” a voice shouted at them and they both turned from their embrace to see a stern looking woman in uniform on a golf cart motioning to her car. Emma waved at her in understanding as Killian set her back on her feet.

“Ready to get out of here?” she asked.

“Aye, my love,” he replied with a grin and another quick kiss.

“It's just you and me now.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way, agrà.”

The two got in the car and drove away, the scent of sea salt and jasmine following them on the breeze.

And when she brought him home to meet Ruby, the force of nature that was her best friend may or may not have actually passed out seeing the man from Emma's sketchbook come to life. But that was a discussion for another day.

[thesilverdreamer]

Reasons To Not Leave Demonic Spellbooks Laying Around

A brief fic I wrote some months ago taking place in @star-going-supernova‘s Inky Eyes Golden Heart AU. Henry comes back from lunch to find that there’s something very wrong in the studio, starting with his fellow employees laying unconscious on the floor, and continuing to the trail of blood leading from Joey’s office down to the basement.

I try not to comment on my own writing, but I feel I should mention that I wrote this back in January then forgot about it, so there’s some aspects that aren’t quite in line with what Star has since established about the IEGH-verse. Nevertheless, I’m here for the character interactions :)

A quick lunch turned into an hour long detour keeping a kid from trying to wreak demonic vengeance on their bullies, but Henry was pretty sure Joey wouldn’t be too upset since he was the one who insisted Henry take a lunch. Probably.

All thought of how Joey would react fled from Henry’s head as he entered the studio, and felt a sensation like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.

“What in the world?” he said quietly, stepping slowly into the studio.

Henry nearly tripped over the next sign that something was wrong; not only the front receptionist, but he realized as he looked in the direction of the animation department and spotted a couple of scenery artists, they had all passed out on the floor, sleeping in the middle of the day.

No, he realized, as he tried to wake Sherry, the receptionist, and got no reaction. Not asleep—unconscious.

She wasn’t the only one. The artists, too, and the rest of the animators, all unconscious at their desks. The same was true in the administrative department, every last employee was dead to the world.

It didn’t take long for Henry to realize that Joey was nowhere to be found. It took even less time for him to find the trail of blood leading out of Joey’s office. The blood led him to the main stairwell, and Henry descended silently, down, down to the basement. Once, it had been the site of strange and supernatural rituals, but these days it was mostly just storage.

The door to the basement had been blown inward, completely off the hinges. Henry quietly rolled up his sleeves.

“Well, well, well, it finally shows up.”

Henry’s lip curled as he rounded the corner, and his heart skipped a beat.

Across the room, there stood Sammy Lawrence, old Norman the projectionist, and lovely Susie Campbell. Their eyes, iris, sclera, and all had turned completely black, but Henry could still feel their eyes on him. Far more important was his best friend Joey Drew on the floor at Sammy’s feet, beaten and bloody, but somehow still conscious, visibly trembling.

Sammy held up a black book that Henry knew too well. “Really shouldn’t keep this stuff lying around, you know. All it takes is one little accident, a spilled drop of blood on the wrong page; normally I’d ignore some idiot human not even looking for a deal, but then, oh, when I got a whiff of your scent? I just couldn’t resist the chance to ruin your day, and neither could my friends here.”

Henry was very quiet as he said, “I will give you one chance to release the humans you are possessing and leave this place.”

“See, that’s your problem!” Sammy, or rather, the demon possessing Sammy Lawrence said. “You’re so attached to these humans—and instead of taking their souls, you make the most worthless ‘deals’ with them.”

Sammy used his foot to put Joey on his back and stomped on Joey’s hand so hard you could hear the bones breaking. Henry felt sick.

“What’s the name you use?” Sammy said with mocking curiosity. “It’s something extraordinarily dull...”

Joey had twisted himself to look over, and his voice was far too weak as he said, “P-please, Henry...h-help—“ Sammy casually put a foot on Joey’s head and started putting weight on it, and Joey groaned in pain.

“Henry! That’s it, Henry. So, here’s the way it’s gonna go, ‘Henry,’” Sammy said. “You’re going to take your punishment without complaint, and never make another deal in this city. Or, we’ll kill your pet human.” Sammy grinned unnaturally wide as he added, “Painfully.”

If Henry submitted, odds were good that not only would the rest of the staff be as good as dead, not only would Sammy, Norman, and Susie be used as vessels until their bodies broke from the abuse, and not only would a lot of people lose their souls without Henry making petty deals with them—but the demon possessing Sammy would certainly kill Joey, and Henry had lived through far too much for his best friend to die at the hands of some bottom-feeder trash.

“Well, pipsqueak?” Sammy said.

Henry paused, and then, he said like an overconfident high-schooler, “How about you come say that to my face?”

Sammy bristled. “You’re just as stupid as these humans, aren’t you?” He stepped over Joey, his flunkies moving with him.

And right as he passed under a vent, there was a light thunk, the vent came open, and Bendy dropped out beautifully right on Sammy’s head.

“Guess who!” Bendy yelled, putting his hands over Sammy’s eyes and holding on tight as Sammy flailed around trying to shake him off, roaring in indignation. “Now!”

Alice came leaping down from the top of a shelf, and Boris burst out of a box (one that was surely too small for him to fit) in a shower of packing peanuts. Alice grabbed her halo, stretched it out, and dropped it over Susie; with a swift yank, the halo shrunk, pinning Susie’s arms to her sides. Boris came up behind Norman and pulled his pants down to his ankles with a snicker. The old projectionist stumbled back, fell over, and landed on his bottom.

(Henry always loved his Toons like they were his own children, but he was particularly proud of them then, even as he was terrified to see them throwing themselves into danger; for god’s sake when felt the pulse of a faint demonic aura centered on the ceiling vent, he expected a water balloon, not a kamikaze attack.)

Alice and Boris got well out of the way, and Henry was moving then. Memorized Latin words spilled from his lips, and dark wisps of smoke pearled off his face. He grabbed Susie by the shoulder and forced her to the floor. Susie screamed obscenity, only to go silent as a cloud of black smoke was expelled from her mouth and nose and eyes. The cloud of smoke dropped through the floor leaving a charred mark, and Susie went limp.

Norman was starting to get a handle on himself, pulling his pants back on and getting to his feet, but not nearly fast enough. The demon had started a mantra that rang in Henry’s ears, but Henry’s continued chant drowned it out. Henry grabbed Norman by the front of his shirt, and the black smoke poured from his mouth, his eyes returned to normal, and Henry lowered Norman to the floor as the old man passed out.

Just then Sammy finally got a grip on Bendy’s arm and yanked the little demon off. “Why you little, I’ll deal with you later!” He threw Bendy like he weighed nothing, but Henry caught Bendy out of the air.

“I gotcha!” Henry said, as he moved Bendy to hold him with one arm. Bendy grabbed onto his shirt to keep from falling.

“When I get through with you, you’ll wish—“ was as far as the demon got, before Henry grabbed him by the lower half of his face.

Violet cracks like tear tracks had opened in Henry’s face. He wasn’t smiling. “Be quiet already. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”

Sammy seemed to be having a seizure, shaking with his eyes rolling back in his head, skin going pale. It almost was like a cartoon when Henry pushed Sammy away and left the smoke cloud hanging in the air. Sammy hit the floor, and the demonic essence dropped, through the floorboards and straight back to whence it came.

In an instant, Henry was once more only human, pulling a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ,” he swore.

“Don’t think he’s got anythin’ to do with this,” Bendy said. Henry moved him around, holding Bendy under the arms and bringing him to eye level.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt? The exorcism didn’t affect you, did it?”

Bendy shook his head. “I’m just fine, Henry! It’s Joey you should be worried about!”

“Joey!” Henry said, like he had forgotten. He set Bendy down and crossed the room in an instant, to where Joey was laying on the floor.

Joey was not looking great. He seemed to be covered in his own blood, he wasn’t quite lucid, but his eyes were open. Nothing Henry couldn’t fix, but no less horrifying to see.

Henry turned Joey onto his back and supported his head with his hand. “Alright, we’re alright, Joey? Joey, listen to me, if you can hear me, I’m going to heal you, but the first round’s on you, alright?” Henry said. Joey’s head lolled forward, and it was a stretch but Henry took it as a yes.

Henry pressed a hand to Joey’s sternum, and Joey’s body started pulling back together. Henry, of course, was well used to the sound of bones moving back in place, to seeing blood dry and turn to dust in an instant, to bleeding wounds stemming the flow and closing themselves with spiderweb-like strands of tissue stretched between the edges. That didn’t mean the Toons were as unflappable as he, and he hoped they would never need to become used to the messy process of healing a broken human body. They were giving Henry some space as he worked magick.

It seemed to take an eternity, but it was less than a minute before Joey was breathing without struggle, and then he came to life all at once, jerking upward and smacking his forehead into Henry’s, and both men reeled from the impact. Joey rubbed at his stinging forehead from where he laid. “Ow.”

“‘Ow?’” Henry said incredulously, as he made sure his nose wasn’t broken. “You get the stuffing beat out of you, and it’s the headbutt that makes you complain?”

“Well—I might have complained more, but I think Sammy broke my jaw when he jumped me,” Joey shot back. His eyes went wide in realization. “Sammy, wait, oh god—“

“Like He has anything to do with it,” Henry murmured.

“—what happened? I couldn’t, I heard them fall down,” Joey said, growing panicked as he tried to pick himself up and twisted around to look for his fallen employees.

Henry put a hand on Joey’s shoulder, to calm him and to keep him from hurting himself. “They should be fine, I exorcised the demons possessing them. The same should go for everyone upstairs, the auras must have knocked them out, but if they were hurt I can—“

A hand pulled at Henry’s sleeve. Alice was standing there, hesitant but concerned. She was trembling.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Henry said gently. No sooner had he opened his arms than Alice rushed forward into them, grabbing Henry like she never wanted to let go. “Shhh, we’re all okay.”

Bendy squeezed into Henry’s arms, too, and Boris wrapped up everyone, Henry, Bendy, Alice, and Joey in a great embrace.

“The bad guys are gone, everyone’s safe now,” Henry said. “Oof, you three, you were great, but—“ And he pulled back so he could actually look his Toons in the eyes. “Please, never do anything that dangerous ever again, you just about gave me a heart attack, you know that?”

Alice smiled a little as she wiped at her eyes. “Sorry, Henry, but it was all Bendy’s idea.”

“C’mon, Al!” Bendy protested. “Asides, I didn’t know what else to do!”

Joey supplied, “Could always sit there jaw dangling in shock until you get beaten bloody. Oh, no, that was me.” He winced at a sharp pain in his ribs.

“Are you okay?” Henry said quickly, putting a hand on Joey’s shoulder. He was like a concerned mother hen. “Did I miss something?”

“No, no, at least I don’t think so, just sore.”

“Hell, Joey, I thought for sure you and your dabbling were the biggest threats to the studio, I didn’t think anything like this could happen. My wards must have run out and I lost track of them, I’m so sorry.”

Joey just waved him off. “It’s not your fault at all, you aren’t the one who tried to kick my ribs in. But Henry’s right about you three,” he said, and redirected attention back to the Toons. “I, well, however it was that you weren’t knocked out, anything like this happens again and Henry isn’t here to save us humans’ skins, you get out of the studio straightaway, any other problems with people seeing you can be dealt with later. You get out, and you find Henry.”

Joey started pushing himself up, groaning with exertion, and Henry was quickly beside him giving him a hand, supporting him when he stumbled. “Maybe I should ‘dabble’ a little more in practical things, hm?”

“Yeah, and risk you exorcising me on accident?” Henry said. He clapped Joey on the shoulder. “Stick to plants, Joey.”

“I thought you couldn’t be exorcised, you don’t carry any sin, right?”

“If anyone could find a way, it would be you, on accident, probably turning yourself into a baked good in the process. Come on, better make sure Sam doesn’t have a concussion.”

Joey shook his head. “Right, right. So, hold on, you said something about I buy the first round? Was that a Deal?”

“Eeyup, helps with the, uh, bigger stuff.” Henry nudged Sammy with his foot as Boris helped Norman up.

“So, then, what would happen if I didn’t hold up my end of the deal, stiff you on the drinks?”

“You’d die,” Henry said casually.

Joey laughed. “Very funny. I—“ Henry just looked at him, raising a brow as though asking a question. “You...were joking, right?” Henry shrugged and turned away. “Henry! That’s not funny, Henry!”

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 16

(Banner made by the loveliest @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

In which Melody is reacquainted with an old classmate named Harry, and must keep afloat in the violent, criminal lifestyle of an underground boxer.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: HI. I LOVE MY BABIES AND I HOPE Y’ALL DO TOO!!!! Please leave some feedback if you have the time. Enjoy. Xx

Snow had begun to fall in the city, blanketing the sidewalks with a thin sheen of sparkling flakes. It shifted and turned slushy beneath Harry’s shoes. A fresh shower of the stuff settled atop the hood of his sweatshirt and dotted his eyelashes. It was cold, but not frigid, and he was caught by surprise when he almost wiped out on a sheet of ice just outside the door to the warehouse.

Newly frustrated, Harry yanked on the handle he had used to keep himself from falling and stomped into the entrance, slamming the door behind him. He brushed his hood back and shook out his hair as he pushed through the inner door. Only one line of lights was on over the center of the room. The ring was lit, but the edges of the room fell into shadows. Two men were swinging at each other on the platform. A number of others lined the perimeter on the ground, some watching, others busy with mittwork.

“Ah, there’s the man I’ve been waiting for!”

Harry looked up to find Scott Dent in the ring. His arms lowered when he caught sight of Harry and he was rewarded with a swift punch to the jaw.

“Goddammit, Joey!” Scott shouted, shoving the other man back a couple of steps. He pressed a glove to his sore jaw and waved Joey out of the ring. “Styles, get in here.”

Harry dropped his bag at a corner of the ring and began stripping his hoodie and shoes. He tied his hair back into a quick knot and pulled his gloves from the duffel bag before climbing beneath the ropes. Joey lowered himself to the ground with an agitated huff as Harry took his spot.

“Tryin’ t’get knocked out again?” Harry asked, slipping his already taped hands into his gloves and tightening them around his wrists. “Or did your nose heal crooked an’ yeh want me t’straighten it out?”

“Eh, you got lucky,” Scott said with a shrug.

“Lucky, my ass.” Harry shook out his arms and stretched his foot until his ankle cracked. “Got a win count yeh would kill for, old man.”

Scott chuckled. He smacked his gloves together and took a step forward. “Show me what you’ve got, then, Mr. Brit.”

Harry brought his arms up as he moved toward Scott. He easily blocked a couple of jabs before either of them spoke again.

“So, how are things with your girl?” Scott asked. He took advantage of Harry’s shocked pause and delivered a hard kick to his ribs. “You hit that? Seems like a little spitfire.”

Harry stumbled with the force of the blow and clutched his glove to his side before righting himself. He stretched his abdomen, lifting his arms again. “Don’ know who yeh’re talkin’ about, but probably.”

Scott dodged an angry throw toward his face. “That little blonde girl that’s always hanging around you.”

“Really don’ know who yeh’re on about. Could yeh be more specific?” Harry sucked in a sharp breath and lunged at Scott, sending a glove hard into the man’s abdomen.

Scott heaved a heavy sigh and took a step backward. He tilted his chin back to get more air, gritting his teeth. The area just below his ribcage stung with the expansion of his lungs. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. You know, the girl that got you into all that trouble with Goodman.”

Harry grunted, waiting for Scott to get back into position so he could hit him again. He found it therapeutic, especially during their current conversation.

“Yeah, everybody’s heard about that mess. Better have fucked her, for all the trouble she caused you.”

Harry hummed. He could feel his own blood boiling beneath his skin but he tried to keep himself at bay.

“If you’re done with her maybe I could show her how real men do it.”

Harry’s mind strayed for a moment to flashes of Melody stretched out naked on his bed, kneeled on his couch with her thighs wrapped around his face, pressed up against the wall like the very first time he touched her. His ears rang with the sound of his name on her tongue. Then it all shifted and it was Scott in his place, his name falling from Melody’s mouth. Harry’s lungs deflated and he felt something painful snap in his gut.

“Would need a dick for tha’, wouldn’ yeh?” Harry spat, rushing forward. He threw a hook to each side of Scott’s smirking face and then sent a raging knee into his gut, where he had hit him earlier.

Scott, heaving for air, fell to his knees. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and pressed his other glove into the floor for balance. A few of the other men outside of the ring paused to watch the show. Harry lowered his fists, clenched within his gloves, and stood over Scott’s crumpled form.

“Guess it wasn’ luck after all, was it?” Harry said, pulling his hands free. Training suddenly didn’t sound as appealing. “Girls are all the same t’me, Scott. Couldn’ even tell yeh most o’ their names.”

Harry ignored whatever Scott grumbled to him and hopped down from the ring, stuffing his things away and redressing. He left the warehouse as quickly as he had come, exiting into a blizzard of snow that melted against the angry heat of his skin.

***

Melody had been in unusually high spirits for an entire week. Even the arrival of snow and the inevitably resulting slush hadn’t been able to put a damper on her mood. She had taken to bunkering down with a thick woven blanket and a hot mug of coffee for studying—an escape from the brutal cold of winter. What she most looked forward to, however, were the days when she was able to venture to Harry’s apartment, and today was one of those days.

A blistering wind had made the streets nearly unbearable. Beneath Melody’s hood, a thick hat attempted to retain some heat. She had her chin buried deep within the confines of her coat and her hands buried in its pockets, clutching at a couple bottled smoothies and a box of popcorn. When she reached Harry’s door, she kicked at it with her foot instead of pulling her hands from their warm refuge.

Moments later, Harry, in a heavy pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled the door open and stepped to the side. Melody flew into the hall, throwing back her hood. Harry shut the door behind her, a welcome barrier between them and the frigid weather.

“It’s fucking freezing,” Melody observed breathlessly. She kicked her shoes off in the entryway and strode a few feet down the hall, setting the contents of her pockets on the countertop.

Harry followed, stepping over the snow that she had tracked inside. He peeled the hat from her head as she unzipped her coat and frowned. “Wha’s the backpack for?” He turned his head and found the things that she had brought with her. “And those?”

“I brought my laptop,” she informed him with a smile, slipping the bag from her shoulders to rid herself of her coat. “And I stopped at the corner store to get us a few things. I’m gonna make you watch a movie with me.”

Harry noticed the way Melody’s cheeks and nose had reddened from the cold. Her eyes shone glassily, framed with melting snowflakes that had settled on her lashes. He set her hat on the counter.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t seem to do anything for fun. And it’s actually for one of my classes, so I have to watch it anyway.”

“Do loads of stuff for fun,” Harry said, raising a hand to work his fingers through the tangles of her hair. He stepped closer to her, pressing a kiss just behind her jaw. Her skin was icy beneath his lips. “We can have a lot of fun. Don’ need a computer.”

Melody laughed—a genuine, amused sound that Harry would unironically label as melodic. He grasped at her hip and turned until she was pressed back into the edge of the countertop, closing his lips around a bit of her flesh. Her laughter faded into a ragged breath.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“Warmin’ yeh up,” he mumbled against her skin. Already, he was craving her. He wasn’t sure whether it was the sensation of her fingertips squeezing at his waist or the unwelcome memory of Scott’s teasing, but Harry wanted to devour her, to hear her call his name again. He was greedy for it as his teeth dug into the skin just above her collarbone.

“Don’t,” she begged, shoving weakly at him. “Please. I really do have to watch this movie.”

“Can watch it later, yeah?” Harry removed his face from her neck and pressed his hungry lips to her mouth. She hummed, raking her fingers down his sides, and then turned her head, breaking their kiss.

“No, I can’t. I have to write a paper.”

Harry sighed, dropping his forehead frustratedly to her turned cheek. Her arms slipped around him and her hands clasped together at his spine. She planted a quick peck on his jaw as he lowered his hands to the counter behind her and lifted his head.

“Wha’ movie is it?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Melody said, tilting her head back to settle it against the cabinets. “Have you ever seen Fight Club?”

“Yeh’re jokin’.”

“I am completely sincere.” Melody grinned. “Speaking of which, when’s your next match? Do you know who you’re fighting?”

Harry sighed, licking his lips. He broke free of Melody’s hold and went to hang her jacket up in the hall.

“Harry?” she asked, turning to watch him from around the corner.

“I don’ want yeh comin’ t’my matches.”

Melody frowned, shaking her head. “What? Why? Did I do something?”

Harry trailed back into the kitchen, striding past her without a glance and opening the fridge, more to avoid looking at her than anything. “No, I jus’—”

“Harry, I don’t know why you keep doing this,” Melody said exasperatedly. “What’s the reason? I think that I deserve—”

“Mel, for fuck’s sake!” he shouted, spinning around and letting the refrigerator slam shut behind him. Everything that had been stewing inside him since that group training was now bubbling beneath the surface. He could feel anger everywhere, from the depths of his gut to the tips of his fingers. “Jus’ b’cause I goddamn said so! Can tha’ be enough? Why do I have t’explain every decision I make to yeh?”

Melody flinched, almost imperceptibly. She had started to grow accustomed to the other Harry, the one who spoke to her in low tones and liked to run his fingers through her hair. However, she hadn’t forgotten this Harry, the one who snapped and clenched his fists and all but foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog. She hadn’t forgotten him, but she had hoped he was fizzling out, that he would be restricted to the boxing ring. Here he was in front of her, though, and even with the bit of progress she had made in communication—only snippets of information, like his favorite subject in school (history) or his favorite food (guacamole)—she was sick of having to fight him for any type of knowledge.

Melody let her tense shoulders fall as she reached for her backpack and turned to drag it into the hallway. She reached for her coat where Harry had hung it up only moments prior.

“Mel,” Harry said from the kitchen. His voice had settled immensely from his outburst, but still sounded edged with that same attitude. “Melody.”

Harry padded across the kitchen and into the hall, where he found her shrugging her coat back on. “Melody, Christ, just stop, would yeh?” He gripped at the sleeve of her coat to keep her from zipping it up.

“No,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp. “I don’t wanna be here if you’re going to yell at me for asking a harmless question. If you still don’t want me around, then say the word and I won’t come back.”

Harry let a heavy breath leave his lungs. He shook his head, stepping in front of her to block her path to her backpack. “Don’ want yeh t’leave,” he whispered.

“Then what?” she said, lifting her chin testingly. “You only want me around if you get something out of it? You—”

“Wha’?” Harry asked, eyes widening, his mouth agape. He took a surprised step back and almost tripped over her bag. “‘S tha’ what yeh think?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Melody breathed, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I don’t know because you don’t talk to me. I’m walking blind.”

Harry’s jaw settled into a tight grit. He shook his head. “Well, ‘s not like tha’,” he muttered.

“Then why don’t you tell me anything? Am I just like those other girls? Are you—”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Sometimes, I jus’ don’ wanna talk about things.”

“Well, sometimes seems like always. I know the bare minimum about your life. I’ve told you a lot about mine—”

“Yeh’ve had a good life.”

Melody sighed, biting roughly at her lip. She was trying to reel in her frustration, to speak civilly. “Yes, as far as lives go, I’ve been pretty fortunate.”

“Some of us aren’ so lucky,” Harry said. “An’ I’d like t’be able t’decide when I share tha’ stuff with yeh.”

Melody tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Can I at least know why you don’t want me at your matches?”

Harry cracked a few knuckles on his left hand. There were lots of reasons why he didn’t want her there, some much deeper and darker than others. The comments that Scott had made were only a small part of it, but even the thought of relaying those comments to Melody made him want to crack his head against the wall. To appease her, he decided on the least revealing reason. “B’cause yeh’re distractin’.”

Melody laughed drily at the ceiling and then lowered her head. Maybe she imagined it, but she could have sworn she saw a light blush rise beneath his cheeks.

“Stay,” Harry said. “We’ll watch your movie. I won’ bother yeh while yeh write your paper. No funny business, I swear.”

Melody sighed. Harry took her hesitation as an opportunity to rid her of her coat once again. He hung it back up and paused. “An’ tell me yeh won’ come t’my matches.”

“Whatever,” Melody mumbled, reaching for her backpack. “I don’t like them anyway.”

“Ironic,” Harry commented.

Melody raised an eyebrow as she turned around to look at him. “How so?”

“Yeh’re the reason I started fightin’, remember?”

“But not the reason you’re still fighting,” she reminded him, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She reached for the drinks on the counter and headed toward the living room to set up the film. “And for the record, when I said, ‘stick up for yourself,’ I’m fairly sure I meant ‘tell them to leave you alone.’”

Harry smiled—an amused, fond quirk of his lips—as he followed Melody to the couch and settled in.

Chapter 17