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writinginthetwilight · 3 months

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You Look Good in Green.

Eddie Munson x Bartender!Fem!Reader.

>>Summery: Between a deli and a laundromat in down town Indianapolis, a bar sits unassuming. Almost derelict looking from the outside, to the untrained eye. But by night shes a different beast

>>Author note: A day early because I have no self control. Thank you for to anyone who read, commented or reblogged the last chapter your all beautiful humans. This chapter has in it one of the first scenes I imagined when this story first invaded my every thought, I'll let you guess which one. Enjoy 💚.

>> Chapter warnings: 18+ only, eventual smut, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, excessive alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, smoking, strong language, broken glass wear.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 3 - Recovery Position.

MARCH 1988

Desolate is the word that springs to mind as he slams the van door closed. The sound echoes around him before it's swallowed into the shadows where the street lights can't reach, their orange light hanging listly over parked cars and reflecting back at him in the dark windows of closed stores.

This was a stupid idea.

A mantra that's been on a loop in his head since he took the exit for the city, only becoming louder the longer he drove, trapped within the confines of his own head no matter how loud he blared the stereo.

Bitter cold air bites and nips at any exposed skin forcing him to move, fingers already numbing around the handle of the guitar case. He makes short work of the small journey down the sidewalk, but by the time he reaches the familiar soft yellow light spilling from the 24-hour laundromat, he slows to a halt despite how his lungs ache from the cold.

The familiarity of the street dies beyond the threshold of that soft light. No people are lingering in a haze of smoke, no laughter or boisterous voices, mingling along with the low hum of the base that blares intermittently as people ferry in and out the door.

He stands surrounded by his own hot breath that lingers in the air, maybe Angie had gotten the days mixed up in her over-eager conviction to get him to play.

‘I know that guitar I sold Wayne ain't just sat for decoration’, he mouths in a taunting mimic to himself as he finally makes his way up to the door.

The lights are on, he can see that much through the small steamed up window in the door, crooked open sign burning a luminous cherry red to his right.

If he was honest with himself, he knows it's the right night, the damn date stuck to his refrigerator in Angie's looped cursive had all but destroyed his appetite for the past week.

But the idea that she's wrong is an easy distraction from where the doubts really lie.

Gigs had been sparse the past few years, with Jeff away at college, Grant’s dad working him to exhaustion at the shop and Gareth not even old enough to get into half the places they wanted to play. The idea of playing live again started to sound like a good idea, no matter the capacity.

That's how she got him.

The acoustic had seen more action in the past three years than it had since he was in middle school and between the pages of the notebook, which currently sits like a dead weight in his back pocket, are songs never played to anyone but the thin walls of the trailer.

The dawning reality of it being just him, dampening any enthusiasm before it could start.

He was good at leading, building people up; the band, his sheep. Once upon a time himself, not so much lately.

The door swings open making him stumble back as the bouncer almost steps on him. Staring at Eddie, face void of all emotion for a moment his eyes flick down to the guitar then back up.

“Card”

His voice is monotone and the momentary wide eyed hesitation on Eddie's part seems to irritate him as his brows pull in, a grunt leaving him as he shoves an open hand out, that Eddie’s sure could crush his skull.

Not wanting a witness to him hightailing it away from an open mic night of all things, he drops his guitar and scrambles for his wallet, watching as the angry giant stares at it for a little too long before abruptly opening the door and ushering him in. Left cradling his guitar to his chest he winces at the sudden change in light.

This wasn’t just a stupid idea, this was a fucking mistake.

It's like he’s back in high school, stood at the edge of a sea of pastel colour and quaffed hair, quick looks drag up and down as he enters, snap judgements made at a glance.

There's none of the usual reprieve here that he's gotten in the past, the weight that usually lifts as he walks in for a weekend gig now threatening to suffocate him.

Amour built over a lifetime rises, only to be knocked from his shoulders as cold air rushes in from behind him, a grunt and the presence of a large frame forcing him further into the building.

I don't need to play, he reasons laying his guitar across the stools beside him, I can just grab a drink, settle in, and watch. His fingers ache from the lingering cold as he anxiously drums a beat out against the wood.

“Hey, can I help? ”

Your voice startles him a little and the sight of your eager smile makes his throat dry up.

You're Jazz. When Angie mentioned it was your night he assumed it was someone older, he's not entirely sure why, your name only ever mentioned in passing when he hung out at the record store.

But he’s seen you before, hell he's been served by you before.

Always a quick exchange, between a crush of bodies on blurry nights, where he's woken up in an unfamiliar bed or the back of his van. Unsure of how he got there and with an ache in his neck that makes him question if, one of these days, he was going to give himself whiplash.

But you were just the cute bartender; he never got your name.

He hasn’t spoken in a good 10 seconds and your eyes move to the guitar case lay over the stools next to him, eyes lighting up “You here for the open mic night.”

Shit.

He couldn’t say no now, not when you were looking at him like that, all excited and eager, so with resignation he nods, flashing you a tight smile.

“Awsome, okay, just a minute” You scamper away and his face falls as soon as you're gone. Eyes scanning the room he searches faces to see if anyone stands out as familiar, shrugging off his leather and pulling at the neck of his shirt. Desperately trying to bring up the bravado that carries him through most days.

You arrive back, red notebook in hand and flicker forward a couple of pages.

“Name?”

“Eddie. Munson.” The question makes his hackles immediately go up, subconsciously waiting for a snide remark, but you only give him that bright smile again.

“Okay Eddie you're on third, a few people don't look like they're showing up” a humourless laugh passed your lips “I just need you to sign this.”

He eyes the form wearily for a second, “What is it?”

“It’s like a liability form, basically just agreeing you're responsible for your instruments” You let out an exasperated sigh eyes rolling “The owner's kind of a control freak, he’s not here, so we have this.” You confess holding a pen out to him.

“Sure. Okay.” The tremor in his hand makes him clench his teeth as he signs, willing himself to get it the fuck together and he tries to casually flip the pen for you to take but his clammy hand slip against the smooth case sending it clattering to the floor beneath him.

“Shit” he mumbles, quickly bending awkwardly between stool legs to retrieve it. You're making a poor attempt at hiding your amusement as he comes back up and he can't help but feel like he just signed away the last of his dignity as you store away the complete form into a binder.

“Nice shirt” you say without looking up and his eyes flicker down to his Megadeath tee and then back to you, “be nice to have somebody here that plans on singing something other than Madonna. Unless?” you look up at him eyebrows raised and he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“More of a Duran Duran man myself.” Looking out across the room he spins a ring on his finger. “Wasn’t exactly the crowd I was expecting.”

“It's taken almost two months for people to realise it isn't Karaoke. Anyone says shit to you, they're out.”

When he looks at you your face is dead serious.

“You want a drink?”

His full body sags into the bar, hands pressed flat against the wood.

“Please.”

*****

Gus calls it the void.

A space that exists between the sleepy dark building which greets you in the day, with low murmurs of the jukebox and quiet conversation, and the static chaos which she turns into at night, senses soaked in hazes of beer and speakers that vibrate your chest on an inhale.

The void comes when the bodies clear, main lights illuminating the corners once filled by bodies and a cacophony of nameless voices.

It's surreal, usually only seen through a fog of fatigue, as aching footsteps spot mop and clean broken glass, the walls seeming to stretch out and close in at the same time.

Tonight though the void crowds one remaining table, one too small for the number of bodies surrounding it.

You smile fondly from your place behind the bar as the newest members of the family laugh loudly with the oldest. The guys had killed it, the crowd loved it and the buzz of the room carried you through the night.

But the numbers on the calculator are starting to blur as you desperately try to finish cashing up. Eyes warm with an exhaustion that can only come with a day spent staving off panic, and a night caught in the adrenaline of that panic being completely unfounded.

You scrub your hands over your face, cursing yourself as soon as you do knowing the makeup that was once neatly placed there was likely smudged around your eyes now.

A soft clink of bottles and glasses being placed on the bar draws your attention and you look up expecting to see Jay or Charlie there but instead, big brown eyes look sympathetically down at you. You straighten slowly from where you were hunched over, tired bones and gravity having drawn you down.

“Same again?” you glance over at where Gus is loudly telling a story you can't quite distinguish over the cackle of Angie's laugh. Drunker than you'd seen them between these walls in a long time, and in good company if the way Gareth is swaying on his chair as he drunkenly flirts with a very pink Charlie is anything to go by.

“A couple of glasses of water too,” he says as Gareth tries to lean on the edge of the table, almost head butting the subject of his drunken affection when he misses by a mile.

You grimace with wide eyes and he grins back at you “coming up”

You can hear his rings tap against the wood of the bar behind you as he drums an uneven beat.

“I'll fetch them over.” he scoffs from behind and you send him an acusationary look over your shoulder.

“You've been running ‘round all night.” a small frown sits on his face as he tips his head towards you. You arrange the drinks on the small circular tray in front of him silently, the glasses and bottles clinking gently against each other as you softly nudge it towards him.

He looks smug for a moment and you can't help the laugh that comes out when it shifts to panic as he picks up the tray too harshly and the whole tray rattles aggressively.

He gives you an angry glance with no malice behind it and you watch his tongue peek out in concentration as he lifts it. Carefully, he makes his way over to the table, leaning your head on your fist you watch as he walks with slow strides, gangly and unsure looking like a baby deer, stopping every few steps.

The whole table stopped to watch, jibes and laughter turning to a cheer as he finally places the tray down, with a quick turn he bows at you as you give him him a slow clap.

“Come sit down Jazz, grab a drink” Gus yells across at you words running together a little, southern accent more prominent as he roughly pulls a chair over.

You cringe at the screech and look around at the unfinished tasks, but the promise of relief from the ache in your legs is too good to pass up, so you pour a generous glug of Jamesons into a steaming cup of coffee with too many sugars and join them.

You lean your head heavily on Angie's shoulder and she rests hers a top of yours, the smell of musky perfume and the red wine she's been drinking all night surrounding you.

“You did good darlin’” she says as they all chatter around you and you smile to yourself looking over at the band. “Yeah.”

Charlie makes herself scarce soon after when her dime store Matt Dillon boyfriend comes to collect her, much to Gareth's disdain. He asks every few minutes where she's gone and you have to gently remind him she's gone, his shoulders slumping every time.

You finally drag yourself from Angie humming to yourself as the coffee and whisky warm you, curling your knee up to your chest you tune in halfway through an argument Jeff and Eddie are having.

You've missed the start but as Eddie gets louder and Jeff snickers you realise Eddie has fallen for some kind of bate as he passionately rants and gesticulates wildly.

Jay laughs loudly from beside you catching everyone's attention, as Gareth becomes increasingly defensive at the story of George carding him when he came back in from packing up the van.

Grant quickly swipes his wallet and passes his licence over, Jay cooes instantly and you sneak a look at the picture. The frown on his face is like for like with the one he's wearing as he angrily grabs the card back.

Grant throws his arm around the younger guy's shoulders, and they all fall back into laughter and animated conversations in a way that only people who've known each other for half their lives can. A pang of jealousy runs through you that you push down quickly.

“You ready to admit you were wrong?” you say taking a sip from the hot sweet drink, head falling heavily to the side to look at Gus’s flushed face.

“Cold day in hell,” Angie murmurs to her glass, red wine clinging to the creases on her lips, lipstick long gone and spread down Gus’s neck.

“We’ll see,” he says eyeing the guys and throwing an arm around Angie's shoulders, you don't miss the small smile that twitches the corner of his mouth as he watches them.

“Okay house rules” he says loudly hand slamming on the table making you grimace.

The boys all fall silent, the timbre of his voice still commanding a presence with them that you remember from the early days of knowing him.

“Rule 1. No fighting, I see you throwing punches, you're out. Anybody tries anything you let George deal with it.” They all glance at the silent man who sits sipping a gin and tonic as he simply nods.

“Rule 2. Nobody goes behind the bar, you want a drink, you ask. If it's busy you wait your damn turn got it? They all nod turning to each other with murmurs of agreement.

“Rule 3. 10 dollars between you for playing, we’ll set up a tip jar and you can sell any other stuff you want tapes shirts whatever. And Rule 4."

he leans forward giving you a pointed look and you feel your gut drop as everyone looks at you.

He wouldn't.

"No fucking on the premises.”

Jay snickers and you smack him hard in the arm. “I didn't fuck him" you hiss rising quickly to your feet.

“Found them in the back. Trousers around his ankles,” he says leaning towards the boys who all grin at you.

“They were not around his ankles, he got to second base tops!” Jay cackles from beside you and you spin to face him “You can stop laughing, the bathroom's the premises and we all know what you and Paul do in there when they play.”

“Excuse me?” Gus says leaning forward heavily towards Jay as he splutters, the band all stare at you with various looks of glee.

You grab your jacket “As lovely as this has been, if we're finished reminiscing about my failed sexual encounters, my bus is leaving soon so if we can all finish up.”

“You're getting the bus?” Jeff says face dropping as he looks at you.

“Is that an issue?” exhaustion making you bite out the words as you collect the few remaining glasses on the table and walk them back to the bar.

“It's late,” Grant yells over the room as you dip inside the office to collect the rest of your things.

“I'm a big girl” you sing song “ and I have mace, I think I'll be fine.” you check your bag, and hang it heavily over your shoulder, locking up the cash and turning of the lights.

"I'll drive you,” Eddie says as you reappear arms crossed over his chest, all members leaning back into their seats, obviously having had a conversation you weren't privy to

“I told you he was a good boy,” Angie whispers loudly into Gus's ear and Eddie gives her a wink.

Your surprised your eyes don't roll out your head.

“You've all been drinking.” you gesture to Gareth to illustrate your point as he's about to fall asleep at any second, head leaning heavily against a less than impressed looking Grant.

“I've had two beers all night.”

You blink, looking down to the tap water in front of him and sigh, nerves starting to fray as the ache in your feet pulse and shoulders protest the extra weight of your belongings.

“ I just want to get home.” it comes out in a whine, but you're too tired to care.

“We'll close up.” Angie’s voice is slurred and a little muffled from the way she's pressed up against Gus's side, and you glance down to see her long nails raking down his leg under the table.

You look at them suspiciously “Yeah?”

“Done most of it for us, get away darlin’” he says never looking away from Angie.

Christ.

You look back over and Eddie raises his brows at you expectantly.

“Okay. But can we leave now?”

*****

March 1988

You fumble over your words, heart hammering and instantly regret asking Gus to fix the lights so you can see the audience better.

The idea that somebody might be smiling beyond the glare to make this less painful is quashed by a mixture of confused and vaguely interested faces. At least when half the crowd thought it was karaoke there was a pack of drunken friends cheering.

You welcome Eddie on stage, hoping to God that the crowd at least cracks a smile.

A couple of beers had brought him around a little, the deer in headlights look fading as you watched the first two acts and made small talk, but as you turn to wave him on and he appears into the light he looks like you're leading him to the slaughter.

You hope you're not, but the urge to get off stage and away from vacant stares has you scrambling back behind the bar.

“Hey”

His voice sounds small even amplified by the mic and you grin widely at him when he catches your eye.

“ I usually play with a band,” the crowd is silent as he unclips his guitar case and pulls the acoustic onto his lap, your body leaning forward a little as you squint at the words scrawled over the body.

“But thought I'd give this a go” he strums a couple of cords looking up and glancing around the crowd. He holds himself taller, an easy grin on his face but the bob in his throat as he swallows gives him away.

His songs aren't anything like you expected.

You'd readied yourself for something more a tune to the sounds that usually vibrate the walls, it's heavy but the chords progression is almost folky and he has a gravel in his voice that makes your stomach flip. Lyrics angry and funny in equal measure, with a disdain for the work week and the world.

The crowd's response is a mixed bag, no heckles, but your applauds are by far the loudest and he smiles over at you every time a line has you laughing.

He doesn't leave after his set and his demeanour completely changes. Flirty and confident with easy flowing conversation about music, life and the story of his guitar.

He's what you wanted from this night filled with music and laughter and he promises to be back leaving with a wink.

******

It was inevitable, you'd seen it a thousand times before. People walk out into the night air giggling and tipsy and walk back in hazy-eyed and stumbling.

Gareth was already stumbling.

“Shotgun!”

You wince at the rate Gareth falls out through the door, and peek over Grant and Jeff's shoulder as they watch him lay on the sidewalk arms spread and laughing.

Eddie steps out behind you as the others haul him up, pulling out a pack of smokes and offering you one.

“You don't have shotgun we're not animals. Jazz gets shotgun,” he says mumbling around the cigarette hanging from his mouth as he pats himself down.

“That's bullshit.” Gareth sways back a couple of steps taking Grant and Jeff with him and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I really don't mind,” you say quickly, the gesture was nice but you've seen enough innocuous disagreements sour to risk it.

Eddie scoffs lighting his cigarette “You've been on your feet for what 12 hours?” you try to recall the morning which seems like a lifetime ago.

“14 hours?"

“14 hours? Christ. Yeah, you have shotgun.”

“No.”

You turn away catching the beginning of an objection but cut him off. “Gareth you're good I can sit in the back”

“Fucking aye” his face lights up and he lurches forward dragging Jeff with him, Grant joining you both to watch the pair sway away before you slowly follow.

“If he can't fucking hold his drink-” Eddie grumbles from beside you.

“Come on you remember being 21, give him a break.”

“Can you remember being 21?” Grant says chin lifted.

He leans into you conspirationaly “He's a massive lightweight.” you turn with a smirk to see Eddie glowering at his friend. “In his defence, he'd just graduated, took him long en-“

“No.” Eddie says sternly as you look between the pair, throwing Grant the keys who catches them easily in one hand.

“I'm not getting him in the van.” He gives him a warning look and Jeff and Grant groan.

The brick is cold enough to feel your jacket as you come to rest against the wall beside Eddie. Silently smoking as you watch them try to fit a squirming Gareth in through the door in the barely lit van, their voices bouncing around the empty street.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say breaking the silence, hugging yourself a little as the cool air clings to you.

He gives you a dismissive shake of his head. “Not letting you ride the bus home,”

“The 11.35 is a breeze, 3 am's when it gets interesting, extra sticky.” he frowns at you, dark shadows extenuating the lines of his face and you laugh “It's fine, like I said I've got mace and I know all the drivers by now.”

He hums unconvinced and takes a drag of his cigarette amber glow illuminating him for a second before he lets it hang from his mouth.

“Well consider us your Thursday night ride.” he opens his arms wide towards the rest of the band as they try to buckle Gareth in.

“I appreciate it really, but it going to be midnight at the earliest before I get off, I only managed this because Angie and Gus wanted to fuck on stage.”

He chokes on an inhale, a plume of smoke coming out as he looks at you wide-eyed, nose wrinkling.

“No.”

“Yep,” you ash your cigarette under your boot and lean away from the wall “Rule number 4 does not apply to the owners.”

You head to join the other two boys in watching Gareth's drooling face pressed up against the glass and feel Eddie come up behind you

“We got him in the van, you have to get him up the stairs,” Grant says walking away without a glance.

You chuckle to yourself and follow leaving Jeff and Eddie still softly frowning at their unconscious friend. Jeffs pats his arm nodding to himself as Gareth mutely stirs behind the glass, lips smacking.

“He's gonna puke in your van.”

****

The ride back to your apartment was filled with a mixture of laughter and you hanging on for dear life as Eddie navigated the streets, two emergency stops for Gareth to puke his guts up and ended with you running back to the van and making Eddie promise to lay him on his side.

You'd chewed Jay out the next night for serving him after you had told him to stop and worried the rest of the weekend as it went on in its usual orchestrated chaos. You slept Sunday away and by Tuesday, watching the boys play felt like a dream.

The boombox blares a new mix tape you'd made as ypu clear up ready to settle into the weekly wait to see if Bill shows, the small room humid and smelling strongly of detergent as the dishwasher cycle ends.

You don't hear the front door open or the greeting that's yelled out over the volume of the music, your singing distracts you from the body settling into Bill's chair.

The song changes and the start of ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ starts and you spin, volume of your voice rising as you pull open the dishwasher taking out glasses and putting them into a crate to the beat. Ready to be dried and polished still cloudy with heat, the chorus comes in and you yell it out as you round the corner.

“Hey,”

Eddie says with a smirk from his place on Bill's chair raising his hand in greeting, a bolt of adrenaline runs through you tingling your fingers making you screech. The crate slips from your hands and the glasses explode into shards which fly off in all directions.

“Oh shit” Eddie rises immediately rounding the bar quickly and you brandish a broom at him before he can make his way behind, slapping off the boom box.

“What are you doing here?! “You splutter confusion and panic creasing your features, your heartbeat still thudding in your ears.

His eyes are wide and he takes a step back.

“A. Are you not open? The signs on.”

You gape at him looking between him and the door “Yes but nobody.” the worry on his face, makes you hesitate and you lower the broom leaning it against the side so you can cover your face with your hands, taking a deep inhale.

“I didn't mean to scare you, I can help."

“No. No, it's my own fault.” you look around and grab the broom “shit”. This was going to cost you, Gus would let a couple of broken glasses slide but this was definitely coming out of your paycheck.

Glass crunches under your feet as you try to get the worst of it and he tentatively goes to sit back down.

“Not there.” he stops hovering over Bill's chair and you point to the stool next to it.

“Expecting someone.”

“Yes”

“Not me.” A small smirk pops one of his dimples and it aggrivates you how cute it is.

“What do you need Eddie.” You stress coming over to stand in front of him.

“Can't a guy get a drink.”

The joke doesn't land and he looks sheepish as you watch him pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper from his bag pushing it over to you.

“New set for this week.”

“New?” You say, tentatively taking it “Not just rearranged?

“Nope.”

You can feel him watching you as your eyes run over the list, and you can't help but smile at the slower songs at the start, a few sticking out as unfamiliar.

“Are these originals?”

“I mean yeah, we thought we could try some songs out early on, and play more familiar stuff later. If that's cool?”

“You a cover band?”

He scoffs “No.”

“Then it's fine.” you laugh “It looks great.”

The look on his face makes him look boyish as he smiles to himself tucking the paper back away and you resume cleaning.

“So. Could I still get that drink?”

You chat about the next gig and are filled in on Gareth's monumental hangover which lingered over two full days as he ripped the label from his bottle into small piles and he agrees to one more before he should probably get going.

“You know. Thursday wasn't the first time I've played here.”

“Yeah?” you say twisting the cap off his bottle and sliding the beer over to him “You played with a different band?”

“No, uh.” he spins the bottle before taking a sip “Just me. At the open mic.”

“What? When?”

He chuckles, tipping his head slowly from side to side curls swaying with the movement “Like March last year.”

You squint at him trying to find something you recognise and as he stares back at you eyebrows raised, you realise then what that familiarity had been in his eyes and instantly feel awful. “Eddie I'm sorry, there's been so many people I don't remember half the people who come in anymore unless they play every week and even then. “

He waves you off “It's good, it was a one time thing, I was kind of worried to come back to be honest. The crowd wasn't exactly enthusiastic.” he scrunches his nose and you sigh leaning to prop your head up on your hand.

“God those first few months were painful they all thought it was-.”

“Karaoke.”

You stand upright looking down to the Wasp tee he's wearing and back up, searching his face again you trying to find any kind of memory of him that's been lost.

That familiarity is there again flickering behind big Bambi eyes again as he looks at you with a tight smile.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my god!” you point at him. “Guthrie.”

He grins, teeth fully on show now and knocks his knuckles against the bar top.

“This machine slays dragons." astonishment that he's here, that's you'd forgotten him, he was one of the first people to make you feel like the night as a whole could work." Oh my god.”

He nods, laughing into his beer the sound of his exhale loud inside the glass.

The memory of him and his songs and chatting all come rushing back and then you pause, face falling slightly as your shock and enthusiasm dwindles a little.

“You never came back.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x you #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fem!reader #stranger things #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things fic #eddie munson fics #Posting a day early.#Happy weekend

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hellsbarnes · 2 years

Text

୨ 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙨 ₊˚ପ⊹ 𝙘.𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙨 ୧

pairing: chris evans x fem!reader

summary: in which you meet chris in a phone booth on a rainy day in boston

warnings: fluffy as heck, mentions of thunder and lightning,

word count: 2k

author’s note: welcome to another fic of mine, i’ve decided to start writing for chris and i’m super excited for you to read this! please remember to reblog too, thank you!

The thunder rumbled across the sky that had in the span of the last hour turned from a perfect light blue to a dark grey with rain clouds that crowded the canvass. People across the now busy streets of Boston were picking up the pace quickly, with cafes and restaurants pulling their outdoor tables in.

“Come on,” you mumbled under your breath, you had just left your job a little less than ten minutes ago, your plans to head to the cafe for your favourite sandwich was ruined given the fact that they closed earlier on Thursdays, which was something you had forgotten just like you did your umbrella, which proved to be a huge mistake because just as you thought you could make it to the bus stop and perhaps make it home, not drenched to the bone, the first streaks of lightning flashed across the skies proved otherwise, and the first drop rain fell on your face was a clear no.

“Dammit,” you cursed softly under your breath as the drops of rain that pitter pattered on the streets did nothing but grow heavier in the next few seconds, you knew you were done for, a loud clap of thunder boomed loudly across the sky.

Pedestrians were making mad dashes across the streets with cars horning away, and you groaned in exasperation, this really wasn’t how you wanted to spend the remainder of the only day your boss had allowed you to leave work, you had it all planned out, pizza, a few glasses of red wine, chick flicks and of course yourself to enjoy the night, but seeing as how the heavy rain was beating down on the scorching Boston grounds, those plans were inevitably cancelled.

By the time you had made it to a dingy payphone shelter, it was raining cats and dogs, the blouse that you had just gotten a week ago was now drenched with rain, and your heels were filled with murky water, another flash of lightning saw you leaning against the derelict wall of the booth, you were afraid of putting your entire weight on it for fear that it may just collapse in a second.

Running your hand through your matted hair, you pulled out your phone, hoping that perhaps your best friend would come fetch you before the water in the dilapidated booth started rising.

“You gotta be kidding me, seriously?” You groaned as you glared down at your dead phone, great, just great, of all the damn days you had to forget to plug your phone in, it just had to be today, and for once, you had to agree with your mother when she said something along the lines of just how forgetful you were, well, can be, but at this point, you were gonna go with the fact that you probably had the memory of a goldfish after all.

To think that you were stuck in a phone booth that so ironically didn’t have a phone. It was just your damned luck.

You sighed but just as you were about to give up all hope about being able to get back home, the door to the booth opened and a fully soaked man came in, he was drenched to the bone, and he looked towards you apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have anywhere else to go, do you, mind sharing?” He asks, flashing you an almost shy smile.

“Why not?” you reply, returning his smile as you move a little more inwards so as to give the stranger some space to shield him from the pouring thunderstorm that was raging outside, and from the looks of things, it didn’t seem as though it was going to stop anytime soon.

“Thank you, I’ve been rejected by three booths already” He replies jokingly, sighing as he ran a hand through his wet hair.

“That bad?”

“You have no idea,” he replies, chuckling when you laughed, somehow he looked familiar, with a jawline so sharp that it looked as though it could easily cut through glass, his eyes were baby blue with what seemed like a hint of green, and he was tall alright, with broad shoulders, and biceps that looked as though they have been sculpted by gods themselves and the fact that his pristine white shirt was soaked and clinging onto his skin for dear life didn’t really leave anything to the imagination.

Somehow or rather, you could have sworn you had seen him before, somewhere, perhaps he was some model plastered on a magazine that your best friend had stacks and stacks of, shaking the thought away, you shot the stranger a kind smile to which he returned and you were pretty sure that smile of his has swept many women off their feet.

“You just got off work?” he asked curiously.

“Yeah, would you believe if I said I had a whole evening planned out?” You replied watching as he chuckles.

“I do, and would you believe I had a date?”

“Oh no,”

“Yep, I gotta text her now,”

“Let her down gently,” You joke, and he laughs, shrugging. “Gently is not the word I would use,”

“Girlfriend?”

“No, it’s supposed to be a second date, I wasn’t really gonna go, but you know-“

“Friends?”

“Exactly, and, shit,” he grumbles as he flashes you his phone, well, very dead phone.

“You got a phone?”

“I hate to say this, but we are in the same boat,”

“You gotta be kidding me, you too?” The stranger says and you nod, laughing when he does, there was something about his life that just seemingly made you laugh along.

“Yeah, I forget to charge my phone all the damn time,”

“Oh god, me too”

“I didn’t realise there was gonna be someone as forgetful as I was,”

“I only forget sometimes,”

“Right,” you reply and the blue-eyed brunette chuckles.

“I’m Chris,” He introduced, extending a hand and you furrow your eyebrows, you could almost place it, you knew you saw him somewhere, and the name just seemed to put two and two together, your eyes widened a little.

“You’re-“

“Yeah,” He replies and you smile.

“I’m (Y/N)” You reply, taking his hand, and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of his hand, and how it felt almost electrifying to feel his touch, and it was almost as if Chris could feel it too, because he seemingly held on to your hand for just a tad longer, and your cheeks heated up when he finally lets go, mumbling a quick apology to which you simply said, “it’s okay, I don’t really mind it,” smiling when he returns it, his cheeks turning a light shade of red.

“So, where are you heading after this?” he asks and you sighed, “home, just me and my couch,”

“That’s not too bad,”

“I-“ before you could continue, a loud thunderclap made you wince as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“You alright?” Chris asks softly, a look of concern on his face as he gently rubs soft circles on your back soothingly as you struggled to calm yourself down, you were afraid of thunder, always have been since you were a child, it was something that you hadn’t got over yet as much as you hated to admit it.

“Yeah, I’m not very good friends with thunder,” you said almost jokingly as Chris chuckles.

“It’s okay, you can stand closer, if you want to,” he adds and you take up his offer, standing just a little closer to him, feeling his bodily warmth and it felt comforting, almost as if he could feel what you felt, and in that second, you allowed yourself to lean in closer, your heart racing in your chest as he wraps a strong arm around you protectively, pulling you closer, almost as if he was afraid that you would scare again.

“Thank you,” you said softly, trying your best to ignore the way your stomach did flips, sure you knew Chris through movies and perhaps, even a few interviews you had once watched but you hadn’t expected him to be this, well, this kind, offering you space beside him, almost as if he saw himself as the same as you were, just a passing person trying to be sheltered from the rain.

It was a well known fact that not all celebrities were nice towards others, but Chris, he was just different, he was friendly, charming and likeable, and in the last forty five minutes that you were stuck in the booth with the man, you were convinced that there was nothing to not like about him, especially the fact that he had a kind heart.

“Feeling better?” the brunette asks and you nod, trying to get yourself to tear your eyes away from his, when you were up close, only then did you notice just how gorgeous those irises were, the green in his eyes seemed to stand out a lot more when you were closer.

“Yeah, I thi-“ another loud clap of thunder reverberated across and you cringe, your body tensing up as you tried to steady your breaths.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Chris says softly, holding you closer to his chest, his arm circling your shoulder.

“Deep breaths, its’s going to pass,” he adds, leaning in closer as he tells you to breathe, his voice low and smooth almost had a definite calming effect in helping you find your footing as you struggled to get a grip, you hated thunder with a passion and this was why, your heavy breathing slowed, and it didn’t take very long for you to calm down, your fears seemingly fading away when he held you.

“Thank you, I’m sorry I-“

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Chris says with a boyish smile which you gladly returned, trying to ignore the way your cheeks heated up when he drew in closer, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“You didn’t have to help me with it though,”

“But I want to,” he replies as he ever so gently pulled you a tad closer reassuringly.

It didn’t take another hour for the rain to finally stop, the pitter patter halting altogether a little while after, and you could hear the footsteps of other’s outside the booth, the splash of rain puddles and the usual sound of Boston traffic.

“I gotta go,” you said softly, a warm smile spreading across your face when Chris nods, returning your smile as he lets go of you, and you immediately missed the feeling of his touch, not that you wanted to say it out loud.

“It was nice meeting you (Y/N),” he replies.

“You too Chris,” you say as you opened the door of the booth, a chilly breeze caressing your face, making you shiver lightly as you stepped out, a part of you urging you to look back but you couldn’t because as much as you would wish to stick around, you couldn’t plus it wouldn’t take long for him to leave you in the past either.

Chris sighed, looking at your retreating frame that did nothing but grow smaller and smaller as you made your way down the street, when he held you, he felt some sort of a spark, something about you that just pulled him in to you, he didn’t have any idea just what it was, but he knew that he didn’t want to lose that feeling, so he took the chance, deciding to go after you.

“(Y/N)!” you were stopped by the oh, so familiar voice of Chris, who had caught up with you.

“Is everything alright?” you ask, and you watch as he nods.

“I-I, was wondering if you could be willing to cancel your planned evening for dinner?” He asks, almost shyly, biting his lip as he awaited your answer.

“What about your date?” you asked.

“It was an hour ago, plus I would much rather be around you,”. He replies, the hope in his eyes diminishing when you didn’t reply him.

“You don’t have-“

“That sounds great,” you reply, and you could feel your heart skip a beat when he smiled, his eyes lighting up like a child on Christmas Day when he got your answer.

“Wanna go now?”

“But I’m drenched and-“

“It’s perfectly fine”. Chris replies with a grin and you smile as you took his extended hand.

Maybe your Thursday could be saved after all.

note: that’s the end of this fic! i hope you enjoyed it and please don’t forget to reblog, thank you so much!

permanent taglist: @belovedcherry (tags are open for my permanent taglist, please fill in the taglist form!)

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five-rivers · 1 year

Text

School Bus in the Ghost Zone

AO3

@jackdaw-sprite @dekalko-mania

Vivid green mists and clouds swirled together in the distance, providing a backdrop for free-floating purple doors and spidery knotworks of impossible architecture. A few tiny, gleaming lights might have been far-off island-cities, anglers, spectral stars, or other, stranger things. Nearer by, occasionally obscuring these sights, was a junkyard's worth of derelict cars.

Danny had seen scenery like this before. On occasion, he had even admired it. Vistas like this one were stunning, powerful, alien. They sparked wonder and curiosity. They sang to his soul that they were home. Or, at least, his core seemed to think that.

At the moment, he was feeling none of that. The principal emotions he was currently experiencing were exasperation, annoyance, and horror. But, then, he'd never viewed the Ghost Zone through the dingy window of a school bus before, either, so that might have something to do with it. The panicking students might have also contributed.

Another person might have been wondering what cosmic entity they had annoyed for something like this to happen to them. Mr. Lancer certainly was, judging by his hunched posture and the trembling of the hands over his face. Danny, however, kept a running list of the godlike beings he had angered, and considered himself an expert on the subject. In his experience, they tended to be more upfront about their intentions.

This was just bad luck.

Which meant that Danny was instead mentally asking why his luck was this bad, and, more to the point, if there was a way to fix it.

"Hey, Danny," said Tucker, nudging Danny's elbow with his own, "are you just about done disassociating? Because I think Dash is about to go Lord of the Flies on Mikey and Ricky. Or maybe it's the other way around. It's kind of hard to tell."

"Yeah," said Danny. "Is that the one with the cannibalism?"

Tucker shrugged. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Right. Okay. This is fine. I can deal with this."

"I mean," said Sam, leaning over from the other bench with a sort of pinched look on her face, "I think you're the only one who can."

"Gee, thanks, Sam."

Tucker gave him an awkward thumbs up. "You've got this. Hopefully soon. Before there's a murder."

Danny nodded and crawled out over Tucker into the aisle. The whole Lord of the Flies thing was an exaggeration, but it was getting to be a mess.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey!" he repeated, putting a little ghostly emphasis into it this time. "Do you want to keep freaking out, or do you want to go home?"

"There's no going anywhere!" said Dash, waving his hands in a broad gesture that stopped just shy of backhanding both Kwan and Dale. "The bus is floating in nothing! There's nowhere to go! The second we step out, we'll drop!"

"And we're out of fuel!" wailed the bus driver, Mr. Kennedy.

"Why are we out of–? Actually, that doesn't matter. First off, gravity doesn't exist in the Zone unless you think it does. Or unless someone else is thinking it does for you."

"Which isn't relevant right now!" interjected Sam.

"Yeah. That gets complicated. Point is, if you left the bus, you'd float. Like the bus is."

A soft ohh rose up from the other students.

"Mr. Fenton," said Mr. Lancer, "are you suggesting we leave the bus and try to travel across the Zone?"

"No, we don't have to leave the bus," said Danny. He really didn't want to attempt to give his classmates the 'how to fly in the Ghost Zone while human one-oh-one' lecture. Which he didn't have. Because he'd never had to do anything like that.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are, like, twenty people here. If we expect it to go hard enough, it'll go."

"Are you serious?" asked Mr. Lancer.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"But there's no gas!" repeated Mr. Kennedy.

"We were driving just fine half an hour ago!" snapped Star. "What happened to it? Don't tell us you've just been putting your foot down all this time!"

Mr. Kennedy moaned.

"Hey, be nice to him!" said Hannah. "He only just moved here, so he's probably more used to stuff like aliens."

"Oh, god, are there aliens, too?"

"No," said Danny. "No, there are not." Not in Amity Park, anyway.

"There are psychics, though."

"No," repeated Danny. He'd thank her very much not to spread the 'psychic bladder' rumor to yet another person. "Sam, can I have one of your spare folders?"

"Sure," said Sam, rummaging in her backpack for a moment before offering up an empty blue paper folder. "This one okay?"

"Perfect," said Danny. He walked to the front of the bus, scooting sideways past the people who just felt the need to block the aisle even though they had plenty of room in their seats. He opened up the folder and placed it down over the dashboard. “There. Now the gas doesn’t matter.”

“It kind of does.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He turned back to the rest of the bus, hands on his hips. “So, here’s what’s going to happen, we’re going to make the bus go.” He looked at the driver. “And you’ll steer us. And we’ll be able to get wherever we want to go.”

“And,” said the bus driver, “we’ll go where?”

Danny twisted to look out the bus windshield and pointed at a spindly limb of the architecture conglomerate. “There.”

“Why there?” asked Mr. Lancer.

“Looks like the best place to get directions.”

“What?” exploded Dash. “You don’t know where we are? He doesn’t even know where we are? Why are we letting him tell us where to go?”

“Well, Dash,” said Danny, very much put in mind of a similar conversation he’d had with him the previous year, when Youngblood and Ember had kidnapped every adult in town, “have you been here before? Has anyone? Has anyone else even been in the Ghost Zone? And, no, the time the whole city was transplanted doesn’t count. No? No one? Just me, Sam, and Tucker?” He was sort of wondering why Valerie wasn’t speaking up during any of this, but that was a problem for later. “Great. So. Despite having been in the Ghost Zone before, I haven’t been in this particular part. I haven’t even been to every part of the state. This is an entire dimension. That shouldn’t be all that surprising. But, the Fenton Portal is kind of a big thing. I should be able to get directions to it without any trouble.”

There was silence.

“What?” said Danny. “What did I say?”

“What’s the Fenton Portal?” asked Star.

“It’s, well, you know,” said Danny, rubbing the back of his neck. “The portal my parents built. I know, it’s an embarrassing name, but that’s how they name all their stuff.” And it wasn’t even the most embarrassing name.

“And when did this happen?”

“Ages ago,” said Danny. “Summer before freshman year. Shouldn’t this be, like, common knowledge? That’s when the ghosts started showing up, after all.”

More silence.

“Did… did you guys not know about the portal?”

“Are you saying your stupid parents are the reason ghosts started showing up in the first place?” demanded Ricky, leaning over the seat in front of him, fingers gripping the cheap green vinyl like he wanted to tear into someone’s throat, preferably Danny’s.

“Uh,” said Danny, now understanding the danger he was in. “I don’t know…?”

“Let’s just focus on getting home for now,” said Sam. “You can sue the Fentons for reckless endangerment or whatever later.”

Danny glared at her. Sure, that was helpful for now, but later? Later, it would be a problem.

Mr. Lancer cleared his throat. “Mr. Fenton, how do we expect this bus to move?”

“You just… do it. I mean, come on, it’s a vehicle. An automobile. Whatever. It’s supposed to move. That’s it’s whole thing. It’s not like you’re expecting it to fly or anything.”

“We kind of are, though,” said Hannah.

“Hush, you. We’re powering this through vibes.”

“This is just like the Magic School Bus,” said Mikey, excitedly.

“Yeah, sure, whatever floats your bus. Just… Close your eyes and expect to move.”

Danny walked back down the rows of seats. Where had Valerie been sitting? Ah, there she was, staring out the window, hands clenched in her lap. Did she have some kind of Zone-related trauma Danny didn’t know about? It wasn’t like he knew everything she got up to as Red Huntress… He tried, but he just had too many of his own problems to be constantly on guard for hers.

“Valerie?” he said, not too loudly, not wanting to startle her.

She turned her head towards him ever so slowly. At the center of each of her pupils was a tiny, glowing, red triangle.

Valerie, Danny realized, hadn’t been in the Zone since Technus replaced the suit she got from Vlad with something a little more… integrated.

This was a problem.

“Uh,” he said, “you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her hand absently tugging on her scarf.

“Okay,” said Danny. “Okay, um. Are you experiencing any weird urges? Or is it, like, too much sensory input? Or something else?”

“Sensory.”

“Cool, cool,” said Danny. “It’s… Can you…” He lowered his voice. “Can you turn, like, the input on your suit down?”

“I don’t– How do you know about that?”

The air was filled with the sizzling tension of Valerie preparing to call her suit. Or something. Danny didn’t think she’d attack him while he was Fenton - they might be exes, but Danny suspected she missed him in the more conventional sense, and not the marksmanship sense - but who knew what else she’d do while under the influence of… whatever this was.

“Cool,” he said, backing away. “Well, you just work on that.” The bus lurched underfoot.

“Just like the Magic School Bus!”

“I’m going to go up front and direct things,” he said. He looked at Sam and Tucker and tried to make significant eye contact with them. Shouting out that there was something wrong with Valerie felt like a jerk move, so friendship telepathy it was!

He didn’t think it worked.

“Mr. Fenton,” said Mr. Lancer, getting Danny’s attention, “I don’t mean to cast doubt on your judgment, but… Why do you believe we can find directions there? I don’t see any signs of life.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. It’s the Ghost Zone. Get it?”

Mr. Lancer stared blankly at him.

“Man, tough audience.” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t know that anyone is there. But we can just keep going until we do find someone. It’s more polite than opening doors.”

“Polite…?”

“Yeah, I mean, each door leads to a lair, but that’s, like, someone’s private, personal space. Other people aren’t supposed to go in without permission. Ghosts get really touchy about it.”

“What Danny means is that he almost got his head bitten off by an angry toddler,” said Tucker.

“They were definitely bigger than a toddler,” said Danny. “But, yeah, we’re not exactly capable of fighting, so… polite is the way to go.”

“I see,” said Mr. Lancer. “I don’t suppose you have any of your parents’ weapons with you?”

“Mr. Lancer, we were going to the courthouse. You told us there was a metal detector and that we shouldn’t even bring pocket knives.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Lancer, and behind his eyes Danny could see every time his parents had disregarded such simple rules. Loudly. Repeatedly. “Well. I had to ask.”

“I have a pocket knife!” said Dale.

“Iliad and Odyssey, I’m getting too old for this stuff.”

Danny considered patting Mr. Lancer on the shoulder, but decided against it. “So,” he said, “I’m just going to go back to my seat until we get there. Yep.” He shuffled back and crawled back across Tucker to huddle next to the window.

“Okay, how screwed are we, do you think?” asked Tucker.

“I don’t know,” said Danny, quietly, “but I really don’t recognize anything around here. As long as we can get to somewhere I know in a reasonable amount of time, it should be fine, but…” He shrugged. “Infinite Realms. There are no guarantees.” He raised his hands. “I’m not a miracle worker, here.”

“Great,” said Tucker. “At least we came with food. We can leave the cannibal episode for later.”

“I still don’t think that book had any actual cannibalism in it.”

“I think that none of the three of us managed to read that stupid book,” said Danny.

“Mr. Lancer is literally like ten feet away.”

“I think he has bigger problems.”

The bus slowly moved through the floating car graveyard, occasionally bumping into one of them when the bus driver misjudged the distance. Ever so gradually, it pulled up to the side of the architect’s nightmare.

“Okay, Fentonio, now what?”

Danny had sort of hoped a ghost might come out to investigate. They hadn’t. In fact, the place seemed as deserted as the floating junkyard. Which meant that Danny now faced an uncomfortable choice. He could get out and go look for someone, leaving everyone else in the bus without his protection. He could recommend that everyone get out and they could go look for someone together, which would basically be an open invitation for chaos. He could just tell the driver to go somewhere else.

The little lights that could be cities, or stars, or anglers twinkled at him.

Ugh. None of these were good decisions.

“Hey,” said Sam, “beep the horn.”

Or they could do that.

“What?” asked the driver, startled.

“We don’t really want to go out there,” explained Sam. “Which means we need someone to come here. If there is anyone.”

“Yeah,” agreed Danny. “Do that.”

The driver pressed the horn tentatively. They all watched the structures intently for any sign of movement.

Something knocked on the opposite window. Everyone startled badly, rushing away from the unexpected noise.

“Hi, there!” said a ghost in a bathrobe. A plastic duck rested on their head and they held a loofah on a stick like a scepter. “Are you fellas lost or something?”

Danny rushed over to the other side and pulled down the window. “Hi, yeah, we are, a bit. Do you mind giving us directions?”

“Sure! I know this place pretty well. My lair’s just right over there. Trying for the perfect bath, you know?”

Danny nodded solemnly. “Baths are important. But, uh, do you know where the Fenton Portal is from here? The permanent portal to the material plane?”

“Can’t say I know where that is from here. Never been all that much interest to me.”

“How about Elysium? The Far Frozen? Hunter’s Blind? The Time Locked Lands?”

“Woah, woah, kiddo, I can only answer so fast.” The ghost rubbed his chin. “I got some medicinal soaps from the Far Frozen that one time; it’s not too far away from here. Gonna take a moment to really remember, but while I’m thinking, can I ask: why are you up against this old bulldozer job if you’re wanting to get to the Far Frozen?”

“Thanks,” said Danny, relieved, “we were hoping someone could help us in there–” he jerked his head back towards the building mass, “--but I guess not, huh?”

“Oh, no one lives there,” said the ghost. “It’s full of tarantulas.”

“Tarantulas!” shrieked Paulina.

“Don’t worry about it, they’re probably harmless.”

“These ones’re pretty venomous, actually. And huge.”

“The directions, please.”

“Alright, alright. You young whippersnappers, always rushing around like you were still alive. Alright, then. First, you want to follow the Star of the Solemnity.” He pointed at one of the points of light. “After a while, you should see the Arson’s Arcade. Big place. It’s on fire. Hard to miss, even if it isn't on the direct line to the Star of the Solemnity. From there, you can follow the Burning Road to Dis–”

“Isn’t that also on fire?”

“Sure is. Leastwise, it’s hot there. Dis is within spitting distance to the Brass City. From there, you drop through the Steam Curtain to the Boiling Sea. Triple Point is somewhere around there, and that’ll take you to the Lands of Ice, right enough. Far Frozen is in there, somewhere.”

“You call that close?” asked Hannah. “That’s like… at least five different places.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, “maybe, but now I know where we are, and I can get there faster.”

“Oh, no, kiddo. Shortcuts are never worth it.”

“It’s not a shortcut. Besides, I don’t think that any of us would, like, survive going through the steam curtain.”

“Ah, cold cores then, huh? I’ve always preferred warm water myself.”

The problem was more that the Steam Curtain was supposed to be scalding, and all of Danny’s classmates were made of flesh.

(No word on Mr. Lancer, who was occasionally rumored to be a literature-loving robot, or perhaps a vampire.)

“Yeah, something like that. Thank you so much for your directions, they really helped.” It was doubtful that the word ‘help’ was a trigger for the ghost like it was for Danny, but he hoped he got the meaning across regardless.

The ghost’s face crinkled. “No problemo! I needed some time to plan out my next bath, anyway. Good luck getting where you want to go!” The ghost flew away in the general direction of their lair.

“Well, they were nice,” said Danny.

“That’s great, kid,” said Mr. Kennedy, his hands gripped around the wheel so tight that all of his knuckles were completely bloodless. “Now where do we go?”

Danny pointed left, almost ninety degrees from the Star of Solemnity. The ectoplasmic mists were ever so slightly grayer in that direction. “That way.”

“Why, what’s over there?” asked Star.

“Casper High. Probably.” His mental map of the Ghost Zone was very good, at this point. It wasn’t perfect.

“You think the school got sucked in, too?” Dash said, mockingly. “We were miles away.”

“Yeah, I know. But the school has an ectoplasmic mirror because of all the deaths back in the fifties.”

“It’s true,” said Tucker. “There were a whole lot of deaths back in the fifties. Kind of scary. I think I would have just closed the school.” He tapped his lower lip. “In retrospect, though, the way they keep the school open no matter what ghosts throw at it.”

Star frowned. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Then we’ll probably notice before we get there, and we can try the ‘set ourselves on fire’ route.”

“I think we can do without that,” said Mr. Lancer. “Mr. Kennedy, would you–”

“I’m going, I’m going,” said Mr. Kennedy. They began to putter forward.

For the first hour or so of the journey, things were quiet. But the nature of the Time Locked Lands meant that even their outer fringes tended to be well-populated. Ghosts were, after all, the kind of person to whom living in the past appealed the most.

Even more unfortunately, some of those ghosts were people Danny knew.

“Oh my gosh,” said Hannah, pointing out the window, “is that Ember? I love her music!”

“Fans?” Ember smirked, the expression clear even from this distance. “I don’t mind if I do.”

She struck a chord and the bus vibrated.

“Go faster!” shouted Danny, even as half the students started to chant Ember’s name. “Go faster!”

“I can’t!” sobbed Mr. Kennedy.

Danny put his hand against the side of the bus and extended his ghostly aura as far as he could without transforming. He’d done things like this before, with the ecto-skeleton and the thermos, pushing enough of his will into technology to make it do what he wanted.

The bus sped up. But not enough.

“Taking me on a tour? Alright, cool bus, let’s see about a different tune!”

A wave of chilled air passed over Danny, and the other students yelped and squeaked as the metal parts of the bus became painfully cold. The one thing Danny, as an ice core, could counter… He might have been impervious to it, but the others weren’t.

“What now?” yelled the bus driver. “Engines don’t work when it’s this cold!”

Danny thought about yelling at him that the engine didn’t matter, they weren’t even using it, but decided that would probably be counterproductive.

“Valerie!” said Danny. He hated throwing her under the bus (hopefully not literally) but one of the two of them literally had secret government organizations trying to kidnap him to dissect him, and it wasn’t her. If she couldn’t do it, then he’d act. “Do something!”

For a second, he thought she didn’t hear him, too entranced by whatever her suit was doing with the ectoplasm, but then red and black circuits pulsed into being all over her body and suddenly there were guns. A lot of guns.

“Ah,” squeaked Danny, thoroughly intimidated.

Valerie fired through the bus windshield, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces and blowing Ember far into the distance.

That was the plus side. On the minus side, the bus no longer had a front.

“This is okay,” said Danny as Valerie sat down heavily. “This is okay. Valerie, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’m… fine. What… Oh my gosh…”

“Miss Gray,” said Mr. Lancer, “I thought no one had any weapons…”

“Well,” said Valerie, recovering some of her usual sharpness. “It’s not like I advertise that I’m–”

“Red Huntress!” gushed Mikey. “That’s so cool!”

“That’s not my name,” said Valerie.

“It’s not?” asked Mikey.

“It’s not?” asked Danny.

“I’m not a superhero,” said Valerie. “I’m a ghost hunter. I don’t have a code name. That’s stupid.”

“Code names aren’t stupid,” said Danny and Mikey together.

From the expression on Valerie’s face, Danny thought she must be wondering why she’d ever dated him.

But that wasn’t important right now.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, we’ve got rid of her. No more name chanting.”

“But E–”

Sam slapped her hand over Hannah’s mouth. “No,” she said.

“So, we can just keep going.”

“The front of the bus is gone.”

“Mr. Kennedy, we’re flying.”

“But it’s gone.”

“We weren’t using the engine anyway! You were out of gas!”

This, of course, caused a commotion.

“Listen, do your best to believe we can go,” begged Danny. “Please.”

With that, they limped forward. Slowly. Painfully.

But even at that speed, Sidney Poindexter’s version of Casper High loomed into view, as black and white as ever.

The bus creaked to a stop. And then the wheels fell off.

“Come on,” said Danny, desperately. “Just a little bit further. Please.”

It did not go further.

“The wheels are gone,” said Paulina. “It can’t go without wheels.”

“We weren’t using them,” argued Danny, futilely. “We’re floating.”

It didn’t work. Which left the next option.

“We’re going to have to fly there, then,” he said.

This did not go over well. Danny ignored the protests like they ignored his logic.

“So, Sam and Tucker, can you get the lunches and stuff from the storage underneath? Everyone else, grab your own stuff. Uh… Val? Can you use your hoverboard?”

“Huh?” asked Valerie, blankly.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Valerie slowly passed a hand over her face.

“I think…” she trailed off.

“Can you, I don’t know, shut the suit off or anything? Or maybe there’s a Ghost Zone mode?”

“No,” said Valerie. “I just need to… calibrate.”

That sounded like a lie, but Danny wasn’t sure how far he should press. “Okay, then. So. Here’s what’s going to happen…” He trailed off, not actually sure what would happen.

Making plans was hard.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he tried again, “Sam and Tucker and I are going to…”

“We could try pulling the bus,” said Tucker, “or pushing it.”

“We’re already doing that. We can’t compete with this many Debbie doubters.”

“Isn’t that Debbie downers?”

“I can make it alliterate however I want.”

“You actually used that word correctly,” said Lancer. “Oh, Elements of Style, we’re really in it now…”

“Can we… ferry them over, maybe?” suggested Sam. “One by one?”

“Or maybe we can get everyone to hold hands and we can make a human chain,” said Tucker. “Pull everyone across.”

Star cleared her throat. “Is no one going to mention the creepy monochrome Casper High?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Danny, “that’s where Poindexter hangs out. Sidney Poindexter, you know?”

Hannah perked up. “You mean the school cryptid?”

“He’s a ghost.”

“Evidence suggests–”

“He’s a ghost,” repeated Danny, more forcefully. “Please. I think I like the human chain better.” If they got attacked, Danny could push intangibility through the line in a pinch. “I’ll go first, since I’m the best flier, Sam, you’ve got the end, Tucker…”

“I’ll stabilize people stepping off,” said Tucker.

“Great,” said Danny, walking to the ragged front end of the bus and stepping off. He floated easily, comfortably. “See? Easy. Perfectly safe. Val, you want to come next?”

“No,” said Val. “I think I need to just… Sit here, for a little while.”

“Okay, cool,” said Danny. “Paulina?”

Sam glared at him. Hard.

“Ugh. Fine. You would make an excuse to hold my hand.”

Danny blushed. “If you don’t want to… Uh… Mikey?”

Mikey shook his head vigorously.

“I will go,” said Mr. Lancer. He stepped up to the edge. “This is what a teacher does, this is what a teacher does, this is what a teacher does, they go before their students. This is what a teacher does, they go before their students. This is fine. This is what a teacher does–”

Danny grabbed Mr. Lancer’s elbow and pulled him off. He linked Mr. Lancer’s elbow with his, so neither of them would float off unexpectedly.

“Okay,” he said, “so… Who’s next?”

Very slowly, and with a lot of cajoling, the rest of them lined up until they were a single line of people stretching into the green. They didn’t even get halfway to the school.

“Now what, Fengenius.”

“How do you come up with those amazing nicknames, Dash?” asked Danny.

“It’s my idea anyway,” said Tucker, who had wound up between Sam and Valerie, who was still looking off. “Danny’s going to pull us forward.”

“Yep,” said Danny. “Just think light thoughts, or whatever.”

Again, slowly, because Danny wasn’t sure how hard some of his classmates could hold on, they drifted towards the school. However, unlike the bus, Danny did get there without his wheels falling off. He didn’t even misplace his shoes.

“We made it,” said Mikey, making a show of kissing the ground.

“Now what?” asked Ricky.

“Now,” said Danny, “we see if we can get across here.” He walked up to the doors.

“Is that safe?” asked Mr. Lancer. “This isn’t the real Casper High, after all.”

“It’s real enough,” said Danny. “Just… try not to look like the kind of kid who gets bullied.”

Dash and the other jocks puffed out their chests while Paulina applied a fresh layer of makeup. Problem was, to the shades that resided here, they were all weak and unfashionable. Heck, even Sidney could beat Dash into the ground. Speaking of which…

“Try not to look like bullies, either,” Danny added. “In fact, try and fly under the radar.”

“Maybe we could wait outside,” said Star.

“Uh, in the open?” asked Danny. “Inside, at least we’re in a lair. Ember won’t attack us there.”

Probably. He didn’t know how Ember and Sidney got along.

Sidney’s Casper High looked a lot like the real one. Obviously. Same layout, same crappy lockers, same weird paneling on the walls… It was easier to pick out the differences, like the light fixtures and the handles on the doors. Even the smell was the same. Mostly. It was just a little smokier, a little more citrusy.

It must have been during classes, because the halls were empty. Faint murmurs of sound came from behind classroom doors.

“Hey! You’re supposed to be in– Oh! It’s you, Ph–”

“Fenton, yeah, I know,” said Danny, rubbing the back of his neck and desperately hoping that Sidney got the hint.

Sidney fidgeted with his hall monitor badge for a second before his hands dropped back to his sides. “What are you all doing here?” He asked.

“We fell through a natural portal and got stranded,” said Danny. “I was wondering, hoping, really, that you might have something that can take us back to Amity?”

Poindexter shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, “that mirror was about it, unless you want to try, well… I don’t think you would. It’s kind of long.”

“I don’t know,” said Danny, “I think we might try anything, if it was reliable.”

“Eh, I guess it’s up to you, but sometimes you can get across if you stay in my locker for as long as, you know, I was.”

“You mean when you…”

“Crossed over that first time, yeah.”

“Yeah, okay. We’re not doing that.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“What are you two nerds talking about?” asked Dash.

“Death, mostly,” said Danny. “Please put two and two together. Please.” He turned back to Sidney. “Do you know of any way we could get passage either to the Fenton Portal or the Far Frozen, then?”

“Maybe?” said Sidney. He shrugged. “I’m not really connected, though.”

“I know,” said Danny, “but I can work out things to pay people with, after. I keep my promises.”

“Okay,” said Sidney. “Er, we’re about to have our lunch period, so maybe the rest of you go to the cafeteria, while I show Ph–”

“Fenton.”

“While I show Fenton the dovecote.”

“The what now?”

“The dovecote. For the carrier pigeons?”

Tucker’s mouth was hanging open. “What century are you from? Who uses carrier pigeons?”

“Phones don’t work in the Time Locked Lands! You have to make do!”

There was a loud, ringing sound, and, yep, even the bells were the same.

… When was the last time Casper High had been updated? At all? Yikes.

A mass of teenaged shades poured from the classrooms along with harried looking teachers.

“Just follow them,” said Sidney. “They’ll steer you right. Come on, Danny!”

Sidney pulled him away.

“They will be safe, right?” asked Danny.

“I think so,” said Sidney. “Everything here has been a lot more peaceful since, well, you know. You haven’t been here since then, I guess.”

“Yeah,” said Danny. Funny thing about trauma is that generally you didn’t want to return to where it had happened. Danny was bullied. Sidney had been tormented. “Didn’t think I’d be welcome, I guess.”

Sidney’s eyebrows went up. “No welcome? When you defeated the worst bully of all? When you sealed away Pariah Dark? Of course you’re welcome!”

“Thanks,” said Danny. They came out onto one of the school roofs. Perched on in a corner was a rectangle of color. The dovecote. It was a wooden box a few meters on each side, painted powder blue with gold and green trimmings.

Danny had suspicions.

“Did you… Get this from Dora?” he asked.

Sometimes, with all the weird skin colors, it was hard to tell when a ghost was blushing. Sidney, though, was definitely blushing. A lot.

“Uh,” said Danny, not ready for his guess to return anything but vehement denial. “Good… for you? Congratulations?”

“It’s not like that! She’s just really nice. And she likes the dances the school puts on now and again.” He flew over to the dovecote, still blushing furiously. “But these are from her kingdom, so if I tie one on, it should get to her in just an hour or so.” He smiled. “Better than snail mail, right?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, giving Sidney a thumbs up. “And you’re okay with us just being here?”

“Sure!” said Sidney. “You’ve got to go to classes and all, though.”

Danny blinked. “Is that a joke?”

It was not a joke. Especially not three and a half hours later when they all stumbled out into the courtyard.

“Well,” said Danny kneeling in preparation for laying down and pretending the world didn’t exist, “to be fair to us, all of these people have had fifty years to refine this stuff.”

“I want revenge,” said Hannah. “How do you get revenge on a ghost?”

“You don’t,” said Danny, not wanting to give her any ideas.

Then, something blocked out the meager light from one of the television-static-like strips in the sky. Overhead was a huge, pumpkin-like carriage pulled by scaly, draconic-looking horses. The door swung open, and a set of stairs that went from the door to the carriage to the ground - a distance of over two stories - unfolded. Princess Dora flew out and down the stairs, not touching them even once.

“Oh, Sam,” she said, throwing out her arms. “When I heard you were stranded, I just had to come.” She hugged Sam. Sam, gingerly, hugged her back.

“How are you doing, Dora?” asked Sam as Danny forced himself to get back up on his feet.

“Oh, marvelously. We’ve finally gotten the plumbing to work again since our last course correction put us back in the Time Locked Lands.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why my brother wanted to stay there, stay in that time. Oh, I know it was for the sake of his power, but, truly, modern things make everything so much more convenient. And how are you, Sir Daniel, Sir Tucker?”

“We’re good,” said Danny.

“Yeah, except for being stranded.”

“There is that. Can you help?”

Dora surveyed the other teenagers. “I believe so,” she said. She looked back up at her carriage, then at the students again, clearly comparing sizes. “I’ll have word sent back for two more carriages, then I can take you to the outskirts of the Far Frozen.”

“Not directly to their village?” asked Danny.

Dora shook her head sadly. “No, no. I’m a hot core. I wouldn’t do well in the Far Frozen, not any more than you would do well in Dis or the Burning Lands.”

“Sure wouldn’t,” said Danny. “Would you believe, someone tried to give us directions through there?”

Dora shook her head. “I’m sure they meant well. Now, where is Sidney?”

“He said something about chess club?”

“Oh, excellent. We can finish our game from last time. It shouldn’t be long until the next carriages come, though, so prepare yourselves.” She floated back up towards the carriage.

“Uh,” said Hannah, “who was that?”

“Princess Dora,” said Danny. “You remember the time we had a beauty pageant at the school? And the organizers turned out to be ghosts? Kidnapped Sam? That whole thing?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well,” said Sam, “Dora’s brother, who we shall not name, was basically forcing her to run that thing. But while I was kidnapped, we bonded, and talked a little about gender equality and praxis. That kind of thing. Then she deposed her brother.”

“Yeah,” said Hannah with a little fist pump. “Feminism.”

“We helped,” said Tucker. “We helped a lot. Did you hear how Danny and I were called sir? We’re knights.”

“Technically.”

“All knights are technically knights.”

“Our position is more ceremonial,” clarified Danny. “A lot more ceremonial.”

“Still knighted. Still knights.”

“So am I,” said Sam. “What’s your point?”

“I don’t know that he has one.”

“We helped! That’s my point!”

Danny shrugged. “It’s okay if she likes Sam better, really.”

“And she’s dating Poindexter?” asked Dash. “When she’s a princess?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s not, like, official as far as I know. But they like each other.”

After that, well. They were still experiencing massive mental fatigue from Sidney’s classes. No one spoke for a long time.

“Don’t your parents think ghosts are mindless or something?” asked Paulina. “Why is their math so hard if they’re mindless?”

“They’re not mindless, that’s how,” said Danny. “Really simple, that.”

“But the ones we get in Amity–”

“Are the people looking for trouble, usually. You wouldn’t say Phantom is mindless, would you?”

Valerie, who had been lying quietly on the grass, shot straight up. “You never told me how you knew I was ghost hunting,” she said, accusatorily.

“Your first suit didn’t disguise your voice,” said Danny. “Plus, whenever you were after Phantom, you yelled at him about how he ruined your life. Which was why you started dating Tucker that one time. Because you thought Phantom ruined your life, I mean.”

“Which I was totally okay with, by the way,” said Tucker, shooting her two thumbs up. “If you ever change your mind about that breakup, I’m still here and still fine.”

“I’ll pass.”

“So… are you feeling better?”

Valerie shrugged. “I’m… getting used to it,” she said. Which wasn’t really an answer. She laid back down.

If they didn’t get home soon, Danny would have to push it. But not yet.

Dora came back out before too long, a faint flush in her cheeks. “Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together, “I can take you to your portal, now. If you will follow me.” She returned to the stairs, and the class followed.

They were apprehensive about going up them, and Danny didn’t blame them. They didn’t seem terribly stable. But they should know by now that the laws of physics here were different than they were at home. If the flying bus didn’t clue them in and all.

But Danny, Sam, and Tucker didn’t have any such hesitation, and they started up almost at once.

Which made it all the more awkward to get down when Valerie tipped over and started convulsing.

“Stay back, everyone!” said Mr. Lancer, who knelt and turned Valerie on her side. He pulled her scarf off, revealing angry red and black lines creeping up her neck. “Mr. Baxter, give me your jacket.”

Dash stripped it off of himself without objection and tossed it over. Mr. Lancer folded it and put it under her head.

“Does she have fits often?” asked Dora, one hand over her mouth.

“No,” said Mr. Lancer, “she doesn’t.”

“Sam,” said Danny, “I think Casper High had a nurse back then. Do you think–”

“I’m on it,” said Sam, who took off running.

“Um,” said Danny. “We might have to– Um. Dora, which is closer, Technus’s lair or the Far Frozen?”

“Mr. Fenton–”

“The Far Frozen have doctors who can treat humans, and Technus is the one who gave her that tech. One of them will probably be able to help.”

Because he could no longer be sure that just getting back to the real world would fix this. Also, if anyone saw this, the secret government agencies might decide to dissect Valerie after all.

Danny was a horrible friend and a horrible hero. No wonder Valerie broke up with him. Even if that was sort of unrelated.

“Danny!” shouted Sam, jumping down the steps two at a time. An elderly ghost trailed behind her.

“Oh, dear,” said the ghost, passing Sam. “Oh, dear. We can’t really do much for seizures. How long has this been going on?”

“Only… maybe three minutes,” said Mr. Lancer. He wiped sweat away from his face. “Or– Shorter? I don’t know, I haven’t been keeping track.”

“That’s fine, dear,” said the elderly ghost. “Like I said, there’s not much to do about seizures… But she should get to a doctor soon, if this is her first one.”

Before too long, Valerie started to still, the shaking slowing, then stopping.

“Miss Gray? Valerie? Can you hear me?”

“Uhghh,” said Valerie. “Hnmn.”

“Valerie,” said Mr. Lancer, “you just had a seizure. Please, can you hear me?”

Valerie opened eyes that glowed faintly red. “I c’n hear you,” she said. She sat up, slowly, and rubbed her eyes.

“How do you feel?”

Valerie blinked slowly at the ground and didn’t respond.

“Valerie?”

“Hm?”

“How do you feel?”

“... Bad,” said Valerie after a long moment.

“Alright, dear,” said the nurse. “How about you and I get you a change of clothes and your friends and teacher talk about how to get to a doctor.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Sam.

“Me, too,” said Star.

“Dora,” said Danny, “do you know where they are, compared to here?”

“I– Yes. Yes. I do. Technus is closer, I believe, although I’ve only seen his lair once and he’s often away… We can go there, first, and then the Far Frozen. I can even send a messenger to alert them. One moment.” She flew away, to where the carriage’s drivers rested.

“Okay,” said Danny. “We’ll have to help Valerie get in the carriage, but–”

“Mr. Fenton, forgive me, but shouldn’t we return to Amity Park? The doctors there might not know much about ghostly diseases, but they are human doctors. Wouldn’t it be better?”

“You remember the ghost bug?” asked Danny. “Remember what happened then, what happened after. Except it’s just one person who can be disappeared and there’s no cure in sight. You know what I mean?”

Mr. Lancer covered his face with his hands.

“She has to be better before we go back.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Lancer. “We’ll go see this Technus and these Far Frozen people, but… we can’t stay long.”

“Right,” said Danny. There was, after all, everyone else to think of. And ectoplasm wasn’t exactly nutritious for humans. “Of course.”

“I’ve sent the message,” said Dora as she returned. “Hopefully, they will meet us at Technus’s lair, or when we are on our way.”

Valerie and the others came back out. Valerie was walking slowly, dressed in a gray blouse and greyer skirt. They helped her up the stairs into the carriage, and she promptly fell asleep.

Danny worried.

Danny worried as they flew through the green to Technus’s lair. He worried as they parked in front of it. He worried as Technus, frowning and wearing a bathrobe - what was it with ghosts and baths today? - opened his door and came out.

Then he acted.

“Hey!” he shouted, leaning out of the carriage door. “Your stupid suit is making my friend sick! You’d better be able to fix it!”

“Your friend? The shouty girl?”

“Valerie!”

“Yes, yes,” said Technus. “Valerie Gray! Shouldn’t you two be dating? I put a lot of work into that!”

“We broke up,” said Danny. “Fix. It. Or. Else.”

Technus cackled. “Oh, you crack me up, ghost child. Your threats are so tiny and cute.”

“I will end you!”

Technus continued to chortle. “I’ll look at your little friend. Just a friend, hm? Maybe you’ll get back together?” His bathrobe liquified and turned into his usual long white coat. “Move aside, move aside. Hm. That’s interesting.”

“What is?” asked Danny. He gazed at Valerie nervously. She was awake, now… but she hadn’t responded to anything. Not even Technus picking up her arm and dropping it.

“Programming I didn’t put there! I did decide to make it adaptive, but this is really extraordinary.”

“Can you fix it?” asked Danny.

“The technology? Of course! Am I not Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping! And this is electronic! And beeping! But you should bring the girl to your icy friends afterward anyway. I’m not great at bodies.”

“Great,” said Danny, relaxing for the first time since Valerie collapsed. “You fix it, then.” He collapsed into the nearest seat.

“Uh, Danny?” asked Mikey.

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t this one of the guys Phantom fights all the time?”

“Yeah? So what?”

“You were threatening him?”

“So?”

“Hush, children! You’re harshing my vibrations!”

“Don’t question it,” said Danny.

“Yeah, Danny obviously works for the CIA,” said Hannah. “Get with the program.”

“Never insult me like that again,” said Danny.

“CHILDREN, I AM WORKING!”

They fell quiet.

“There,” said Technus after another several minutes passed. “That should do it. It had adjusted to a lower ectoplasm setting, and when you moved to the Zone, one of the filter breaks was overloaded and burned out.”

“Is that it?”

“There were a few other things, but they were no match for I, Technus!”

“Why isn’t she waking up, then?” asked Lancer.

Technus shrugged. “Beats me. That part isn’t electronic. Or beeping. I don’t do chemical reactions.”

That was, Danny knew, a blatant lie. What Technus didn’t do was biology, which was fair enough, honestly.

“Well, thanks,” said Danny. “But we should go, now.”

“Does this mean you won’t chase me down when–”

“Goodbye, Technus.”

Technus slunk out.

“Mr. Fenton,” said Mr. Lancer, “dare I ask why you would chase down a ghost.”

“No,” said Danny.

“No?”

“No.” He got up and sat down between Sam and Tucker. They both gave him incredulous looks. He shrugged at them. He’d panicked. ‘No’ was the best he could come up with. Sue him. This was stressful.

Dora rapped on the wall between the carriage interior and the drivers, and they were off again.

“How long is it to this ‘Far Frozen?’” asked Mr. Lancer.

“A few hours from here, I believe,” said Dora, “but distances can be treacherous here.”

“Is it cold there?” asked Mikey.

“Oh, yes. It’s the coldest place I’ve ever been to. But don’t worry. They have an outpost on one of their satellite islands. It’s quite comfortable there.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Danny.

“Yes, well, it’s my understanding that you and your friends generally fly directly to Iceheart.”

Although everyone’s attention had already been focused on him and Dora, it now sharpened greatly. He sunk down in his seat and focused on not turning invisible.

“You three,” said Mr. Lancer, “how often have you been here.”

“Again,” mumbled Danny, “the portal is in the basement. And there was the time I was kidnapped…”

“The multiple times you were kidnapped,” corrected Sam, hurriedly.

“And the time Sam was kidnapped,” added Tucker. “I avoided being kidnapped.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Danny.

“I thought we agreed that time didn’t count.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“We did.”

Before they could get into a sufficiently distracting ‘yes we did’ versus ‘no we didn’t’ argument, Mr. Lancer intervened.

“Do your parents know about this?”

“We’re teenagers, Mr. Lancer,” said Sam. “We don’t tell our parents anything.”

“Besides, my parents think all ghosts are evil.” Danny shrugged. “I don’t want them to try and hunt down my kidnappers and shoot people like Dora instead.”

“But Dora… Kidnapped Miss Manson.”

“We’re friends, now,” said Sam. “We got over it ages ago.”

“Sam is my very best and very first friend,” said Dora. “We correspond frequently.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Lancer.

“And even Technus isn’t that bad. The catfishing aside.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not. He plays Doomed, too, you know.”

“Hello the carriage!” called a voice from outside.

“That must be the Far Frozen, coming to meet us,” said Dora.

“Great,” said Danny, opening the door. Sure enough, one of the Far Frozen’s high-tech skimmers was pulling up alongside the carriage as they slowed down. The skimmer pulled a large trailer with a red cross, a rod of Asclepius and other symbols of healthcare emblazoned on its side. “Thank goodness.”

“Are those… yetis?” asked Mr. Lancer faintly.

“Yes!” said Hannah. “I knew bigfoot was real!”

… Danny decided to let her have that one.

“They’re some of the best doctors in the Zone,” said Danny. “They helped me before, too, when I was hurt.”

“Mr. Fenton, I’m becoming more and more concerned about what you get up to outside of school.”

“Sorry,” said Danny. “But it’s Amity Park. I’m sure everyone has some scary stories to tell.”

“Not like that, we don’t,” said Ricky.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have the hell-portal in your basement,” said Tucker. “That changes things!”

There was various muttering, mostly on the theme that the portal shouldn’t exist and Danny’s parents were crazy. They weren’t exactly wrong.

The two Far Frozen doctors approached the carriage, and Danny saw, happily, that Frostbite was one of them. He waved.

“It is good to see you, young one,” said Frostbite. “I understand you have a patient?” He stooped down to peer in through the door. “Can you send them out?”

It took more maneuvering than it probably should have to get Valerie to the door, but they eventually did, and Frostbite had her lie down on a floating stretcher, which they pushed over to the ambulance-cart.

Danny followed, hopping over and hoping none of his classmates would do the same. He was close enough, here, to help if something went wrong, but he’d probably be able to talk to Frostbite a little more freely if it was just him and Valerie.

“This is not something we see very often,” said Frostbite as he scanned Valerie with a wand-like object.

“You know what it is, then?”

“Yes,” said Frostbite, gravely. “It is an affliction of warlocks, sorcerers, and other similar sorts. Too much ectoplasm all at once.”

“What about everyone else?” asked Danny. “They’re all here, and it’s hard to get more ectoplasm than this.” He waved his hands at the Zone.

“As long as they are not consuming it, they should be fine. If your friend here acclimated herself to the amount of ectoplasm more gradually, she, too, would be unharmed. But it appears that the ‘suit’ as Princess Dorathea called it in her dispatch to us, was somewhat designed to absorb ectoplasm to power itself.”

“That… sounds like it should be right. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not at the moment. We have a solution to the issue, although it may take some time for it to take effect. In the meantime, we can keep heading towards the Far Frozen.”

“Okay,” said Danny. “Should I stay here, or…?”

“Either would be fine, great one.”

“Right,” said Danny. He glanced down at Valerie’s blank face and then away. “Maybe I’ll sit on the skimmer.” That sounded like a good compromise.

Sam and Tucker joined him a minute later, followed shortly thereafter by Dora.

“Lancer keeps muttering to himself about whether or not to call the police when we get back,” said Sam.

“Well,” said Danny, “I guess they do need to do something about the bus. You don’t think Mr. Kennedy will get into trouble for it, do you?”

“No,” said Sam, “I’m more worried about you. And the portal.”

“I can always use Vlad’s if ours gets shut down,” said Danny. “If it can be shut down.” He shrugged. “It… probably should have been shut down right away. It’s not exactly safe, and… maybe fewer ghosts will come through.”

“I don’t know,” said Tucker. “It’s mostly natural portals, these days.”

“Yeah, but maybe they’ll think twice about getting stranded if our portal isn’t there as a backup plan. Right, Dora?”

“It’s possible,” said Dora, “but in my experience, beings like the ones you must often deal with rarely care about consequences.” She shrugged daintily. “My brother, for example.”

“Valerie will be okay, right?” asked Sam.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “That’s what Frostbite said. She just ate too much ectoplasm.”

“What, does her suit absorb it or something?”

“Apparently.”

They watched the zone-scape go by. It grew colder.

“I wonder if they have any extra coats,” said Tucker, shivering.

“I’m sure they do,” said Dora. “Let’s see. On my last visit…” She started to poke around the hatches on the skimmer’s deck. “Ah! Here!” She handed Tucker a garment.

“Is this okay to take?” asked Tucker.

“It’s in your size,” pointed out Dora.

“Good point,” said Tucker. No one in the Far Frozen was Tucker’s size, after all.

“Is there enough for everyone?” asked Danny, going over to help Dora.

“If there isn’t, I do have a few sets of cold gear stored under each carriage, just in case. The Far Frozen’s work is much superior, however.”

Shortly after they distributed the coats, the Far Frozen started to come into view. First, as a pale lavender smear against the green backdrop, and then as a stunning sculpture of sweeping curls of ice, all natural… or imitation natural. There were a few, Danny knew, that had been hollowed out or made larger to serve as watchtowers and other defenses.

After all, for ghosts, the war against Pariah Dark had not been that long ago.

But they did not go directly to the large, glacial island, but to a smaller, rockier one with a stone tower built on it. The skimmer docked at the very top, and more yetis poured out of the inside, carrying various supplies.

“It shouldn’t be much longer until your friend is awake and mobile,” said Frostbite. “I would like to keep her for observation, but we have little in the way of human food at the moment, and I would not like to afflict your other companions with malnutrition.” He paused. “I believe we do have hot chocolate, however. Would you like some?”

“I would like some, if they do not,” said Dora, shivering.

Frostbite looked at her with some concern. “We can start a fire downstairs.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” said Dora. “After all, you and your people are working to preserve a life. I will not sacrifice your comfort for my own.”

“Speaking of comfort, I should probably let the others know we aren’t getting eaten or anything.”

He did. It went about as well as could be expected, which meant that people either didn’t believe him, cast doubt on his experience, and subtly implied that his parents should be in jail. Or not so subtly.

Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but he was tired. He was allowed to exaggerate.

“So, anyway,” said Danny, “all we have to do now is wait. Frostbite said Valerie should be good to go, soon, and then Dora will take us back. No more detours.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.”

“Dora can turn into a dragon. There aren’t a lot of people who would attack her.”

Of course, everyone wanted to know about that.

“Mr. Fenton,” said Mr. Lancer, a few minutes later, “distractions are all very well and good, but you can’t run from reasonable questions forever.”

“I’m not trying to,” said Danny, who was very much trying to.

He was full of lies today! Who would have thought?

“Yeah, you’re just trying to make excuses for your stupid crazy parents who brought all the ghosts to Amity!”

“Hey! They didn’t bring all the ghosts! Spectra was already around!”

“That’s… that’s true,” said Mr. Lancer, “her application had been in for a while…”

“So, there. Y’all’d’ve been killed by Spectra if it weren’t for my parents. So, there.”

“What– What was that word you just used?” asked Mr. Lancer.

“There?”

Mr. Lancer gazed at him with despair.

“What?” asked Danny, looking at Sam and Tucker. “What’d I say?”

“I think it was the southernism that got through. From your aunt, you know.” Tucker shrugged. “Y’all’d’ve.”

“Arkansas isn’t in the south.”

“It totally is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Is.”

“It’s in the south,” said Mr. Lancer. “I’m going to lie down for a while, I think.”

Mr. Lancer did, in fact, lie down.

“He reminds me of one of my tutors,” said Dora, pleasantly. “He had to retire. UIcers.”

“Cool,” said Danny.

It was only a couple hours later that Frostbite stuck his head in the carriage door.

“Young one,” he said.

They were working hard not to slip and call Danny Phantom or great one. He appreciated that.

“Your young friend, Miss Gray, is awake and aware. If you would help her over, I think that would be for the best. She’s mentioned a hoverboard, but I think that using any of her enhancements would be detrimental at this point in time.”

Danny jumped up and followed Frostbite out of the carriage, crossing the gap between the carriage and the skimmer in a single bound. Which might have been showing off just a little. But he was allowed. He then hopped off the skimmer into the ambulance trailer.

“Hi, Valerie,” he said. “You’re feeling better?”

She was, at least, sitting up, although her shoulders were hunched and she looked very much like she wanted to fight off Frostbite and the other doctor.

“I guess,” she said. Then she turned a truly toxic glare on him. “You. You’re Phantom.”

“Uh, nooooooo?” said Danny.

“Oh my gosh, you are. You suck at lying.”

“No I don’t!”

Valerie stared at him with the same sort of despair as Mr. Lancer.

“Anyway,” said Danny, “I’m here to bring you back to the carriage.”

“I can’t believe you outed me when you could have fought off Ember at any time.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be dissected.”

“I don’t want to be dissected either.”

“You probably would have passed out anyway,” said Danny. “That seizure was going to happen, Ember or not.”

“You don’t know that.”

Frostbite cleared his throat. “It probably was. But it is my understanding that the two of you want to return home?”

“Yeah,” said Danny. “Come on, Val, I’ll carry you across, back to the carriage. It’ll be like that time Skulker kidnapped us.”

“You mean, when you overshadowed me.”

“Uh,” said Danny, sweating. “Before that. I carried you before that, right?”

“If you drop me,” said Valerie, “I will shoot you.”

“Noted.”

Danny did not drop Valerie. On the other hand, he did get a lot of weird looks when they came back in. Especially from the jocks.

… Was there something on Danny’s arms? No?

“Thanks, Frostbite,” said Danny. “I really owe you one.” He kind of owed the yetis five thousand or so, but who was counting? Not him.

“It’s nothing, young one. After all, you have helped us in ways we cannot repay so easily.”

There was some muttering among Danny’s classmates that he would probably have to address at some point, but that was a problem for future him. Hopefully, far future him. Because screw that guy. Danny had met him, and he was a real jerk.

“I think we all feel that way,” said Dora. “Will I be seeing you at the regional meeting, Chief Frostbite?”

“Most likely, Princess Dorathea. Good day, to all of you.”

“Regional meeting?” asked Sam.

“There was a great deal of argument about what to call it,” said Dora, “but it is the regular meeting of the various heads of state of this region. It’s something new we’re trying.”

“That sounds great,” said Sam. “Is it like the UN, or…?”

Danny tuned them out as he sat down and leaned his head back against the carriage wall. Finally. They were going home for real. This had been a long day.

The next thing Danny knew, Tucker was shaking him awake. “Huh?” said Danny, eloquently.

“This’s our stop,” said Tucker. “Come on, let’s get out.”

Danny looked around. “No one else is getting out.”

“They want you to jump into the spinny vortex of death first.”

“Oh. Joy,” said Danny. He got up, stretched, cracked his spine really well, and walked to the door. “Dora, I really can’t thank you enough for this.”

“Silly,” said Dora. “Sir Daniel, I meant what I said when you were talking to Chief Frostbite. The three of you have done a lot for us.”

More muttering from the class. Then Paulina stepped forward.

“What did you even do that all of these ghosts like you?”

“It was the feminism!” said Hannah. “Didn’t you listen?”

“I don’t think he brought feminism to the giant ice monsters. Why is it that you suddenly stop being suspicious about things as soon as they aren’t– aren’t crazy conspiracy theories?” She stomped her foot a little.

Danny cleared his throat. “Actually, the feminism thing was Sam. Not me.”

“So why do they like you?”

“My sparkling personality,” said Danny.

“No, that’s actually me,” said Tucker. “And as wonderful as this has been, I kind of want to have my feet on solid ground again. See you, Dora!” Tucker leaped out the door and through the portal.

“Yeah, that’s a plan,” said Danny, also jumping through.

“You know,” said Tucker, as Danny hopped a little, trying to keep his feet underneath him, “I’m kind of surprised that, after everything, your parents still don’t have a reliable door on this thing.”

“Shut up and don’t give anyone any more ideas.”

One by one, the rest of Danny’s classmates came through the portal, until they were all standing in the lab, staring at the mess dazedly.

“Oh, good,” said Mr. Lancer, the last one through. “We’re back. Frankenstein, Mr. Fenton, is this really your basement?”

“The one and only!” lied Danny cheerfully. He was not up to explaining the Fenton Stockades.

“It looks like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Waiting?” asked Danny, right before cursing his inability to let a quip lie. He was tired. Sue him.

Mr. Lancer stared at him. Danny stared back.

“I’m calling an ambulance for Miss Gray,” he said, “and then CPS for Mr. Fenton.”

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic phight 2023

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imaginesofeverykind · 22 days

Text

Witches Brew ~ Chapter 1

Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood/gore, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, gore themes, Aegon being the epitome of ‘omg i’ll do whatever except tell mum’, Body horror, 18+ Minors DNI

Tags: DnD-Esque style AU, Targaryens aren't royalty but they are Noblefolk, some things are purposefully vague :S :S

Chapter Song: Go Tell Aunt Rhody (RE7 soundtrack) - Michael A. Levine, Jordan Reyne

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Word Count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.

”Please!”

A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.

He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him.

“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort.

Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”

He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.

”Sit.”

He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.

A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the Kings Road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.

”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid above all.

You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lordling. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.

But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.

You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than that of humans, they threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.

His eye was gone. That was a shame. You were fond of eyes as payment.

”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.

”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.

“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.

You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.

Anger overcame him, outstretching his hands and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.

The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.

“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”

Animal. As if you were no longer good enough to be likened to a person, a human person capable of human things. ‘They fear what they cannot control,’ the voice is recalled into your mind, a vague memory of the past resurfacing as though it meant to reassure you.

Your lips twist into an awry smirk, and the second he blinks you have once again dissolved through his hands like an apparition. Reappearing by his brother's side, sliced hand outstretched to let your own blood drip tantalizingly slow over the unconscious man’s face.

In your other hand is a surprisingly ornate steel flask, an eyesore amongst the natural clutter. Whatever liquid you have delicately poured down the man’s throat is sanguine, syrupy thick like honey. You sense there is something not quite right mere seconds before the man begins to convulse violently, gasping for air that he cannot breathe.

”What have you done?!” Nostrils flared and ire rising, the able bodied one charged toward you like a boar gone rabid.

You grew tired of his impetulant outbursts, whispering a soft incantation with hurried hand flourishes and his movements ceded. Burnt into the wooden boards around his feet, still smoking with specks of orange embers were runes, etched into a circle. Something felt off, the air reeked of acrid mildew mixed with copper and you knew instantly what triggered the reaction.

Ignoring the binded man’s threats you let the magic sing to you, caress you, consume you while softly speaking in a forgotten and forbidden tongue.

The windows and door fly open, inviting in a malstrom of wind, tempestuous and bludgeoning, the centre it wishes to converge is at the body on the table still choking, still clawing at himself for air. His spirit dwindles at every garbled breath but you sense his will and you could feel his fight, he was a warrior through and through even in the face of imminent mortal peril. Not many of those who seek you, offer the same resoluteness.

The older brother is driven to shield his face from the vacuum of wind battering him against the unseen magical force which keeps him in place. Fear was evident in his eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret and guilt though you don’t linger too long as you shout a final mantra, holding both your forearms with formidable strength that is unbroken until the last word passes your lips, you break your grasp.

And then suddenly, the gale force of destruction dissipates.

Silence follows. And you are sat beside the young brother, placing a paste across the part of his face which had been torn away viciously. “What attacked him?” It was the first time you had spoken so directly, but it was because you knew the answer, the nobleman before you couldn’t possibly know what lurked through the mangroves and stalked beneath the stillwater.

He doesn’t appear to comprehend the question at first, muttering to himself a litany of false truths to explain what had happened right in front of him. His very own trembling brings him back from his prison of thoughts as his gaze lifts cautiously to meet yours, “a Direwolf.”

“How did you know it was a Direwolf?” You ask instantly, predicting that he would say as much. No matter, you step over to the cabinet that housed jars filled with all sorts of assorted components for potion making or spell casting, the moon light coming through the window casting an eerie shadow on the workspace.

”What else do you call a giant fucking wolf, what does it matter?” He grew restless again.

You dripped a small phial of black liquid into the mortar filled with other ingredients with great haste, eyes curiously peering out the window looking at the moon as you grimly sigh and mix together what’s been obtained. “It matters,” you grit, trying to grind the remainder of the paste, “the difference between a Direwolf and what attacked him is an exceptionally vindictive blood curse.”

He blinked at you, “what?”

You discard the mortar and cross the room swiftly, shelves littered with bones, glowing rocks and a variety of ceremonial looking daggers. Though magic and its very history were being erased by the ‘new god’, you still hoped those within the settlement weren’t entirely sheltered.

“He will know no master lest it is the moon, he will know no anger stronger than wrath, he will know only pain and isolation.”

The expression that fell across his face told you all that was needed; He understood fully what was at stake, just as you had moments before. Though his resolve hardened and he met your gaze once more, “cure him. Whatever it takes, I do not care!” Both of you knew he was in no position to demand, not when he was still held in place by unseen magic and you had proven many times how easily it was to simply disappear.

And that is what you did, if only briefly, shooting him a coy smile before vanishing and leaving him in ruination for the moment. In the silence, forced to look at his brother made his lip tremble. He hoarsely called out to him, shaky words choking in half sobs to beckon him awake and rip him from unconsciousness to no avail.

”He’s not here,” You softly say, causing him to jump when you reappear and brush past him. “His soul is in limbo, he won’t hear you.” But I can, you think, the energy sings to your soul in a gentle hymn and your blood sings back to it. In your hand a lock of silver hair clasped in your fist, having come from where you disappeared to, though it caused immediate alarm for the man.

He pointed a finger at your hand and grimaced, his bottom lip still trembling but no longer from hopelessness. Though he doesn’t ask the question out loud, you know what he’s thinking and you were certain he wouldn’t like the answer regardless of how you explained it.

“Whatever it takes,” you gently repeated his words and it was enough to silence him, for far longer than you thought was possible. Though the silence was welcomed, encouraging concentration while you handled the spellcraft with the care and love that had been taught to you. The woman in your memory that provided warmth and affection was not your mother by blood and yet she lived through your very essence as if she were.

She was there with every spell, whispering gently and coaxing a power buried deep within you. She was in the walls of the hut, imbuing you with much needed protection from creatures and men. And she was here, watching you through omniscient delight as you dedicated part of your essence to a stranger and his injured brother.

The serenity only just takes the edge of tension away, as if you weren’t tending to the impossible feat of near resurrection and stitching a man whole together once more. Life was fragile, mortality was inevitable even to those who yearn against it but magic could manipulate it enough even if it took great energy. It wasn’t without drawbacks, though. Transactional in nature, to undo what has been done required blood magic, the type of magic you were versed well in but it almost always came with consequence.

’What is taken, must be given back’ the words of your ‘mother’ echoed superfluously everytime your duty required meddling with the laws of nature. Perhaps that was why many travelers or townsfolk revered you as a hag, if not for the way you dressed or looked or lived, then for your duty as an indiscriminate arbiter of unfairness and misfortune.

Magic was fair, balanced and it obeyed karmic laws, this was why you cradled such energy. Life was not, it was often unfair and that much had been made clear the moment your real mother left you in a swamp to be taken by whatever monsters prowled in search for their next meal.

So you do what needed to be done - if only a little self serving to you personally but - you give back the injured man what had been clawed away and take something from his family locked away in their fortress within the walls of their beloved township. Not without a final twist in the knife for the older brother who demanded your help many hours ago. Appearing beside him like a shade, gripping his wrist abruptly and slicing a line across his palm to draw blood.

He attempted to fight back but he was bound, he could only wince and complain while you squeezed the blood into a medium phial. When you had finished, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest as if to soothe the pain and grimaced at you almost childishly, “you could’ve asked.”

A faint smile tickles the corner of your lips, though it was no matter of if his words were amusing or his mannerism when he calmed down were fascinating, there was still a task at hand.

The final part of the brutal rite fell appropriately on the witching hour, where the crow sings thrice while the moon is still high. To complete everything, you dropped several dribbles of the brother's blood into the injured’s mouth and finished off your words of sacrilege.

”He will recover,” You announce, finally after what seemed like hours upon hours of the sounds of your transfixed mumblings and careful spell work.

The man hadn’t heard you at first, in fact he had barely registered the runic circle by his feet had disappeared quite some time ago which meant he was no longer bound in place yet he still remained as if he were. But the only thing that broke him from his trance had been the shallow breath followed by his younger brother lurching forward in a confused panic.

No longer was his face torn, eye gouged, the only indication of that was the faint pink scar that remained. His eyes — both, set on you and he surged forward straight toward your neck. Not that you could blame him for being in such a state, though it would be rather humorous to allow him to indulge in his urges and let him throttle you, you step out of his reach like an alluring treat that only served to frustrate him.

The older one flung himself forward, fretting over the younger and the tension immediately dispersed into quaint relief. Though it lasted no longer than a matter of moments, chaos stalked the two like they were messengers from the god of chaos himself, the energy between them repelling from one another like static in a storm. You could merely watch on in light amusement at the bickering duo.

“— I already think so low of you and yet you exceed expectations once more. Bringing me to this devil whisperer's den?!”

”Well I was simply not going to bring you home marked and dying!”

“If you must lie that you care for me dear brother, at least have the conviction to not pretend you had my interests at heart when we both know you wish to save your skin. Now I have to explain to mother why I stench of sin.”

You laughed, quite loudly it had broken the two from grappling one another to look over. The glimpses of lives you often see when people stop by are often times quite enlightening, just as it appeared in the present between two quarrelling brothers. One who thirsts for recognition and appreciation while the other wishes to disappear and fade to obscurity.

“Do we amuse you, hag?” The younger ones eyes set on you, his grimace was apparent as he did little to hide his contempt.

“Quite.” You hum, barefoot toes curling into the splintered wood while thinking aimlessly. No words followed, not when your gaze cast on the elder who had gone a shade lighter in his face, his limbs beginning to quake and tremble. Cracked lips curling into a smile as you watch him collapse to the floor, writhing in what one could assume was unrelenting pain, the type of pain that embedded itself into a person.

“Aegon — Brother!” The younger falls to his brothers side and you watch curiously, how interesting the dynamic was between the brothers. Their resentment ran deep yet there was still a matter of love beneath it, a bond that weaved itself between them despite such obtuse differences.

The younger was furious, shooting his deadly gaze at you with nostrils flared and he lunged at you, this time for mere entertainment, you let his hands wrap around your neck and press you hard against the cabinet. “You fucking monster! What have you done to me! To him?!” He spat, rightfully so, you thought that someone as pious as him would befall such a fate, though from the little information you’ve gathered on the two, Aegon — as you now know him — did not share such piety.

A weary smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, choking out, “I am no monster, little lordling though it pleases me so, to bestow a mark on your family who seeks to reject their very own heritage.”

The screams and pleas of Aegon in the background fuelled this one’s anger, “we’ll have you burnt for that —“ His hands tighten their grip, leaving you to his mercy for now in his hands like a ragdoll force to move at his whim, jerking you forward and then slamming you back into the cabinet. Glass shattered from the impact around the both of you but your focus remained on him, the only thing to do in the instance was laugh and so you did.

“Quite the ferocious brute you are — you’d have made a fine servant to the moon, though I cannot say the same about your brother.” His hands squeezed down on your windpipe with malicious intent but you remain unperturbed despite the immense pressure building within your head. Like a bubble about to burst.

The elders' whimpers of pain droned on in the background, mixing into the symphony of nature that carried on throughout the marsh. You had a little too much fun toying with people, if they were to treat you a certain way, who were you to not at least get amusement from it?

You laughed, bringing a fist full of powder up and flicking it in his face before disappearing through his fingertips like grains of sand. The powder served distraction enough, staggering him back and you silently thank your motherly figure for always ensuring you carried turmeric. Even if it was to ward off bad spirits only.

When you reappeared, your lips barely skimming the shell of Aegon’s ear as you whisper a soft incantation, it felt lewd and profane but at once his pain ceased. The wrinkling in his forehead and face softened while beads of sweat trickled downward, threatening to sully his eyesight by falling into it.

In your hand was the phial of blood you had taken from Aegon, the other held the scruff of his neck. His brother only just recovered from having powder flung in his face, the searing and burning had barely stopped when his eyes settled on you, hovering over Aegon like an enchantress with ill intent.

You crushed the phial in your hands, glass cutting the insides of your palm mixing two bloods together, placing your bloodied hand to Aegon’s sweaty forehead and began muttering swift words. You turned to the younger one, haggard and crazed with a look in your eye that seemed to elicit fear in both of them, raising a clawed hand up you pointing directly at him.

“I have done what is asked of me, to unmark and unburden you. And the cost has been paid. He —“ you look down at Aegon’s fearful eyes, and something in your mind whispers to you to show mercy, it is not your voice, rather hers the one who taught you the ways of magic, “he may now be a servant of the moon but he is bound to me. Every lunar cycle when the moon is at its fullest he must come to me lest he be made an example from the zealot’s who poison your minds with promises of false salvation and piety.” You were still rather on the theatrical side, not truly enforcing a blood bind on him. And yet, it had the desired effect. Fear.

“And if he doesn’t?” The younger asks in mock defiance, serving as a mask to hide the fear so prevalent in his eyes.

“Then when you pray at night you better hope your false god listens.”

——— Taglist ———

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged for the next update! :D

@karlachs-soldier

#imagines #imagine #fanfiction #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon

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starqueensthings · 10 months

Text

Dork Love: Part Two

Ao3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Summary: Life had returned to normal. Despite the budding adoration that had plagued you since meeting him, hopes of any type of relationship with Tech had diminished as time continued to pass, and you’d shifted your attention to the continued demands of owning a successful business. Until a surprise arrives to brighten your day…

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you look hard enough)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 7594 (I am so sorry lol)

A/N: This is the *slowest* of slow burns… borderline painfully slow, but writing accelerated intimacy feels really off-brand for Tech, especially when it’s a strangers to lovers trope. The man needs time to process! This chapter kinda drags a bit because there’s a lot of scene structure, but all of the seemingly useless details will play a part in chapter 3, I promise. Enjoy!

Thank you to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading ❤️

Days, differentiated only by the restful hours between evening and morning, passed underfoot without the appearance of anything even remotely as thrilling as the adventure of the riflescope. Mirroring the return of mundanity, the sun had become a recluse, the warmth of its exquisite majesty virtually smothered by a dark, dense veil of cloud that, despite the persistent bite of a cool wind, refused to shift aside.

This morning saw the clamouring chime of your chrono alarm rouse you from a slumber enriched with renderings of large brown eyes crinkled under the pressure of a shy smile, though the moment that yours fluttered open, unfocussed and narrowed against the jarring intonation that abruptly robbed you of your reverie, the imagery vanished from both thought and memory.

The recurring cool drizzle, falling mercilessly from the grey blanket above, had imbued the road outside of your shop so completely that it now more resembled a path of mirrors, capable of nothing except intensifying the gloom lingering overhead.

The drafty windows of your storefront whistled to the tune of the cold wind as if resolute that no area be free of its subjugate song, and in an effort to retain as much body heat as possible, a steaming cup of caf had found itself a permanent extension of your left hand. Despite the handicap that accompanied a continuously occupied limb, the counter behind your register was nearly barren, laden with only a sporadic collection of tasks left to complete.

Ten cold fingers had oriented themselves in a wreath around the ceramic mug still poised in your clutches, all of them trembling under the duress of your insistent need to sip at the warm pool of caffeine. With lips bunched to one side in a motion that inexplicably corralled your concentration, your eyes scanned the trio of trays scattered across the back counter. The urgency in which they needed to be addressed dwindled as the clock ticked the present into the past, and it was with a mumbled, “I’ll call them tomorrow” that you hastily stacked the containers and stowed them away.

A satisfied sigh poured from your lips and your shoulders squared pridefully of their own volition as you turned and departed the area, offering only a fleeting peek toward the mizzling outside as you passed. Semi-concealed in the shadowed corner beside the refresher, and adorned with an unostentatious sign that read “authorized personnel only”, was a door that separated the retail space from the backroom. On the left side past the threshold, and traversed so frequently over the years by various shoes that the stain itself had worn off the floorboards, was a piteous excuse for a kitchen. A single bank of cupboards anchored a derelict aluminum sink, the deep basin bespeckled with water spots and blotches that refused to dissipate despite countless, vigorous scrubs. The durasteel countertop flanking either side of the vessel still held much of its original integrity, though its formerly reflective surface was now hazy from decades of being scratched, buffed, and rescratched. An unpretentious caf machine found itself perched on the end of the counter nearest to the door, and its repeated call-to-arms as a reinforcement in your battle against early mornings and human fatigue, had seen it begin to look worse for wear, the heating element encrusted and charred in spots, and the glass carafe cracked and hastily repaired with industrial grade glue.

Arranged parade style in the depths of the sink was a legion of used and forgotten mugs, silently awaiting the shower that would free them from the sticky residue of a caf long since devoured. Their appearance wasted no time robbing your shoulders of their gratified posture, and you were reminded, once again, that mental checklists were growing increasingly insufficient in the thralls of your overstimulated mind.

“Wash mugs, water plants.”

Your chilled hands dug their way from one pocket to the next, furtively searching every crevasse and fold of your lab coat for any semblance of a pen; any tool that you could use to ensure the tasks did not continue to slip from the forefront of your mind. A cantillating chant erupted on your lips, repeating the small series of words as you yanked the cap off a red lens marker and hurried to ink a scrawled reminder on the back of your hand.

Your feet guided you thoughtlessly from the room, the familiar cadence taking you back atop the worn footpath and across the narrow hallway to the Mecca of your business: the workshop.

The fabrication lab was a modestly sized and minimally furnished room, and likely appeared to the untrained eye as a recipient unworthy of the several thousand credits that you had funneled into its refurbishment, yet the space had become both your sanctuary and your perdition. Several purchases later, all of them procrastinated in the name of thorough research, saw all new manufacturing equipment installed in the space. Despite your uncle’s repeated claims of their superiority to modern machinery, the equipment he’d bestowed upon you with the purchase of his business had deteriorated at a rate similar to his wizened mind, the tools habitually seizing mid cycle, their mechanics unable to overcome the strain that decades of neglect that had enchained them.

Their sophisticated replacements now encircled the perimeter of the room, meticulously and deliberately placed to maximize functionality in the void of square footage, and their sparkling infancy created a drastic yet welcome contrast to the decrepit cupboards of which they sat atop. But the flame ignited by the potential of efficiency upon their installation, was aglow for only hours before being snuffed completely by an unaccounted for realization: voltage requirements had apparently changed since the previous equipment had been wired. It was now a frustratingly common occurrence for fuses in the electrical panel to blow if you didn’t maintain a hyperfocussed awareness of which machines were cycling simultaneously, the infancy of the equipment now a hindrance, as your role of mechanical babysitter emerged.

The lights overhead buzzed menacingly as you brought them to life, and it was with haste that you added “call electrician” to the tasklist on the back of your hand, but despite the dirty dishes having stolen a portion of your resolve, the tower of orders waiting to be manufactured saw your cold knuckles cracked into action, and your sleeves yanked to your elbows before the flickering bulbs ceased their warning.

With knitted brows, you turned your attention to the counter on the right, hands instantly working to dismantle and sort the acrylic containers into an arrangement with some semblance of priority, while your eyes searched relentlessly for a specific triad of exigent orders; three small pairs of the glasses, the colourful frames fated to remain lens-less for only minutes longer now that the opportunity to initiate their fabrication had finally presented itself. You found your prize in the third tray from the bottom, you gaze quickly unfocussing upon the invoice as the sight of their exotic names launched your mind’s eye into a recollection of that humbling day:

Tarlu, a Twi’lek man from the 22nd level of Coruscant’s underworld had made the trip into your shop several weeks ago, a stunning turquoise chain of clasped hands stumbling in tow behind him; three small children, all of whom appeared at first glance to be a spitting image of their broad shouldered father, though their sparkling, violet eyes, dancing around the foreign corners of your shop, were largely unlike the electric blue of his own. He uttered a cautionary warning to them, a demand for the respect of good behaviour while he ‘spoke to the nice shop owner’, and the half dozen steps that he took away from his children, purposefully orienting his back to them in some semblance of privacy, were not lost on you.

Age and the innate understanding that accompanied life experience had yet to rob the children of their naivety, and innocent shrieks laden with insouciant joy left their mouths as they disobeyed their father’s plea, running amok around the confines of your shop. Their violet eyes blind to the slump in their father’s dejected shoulders; their youthful minds still too ignorant to identify the tension that riddled his brow as he quietly and solemnly confessed his desperation. Their mother was blind, he explained grimly, diagnosed at a young age with a degenerative visual condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. Her most recent years had seen her vision and her hope recede to nullity, and it had taken every credit left in their savings to purchase a transport ticket and hire a protocol droid to see her safely returned to Ryloth.

Coruscant, he divulged, and its esteemed medical field had offered them a glimmer of hope in the face of impending visual darkness; whispers of a corrective procedure inaccessible to them in the primitive outer rim saw them willingly and enthusiastically uproot themselves… their family… their entire lives. But the usurious capital planet had repudiated them, and the system had swiftly exposed itself as corrupt, only willing to accede to the needs of those whose wallets would support their owners plea’s, shunting all others into the cold embrace of exorbitantly long waitlists.

A grave shift in the children’s behaviour since last seeing their mother had only amplified his despondency; tantrums, repeated condemnations from their school teachers, fights escalated over trivial issues, an increase in their desire for isolation, a rejection of things and experiences that once brought them joy. The intelligent Twi’lek man couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that the fracturing of their family had likely acted as the catalyst for the behavioural decline, though he admittedly couldn’t shake the dread that something else was amiss.

The way your voice shook under the constraints of suppressed emotion offered the truth before your lips had finished somberly wrapping their way around the explanation, and despite every effort to remain professional, your glistening eyes betrayed your composure as you confirmed his suspicions; his children were all showing signs of the same condition that had robbed their mother of her sight and her freedom. “I can’t stop the progression,” you whispered with a quivering chin, “but give me a couple of weeks and I’ll make some glasses that will maximize what vision they have left.”

“I have no desire to linger here.” His tone was that of a man utterly broken, a man whose hopes had been stripped and excoriated within an inch of complete eradication. “Nor do I have the funds to pay you for your services. I will need every available credit to transport us back to Ryloth. The children need their mother, and I need help.”

Despite every cell in your body yearning to ease the father’s dejection, the gift of hope was not one that you were capable of bestowing on him, as the recent past had seen his very soul calloused by the greed of business and politics; you could not promise him that his children would have a future free of obstacle, all of them destined to walk in their mothers footsteps with the unbearable weight of depleting vision on their shoulders, but what you could offer was a helping hand: three free pairs of glasses and the promise to expedite the process to the best of your ability so he could leave the planet that had forsaken him and return home.

It was their tray held firmly in your grip as you marched across the lab toward the lens generator, refusing to deviate your attention to anything and anyone until their needs of this family were satiated…

As if determined to challenge your resolve, the harrowing tinkle of the doorbell saw you halted in your tracks barely two paces from your destination, drenched in the cold realization that, in your haste to recuse yourself to the lab, you’d overlooked the routine task of locking the front door.

“For kriff’s sake…” you grumbled, your eyelids aflutter in frustration as a familiar cool, damp draft whistled through the gaps of the door and raised the fine hairs on your arms. An unceremonious flick of your wrist saw the plastic container tossed onto the counter beside the machine, and an irritable huff sagged your shoulders as you turned on the spot and retreated back toward the door.

“Hello,” you called blindly, summoning the pitiful remnants of your patience from the depths of your soul as you pulled open the door that led back into the retail space, tugging your sleeves back down.

For the second time in as many seconds, you found your steps halted abruptly and another intense wave of gooseflesh erupting across your skin. “Tech!” His name escaped your parted lips drenched in startled disbelief.

A tall, poorly postured figure stood patiently at your counter, and it was the prompt of your voice echoing around the quiet room that had him turn to face your direction. His magnified gaze was alert and twinkling with an unexplained light as it fell upon you, and the ingenuine smile that you’d hitched onto your face at the prospect of an unexpected interruption, lost all sense of insincerity at the sight of the familiar, thick goggles.

“Hello.” His answer came accompanied by a respectful nod, his fingers suspending their dance across the device in his hand to needlessly shift his goggles on the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, crossing the handful of steps between you and leaning against the counter next to him. “Either of you. Did my fix on the scope not hold up?”

“On the contrary,” he began after a quiet clearing of the throat. “Crosshair remains quite pleased with your repair. The rigidity of his nature does not coincide with being a proponent of change, particularly so with his weaponry. Your repair has ensured his continued satisfaction, indirectly maintaining symbiosis amongst the rest of the squad… for now, anyways.”

The familiarity of his curt, matter-of-fact tone only intensified the smile on your face, forcing you to fleetingly avert your gaze to the floorboards below your feet, eager to minimize the flush rising to your cheeks. Your attraction to him was as enigmatic to you as he was; the simplified truth was, you knew almost nothing about him, other than the fact that he was exceedingly poor sighted without the aid of his goggles, and that he was remarkably well educated to have been brought up by the indurate embrace of combat training and war, and yet you were drawn to him with an unexplained appetence.

“Good, I’m glad,” you answered, leaning onto an elbow. “Your goggles look like they’ve stayed in decent repair since I last saw you, too.”

The departure of his eyes from yours to the void of space over your left shoulder saw you promptly regretting your comment, as the swift flush of his cheeks and the deliberate bob of his Adam's apple exposed the fact that your unintentional scolding of his dirty lenses during your previous conversation had rendered him somewhat embarrassed.

“Ah… yes,” he murmured, the warmth of his eyes only blessing you with a fleeting glance before departing again. “I have since managed to incorporate a routine cleaning into my morning regimen, though despite having extensively researched varying techniques, I can not seem to achieve the same result as yourself.”

Disapproval bathed his every feature, the corners of his lips inverting into a reproachful frown more adorable than any quirky half-smile he’d previously gifted you, and it was with great difficulty and another quick aversion of your eyes that you repressed the chuckle threatening to spill from your lips. Intent on alleviating even a portion of his indignity, you permitted your brows to offer a jesting, egotistical wiggle and uttered, “Well… you won’t.”

His gaze darted back to you instantly, lids narrowing only slightly in befuddlement at the smirk twisting your lips. “Opticians have the magic touch. Hand ‘em over.”

You extended a hand toward him, the eagerness to award him with even a fraction of the same satisfaction that you’d somehow gifted his brother outweighing all else in that moment, but his response to your gesture was as apprehensive as yours was determined. His affronted gaze danced across your awaiting palm, his long fingers fidgeting needlessly around his datapad as he seemingly blinked away a myriad of intrusive thoughts. Reassurances flooded the tip of your tongue, poised to express promises of meticulous care and affirmations that you fully understood how desperately he relied on his goggles, but your lips had barely parted wide enough to permit an intake of breath before the datapad was released of his grip and placed gently atop the counter as his hand reached instead for the strap around his head.

A blend of gratitude and adoration welled inside your chest as your fingers enveloped the rubberized surface of the unexpectedly rigid frame, your pinky fingers hooking themselves securely around the strap lest the staggering weight of his lenses cause the equipment to fall from your clutches. If any apprehension or doubt of your abilities lingered in his exceptional mind, it was seemingly usurped by the need to massage his tired eyes, as he forewent the motion of possessively watching your hands to grind his knuckles against lids clamped tightly closed.

Dismal as it may be, the dwindling daylight meekly cascading in your windows threw into sharp relief the poor condition of his spectacles, and the thoughtless action of retrieving the trusty cleaning cloth in your pocket was halted entirely by the sight of several deep gouges across his lenses, all of which had been previously hidden from your scrutiny by the darkness of the shooting range.

A contemplative hum rumbled past your pursed lips, the rounded edge of your thumbnail trying in vain to scrape away the remnants of a mysterious, encrusted substance from the front surface, achieving nothing but imparting another microscratch to the wide array of others. A scoff of contempt threatened to escape you, scorned by the fact that someone in Tech’s situation, so highly reliant on their eyewear, would be issued such a subpar set of lenses; the material obviously too soft to uphold the demands of his lifestyle, the subjective magnification exacerbated by the poor choice of curvature by whichever ignorant being had manufactured them, the coatings improperly sealed before being thrust into the scrupulous edging process.

‘I bet these are Polycarbonate…’ you thought to yourself with a disdainful roll of your eyes. ‘But only one way to find out.’

Without even a breath of hesitation or an ounce of consideration for his potential reaction, you gripped the goggles tightly in one hand and applied firm pressure around the rim of the right lens with the other. His knuckles fell from his eyes immediately, the ungodly snapping sound of the lens separating from the frame triggering a wave of horror to erupt across his features, but you remained blind his unspoken objection, too deeply enthralled in the abhorrence of his glasses to notice his mouth falling open and his unfocussed eyes widening in terror.

“Did– did you just–?” His stammered query trailed away to an aghast silence, too appalled to finish vocalizing the question that he feared the answer to.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, wrenching your rolling eyes away from a series of small pressure cracks in the plastic between your fingers and directing your attention back to him. “Oh! No, they’re not broken!” you hurried to assure him, recognizing the semblance of panic tugging his eyebrows together. “Lenses are manufactured with an angled bevel to permit repeated insertion and removal, as long as you apply the pressure in the correct place.”

He swallowed heavily, his gaze still affixed at the disc-like plastic clutched loosely in your palm. “I just wanted to identify the lens material,” you continued pleadingly, convinced that if you provided a detailed enough explanation for your objectively impulsive action, there may be a chance you could placate his evident fear and surging mistrust. “I’m assuming they’re polycarbonate lenses based on how easily they’re damaged, but without seeing the initial paperwork, the only real way to tell is the sound that the lens makes when tapped against a rigid surface.”

To no avail; periodic blinks over widened eyes robbed of their warmth was the only indication that he hadn’t simply died of fright. “Listen,” you beseeched, gesturing for him to step closer and prepare to witness the presumed madness behind your methods. His gaze reluctantly followed your hand as it began gently tapping the very edge of the lens against the counter top. “Hear how it sounds kind of… tinky and light? Polycarbonate is a fibrous material so it makes a sharper tone compared to resin plastic. Resin is a powdery material, so it makes more of a deep thunk.”

The dramatic expansion of his eyes softened significantly as they watched you extract the orphaned plastic lens that you’d pocketed this morning after finding it astray under the desk, his gaze intent on following your every move as you knocked it rhythmically against the surface to demonstrate the difference.

“That is… fascinating,” he admitted in a mumble, the tension in his shoulders dissipating enough to collect the pieces you were extending out to him.

“Do you have a few minutes?” you asked him, teeth nibbling against the smile threatening to tug at your lips as he immediately turned and began percussing the lenses against the countertop. “I’d like to give them a thorough clean with my favourite solution, but it’s a peroxide blend and needs a good five minutes to neutralize.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” he replied with a nod.

“My pleasure,” you answered with a bashful shrug, another wave of heat surging to your cheeks as his already narrowed and unfocussed eyes shrunk even further under the expanse of his bashful smile. “Would you mind flipping the sign and locking the door for me?”

He followed your gesture to the entryway, the lights of your shop reflecting brightly in the glass door against the dark backdrop of the deepening sky beyond, before nodding and departing the counter, lenses pinched protectively between his long fingers. An empathetic frown tugged at your lips as you watched him fumble to engage the deadbolt, his movements clearly impeded by the lack of depth perception, robbed of him by the removal and disassembly of his glasses. “Just come meet me in the backroom when you’re done,” you called, sending him one last adoring glance before retreating through the threshold to your workshop.

You were granted only a short minute to calm the bounding of your heart against your chest, launched into a fervent dance by Tech’s unexpected appearance, yet despite funneling every effort into stifling the persistent smile on your face, the joy that his visitation had triggered simply refused to be so easily contained. Your confession to him had been truthful, the concept of seeing him again was one that you’d actively avoided entertaining since your introduction, for it was simply too impractical of a hope; he was a soldier living too nomadically to risk establishing relationships of any kind… yet here he was, but why?

The thunk of his boots on the wood floor alerted you of his approach, and you hurried to clear the surging giddiness from your mind with a gentle shake of your head before retrieving the bottle of cleaning solution from the cabinet below the counter.

“My apologies,” he offered as his tall frame filled the expanse of the doorway a moment later. “I did not familiarize myself with your hours of operation prior to arriving. I hope I am not keeping you from any prior endeavours?”

“Not unless you consider several hours of grinding lenses a ‘prior endeavour’.” you chuckled, upturning the bottle until the entirety of its contents drained into the small steel bowl perched in front of you. He folded his arms across his chest in a near perfect impression of his sniper brother, a passively curious expression on his face as he watched you finish formulating your concoction.

“Do you still have your other lens?” you questioned after submerging the entirety of his goggles into the effervescent, blue liquid.

He gently dropped the loose disc into the tub with its counterparts, stooping comically low to study the bubbling substance, the tip of his nose barely an inch from the surface, and eyes narrowed to nearly full occlusion in an effort to refocus his vision.

“I didn’t mean to scare you when I popped your lens out,” you offered apologetically, leaning casually backward against the counter and watching him. “It does tend to freak people out, I should have warned you.”

He stood and cleared his throat quietly, unfolding his arms in a motion to shift his goggles on his nose, only to remember half way through the gesture that there was nothing presently on his nose to shift, instead justifying the awkward motion with a small scratch of his reddening ear.

“I will admit my knowledge of the Optometric industry to be lacking in comparison to other subjects,” he voiced, turning to lean on the counter beside you. “My brothers and I are subjected to visual testing on Kamino as a subsection of a routine complete sensory examination. My oldest brother has senses heightened to a nearly inhumane degree, and by the time the result of our inspections have been collected for further processing, departing the clinic for the comfort of our barracks is typically his first priority. I have never lingered long enough to expand my limited knowledge of optics and ophthalmic correction.”

“Heightened senses?” you repeated instantly. The snippet of information had been delivered so blithely that it had almost failed to register, yet the implication of the statement could simply not be ignored.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “All clones are genetically modified in the embryonic stage of formation to allow several decidedly ‘desirable’ characteristics to take precedence during growth. Regular clones have an enhanced sense of loyalty, obedience, tenacity, and stamina amongst several other attributes. My squad was the first and only to have our DNA further reconfigured to enhance additional qualities. The aforementioned brother is our leader, and Hunter has senses incomparable to any other being. He perceives every movement, hears every sound, feels minute vibrations, senses lingering energy signatures… As such, he became plagued with recurrent episodes of extreme overstimulation while in the depths of our training, but has established a sense of near-complete autonomy since our convocation.

“My genetic structure was deviated to permit the rapid collection and categorization of data. I am able to perceive much of which the typical mind overlooks, with the subsequent ability to recall information at a moment’s notice. As you may have deduced by my chosen moniker, an interesting and perceptibly correlated mutation has bestowed upon me a particular proclivity with technology and mechanics, and during rare instances where I am not able to direct my thoughts into research or the customization of various equipment, I too can become overstimulated.

“Wrecker is our resident ordnance expert, having extensively studied the science of detonations and their various implementations in warfare, and is both the physically strongest and arguably the most emotionally intelligent member of our squad, though a recent poorly-timed detonation has compromised a large portion of his eyesight and an even larger portion of his mental reasoning skills, a challenge of which we are still shifting to accommodate.

“Crosshair, our youngest brother whom you have met, has a mathematical brain that could rival most modern software. He can process calculations and formulations in mere fractions of a second without the plague of human distraction. Paired with his remarkable eyesight, his mutations have formed him into a marksman of incomparable skill and ability, though at the cost of charisma; he would rather concede his crown than to engage in a lengthy conversation of any topic.”

The effervescent cleaner had long since stilled, only mere remnants of the microbubbles tasked with removing surface grime and grease were still clinging to the rubberized surface of Tech’s submerged goggles. Both thought and speech were robbed of you; unable to fully compute the implication of his explanation, you could only stand there, lips parted to permit shallow breaths from your lungs as your eyes unfocussed on his features.

The information itself was a repulsive dichotomy of fascinating and horrifying. Largely sheltered from the ramifications of the war, your knowledge of the Clones from Kamino was limited to only that with which you had firsthand experience; that they were typically lovely people, barred from extensive interaction with civilians though seemingly drawn toward the dynamic of humanity. The science of genetic manipulation was not one that you’d ever heard of before, and despite finding the notion of it unethical, there was no denying that it was medically captivating.

But layered atop the affronting information was the casual tone in which he delivered it, as if he was merely describing a mildly unusual childhood, or reciting a paragraph that he’d written in the book of his upbringing, and if ever he had shared in your feeling of revulsion, he’d long since learned to mask all evidence of it.

“That’s… wild.”

It wasn’t the correct word… if there even was a correct word, though ‘wild’ suited the horrifying notion more appropriately than anything else that came to mind; it certainly wasn’t tame, or humane.

Hurrying to conceal the conflict ghosting behind your eyes, you turned and retrieved his dismantled goggles from the basin on the counter beside you, gently shaking the excess liquid from the frame before swaddling it in a soft towel. Tech watched you nurture his glasses intently, showing exceedingly more interest in the technique you used to reinsert his lens than he had while discussing the unique dynamics of his family.

“Nothing can remove the scratches unfortunately,” you lamented, wiping away the last of your fingerprints from his lens before handing his goggles back to him. “But they probably haven’t been that clean since you first got them.”

“That is likely an accurate estimation,” he answered, shifting their weight on his nose and attempting to blink away the strain that several, prolonged minutes of blurred vision had imbibed on him.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” you chuckled absently, tossing the damp hand towel over your shoulder.

His attention returned to you so urgently that it stilled your hand on the empty bottle of cleaning solution, the dripping container poised in your fingertips mid-way to the trash bin below the counter. You’d seen that look before, and it had adorned you just as urgently then; wide eyes, lips parted, gaping at you as if you’d just uttered the very secret to human existence. It was an expression reminiscent of your first encounter, interrupting you mid-muse about the dislodgement of a focal plane in a riflescope with the sudden intensity of his eyes, and the vulnerability setting your skin alight under his awestruck gaze was no less palpable the second time around.

“What did you say?” he probed, brows furrowing slightly.

Hesitation paused your response, momentarily abashed by the dubious smirk beginning to tug on his lips as his eyes continued to look upon you quizzically.

“Wouldn’t– wouldn’t that be considered an oxymoron?” you repeated tentatively. “I mean… you can’t really have an ‘accurate estimate’. They’re technically opposing ideologies, thus making that an oxymoronic statement…”

All semblances of a smile that had previously blessed his features were instantly outshone by the grin unfolding across his face. The doming of his cheeks under the embrace of a true smile lifted the goggles off the bridge of his nose, and it was quite possibly the most attractive thing you’d ever seen.

“Yes,” he answered, with a reassuring nod. “It is precisely an oxymoronic statement. Excellent catch. I am impressed.”

“Um… thank you,” you muttered, barely able to wrap your own grinning lips around the two measly words as the pounding of your heart nearly deafened you. “Not just a pretty face… I guess…”

“No, you are much more than that.” The deep reddening of his cheeks rivaled only that of your own, and that moment saw both of you equally embarrassed by the comment that had seemingly poured from his mouth without second thought. “I– I surmised your intelligence almost immediately upon gaining your acquaintance,” he continued, the aversion of his eyes entirely negating the welcome shift of his body to face you. “Your practiced recital of the laws of refraction was fluent and precise, and your charitable willingness to assist Crosshair with his problem in combination with the extensive knowledge that you possess of a topic that has always been of intrigue to me, is the reason for my intrusion… not just your attractive features.”

If you hadn’t known it to be completely medically ludicrous, every credit would have left your bank account on a bet that the butterflies in your stomach were rearranging your organs as if they were pieces of furniture. Yet greater than the uncomfortable flap-a-bout happening inside of you, was the sudden and mystifying crave for his touch; an increasingly gnawing desire to feel the solidity of his presence, desperate for the affirmation that his enigma wasn’t just a trick of the mind. A gentle hand, trembling slightly from the spontaneity of his flattery rose into the space between you, palm facing him with softly bent fingers.

He swallowed heavily and cast an apprehensive glance toward your gesture, his hesitancy to mirror your intimate motion swatting violently at the butterflies in your stomach with the paddle of rejection. It felt like years were passing under the disguise of mere seconds on the clock, his eyes darting back and forth between yours as the tips of his fingers fidgeted anxiously against each other. His jaw clenched, once, twice, until… at long last…

The slippery material of his gloves felt strange against your skin; unexpectedly metallic and silky despite the apparent density of the material, yet it accommodated the swell of his knuckles with ease as his fingers interlaced yours.

Had the clock simply stopped now? Had Father Time so easily forsaken his fateful duty, halting the progression of anything and everything else to permit you this quiet moment of delicate connection? Or was it the gentle caress of those stunning brown eyes atop your features that manifested the wistful longing stay in this lingering second for eternity?

Despite the nimble swipes of his thumb along the back of your hand pulling a shiver down your spine, it wasn’t until the lights overhead launched into their menacing flicker that you returned to some illusion of cognition. “So… hang on,” you muttered, pausing to briefly nimble on your bottom lip. “Are you here to hangout with me? Or to learn the laws of refraction?”

“Um… my priority was the former,” he admitted, “Though I would quantify both being a desire of mine.”

“I can do both,” you offered through a giddy grin, relaxing the entanglement of your fingers from his until your hands separated. “You said you have an affinity for mechanics? Maybe you can help me grind some lenses, and I’ll serenade you with facts about the deviation of light waves through a prism with a biconvex curvature.”

The speed of which he mastered the lens manufacturing process quickly eradicated any lingering scrutiny in your mind of the validity of his mutations. It took less than three complete demonstrations to have achieved a near flawless understanding of what each piece of machinery did and how it accomplished its goal. The clock had barely ticked an hour into the past before Tech was independently running lenses through the sealant process, happily chirruping about his fascination with optics; about how he’d always longed for a deeper understanding of differing refractive indices, about how he found it truly remarkable that a minor decrease in curvature on the front of a lens, when paired with the correct backside curvature, could drastically alter the magnification through the lens itself.

Thrice more did he reach for your hand, his fingers long since freed from the protective confines of his gloves and draping themselves around yours with affectionate intention; every fleeting glance he sent your way, every barely-there brush of his arm against yours continued to reinvigorate your enrapturement for each other.

“How’d we do?” you probed him coyly, sneaking a peek at the sparkling, blemish free lens that he held delicately over the ocular of the lensometer. “Prescription accurate?”

You nibbled gently on your bottom lip, teeth only barely containing the knowing smirk tugging at your lips as you held your breath in expectation of his response. “It is precisely correct,” he answered without diverting his attention from the screen in front of him. “Perfectly on axis, with zero induced prismatic effect. It seems I have attuned my lens manufacturing skills quite remarkably, if I may say so.”

The irony of his words threatened to dissolve your feigned complacency; a man so intelligent that he’d achieved a near mastery in optical technologies in record time, unable to determine that the lens clutched between his fingers being so heavily scrutinized by his eyes had been manufactured to his prescription.

“You may,” you permitted slyly, disguising the grin on your face as nothing more than a reaction to your own audacity. He merely offered you a small snort, exchanging the lens in his fingertips for its counterpart. “You know,” you choked out, lungs nearly seizing under the controlled repression of a chuckle. “That last pair of lenses that you made are for yo—”

The admonition so desperately vying to leave your tongue was robbed of its overdue spotlight by a sudden and complete blanket of darkness. The whirring chorus of engines descending into utter silence inducing a stark ringing in your ears more deafening than the hum it replaced, and you hurried to jump down from your seated perch on the counter.

“Kriff,” you grumbled, fingertips obtusely patting around in the darkness to reestablish a bearing of your positioning.

“It appears that we have lost power,” Tech mumbled introspectively from your right, his arm brushing gently against your chest as he stepped away from the equipment.

“Hang on,” you advised through an undignified grunt, bending over carefully to reach for the handle on the drawer situated somewhere in the proximity of your right hip. “I forgot to keep an eye on what machines were cycling together,” you admitted. “The generator and the polisher always… always trip the electrical breakers if… if they cycle at the same time. Maker have mercy, where is the fucking handle?”

A spotlight appeared abruptly on your right hand, illuminating the pair of pliers clutched stupidly in your grasp, the steel handle having felt convincingly similar to the drawer pull you’d been blindly hunting for in the utter blackness of the windowless room.

“Where is the electrical panel located?” Tech asked you, his free hand deftly snapping closed the pouch from which he’d just retracted his flashlight.

“On the wall beside the edger,” you advised, pointing uselessly in the dark toward the culprit across the room.

Visible only as a dark figure sauntering behind a stark beam of light, you watched him cross the room, the grotesque squeak of the panel’s aluminum door indicating through the echoing silence that he’d successfully found the perpetrator. “That is… alarming,” he muttered, triggering a snort of laughter from your nose. “The breakers in this panel are both drastically undersized for the required pull of amperage and… discernibly ancient.”

“I would merit that both of those claims are accurate,” you confirmed glumly, wincing as your fingers knocked dumbly against your nose in their intention to rub your eyes. “Getting an electrician has been on my to-do list for a shamefully long time.”

Several loud, familiar clicks saw the overhead lights flickering back into some illusion of life, and a cacophony of dissonant chimes erupted around the room as each machine simultaneously launched into a reboot cycle. Tech deactivated his flashlight and stowed it deftly away in the pouch strapped to his right thigh while his other hand trailed gently along the series of cobweb-laden breakers.

“I would estimate that the sum of the required amperage for each breaker largely exceeds the allotted amount for the panel in its entirety,” he mused, cringing mildly against the abhorrent squeak of the door as he pushed it closed and latched it. “It will be both a costly and a laborious installation.”

“Glorious,” you sighed, knotting your arms tightly over your chest, anxiety rippling through you at the implication of his conclusion.

“However, the odds that I may be of assistance are in your favour.” He hesitated for only a second before gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, dismantling the hug that you’d bestowed upon yourself as anxiety began to simmer in your gut. “Commercial electrical panels are of a different mechanical structure than those regulated for areospace,” he continued quietly, lacing his fingers between yours, “but the circuitry should be vastly similar to that of my ship. I would be happy to attempt the installation for you, pending we can locate the correct mater—”

“Tech… Come in…”

A loud chirp and a foreign, husky voice issued from several feet to the left, robbing you of the listful smile that had begun to peel across your face at the reintroduction of his touch. His posture straightened immediately, his body reacting instinctively to the summons echoing from the comlink on his gauntlet, long ago stripped from his hands and buried under the thick blanket of his gloves on the counter.

He flicked his gloves aside impatiently, collecting the rigid plastoid piece and bringing it to hover in front of his mouth. “Sarge,” he addressed, his eyes flickering to you apologetically before adhering themselves intently to the blue light illuminating his chin.

“Where the hell are you? I’ve pinged your datapad a dozen times.”

“Ah,” Tech vocalized awkwardly, left hand absently patting the empty pouch perched on his lower back that typically housed his beloved device when not in use; the device abandoned to a live a solitary existence on the front counter. “My apologies. I… I fear my task of locating a spare condenser valve was hindered by a… um… distraction.”

“Does this ‘distraction’ happen to wear a labcoat?”

The jeering inquiry was bathed in a slithering smoke all too familiar to you, the mild distortion from the vocabulator failing to deplete any of its intensity. The image of Crosshair’s sneering face erupted in your mind as a ringing, potent silence ensued in response to his sardonicism.

Tech’s lips pursed into a thin line, eyes wide and unmoving as if his mind had simply seized under the effort of frantically searching for a plausible excuse that did not entail he divulge the truth of his whereabouts.

“Just get back to the ship… now,” the first, hoarse voice demanded. “We’re overdue on Ithica. Cody’s holding his advance until we get there.”

Tech offered a simple “understood,” before silencing the comlink with a prod of a button, and you met the return of his gaze with a fearful, guilty grimace. All-too thrilled to waste your time in his presence, basking in the joy that walked hand-in-hand with the emergence of his affection for you, time had simply vanished.

“I lament that I must depart so quickly,” he spoke, wiggling his fingers back into his gloves. “I have unknowingly delayed my squad’s departure significantly.” He paused to reaffix the plastoid pieces to the backs of his hands, flexing his joints until satisfied with the comfort of their positioning.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” you reassured him with a meek shrug, meeting him at this position in the doorway. “Thank you for coming to waste your time with me.”

“Time with you is never wasted, darling.” The endearing term embraced you with a warmth so layered that you doubted even the sheets of cold rain cascading from the clouds above could have robbed it from you, your adoration for him only intensified by the brazenness he was now showing in the face of his frenzied departure. “And if it is,” he continued scooping your hand into his, “I will happily do so again when I return… if you would still desire my company.”

Your movements stilled, breath halted in your lungs, lids refusing the innate need to blink lest you miss a fraction of this moment. His eyes attuned to you, soft yet determined, as he gently guided your hand upward, setting your nerves alight with the tender press of his lips to your skin.

“Oh, I will,” you reassured him in barely more than a whisper, the tingles radiating from the spot where he’d adorned your hand with a kiss, rendering you numb to the gentle squeeze that he gave before releasing it.

Budding disappointment forced a slump into your shoulders as he offered you a small nod of salutation and turned toward the door. “Tech!” you interjected, watching his tall figure begin to disappear behind the doorframe. His head poked back through the doorway, cheeks aflush and eyes atwinkle. “Good luck.” It left your lips somewhat meekly, the two words nowhere near expressive enough to convey all the thoughts and reassurances of understanding that you couldn’t verbalize.

He paused, reaching up to pacify his feelings by shifting his goggles on his nose before granting you a smile, the same quirky grin that had stolen the breath from your lungs hours earlier. “The ideology of luck i—”

“Yeah, yeah… an ‘illogical concept’…”

Taglist: @anxiouspineapple99

#the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x gn!reader #tech x reader #tech x you #tbb tech #bad batch tech #starqueenswrittenworks

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the-cash-cache · 10 months

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The Goblin Market: the weirdest and most colorful cast of merchants you’ll ever meet!

Picture it: Sicily, 1922 my desk, 2023. I have just gotten back from a raucous day on the town, and am relaxing with my emotional support water bottle while browsing the internet in a sleep-deprived reverie. My mind wanders the dimly flashing streets of neural pathways, before being struck by the Truck of Realization that I have been derelict in my duty of talking about amazing ttrpg stuff!

I’ve talked about the Certified TERF Hated collection of NPCs The Goblin Market by my good friend @europaprisonmoon before here, and I believe it’s worth talking about again!

I’ll start off with this description from the itch.io page itself which perfectly encapsulates the colorful array of characters your party can meet:

The Goblin Market is a system agnostic collection of over fifty merchants, monsters and even stranger things which can be dropped into your campaign to add weirdness and magic for your players: retired river gods, escaped nightmares, tea merchants, wicker basket mechs, predatory graves, vengeful dragons seeking to raise an army to defeat tyrannical princesses, off-duty demons, magical roboticists, mystery cults, accidentally immortal witches, and many more.

This supplement is a treat to read, with Tryphosa Tucker Thimbling capturing my heart and mind from the moment I met her! A milliner with “fur like the finest humus” and piebald donkey ears adorned with beautiful golden bells, Tryphosa loves tea - of the drink and gossip varieties. Have you ever felt your PC was missing something? Some critical aspect leaving them sorely lacking? It is obviously that they need a hat from Tryphosa! Turn heads with a cap made of fantastical materials; you’ll never have to worry again about entering a bar/saloon/communal watering hole and facing someone with the same hat as you.

If for whatever reason Tryphosa doesn’t strike your fancy, why not a quartet of large albino rats joined at the tails? The Quartet (or was it once The Quintet?) sells uncandles, a perfect gift for the brooding rogue in your party! Fashioned from shadows and darkness, the uncandles will bring a comfortable gloom to any room.

Best of all, The Goblin Market is on sale for just under $8 until July 13th! That’s less than 16 cents per NPC. The NPCs are connected to each other, so you can throw as many or as few into your game, and you’ll never be at a loss for people your players can talk to!

#I couldn't pick up a copy when it released because I was low on funds #but I have a paycheck now and can treat myself #ttrpg #indie ttrpg #The Goblin Market #npc

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incorrect-hs-quotes · 1 year

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Your name is SPADES SLICK, and despite your RUFFIAN DEMEANOR, you are actually quite the advocate and practitioner of SELF CARE. It just so happens that your brand of self care heavily relies on picking FIGHTS WITH STRANGERS in DIMLY LIT DARK ALLEYWAYS

Your LOYAL LEFT HAND, DIAMOND DROOG, a fellow ruffian but with a significantly cooler head, politely disagrees. He says that he finds self care to consist of things of a more protracted nature, like taking a BUBBLE BATH, getting DOLLED UP for A NICE DAY OUT, or perhaps bundling up and taking A LONG NAP. You didn't take him to be into that kind of weenie shit, but to each their own. The long nap doesn't sound too bad though. You might give that a whirl after your next MAIMING APPOINTMENT

Meanwhile THE MUSCLE of your barbershop quartet of indescribable violence and bloodshed, HEARTS BOXCARS, pipes up. He suggests, and rightly so you think, that self care includes but is not limited to: the BURNING HEAT OF RAGE washing over your body, the crackling of bones under your POWERFUL FISTS, and the FEAR OF DEATH struck into YOUR ENEMIES EYES, assuming they have eyes. You must say, you find yourself hard-pressed to disagree with his sentiments

The most diminutive member of your group chimes in. You're not entirely sure why you keep CLUBS DEUCE on your payroll, but then you remembered that you don't. This is a CHARITABLE NON-PROFIT that nobly seeks to separate LIMBS AND ORGANS from POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS. He expresses the opinion that self care is more akin to TAKING YOUR BIRTHDAY CAKE to a SECLUDED LOCATION and eating just the frosting.

You sometimes find yourself, SPADE SLICK, taken aback and appalled by just how unexpectedly DEVIOUS AND INHUMANE this CRETINOUS DERELICT can be. You gently remind him that if he EVER touches your birthday cake, you will make him eat his own hands without even some sauce to help them go down the hatch easier.

#submission #homestuck #incorrect homestuck quotes #midnight crew #spades slick #diamond droog #hearts boxcars #clubs deuce #mod terezi #i love making carapacian content but they always take so long to edit into something appropriate

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worriedvision · 2 years

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Not sure how to title this, but this is a part 2 of this fic.

Summarising the fic, reader is the same species as Tighnari but they’ve been raised by Aranara, not knowing their parents and Tighnari essentially becoming a parent to them as well as a mentor.

Tighnari started to see you as his own child, despite the fact he had nothing to do with your biological family. Something about you being the same species as him and the fact you were as curious as he was when he was younger really hit his soft spot. You referred to him as your dad, and people could swear Tighnaris tail even swished out of joy when you looked particularly happy. He knew you were safe here, the forest rangers all taking you in as one of them.

You struggled with talking, but you were really good with your writing. Always carrying a notepad, you write as your form of communication, laughing sheepishly when your dad would tell you off.

One day, Tighnari saw you take an adventure by yourself. He wasn't worried at all, knowing this was your nature, and you always came back happy.

If only he knew.

Tighnari had forgotten one of the first things you teach a child - Don't follow strangers.

Unfortunately, a female Eremite comes along and puts on an act, making you think she somehow knew you. Insisting she could show you to your parents, she laughs when you gasp, nodding excitedly as you say 'show! Show!'

When you get chucked into a cage, you're confused, but you tell yourself maybe they would take you to your parents. They haul you along further into the desert, and you look around with open eyes, hoping you could see your biological parents wave at you and welcome a conversation with you.

The cart finally stops, and you hum out of confusion.

This was a derelict building, no way your parents would be here! Sure, you never knew your parents, but you knew even the most curious if individuals wouldn't come here. It was clear there was nothing interesting here.

You hear people talking, but you don't understand it. Something about selling you to the highest bidder? But your father, well Tighnari, insisted you were not a pet and to never let someone treat you as such.

They don't talk to you, and after a few hours they stomp up to your cage, uttering something under their breath about as it turns out it was illegal to sell you, and you were too high profile to safely do this discretely.

"What's that in your hand?" The female Eremite from earlier asks, grabbing it and flicking through it. "You talk with this?" When you nod, she laughs again before turning to the others in the group. "Guys, this one's stupid! They can't speak!"

They go through your notebook, reading out the notes and laughing between each other when there was an illustration of your dad. You feel the urge to cry, but you have a fidget toy Tighnari crafted for you. Your fingers bright past it, and you start to focus on it to ground yourself.

"Ooooh, what's this?" Someone else purrs, violently gripping it from you. You begin tearing up, lip quivering as you reach out for it. The person holds it away, inspecting it before shrugging their shoulders. "Piece of junk."

They throw it onto the floor, somehow it remaining intact. You let out a whiny plea, begging they give it back to you, and they mercilessly jump on it.

It finally broke.

You let out a cry, the crying session finally starting after the fear you have felt throughout all of this. Hearing people laugh at you, taking joy in your hurt.

They try to find anything else personal on you, and after they find some more trinkets you tried to hide on your person that Tighnari gave you, they turn back to your notebook.

"I'm feeling cold, let's start a fire." An Eremite chuckles, gesturing to the notebook.

You let out a wail, one hand on a bar as the other stretches out as if your hand was able to reach it.

They start the fire, ignoring you until the fire was going. Beginning to go through the pages, they start insulting your handwriting, your drawings, how pathetic you sounded in these notes before starting to tear off page after page, tossing it into the fire. They look at you when each page goes in, you becoming more distressed until you finally just hug your legs to yourself, crying into your knees. Hearing the cage being nudged, you look up, and the female Eremite pouts at you playfully before laughing.

"No wonder your parents left you, you're such a wimp!" She cackles, you closing your eyes shut as you try and reassure yourself that Tighnari really did love you like one of his.

Tighnari looks out the window, now growing worried that you hadn't returned. Running out, he shouts for you, only to see you hadn't shown up. A bad feeling in his stomach, his ears twitch in the hopes of grasping some sort of sound from you. Shouting your name louder, he begins to run around, some of the forest rangers running out as well to search for you.

"The desert." Tighnari breathlessly gasps. "They must have gotten lost, that's all right!" He thinks out loud, trying to settle his unease at the idea of you being hurt.

A forest ranger runs along towards the desert, insisting that Tighnari should stay in case you were on your way back home, and they run into Cyno and Dehya.

"Have you seen _?" The forest ranger asks, both people shaking their heads. "Oh man, this isn't good." Before they can run further in, Dehya stops them.

"Tell us what they look like, and we'll start looking right away. Right, Cyno?" Dehya doesn't wait for a response, immediately listening to the description.

"Master Tighnari said they were going into the desert because they were curious about their parents." The forest ranger rounds off after describing you. Dehya nods, a vague idea of where it could be based on a report of an attempted selling of a person with the same description.

"Both of us will start looking, right?" Dehya asks, Cyno nodding before beginning to run with Dehya to talk about the eremites that were responsible.

Thank whatever archon was listening, because Dehya knew of the one place that only the eremites knew. It was usually used to rest, a roof over their heads, but most of the time they preferred camping outside.

When she turns the corner, she pulls out her Claymore as she watches her colleagues clearly taking joy in hurting your feelings. They're now shaking up your cage, making fun of your cries and the way you were unable to soothe the pain that was coming from overstimulated ears. Running in, she knocks each of them out, some of them running for the door before stopping in their tracks as they see Cyno. He knocks them out, not needing his weapon. Inspecting the room, he looks down to see the burned notebook, the broken toys that he recognised to be Tighnaris handiwork before it was broken. He nods to Dehya, and she looks at you. Pulling out some of her ratios, she kneels down to try and get your attention. You turn away, recognising her outfit and not being sure you could trust her.

"...Cyno, I'm going to get Tighnari. You stay here and guard the place." She states, giving you the rations before walking towards the exit. "If I'm not careful, I'm going to land up killing them when they regain consciousness." She whispers, hoping your ears wouldn't pick it up and interpret it as a threat. Cyno nods, turning to make sure you were alright.

Tighnari picks up on rapid footsteps, and he rushes out to see Dehya sprinting towards him.

"I think you'll need to come with me.". She states. "_ is alive, but..." Dehya holds her hand, clearly angered by what her colleagues did. "There's damage."

Tighnari nods, following her into the desert.

In the run there, he begins to contemplate what damage you were in. Did they break skin, break your bones, chop a limb off, cause bruising, internal bleeding...

Dehya nudges him, alerting him to where you were. Cynos there, finishes dragging out those horrible eremites as he nods to Tighnari. Tighnari hears your whimpers, and his heart breaks.

He could tell they had fun with you, breaking your spirit the best way they could. Looking at the ground, he picks up the fidget toy he made for you, one that kept your emotions from going haywire.

You hear him pick it up, and you gasp, looking up with teary eyes as you see him look down at the toy before he looks at you. You interpret his look as one of disappointment, and your lips quivers again. Tighnari gasps, before running to release you from the cage and pull you into his arms. You can't stop yourself from hugging him tightly, you needed comfort from your dad.

"S-sorry." You croak out, Tighnari letting out a short gasp before he pulls you tighter. "Stupid. Parents aban-"

"Stop that." Tighnari knew you were going to talk about your biological parents. It was cruel for these people to use your biological parents against you, nobody knew of them. "I haven't abandoned you. The forest rangers haven't abandoned you. We've all been worried sick." He lets a tear fall, the wave of relief you weren't physically hurt by some miracle hitting him.

"Notepad broken. Toy broken." You whimper out, Tighnari letting out a sigh as he keeps holding you.

"None of those matter." Tighnari reassures you. "I'd rather those be broken than you. You aren't replaceable." Tighnari states.

The both of you stay like that for a while, Tighnari keeping you there as he knew Cyno was undoubtedly 'taking care' of those eremites with the help of Dehya. He finally spots Cyno, a nod to say it was clear, and Tighnari gets you onto his back as he starts carrying you back home.

The forest rangers don't let out a noise, with exception of Collei of course.

"They're okay!" Collei gasps, unable to hide he excitement. Usually, Tighnari would have told her off for it, but he could feel your smile when you see your best friend excited to see you.

"Yes, they need their sleep though, don't you?" Tighnari looks up, you yawning out of contempt before promptly falling asleep.

Tighnari places you down on the bed, and it's only after he tucks you in that he finally lets out how hurt he was when he saw you in distress like that. Hand over his mouth, he silently cries, keeping watch over you as you sleep peacefully.

#gender neutral reader #genshin impact imagines #angst #tighnari #tighnari + reader #tighnari + gender neutral reader #dehya #cyno

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elliewill · 1 year

Text

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO.

summary: a bittersweet drabble of fem reader & ellie coming to accept that maybe all they are is two strangers who are passing ships in the night. warnings: barely-there fluff, some strong language, mentions death/blood/sex word count: 1.9k credits: divider credit, proofreading ->@dyk3ification (♡ u) a/n: written with "like real people do" by hozier & "godspeed" by frank ocean in mind. listen while u read maybe!

Although you had since caught your breath, sweat was still beaded on your skin when you pushed yourself closer to the edge of the bed. The cool air felt sharp on your bare skin as you eyed the crumpled pile of your clothes by the bedpost. Just as you were about to get up, a warm hand gently traced the bare skin over your side, raising goosebumps and beckoning you away from that same, quiet routine you relied on for months in the making.

"Please stay tonight," Ellie asked you for the first time, her voice low and clear.

Your heart dropped and you froze. There had been an unspoken promise between both of you. You’d comfort each other for the evenings and you’d go separate ways. Nothing more.

You glanced over your shoulder to catch her green-eyed gaze, the inner corners of her brows turned up. A look of worry sat on her face, expecting you to say no.

“…I can’t do that, Ellie,” you finally replied, turning away.

“Please. Just tonight.”

In the moments where the world was loud, she quieted them for you. Even if just for a little while. The mistakes you had made, the people you had lost, the loneliness that ate you alive became a mousy whisper when she'd beckon you to her bed.

You didn't always exchange words when you found yourself there. But you never had to. You already both knew why you were there. And it wasn't much, but it was just enough for you. And it was just enough for Ellie.

You knew this, and yet you quietly brought your legs back under the soft off-white comforter, and rested your head on the flat pillow beside Ellie’s. You could feel her hesitation before she snaked a warm, firm arm around you, pulling you closer.

“Do you know why I brought you back to Jackson when I did?” Ellie's voice hummed behind you, breaking the air that was thick with silence.

You nearly winced at the memory of that night. Recalling it brought you glimpses of hacking down raiders one by one, blood splattering wildly enough to confuse it for your own. Ellie took Jesse's patrol that day, and ended up following a trail of empty gunshells and blood to an overgrown shack of a house. And there you were, frozen in the corner of a derelict bedroom of rotting wood and exposed pipe, bodies and pools of blood leading the way. By then, the blood on your face and hands had dried maroon, and your mind could draw nothing but blanks.

You knew the slender stranger was no threat. And no matter how many times her voice reassured you that she wasn't there to hurt you, you couldn't tear your eyes away from a heartbreakingly familiar and lifeless face submerged in blood. It was someone you knew. How could you blame yourself? You didn't know. You were just trying to survive. You were defending yourself. But you had always blamed yourself anyways.

“No,” you confessed, your voice a little hoarse. “I don't know why. You knew you didn’t have to bring me back here.”

“I did," Ellie argued, squeezing you a bit more tightly for emphasis.

“You didn’t. I would’ve survived.”

“Okay, Y/N," she relented. Even with your back turned to her, you could hear the crooked smirk that crept across her lips at your stubbornness.

“So what was the reason then?” you asked, turning over so you could face her. Her heavy arm remained resting on your hip. For some reason, and without thinking, you found yourself tracing lines along her forearm. Some along her veins. Some along her fern and moth tattoo. Some along her scars and hidden bite.

“Mm?”

Something about you touching her this way... It wasn't sexual, or necessarily platonic or romantic. Whatever it was, it made her heart skip a beat. She was half sure she forgot what those pretty lips of yours were talking about.

“You asked if I knew why and I don’t.”

Silence.

Oh. This was what you both were talking about.

It was on the tip of her tongue. She was ready to tell you everything. But she caught herself and racked her brain for a moment as to why she felt so ready to confess this to you. Most nights were filled with expletives and desire-filled panting - getting what you needed and going. What the fuck happened?

There was something about the way you looked at her. You were curious and she was just so eager to melt. You made her feel fuckin' real. She guessed that she had missed the closeness, the pillow talk, the feeling that she had someone. Even if you didn’t feel the same way. But she’d be dead before she’d ever admit that to herself.

"I've uh..." she said, picking up her arm from your hip and away from your hand to scratch her head in apprehension. "I've done a lot of things that I’m not proud of."

"So you wanted to redeem yourself by doing a good deed?"

"No, it wasn’t like that. I mean it was, I guess. But that’s not what I was thinking at the time."

You resisted the urge to ask her to go on. What was she thinking at the time? What could she have been thinking? As far as you knew, you weren't a soul worth saving. How could Ellie think that highly of a stranger? A stranger she found among bodies and blood? You decided that maybe you never wanted to know. But you could tell that Ellie was itching to explain.

"Look, I don’t know what your life was like before I brought you here. And maybe it’s better that way...maybe it's better that I don't know. But I’ve lost a lot, Y/N. And the things I’ve done, I…"

You both never spoke like this. Ellie was revealing herself to you and it made you absolutely sick to your stomach to think of revealing yourself in return. Your heart pounded in your chest as you shook your head gently at her, praying that she'd stop speaking. You brought your hand to her freckled cheek, your thumb gently grazing her soft, pale lips.

“You don't have to tell me. And I won’t ask you. As long as you don’t ask me," you assured her. Clearly it was painful for Ellie to talk about. And although you could never admit it, it would have been twice as painful for you to hear. "But for the record, I don’t think anyone who's been able to survive in this world this long could say they’re good people.”

She licked her lips nervously and nodded at you, swallowing all she wanted to confess. God, why did you stop her? You knew you weren't ready for anything deeper but it hurt like hell to see Ellie shut down on you.

You studied each others' features silently, as her hand came up to trace gentle lines onto your bare shoulder. You watched as her eyes fixed themselves on your lips, your heart beating faster at the thought of it all becoming more real than just love in the evenings. But you shook it off as well as you could, and caught her sighing. Her eyebrows furrowed as she held your chin between her thumb and index finger.

"What are we doing, Y/N?" Ellie nearly whispered, eyes glued to your lips again.

"What do you mean?" you responded, flustered at both the question and the way she laid her eyes on you. You knew exactly what she meant. But it had been a question you tried avoiding for months since she brought you back here to Jackson.

"This, Y/N. You know what I mean."

"I don't know, Ellie. I’m… content for right now. I know this won’t be forever, but until it changes, I’m here, y'know?"

“You know, maybe this isn’t the right thing to say and I know it sounds dumb but… I wish I could give you a ‘forever'."

You wished for that too. Fuck, you could've kissed her right there and then. To have someone in your corner as loyal and protective as this stubborn and witty auburn-haired girl... It almost felt like this was something you had been searching for your whole life. To belong to someone as much as they belong to you. But you quickly washed that feeling away, and told yourself that Ellie didn't deserve damaged goods.

“C'mon, El, you know nothing about me. I’m not someone you’d want to give ‘forever’ to. Not even sure I could return it.”

“I fuckin' know enough to know that you’re just like me. And maybe I don’t know all the shit you’ve been through, and you’re right. But I can feel it on you all the time. And I’m sorry," Ellie argued incessantly, her hand now traveling from your chin to your jaw.

This used to be about fucking. It used to be about getting hers and moving on the next morning. But you were beautiful and reliable and just the perfect amount of fucked up and detached as she was. So how did she end up here? How did she end up here, wanting to love you hard enough to fix you?

“Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for everything I don’t know. For everything we won't ask each other about," she steadfastly replied, her thumb brushing your cheek and smile lines. Ellie hoped that one day it could all be something different. That you'd want to open up the way she did. That you'd both have your happy ending. God knew you both fuckin' deserved one.

But life isn't that easy. And while you loved her, you couldn't handle having another person to lose. Honestly, neither could she. You wanted to tell her you loved her. God, how it fuckin' ached on your lips. Your heart rose in your chest, butterflies stirring in your stomach. Maybe you could tell her you loved her? That you could give this a try? That this wasn't too soon and that you would be okay with falling as long as it meant you wouldn't lose her the way you lost -

"I'm sorry, too."

There was just too much at stake. And that was all you could muster. You were sure you'd lose yourself if you ever lost again.

Ellie accepted her defeat, her heart sinking to her stomach. She had no choice but to meet you in the middle. She'd happily take the evenings with you if it meant she could love you, even for a little while. She'd make sure your side of the bed would always be ready for you to lay in, if and whenever you decided to return. As a friend. As an evening lover.

You both laid there, bodies intertwined, almost like real lovers. Your throat began to tighten, tears pooling as the lump grew larger. No matter how hard you swallowed, it wouldn't go away. Your skin burned hot with embarrassment. Why was it so embarrassing to cry? Why couldn't you let yourself go? Why couldn't you allow yourself to finally have something good?

You resisted the urge to curse yourself when Ellie's hand crept from your jaw to your cheekbone to gently wipe the tear that crept from the corner of your eye. But without thinking, you pressed your lips to hers softly, hoping that this would be just enough to convey all that you couldn't bring yourself to say.

Maybe this wasn't the end. Maybe you could both try again in another life. Surely, you’d both get your happy endings then.

#before u ask #no i am not okay #im just an angst machine atp #im so sorry #ellie williams angst #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x you #tlou x reader #ellie williams #writings #tlou angst #ellie williams x fem reader

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starstruckwillows · 1 year

Text

it takes a village — regulus black ♡

requested by anon<3

regulus black x reader, they/he!reader, asexual!reader, hurt/comfort, swearing, implied discrimination, mentions of alcohol, non-descriptive harassment/assault

as usual when i’m writing about minority groups i am not affiliated with, i am completely open to any criticism as this is not based on personal experience

the exposing of your secret relationship leads to the exposing of something else

one may expect a grand castle in scotland that appeared derelict, and contained a truckload of magic wielding people aged eleven to eighteen, to be... open minded.

that wasn’t always the case.

sirius, who broke gender boundaries every day with no thought at all and kissed whoever he felt like at the time. marlene, a quidditch player, and lesbian with a tendency to not take any bullshit. you, known for presenting both masculine and feminine, as well as a few other rumours circling the mill.

between this trio, you managed to ward off most bigots, with both the friends, popularity, and pranks to do so effectively. a queer squad of queer protectors.

and by those who weren’t insistent on treating you for being ‘sick’, you were generally considered a rather attractive group.

it meant a lot of people would be hitting on you at parties. which was alright, you tolerated it, because few knew you were taken. that was regulus’ wish, due to his family, and you respected that. it wasn’t your potential suitors to blame for not being aware of that.

but there were lines, always, and some people loved to toe them. some loved to throw themselves directly over.

the two gryffindors flirting with you at james’ birthday party were of the latter sort. their hands where stranger’s hands shouldn’t be, prying and laughing and invading your senses. they reeked of alcohol - which was fair enough considering they were at a party, but it didn’t mean you wanted it right up your nose.

you repeatedly attempted to evade them all night, but they pretty much had you pinned now. they were acting nice enough that you would feel bad to get angry.

“everything okay here?” lily showed up suddenly, glaring at the pair and folding her arms. you were never more relieved to see the girl.

“we’re fine, actually.” one smiled, despite you trying to squirm away as they spoke.

the redhead rolled her eyes, and beckoned regulus over impatiently as soon as a hand slipped up your top and you leapt back as if scalded.

lily mumbled, “you’re in merlin’s hands now.”

just as your boyfriend appeared to physically pull the culprits from you, scoff decisively, make a comment on their mismatch choice of attire, and wrap an arm around you. he didn’t take you anywhere, why should he? until then, you’d been enjoying yourself, they were the ones who crossed boundaries, so they were the ones who needed to go.

to their credit, they knew what was best for them and scattered.

“is everything okay?” regulus muttered beneath his breath, straightening your band shirt with a sigh.

you shrugged, “yeah. yeah, i guess so.”

in all honesty, their thinly veiled innuendos had caused a spike in what you’d been feeling recently. it was something you knew you should share with your partner, but you were at a loss to work out how.

“i know something’s bothering you. tell me, please.” regulus murmured, arm still secured around your waist.

flopping back onto the sofa with what was, in your opinion, an appropriate level of theatrics, you groaned. regulus leant back with you, surveying the distress on your face with a curious stare.

he poked you after a silent moment, “c’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

in a moment of insecurity, you turned with something resembling a hardly concealed and totally involuntary pout, “it might be. what if it’s too much for you?”

regulus shook his head, “i’ve seen you watch that muggle game with the black and white balls. nothing could be too much for me after that.”

you laughed despite yourself, blowing air from your mouth as you averted your eyes to the ceiling, “yeah. well... how’d you feel about sex?”

regulus didn’t choke on air, or sputter, or sprint away. all reactions you’d been expecting, on some level. what you hadn’t anticipated was his calm consideration of your very upfront question, “honestly? dunno. haven’t given it that much thought. it’s... a thing, i guess. it’s okay.”

the apathy in his voice was apparent enough to put you at ease, “okay. cos, i was thinking, i’m not all that sure i’m into that.”

“is that what’s been bugging you? that would not be too much for me, my love.”

you picked your nails, which he silently reprimanded you for by taking your hand, “i know. now, anyway. erm... thanks.”

he smiled softly at your slight discomfort, “you’re... welcome. have you told anyone else about how you feel? sirius or marlene.”

you nodded, “just them. they were supportive. why?”

“well, you know what they say. it takes a village.”

you frowned at the logistics of that, “it being coming to terms with asexuality?”

regulus merely shrugged, seemingly unbothered by his nonsensical saying, “i don’t know, they say it not me.”

you laughed at that, a pressure lifted from your chest. everything was the same, but with a spoon of stress subtracted.

🏷️ — @river13254

#starstruckwillows #marauders #marauders era #regulus black #hurt/comfort #regulus black hurt/comfort #asexual!reader #they/he!reader #they/he #regulus black x reader #queer!reader #regulus black x asexual!reader #regulus black x trans!reader #regulus black x queer!reader #regulus black x reader hurt/comfort #platonic!sirius black #platonic!marlene mckinnon #aspec!reader

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scifrey · 1 year

Text

Cling Fast: Chapter One

by Loysark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

One Year Later

The problem with Hob Gadling is that–and he will admit to this–he really is a bit clingy.

Always has been.

And sometimes it bites him straight in the arse.

It worked out in his favor in his mortal life. He clung to hope and good hygiene during the Black Death, surviving his mother and siblings, however horrific it was to bury them all. He clung to optimism and discipline on the battlefields of Burgundy, making it out alive when so many others did not. He clung to his conviction that death was stupid and could be simply ignored in the face of the two strange nobles who had challenged him while out for a strongbeer with the lads, and he clung to hope that he hadn't condemned himself once he realized he'd stopped aging.

Hob clings to his humanity, reveling in its triumphs great and small, and mourning in its tragedies. (Especially those of his own making, in which case he clung to those lessons and his grim determination to make reparations and keep himself from falling into such greedy, cruel indifference ever again.)

Child-like, Hob clings to laughter and love, delights in the joys and the people around him. He clings to friendship, refusing to let himself grow bitter and detached from his fellow man. He clings to the comforts of good food, good ale, good people of all and any genders to swive, and clings to his personally-appointed responsibility to ensure those around him have the opportunity and freedom to do the same.

(There are no unhoused and desperate people in Hob's little kingdom of derelict historical sites and spacious parks. The minute he is made aware of a squatter, that person is offered a room above the Inn, a job in the kitchen, fresh clothing and medical care in whatever capacity is required. Addiction and despair are a hell of thing, and Hob knows that first hand.

He clings to the tenants of dignity and kindness, and though his catholic faith has been shaken and worn thin, he still believes in most of the commandments. He strives to treat those around him the way he would have wanted to be treated when he was the one begging on the streets. As for the others, well. Sacrilegious as it may be, Hob now worships another god above the Christian one, in all the profane mundanity of the Inn.)

And of course, Hob had clung to the faith that his Stranger would be there at the White Horse, waiting for him at the end of every century like a feast after a hard day's toil in the fields of life. Even when the Stranger swanned away in the rain in 1889, like the great dramatic ponce that he is, Hob had always clung hard to the desperate wish to see him again.

He'd even clung to the aspiration that he'd somehow, someday, make his Stranger want to stay.

(He'd succeeded in that one, too, though it took longer than Hob thought it would.)

Hob Gadling also clings to his name.

Which, with the wisdom of six centuries and a very pointed email from a script coordinator at BBC Two behind him, was a very silly thing to do.

If science fiction movies had existed in 1389, Hob might have learned sooner that using his own name (or some variation thereof) over, and over, and over again was probably a bad idea. And if not a bad idea, then at least a supremely sentimental and foolish one. But they hadn't.

In 1489, after the relief of learning that he hadn’t sold his soul to the Devil, Hob was struck with the wonder and awe of learning that he could have another century, if he wanted it (like plucking an apple from a tree, just there, easy as anything to just keep on not dying.) And then he was then struck with the horror of the realization that he was going to have to move. To leave.

He could not remain, unchanging, in one place. It was not safe. Already he was talked of, avoided, turned away from places he'd known if he returned to them too often. Caxton's shop gave him reason to remain in London for long stretches of time, but he returned to Essex to tend to his family's graves perhaps too often, and too close together.

There were people yet alive whose parents remembered Hob from their own childhoods. Unchanging Hob. Cursed Hob.

But how could he stay away?

His mother and father were buried there. All of his sisters, and their husbands, and their children, and their children. His little brother John, who had coined his nickname because he hadn’t been able to form his ‘r’s yet, and had died of blood poisoning brought on by an inflamed cut before the boy had learned how to say Hob's name correctly. John was buried under a tree that Hob made sure still thrived to this day, planted from the pips of the apple John had been eating the day he'd given himself the gash playing with their father's scythe.

And the thought of giving up his name, the name that was in parish register, the name of the people he'd once called family, the name that was on gravestones that he meticulously cleaned once a decade, the name that lingered on the map as a single crossroads in the middle of nowhere outside of Maldon that nobody remembered used to have a little cottage by the side of it, the name that only his Stranger spoke anymore…

Well.

That wasn't something Hob was capable of doing.

Hob wanted to know who he was.

He changed year after year, century after century, and the world changed with him. The only thing that stayed the same, amid all the advances, amid all the handkerchiefs and chimneys and playing cards and playwrights and iron works and steamships and personal computers, was his name. His only constant.

It was the only thing he still had.

He couldn't give it up.

Clingy.

And that's how the television historians find him.

“I’m not doing it,” Hob tells Morpheus. The King of Dreams and Nightmares is squinting at Hob's phone, which Hob had thrust into a face with a Here! Read this! as soon as the being had seated himself for their weekly conversation.

They're outside today, the weather sunny without being glaring, and warm without being too hot. They're outside today, the weather sunny without being glaring, and warm without being too hot. Somehow, some spindly Forsythia's broken through the gravel drive in the corner of the Inn closest to their table, though Hob doesn't remember planting it. Maybe it was someone from the horticultural society—he wouldn't put it past them to do some guerilla planting, they're always dropping hints about his window boxes. Doesn't matter, the yellow looks good as a background for Morpheus' goth twink look, he'll keep it.

It's too early in the day for most of The New Inn's afternoon patrons, so they've got the front garden of the Inn to themselves for now. Hob has maneuvered Morpheus so he's sitting in the shade of one of the umbrellas. He may be a powerful eldritch celestial being, but Hob has learned that his nose can burn just as easily as any human with the same complexion.

The bonus of being seated outside means that Matthew can join them. The raven is currently on Morpheus' shoulder, running one beady black eye over the text of the email alongside his king.

Hob watches Morpheus' face for any indication that he agrees with Hob, that this is a spectacularly bad idea.This might even be a situation so bad that Hob has to fake his own death and move on sooner than he'd wanted to.

He'd rather not. He likes The New Inn, he's proud of what he's built in this community, he doesn't want to go anywhere. He's already seeding the idea of a nephew that Dennis hasn't met yet, but who would be just the right age to inherit his uncle's business ventures in a decade or two. If he has to leave now, it would screw up everything.

Morpheus doesn't seem inclined to comment until he's both read and digested the email Hob shared with him, so Hob busies himself with fussing off inside to the bar to pour his own pint. One of the perks of owning the place. Besides, Dennis is busy with training a new server, and Hob is the only one allowed to touch Morpheus' wine, anyway.

He returns to the table with an ale for himself, bowl of unsalted peanuts and a pint glass of water for Matthew, and the sweet vinsanto from Santorini that Hob had imported specifically for his friend, much to both Dennis' and Hob's savings account's mutual disgust. Dennis, because it cost an arm and a leg and he wasn't allowed to sell it to the snobby city boys trying to impress their dates, and Hob's savings account because it cost an arm and a leg.

And Hob should know how much that actually cost, because he once paid for a full-length portrait of himself that included not just an arm and a leg, but two of each, and those of his grown son Robyn besides. Hob doesn't have to wonder where that portrait is right now, because according to the obnoxious email it's apparently back in Gadlen House, which the National Trust was allowing the production team to use for the filming. The portrait had 'gone missing' after Hob had been drowned, and located again in the 1950s among a stash of art a group of on-the-run former Nazis had been trying to offload on the black market.

Hob had been sorely tempted to steal it back for himself when he'd seen the news of the discovery in the paper. But by then he'd been living in a pokey little flat in one of the newly rebuilt parts of London, with no way to restore or properly preserve the painting. Though it pained him, he let it go to the National Portrait gallery, where—after several years of being locked away in a basement for a thorough cleaning—Hob had shuffled along in the line tourists to catch a glimpse of his son's face for the first time in three hundred and forty-six years.

And if he then spent the next two hours weeping on the back steps of Canada House, well, it's not like anyone alive to witness his despair at the time was still alive to tell of it now.

He hasn't been back to look at it since.

He won't be able to avoid it, though, not if he says yes to the plea to join the costumed cast of experts already signed onto Elizabethan Manor House. Which he has no intention of doing.

"It's mad," Hob says when Morpheus finally sets down his phone and takes a contemplative sip of wine. "And it's infuriating besides. I'm not ready to cut this life short. I just hammered out a book deal that should help me get access to research fellows who can influence policy for—" he gestures down the park, at the construction fencing blocking off the degrading shell of The White Horse.

Morpheus flicks an eyebrow at Hob, and he takes it for the challenge the Endless means it to be.

“Oh, come on! Captured or killed, you said, and look,” Hob cuts his hand at Morpheus in demonstration. He doesn’t need to say it. They both know what he’s referring to. “Tell me this is a supremely bad idea.”

"If you really thought it was a bad idea, Hob, you would not be entreating me to confirm it."

Blast. Got me there.

"I dunno, Hobsie, I think it's kinda nifty," Matthew says, hopping down onto the table to help himself to the bowl of peanuts.

"Nifty?" Hob echoes, aghast at the raven's choice of word. "I think it's a way to end up in a lab being experimented on for the rest of eternity."

"Look, speaking as a former human," Matthew offers, "We're pretty damn dumb sometimes. If you walk in there and tell 'em that what they think is true is true, then why would they have any reason to think otherwise?"

"Occam's razor," Morpheus agrees. "They will believe you are the fifteen-times great-nephew of Sir Robert Gadlen the Third because you will confirm it is so. There is no reason for anyone to believe otherwise."

"So wait, hold on—you're encouraging me to do this?" Hob asks.

"Yeah! Imagine, our boy on TV!" Matthew caws, stretching his wings in a very human gesture like punching the air. "You're gonna be a star, baby!"

Hob snorts into his pint. "It's an educational docudrama about life in a manor house in Elizabethan England. Henrietta Butler and Glenn Davies make one of these every year. They film it all in a few months and change up the greenery and clothing to make it seem like time is passing, and pretend they've been living in the past for a full year. It's not a Hollywood blockbuster."

"Not yet," Matthew insists. "But some casting director's gonna see your natural charisma on camera, and scout you, and then bam!"

"You just want me to do movies so you have an excuse to hang around the sets," Hob teases the raven.

Matthew puffs up like a soot sprite and pointedly sticks his beak into the water glass so he doesn't have to answer.

"I for one find these programs enchanting," Morpheus offers. "The inspiration they provide Dreamers is wonderful, and the stories they return to the public consciousness thrive once more. They breathe new life into old tales, and restore Lucienne's books at the same time."

"Yeah, but does that mean it has to be me who does it?" Hob asks softly, spinning his half-filled class in circles between his fingers. "I'm sure they can find some other expert in Medieval and Elizabethan domestic history with, you know, dark eyes and a cleft chin."

Morpheus tilts his head like a bird, curious. "And would you be happy with that, Hob? If they hired someone else to play you in the story of your own life?"

Hob sighs. Morpheus has hit the nail on the head.

Clingy bastard that he is, Hob doesn't want someone else wearing clothes approximating his favorite gold-and-black double, to look into a camera and talk about Eleanor, and Robyn, and poor lifeless wee John as if he had any right to speak of Hob's life and loves like they were his own. He doesn't want them to film in his house, and talk about the way things used to be, and get it wrong. He doesn't want interpreters to, well, interpret.

He wants to share the truth.

Once upon a time, Gadlen House had been what Hob had envisioned Heaven to be. For nearly a century, his life was everything he'd ever wanted, the fulfillment of every dream he'd ever clung to. There was plenty of light, and warmth, and laughter, and dancing. There was more food than he could ever eat, more alcohol than he could ever drink alone, more comfort and fine clothing than he'd ever dreamed of while he was burying his little brother in a peasant churchyard.

Gadlen House held his own private paradise within its walls.

And, he knew now, he had erroneously thought that it was all that his Stranger would judge him on as well. He thought his continued immortality was contingent on living well, and back then he had misunderstood that to mean material wealth, the flamboyance of his successes, and the vigorousness of his family life.

He’d learned in the last year that Morpheus wasn’t judging him at all, had no opinion of his choices and what he did with his life outside of what caused other Dreamers to suffer, and what he did in the world meant nothing to the King of Dreams and Nightmares. There was no mistake Hob could make that would strip him of his Stranger’s gift, though he hadn’t known it.

There was, however, things that Hob could do to make his companion more or less likely to want to spend time in his company. Like the contents of his heart and the kindness of his influence in the world, and the good and generous things he put out into it—

He’d been a boor. Looking back, he can see it. His behavior, as the youth in his survey courses would call it, had been "super cringey" at their 1589 meeting. He'd only cared about showing off, and very little about his table manners besides. He doesn't blame Morpheus for being repulsed.

And the idea that Hob is being offered the chance to rewrite that memory a little, that appeals.

Robert Gadelin the Third was more than he had shown himself to be at the White Horse that night. And he wants Morpheus to know that. Wants Morpheus to see. (And yeah, okay, millions of viewers all over the U.K. too, if he has to).

Hob hadn’t been just brash self congratulations, and talking with his mouth full, and throwing gold at his problems.

He'd been a good and doting father; he'd been a devoted and generously loving husband. He'd read Robyn stories and took him riding. He'd lounged in the solar listening to Eleanor play her lute, and danced with her even when it was unfashionable to dance so much time with one's own wife at a party. He pulled her into dark corners and behind curtains to lavish his love upon her lovely plump curves every chance he got. He’d spent a lot of time with his head up her dress to make her sigh and laugh, or in her lap listening to her accounts of her day. He'd been a fair and thoughtful master, giving his staff the freedom to speak to him,, to be honest about their problems and his own failings, to feel safe enough to entrust themselves to his care, and humble and proactive enough to live up to it.

He'd loved life, and he'd loved his wife, and he'd loved his son, and he'd taken his role as patriarch and patron seriously.

And the world deserves to see that side of the man who anybody who toured Gadlen House know only knew as the Witch Knight who'd been drowned for his attempts to defy God and rebel against the natural order of the world.

Hob wants to see if he can find the little toy duck he'd carved, which used to be pulled along on a string behind his son. He thinks he left it in a chest of things Eleanor had set aside for the new baby—leftover clothes from Robyn, little socks, and tiny bonnets, along with the little golden rattle that the queen had gifted Eleanor when she'd visited the summer Eleanor had been gravid. He wants to crawl along the floorboards and see if the skirting panel in his bedroom still comes loose, see if his sword from Agincourt is still hidden in the wall, and discover what state it's in. He wants to hold the hairbrush that he used to wield in the evenings to smooth out his wife's hair, hold it to his face and try to catch a whiff of the rosemary oil that she would use on wash day.

He wants sit in his chair by the fire in the withdrawing room, and close his eyes, and hear the crackle of the wood, the soft murmur of the servants in the back passages, the laughter of Robyn as the boy learns to walk, learns to sing, learns to read, learns to fence, and ride, and fight, and tell him he's off for a cheeky bit of revelry with a local chit down the tavern—

He doesn't at all want to do any of that with a camera trained on him.

"I'll tell everyone what a hack Shaxbeard was," is how Hob admits that he's starting to give ground to the idea.

"You can try," Morpheus replies with a smirk.

This is now their weekly game. Hob actually doesn't mind the plays the man wrote, especially once he learned that the stories themselves came from Morpheus. What he does resent is that old Billy Boy is remembered as a genius, when all he really was, to Hob's mind, was the hand that held the quill and wrote down what the King of Dreams whispered in his ear. And so they play tug-of-war over the man, teasing all the way.

"What if someone figures it out? What do I do then?"

"They won't," Matthew croaks.

"But what if they do? The world is different now, in little ways. I grew up believing in angels and demons, and, you know, God–” here he gestures ironically at Morpheus, who nods magnanimously with wry humor. “And it turns out they're real."

Hob's since done business with or provided favors to several of Lady Constantine's descendants. And like any good immortal, he pays attention when there are rumors of another like him around. He's met The Bookseller of Soho, and even traded him a few rare first editions when he was looking to fund purchase of the White Horse. Hob thinks he may be fae, with that thistledown hair, but he can't prove it.

"My point is," Hob presses on, "The world is getting stranger and frankly, an immortal human may not be the first thing people think of but the stuff in the shadows is being exposed more and more these days. Nobody seems to remember the kraken rising from the deep, and the rain of fish, and the rising and re-sinking of Atlantis two years ago–”

“The what!?” Matthew asks. “I was human then, I don’t–!”

“The apocalypse that then wasn’t, yes,” Morpheus murmurs. “You are among the few who recall, Hob, because you are Touched by the Endless.”

Hob squints at Matthew, waiting for the raven to make a Touched by an Angel joke, but the bird seem to be too busy having an existential crisis over the world not ending. He’s muttering under his wing.

“Point is,” Hob goes on. “If I slip up, if I give too much away, somebody may actually believe it. The wrong somebody."

"How is this then: I promise to attend the thoughts and dreams of the cast and crew carefully. And if one should begin to presume more than they ought, I will unmake the dream."

Hob sighs and tugs at his ear nervously. Then he reaches out for Morpheus's hand. They have an unspoken agreement, now, to request and offer touch when one or the other of them is feeling unsettled. Morpheus curls his fingers around Hob's, and Hob feels his heart settling.

"I'd feel better knowing you had my back, yeah."

"Then it is done," Morpheus pronounces in that way of his that always makes it sound like Hob's made a deal at a crossroads.

"It is done, I guess," Hob echoes.

Matthew hops up to his shoulder to preen at Hob's hair teasingly. "Next stop, the big screen!"

"Well, the small one at least. Why did you want me to do this so much?" Hob asks.

"You dream of them," Morpheus says, and he doesn't have to add still because of course, still.

It doesn't sound like envy. At least, Hob doesn't think Morpheus is envious that Hob still dreams of lost loved ones. He spends plenty of time with Morpheus—more properly, with Dream—in the Dreaming. There's nothing to be envious of.

All the same, Hob's heart kicks in his throat, and he washes back down with a swig of beer. Matthew's preening becomes gentle and comforting. "Eleanor and wee John, and Robyn?"

"Yes. But the others as well."

"Others?" For a moment Hob is baffled, but then, with a little mortified jolt, he realizes Morpheus is talking about all of his past lovers. "Oh, Richard and, um, Isabella and…" he trails off, realizing that the being across from him may not want to be subjected to a list of his… indulgences.

"Oliver. Miranda. Francesca. Thomas. Agnes. Amanda. Emila. Elizabeth. Caterina. Saoirse—"

"Who's Saoirse?"

"The redhead in New York, 1906. She had the room above—"

"I remember!" Hob yelps, waving Matthew away as the raven chortles with laddish amusement. "God's wounds, no need to itemize every fuck I've ever had, jesu maria."

A little shit-eating smirk passes fleetingly across the corner of Morpheus' mouth. He's doing it on purpose. Twat.

"Would you not like the chance for closure, Hob Gadling?" Morpheus asks slowly. "Many Dreamers find ease to their grief after dreams of saying goodbye to their loved ones."

"I don't need to go to the House for that. They won't be there," Hob says. "That's the problem."

"Their stories remain."

"Their ghosts, more like," Hob says bitterly. He drains the dregs of his pint and wonders if it's more assholeish to abandon Morpheus to go pour himself another, or to text Dennis and tell the new kid to bring him one.

Morpheus shifts and squeezes their joined hands to keep his attention. "No. My sister greeted them both with all the warmth and kindness she bestows upon mortals, and led them gently to the Sunless Lands. You will find no restless, unhappy shades at Gadlen House, if that is what you fear."

Hob's throat tightens at the unexpected assurance that his family is in Paradise. That his selfish begging prayers for them to stay, to not go, to don't do this, to don't leave me here alone were, in the end, unheeded.

"But the stories remain. The wrong ones. Eleanor, and Robyn, and wee John… do you not think that they deserve to be more than just the tale of how they died? Don't you think their story deserves to celebrate how they lived? And do you not think that you deserve to be more than just the drowned Witch Knight?"

Which is just… such a low blow that Hob only barely resists the urge to kick him under the table.

“Fine,” Hob says, letting go of Morpheus to throw his hands up to the skies, to plead with Mother Night and Father Time to see what he puts up with in their son and his familiar. "Fine! I'm convinced. You can stop bullying me now. Give me back my phone, I have an email to send."

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