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creedslove · 8 months

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WE CAN'T 💔 - PART TWO

Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: things aren't great between you and Javier after you refused going out with him, but you two are just too stubborn to admit your feelings

(This is the second part of the WE CAN'T 💔 drabble)

• PART ONE

Warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff, Javier is a dick

A/N: guess what, I rewatched the McPickle scene and got jealous again 😀🤌

1.3k

Waking up the next morning to a cold empty bed, knowing that if you hadn't refused Javier's invitation, you would probably be waking up in his bed, or having his weight and warmth next to you; if maybe you hadn't felt so disgusted by Javier's clear acquaintance of those hookers, you would be lying next to him. It was a bittersweet feeling, on one hand, that was definitely a deal breaker for you, it made you uncomfortable to know he was just so regular for those girls he had certain intimacies such as knowing their real name, and not only that, they liked him, they giggled and blushed when he was around, whenever some of them were arrested for whatever reason, they'd always ask for Javi and of course, he would be nothing but sweet to them.

You could handle it if it was in the past, if you knew you could overlook that behavior, ignore the jokes around the office and give him a new chance, but the problem was mainly because Javier didn't simply want that; he was more comfortable in his evils ways, shielding himself from any commitments, running away from relationships and feelings, never wanting to settle down and allow himself to feel things, to him, the deepest connection he engaged was one where he didn't have to face any rejections nor personal attachments; he paid, he fucked, he came and he sent home. When he dared break the cycle he found himself so comfortable in it, he got rejected by you, so he vowed himself he wouldn't give you or anyone another try. He was fine just the way he was, not even knowing what came to him in order to make him have that awful idea of asking you out. He just didn't have the patience to go through it all over again, first dates, getting to know each other, flirting, and all of the ritual before he could actually sleep with the person, so he would stick to Helena, Gabriella, Vanessa and all the girls who loved pleasing him.

He wasn't sure how he would act once he faced you at work, he decided not to worry about that, burying his face into Vanessa's neck while she moved her hips against his, his cock throbbing at the feel of her tight pussy. He closed his eyes and fought hard the urge of pretending you were in his lap, he didn't want to, you'd refused him, he didn't want to even think of you, all it mattered at that moment was his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

•••

However, facing Javier in the office wasn't as bad as you thought it could be, just as you would never know he was also anxious about it. You were worried Javier would treat you like shit, would be rude or mean, and he worried you would spread what happened through the office, telling everyone you refused him, because of his ways. And yet, neither of you did what the other feared. Things were a little tense, Javi kept a lot to himself, not talking to you unless it was necessary, but when he did, he was soft and polite. The flirting and compliments were missing, but you would survive that. You liked Javier, a lot. But you two were incompatible and nothing could change that.

So days turned into weeks that passed by really fast and before you could even realize things, your birthday was right around the corner; in the meantime a lot had happened: you and Javi drifted away from each other, Connie had left Steve and the chaos in Colombia continued draining the three of you in a spiral of violence and depression, but once in a while, you felt the need of shaking things up and having fun, and because of that, you decided to throw yourself a small birthday party. There would be a cake, booze and some friends from work. Steve had already confirmed, being totally lost without his wife, not knowing if she'd broken things up with him or not; some other friends from work also said yes, but there was one missing: Javier Peña.

When you walked to his desk, he was on the phone, mumbling and chuckling, you could hear the name Gabi. You fought all the desire you had of rolling your eyes and walking away from him, but the moment he noticed your presence, he ended the call and turned his attention to you.

"Hey, Javi… my birthday is coming up next week, I'll have a small gathering at my place and I'd like you to come.. you don't have to bring me any presents, though"

He was quite surprised at the invitation, nodding and telling you he'd be there.

You were so excited about your party, getting ready and dressing up so nicely for it. People didn't take long to arrive, Steve was the first, of course, being the upstairs neighbor, he got to your apartment to help you up with everything. You chatted about many things, Connie, Peña, and work, and you realized Steve was actually pretty nice. Not that you didn't know that, but you often only paid attention to Javier, he was the only one you wanted to see.

As the party went on, you couldn't help but stare at the door every now and then, wondering what time Javi would be there. You were kind of excited to see him, perhaps you missed him, or perhaps you wanted him to see you, desire you and realize what he'd been missing because of his inability to seek cheap comfort.

But just as you waited through the whole party, Javier never came. As people began saying their goodbyes and leaving, you realized he probably didn't even have any intentions of showing up in the first place. He was such a dick, you couldn't even believe you even thought you could be friends with him.

Steve could tell you were disappointed and he knew exactly the reason why, better saying the reason who, you were disappointed in the first place, so he decided to stick around some more, helping you clean up and gather the empty liquor bottles.

As you were dragging one garbage bag full of them through the hallway, Javier walked in. His arms were locked tight around Gabriella's waist and you stopped dead in your tracks as you stared at them. The hooker swallowed looking at the two of you and feeling the tension in the air. Javier licked his lips and remained silent. He didn't know what to do, should he wish you a happy birthday or should he pretend he'd forgotten about it. Your heart was shattered, even if you didn't know if he did that to get back at you for declining his date or if he just did it out of cruelty, but it didn't really matter, at the end of the day, it just showed you you mattered less than a hooker to a man who claimed to have feelings for you, a man who claimed to at least care about you as a friend.

Steve walked towards you and held your face between his hands, learning forward and kissing your lips. His hand stroked your cheek, at the same time his warm lips were against yours, you didn't expect that kiss to feel so good, just as you didn't expect him kissing you at all.

As he broke the kiss, he smiled at you softly

"Good night, Y/N" he said gently and turned to Javier "night Javi" he said as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just kissed the woman Javier had feelings for but was too much of a coward to stop hurting her. Steve went home feeling glad; Javier deserved to see you with another man after breaking your heart just as you deserved some affection, even if Steve didn't love you, he cares about you enough to try and give you a special moment in your birthday, something Javier didn't even try doing it.

____

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omegasmileyface · 3 years

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Not in the Job Description

heres a silly lil Danny Phantom concept based entirely off a half-awake sleep-vision that made me laugh :) my subconscious brain is a genius at coming up with things that make just enough sense to be worth writing

summary: Danny's job at a local restaurant is surprisingly fulfilling, even after being crowned Ghost King. Speaking of that job, however, there are some intricacies to it that are hard to keep in mind during everyday life.

warnings: descriptions of nausea and mild sickness

words: 2180

AO3 link

===

Honestly, life was going pretty well at the moment for Danny Fenton. He wasn't even worried that it was a false security or a calm before a storm, because this kind of semi-serenity had been going on for more than a year. It was a long-term stability brought about by adaptation and putting in effort to get help and accommodation. Jazz would be proud!

Sometime at the beginning of Junior year, the Observants had chased him down and crowned him High Ghost King (much to the chagrin of both involved parties). It certainly added responsibility to Danny's plate, along with some new sensations and a series of crises (what didn't these days?), but a little political discussion with some of the more powerful ghosts ended with Danny deciding that, at least at the moment, the position didn't require him to do much more than he normally did. More ghosts would seek him out for help and he would do his best, and some "paperwork" (though there was very little paper involved and it was a lot of talking and oaths and rituals and such) happened about monthly. Otherwise, though, the Zone didn't need much more help than that, having survived off an absent King for centuries. Well, and the ambient purpose of the King as a sort of core for the Zone, but Danny didn't have to put in time or conscious effort for that.

Eventually that settled into normalcy, and Danny was back to worrying about the balance of schoolwork, self-care, and fighting. He still hadn't given up on the prospect of someday becoming an astronaut, and he was determined to have the grades for it. Don't get him wrong, he'd gotten way better about that! He'd formed a practiced, if not entirely stable, system that kept his grades at a solid B- / C+, while getting a solid 5-ish hours of sleep most nights and not bottling things up too much. It was about halfway through Junior year that he realized, with some help from his friends, that his ghosts fights were honestly pretty civil, at least against the regulars. Civil enough that he knew they had some respect for him, and was willing to risk asking for help. So a few weeks and awkward but not bad conversations later, and he had agreements with almost all his regular "foes" not to cause trouble within Amity from 11pm to 7am, 3pm on weekdays. It was more than half the day off-limits on school days, and plenty of ghosts made up for it to a degree by making themselves more common during the "permitted" hours, but it greatly increased Danny's well-being and school performance anyway. "Rivals" like Skulker and Technus had enough respect for Danny and his Lair to abide, and plenty even cared that he was taking care of himself, even between frequent sparring. Maybe a few were really just in fear of his new crown, but he chose to cautiously pretend that wasn't a possibility.

After graduation — he made Senior year with all As and Bs! — Danny's parents had encouraged him to get a part-time job over the summer. He had been interning at FentonWorks (paid! His parents might not be the most attentive but they certainly weren't unfair) since he had accidentally revealed himself a few years back, and they had been thrilled to hear that he still intended to go into NASA if possible, and had done whatever they could to help. They recommended the job because, as good as a paid scientific internship was on a resume, it would help to have a variety of activity and the opportunity to get recommendations from employers who weren't liable to nepotism. After searching local businesses, Danny found a small sandwich shop founded by a middle-aged couple who had moved in and set up shop just before the ghost attacks began. Being close to the school but not far from the commercial sector and offering small portable food (no one wants to sit down for a meal when a spirit could come crashing through the window at any moment), the place got good enough business to pay the employees a proper living wage. Better yet, they were allowed to take home unsold food! Not to mention the owners were both very kind women who held smiling conversation with employees and customers alike. Danny was more than lucky to land such a nice job, even if it meant he had to get up at 7 five days a week.

All this is to say that it wasn't as surprising as it could have been that he was having a slow and pleasant day at work.

Both the owners were out for the day on some sort of vacation, so today it was just Danny and a short teenager named Casey manning the place. Most of their orders recently had been online due to an explosion causing road work near the restaurant and it was mid-morning, leaving work slow enough that they could afford to just have the two until lunch shift started. Danny was on cashier duty today, but unless the door bell sounded, he was helping Casey in the kitchen.

"Aw, man, we're almost out of tomatoes."

"Really?" Casey looked up to the shelf Danny was inspecting and indeed saw only 3 tomatoes. "Huh, guess they didn't restock yesterday. Well, we probably shouldn't risk needing more before the day's out, do you want me to go get more?"

Danny shook his head. "Nah, I can go. I think I could use the fresh air." He said that a lot, especially as an excuse when his ghost sense went off, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. He never had liked being confined.

Casey checked the monitor to see if they'd gotten any new online orders. Since there was a grocery store just a block away, any time someone needed a quick restock they tended to just walk.

They looked up to see Danny already had his jacket on and was looking them in the eye. "Would you take over my position until I come back?"

"Of course. Ten minutes?"

With a nod and a smile, Danny was out the back door.

===

After a moment of habitually wiping down the counters, Casey went up to the register in case a customer appeared.

It was even quieter than before for a few minutes, so they busied themself with mini restocks and organization. They were in the middle of stacking some paper coffee cups when they started to feel dizzy. There had been this subtle pressure on their chest since Danny left, which they figured was anxiety for working the restaurant alone for the first time, and now it had solidified into a warm nausea that flared whenever they exhaled.

With the disinterested panic that came from having strange things happen for years, they wondered if they had missed their medication this morning. A quick glance at their phone, however, showed the notification for it checked off.

Putting the phone back away, Casey noticed the tips of their fingers were somewhat translucent. Alright then, it was definitely something to do with ghosts. Great! Just excellent. The panic was less disinterested this time.

They weren't familiar with any sort of ghost illness that made humans translucent, so they definitely needed to call someone to make sure nothing bad happened. It would be best to call the Fentons' public number so they could go over and get looked over by then. In the meantime, they should call Danny and ask him to hurry back. He shouldn't be much longer anyway.

Casey didn't even get the chance to act on their plan, however, before a short humanoid ghost appeared in the dining area. They didn't look to be up to anything, but Casey reached for the emergency ectoblaster beneath the register anyway. The nausea was getting worse, along with a new chill, and they couldn't be sure this new ghost wasn't somehow causing whatever they were going through.

The ghost looked at them with an expression that was almost desperate. "Ah! Kind human, thank you for your time." The ghost... bowed? "I am Eurusid, from the Spoken Channels. There has been a dispute which damaged public meeting grounds in the center of the Channels, and both groups refuse to allow the damage to be repaired except by the other group."

Casey's eyes narrowed. It was becoming difficult to stand with the dizziness, and if not the ghost himself, then whatever he was saying was probably a hallucination. They didn't even think about responding beyond a detached "what".

It was then that Danny re-entered the back door with the new tomatoes. Good thing, too. At least with another person there, Casey could confirm whether they were hallucinating.

===

Placing down the grocery bag and shrugging off his jacket in one motion, a skill only gained by years of laziness efficiency, Danny called toward the register. "Back!"

Once he caught sight of the teen, however, all casualness shed itself from his body and he rushed over to hold them. "Man, Casey, you feeling alright? You look really pale." The realization that their form was slightly translucent, despite the firm human heartbeat beneath, was drowned out by him finally noticing the ghost standing a few feet away. The reaction of his ghost sense had been so minor that he had ignored it.

He was surprised to see that he recognized the specter's face, marred as it may have been from worry and confusion aimed directly at Casey. "Eurusid? What's going on?"

As the ghost, still confused but unwilling to act impolitely, gathered his bearings and began to bow toward him, Danny's coworker shuddered under his hands, regaining his full attention. He thought back through the day's events for hints as to the situation, before swearing, cutting off whatever Eurusid was about to say.

Danny backed up and said, voice as clear as he could, "I recall my position."

Casey's reaction was immediate, a gasp of air like they had been kept from breathing and a return of their skin's human opacity. Danny rushed back over and put his hand on their back to steady them as their eyes narrowed and went slightly unfocused.

Figures, doesn't it? One of the many intricacies that had come up at his coronation Junior year that just hadn't come up enough to keep at the front of his mind. One of the defenses of the High Ghost Crown was the ability of the King to temporarily give their duty to someone else. As long as that person accepts, during a specified time they substitute for the King in dealing with political matters, as well as taking over as much as their ability allowed of the King's function to process the energy of the Realms.

Danny had no idea that this ability could be activated with words as vague as "take over my position", let alone that it could be used with a human. That potential had never come up during the ceremony, so for all he knew, a full ghost in his position couldn't substitute with a human. A human certainly shouldn't be able to take over any part of the energy processing, though maybe in Amity Park the average person processed enough environmental ectoplasmic energy to make it possible. Regardless of residence, though, it could not be good for Casey's body, which had no Core to properly process energy and had no human equivalent except perhaps a small emotional center in the brain, to even attempt to filter and manage some of the inherent energy of a dimension.

Their skin was still clammy and their coordination was shot. Ancients, if this is what an accidental substitution did to a human, Danny would have to word things very carefully when asking for help in the future.

"King Phantom?" Danny looked up to see that Eurusid was still floating there awkwardly. Right. He had two people here to help.

"Sorry, Eurusid. One moment, I'll be right with you." He turned back to his coworker, who looked confused and less lucid than ideal, but probably still lucid enough to realize this ghost had just called him "King Phantom". Well, he'd deal with that once it came to it. "Here, Casey, let's get you some water." He helped them walk back into the kitchen and sat them down on a bench by the back door. There was a chair in the register area, but they probably didn't want to feel exposed to the dining area like that, even with nobody but the ghost there.

Once handed the water, Casey sighed and eagerly drank from it, eyes closed. Danny rubbed his hand on their back a bit and promised to be back shortly before walking back out to meet Eurusid. Whatever he was here about was probably worth immediate attention but Danny was sure there'd be at least a solid minute of apologies on both sides before the matter was addressed. Hopefully both the Spoken Channels and Casey would be alright before the next shift came in.

#danny phantom #my writing #danny phantom fanfiction #ghost king danny #gkau crack baby !#ive been referring to this in my head as 'the wendys story' even though having it be a chain fast food restaurant doesnt quite work #ghost king hcs here very inspired by heavy on the heart light on the head by gothmoth and the a king in chains series by five-rivers #with some Pizzazz thrown in!#throne in . ha #one day ill come up with a complete and proper hc set for it but Not Today #me writing the sentence 'danny made senior year with all as and bs': dont cry dont cry dont say 'god i wish that were me'#oh also bear in mind ive never worked at a restaurant #unedited bc im impatient 😔

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

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i keep thinking about all the yiling patriarch!jiang cheng aus out there and it got me curious: what wild canon divergences would have to happen for it to be jiang yanli who becomes the yiling matriarch? (she doesn’t use a flute, she just asks politely probably) and what would be the eventual fallout of that?

It was Wei Wuxian’s idea, of course.

Jiang Yanli’s big didi was brilliant and talented beyond measure, as reckless and impertinent in his thoughts as he was in every other way, just as her little didi was earnest and soft-hearted and dutiful, the outlines of the serious man he’d become when he grew up just barely visible underneath the baby fat that still lingered in his cheeks.

It was Wei Wuxian’s idea, but it was Jiang Cheng that made Jiang Yanli decide to use it.

Both of her brothers got invitations to sit in on important sect meetings, as senior disciple and presumptive heir; Wei Wuxian apparently made good contributions during the meetings and forgot about them immediately afterwards, while Jiang Cheng listened intently and then worried for days.

“The Wen sect is becoming more and more of a threat,” Jiang Cheng told her late at night when she was making him something to settle his upset stomach – he was like a little bird, with anxiety enough to put him off his seed. “Mother and Father are fighting over how much they need to react, since technically they haven’t come into Yunmeng…”

“Technically?”

“We never signed agreements with those clans, but we’ve been all but responsible for them anyway.” He put his head down on the table, sighing. “What happens if they come here?”

“A-Xian says they won’t dare.”

“He’s just repeating what Father says. I don’t know. Maybe they don’t dare now, but – what if they do, one day?”

Jiang Yanli took after her father in most aspects, but she was still her mother’s daughter: while she comforted Jiang Cheng and told him not to worry, filled him up with warm soup and hugged him until he smiled again, the thought lingered. What if, indeed. Her brothers would need to fight, of course. Her two babies raising up swords against human beings instead of evil creatures; her mother would use Zidian, of course, and her father had his sword, and she –

Jiang Yanli was not un-self-aware. She was an indifferent cultivator, with below-average skills at the sword – good enough to pass basic muster, but not much more than that. Her talismans were about the same, decent but not inspiring, and she could only produce an average number before she exhausted her spiritual energy. She had a golden core, but it was weak, just like she was weak.

She wouldn’t be able to defend her home. To defend her brothers.

And there was nothing she could do about it –

That was when she remembered Wei Wuxian’s silly little idea, the one that had gotten him in so much trouble at the Cloud Recesses, that he’d told her all about in great detail when he’d returned home: to use resentful energy the way they used spiritual energy.

(“– and then poor Nie Huaisang said it would be helpful to someone like him, who formed his core later; he doesn’t have much spiritual energy, so he gets tired easily, but if it’s not his energy he’s using, he wouldn’t be held back by the limits of his own cultivation –”)

Jiang Yanli pursed her lips in thought.

Wei Wuxian had only sketched out the basic idea, without going forward to think of ways to implement the idea – after all, it was all well and good to say you could find a way to channel tremendous external energy into something usable, but another thing entirely to actually do it. It would be as tricky as catching lightning from the sky and using it as a whip.

In other words, it was time to ask her mother for help.

To say that Yu Ziyuan disapproved would be an understatement, but Jiang Yanli knew her mother well: she waited until the initial rant was completed and then pointed out, quietly, that she didn’t have any other means with which to defend herself – and that would leave her at the non-existent mercy of the Wen sect.

Her mother froze. “…I could give you Zidian,” she finally said, but from the expression on her face, even she knew that that wouldn’t work: Zidian required both a strong golden core and a certain knack, a talent that Jiang Cheng had and Jiang Yanli lacked; there had never been any question between the two of them as to who would inherit Zidian. “Or we could buy more talismans –”

“And when the talismans we buy run out? I can’t replenish them myself. But if we try my way, I won’t have to rely on A-Xian or A-Cheng – a-niang, just think about how I’d feel if they got hurt trying to save me! And all because I don’t have a knack for cultivating!”

Her mother sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll help you figure out how it could work in practice, rather than in theory. But it’s only for emergencies, you understand? What you’re suggesting comes very close to demonic cultivation – if you use human-generated resentful energy, it is demonic cultivation – and using that too much damages the body, affects the temperament.”

“Just for emergencies,” Jiang Yanli promised.

“And don’t tell A-Cheng or Wei Wuxian about it,” her mother insisted. “Can you imagine the trouble those two would get into with something like this?”

Jiang Yanli covered her mouth to try to keep from giggling. “A-Xian would probably restyle himself to match the aesthetic – wearing Demon Cultivating Robes, under Demon Cultivating Hair, that he left in a pile on the Demon Cultivating Bed –”

“From which he rested on the Pillow of Evil, no doubt,” her mother agreed, looking amused despite herself. “And your brother would end up trying to keep a small legion of fierce corpses as pets because he felt too bad about sending them back into the earth after having used them.”

“He’d give them names,” Jiang Yanli said, giggling harder. “Princess, or Buttercup –”

“And he’d hide them very badly in a closet or something, too. Do you remember the nest of juvenile fisher hawks that he hid in the armory? They nearly fell on my head –”

“Of course I remember. You nearly stepped on poor little Cloudpuff.”

“Don’t remind me!”

They had two years to work on it, their own little mother-daughter bonding time – the boys ran away in mock fright at the mere suggestion of girly stuff – and Jiang Yanli felt that she and her mother had never been closer. They could even, for the first time, go on night-hunts together, Jiang Yanli summoning corpses with a crook of her finger and a gentle hum while her mother cut them down with her sword or with Zidian.

It was so much fun that Jiang Yanli almost forgot why they’d started it in the first place.

And then, very suddenly, it all became real.

Jiang Yanli was at Meishan, visiting her grandmother, when the Wen sect attacked, but word spread quickly – the Lotus Pier ravaged, the sect leader and his wife both dead, their children missing…

“We have to hide you at once,” her grandmother said after they’d passed through the first flush of grief, her face still wet with tears. “They’ll be coming here next –”

“You will tell them that I am not here,” Jiang Yanli said, and stood up, wiping her own eyes. “Because I won’t be. I’m going back to the Lotus Pier.”

“A-Li! If you do that, they’ll catch you – have you heard what the Wen sect does to female cultivators –”

“Mother and Father are dead at their hands,” Jiang Yanli said. “They must be avenged.”

“Your brother will do that! That boy, Wei Wuxian, he will –”

“I will not let them bear that burden alone,” Jiang Yanli said. “Keep everyone here safe for me, okay?”

She made it back just in time to see Jiang Cheng, her little A-Cheng, the baby she held in her tiny arms less than a shichen after he’d been born, the one she clothed and fed and cared for all these years, being dragged into the main hall by Wen sect cultivators, his face pale with fear.

Wen Chao was sitting in her father’s chair, playing with the sect’s discipline whip. “I’ve always wondered if this thing was as bad as they say. Let’s try it out on him,” he ordered, grinning lazily. “And then Wen Zhuliu can melt his golden core, and we can try it again – to see if there’s any difference in using it on a cultivator and on a regular person.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t plead for mercy, not even as they forced him down to kneel, even as his shoulders shook under their hands – Jiang Yanli turned her face away, nodded at the young Wen cultivator that had snuck her in this far (Wen Ning, she thought his name was), and raised her hands to do what she had to do.

The Wen sect had been lazy in the immediate aftermath of their victory: they hadn’t bothered to either bury or burn the corpses of her Jiang sect cultivators, her shidi and shimei, her martial aunts and uncles; they’d only tossed them outside into a giant pit to be dealt with later.

They were going to regret that.

“Jiejie!” Jiang Cheng cried out when he saw her rushing over to his side: he was bleeding, and badly, from the marks of the whip, but Wen Zhuliu hadn’t had a chance to destroy his core yet, having been distracted by the sight of the Violet Spider risen up from the dead in defiance of all soul-calming rituals.

(Jiang Yanli knew her mother well enough to know that she would forgive the use of her corpse if it resulted in her ripping out Wen Zhuliu’s core with her bare hands, using the elongated nails of a fierce corpse, a fearsome red-clad ghost dressed in purple. They would put her to rest later in the same coffin as her husband.)

“It’s okay, A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli said, petting his hair. “It’s okay – jiejie’s here. I’ll keep you safe.”

Wen Ning ended up being the little brother of Wen Qing, who he somehow managed to summon – the famous doctor lived up to her reputation and didn’t so much as blink at being escorted into the main room by fierce corpses in order to care for Jiang Cheng’s wounds. Jiang Yanli was pretty sure that she’d seen her deliberately stepping on Wen Chao’s corpse on her way in, too, so she wasn’t worried.

“No one can know that I was involved,” Wen Qing said, finishing up stitching together Jiang Cheng’s chest and resetting his collarbone. He was out cold, and there were medicines that would work as painkillers for when he woke up. “I have to keep my family safe, too.”

“You were never here, this never happened,” Jiang Yanli agreed. “If you ever decide that the Wen sect is a losing proposition, come to me and I’ll remember this favor.”

Wen Qing eyed some of the fierce corpses standing as guards. “I’ll remember that.”

There was some yelling outside, a familiar voice. Jiang Yanli tilted her head to the side and smiled. “That’ll be A-Xian. He can help sneak you out of our borders without anyone the wiser – no one knows the ins and out of the Lotus Pier better than he does.”

She went out and found Wen Ning trying to talk down a wild-eyed Wei Wuxian, who apparently was on familiar terms with him. Not really a surprise: Wei Wuxian was friendly with everybody.

“A-Xian!” she called.

“Shijie?! What are you doing here? Are you okay – are you safe – did you see Jiang Cheng –”

“It’s okay,” she said. “All the bad Wens are dead; Wen Ning and his sister – and their subordinates – are helping us. A-Cheng is injured, but he’ll heal.”

Wei Wuxian sat down abruptly, all the tension in his body replaced by a mixture of relief and the remnants of his despair. “I only went away for a moment to get some food,” he said, and put his head in his hands. “I only looked away for a moment…”

Jiang Yanli sat next to him and wrapped her arms around him. “You did your best, A-Xian. That’s all that can be asked of you.”

“But – Madame Yu said –”

Jiang Yanli could guess what her mother had probably said.

“Of course you need to take care of A-Cheng,” she said, and let him bury his head in her shoulder. “He’s your didi, isn’t he? Just like he’s mine, and you’re mine, too; it’s our responsibility as older siblings to take care of the younger ones. He’s going to need our help a lot more now that he has to be sect leader.”

Wei Wuxian sniffled. “I told him I’d support him when he became sect leader – that we’d be the twin heroes of Yunmeng, just like the twin jades of the Lan sect. I just didn’t think…not so soon! And now there’s barely any Jiang sect left!”

“My little heroes,” Jiang Yanli said, and kissed his forehead. “It’ll be okay. The Wen sect may have attacked the Lotus Pier, but there are plenty of Jiang sect cultivators who weren’t here – we have them, and we can recruit more.”

He nodded, then paused. “Uh, shijie – a question.”

“Yes?”

“The fierce corpses everywhere…”

“We’ll need to lay them to rest after we’re done,” Jiang Yanli said firmly. Her mother had insisted on that: demonic cultivation encouraged bad tendencies, sloppiness, and the only way to deal with that degradation of spirit was with discipline and righteousness. If possible, she should prefer non-human spirits; human corpses could be used, but only to the degree necessary, and then they had to be laid to rest with honor, as they deserved – furthermore, if at all possible, they should only be summoned from those that would have willingly given up their bodies to help the endeavor in question, rather than using tormenting their spirits by using them against their friends and family.

Somehow, Jiang Yanli didn’t think there would be a problem finding victims of the Wen sect to help.

“But how did you do it?” Wei Wuxian wanted to know. “They listen to you –”

“I’m manipulating their resentful energy,” she explained. “Based on the idea you initially had at the Cloud Recesses – what? Don’t look at me like that, didi; I did tell you I thought it was a good idea.”

“But demonic cultivation is bad for you! It affects the temperament, the body, the heart…”

“Mother used to say that my temperament could probably stand to be a bit worse,” Jiang Yanli said, feeling her eyes go hot as tears threatened. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “Don’t worry, didi. We came up with a bunch of rules to try to make it easier and less harmful to use…I’m not a sword cultivator like you and A-Cheng; it’s not my strength. But I can do this, and I won’t be helpless against the Wen sect.”

Wei Wuxian hugged her, clearly terrified by the thought. “Never mind what I said. It’s a good idea.”

Jiang Yanli smiled. “I know. You’ll help me come up with more ways to use it, right? You and A-Cheng – you always did come up with the craziest things when you were together, even more than you alone.”

“Of course!” There was the Wei Wuxian she knew and loved: forgetting pain – or at least, putting it aside – as soon as he had something concrete to work on. “How do you do it? Music? I’d been thinking of using musical manipulation –”

“Sometimes I hum? Mostly it’s just willpower – sometimes gestures, like saluting. It works better if the resentful spirits feel appreciated.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at her. “Appreciated?”

“Everyone likes to feel appreciated, A-Xian.”

“I suppose so,” he said, then shook his head. “Whatever you say is right, shijie.”

“Of course she’s right,” Jiang Cheng croaked from inside the room – he’d stumbled over to the door, and both Wei Wuxian and Jiang Yanli immediately rushed over to help him back to his bed. “Jiejie’s always right…jiejie, what do we do next?”

“Don’t look at me!” she objected. “You’re sect leader; you decide. I’m just here to support you.”

Jiang Cheng nodded. “We have to fight back against the Wen sect,” he said. His voice was raspy with pain and the remnants of screaming: Wei Wuxian lifted a cup of tea to his lips at once. “The way the Nie sect is…the Lan sect, too; I think Father mentioned that Lan Wangji was doing a lot of travelling. Wei Wuxian, you got close to him when you were at the Xuanwu cave. Can you go find him? Tell him we need his help, and the help of any other sects he can help us recruit.”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “You sure you don’t need me here..?”

“There won’t be a ‘here’ if we don’t get people together, and fast – we killed one of Wen Ruohan’s sons. As soon as I’m better, I’m going to go find people for the Jiang sect, whether cultivators who weren’t here or new ones. And shijie…”

“What can I do?”

Jiang Cheng lifted his finger to point at the corpses, which he hadn’t even questioned. “We need more of those. A lot more of those. An army of them.”

Jiang Yanli frowned. “Where am I supposed to find an army worth of dead people? I was planning on picking up resentful souls of the Wen sect’s victims as we went, but that’ll be incremental, not an army…”

“Actually,” Wei Wuxian said. “I have an idea. Have you ever heard of the Burial Mounds in Yiling…?”

#mdzs #jiang yanli #madame yu #yu ziyuan #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #wen ning #wen qing #my fic #my fics #yes she just asks nicely #Anonymous

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uglymanchronicles · 3 years

Text

Ugly Man Chronicles Reignition Book 2 Chapter 2: My Breakfast With Evan

Just a couple dudes getting to know each other.

“If you must know,” Evan sighed, spearing a glistening sausage on the end of a flimsy plastic fork, “my jackass older sister thought it would be hilarious to give me a cupcake she'd baked with about a dozen powdered viagra for my fifteenth birthday. I wound up passing out eventually. Burst a lot of blood vessels. Damaged the erectile tissue beyond usefulness.”

Titus froze mid-coffee-sip. “Seriously? What a bitch!”

“Buddy, you don't know the half of it.”

“So... no signs of life down there?”

“Nothing for twelve years.”

“I think I would literally kill myself.”

“It's not so bad, I guess. At least I don't have to drain the blood out of it any more.”

“Eugh! Fuck! Did not need to hear that!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to.”

“Do you get, like, blue balls all the time, then?”

“That's basically my ground state of being.”

Titus whistled flatly, avoiding looking Evan in the eye. He settled for staring at the table. There wasn't a lot of Evan's face that he felt comfortable looking at; every part seemed to at least be adjacent to some unpleasantry or another. About the only safe area was his right eye, which, as luck would have it, was directly opposite Titus's 'good' eye. Titus rallied and met Evan's gaze again. “Alright, your turn.”

They'd agreed on a sort of mutual interview process, taking turns asking questions to suss out what the other was capable or if he was worth having around. Evan took a bite out of the sausage and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“Who's Moreno?”

Titus hissed through his teeth. “A real piece of shit.”

“I'm going to need more than that.”

“I'm getting to it. He's basically, like... a freelance henchman? Like, sort of a mercenary criminal. Sells his services to the highest bidder.”

“And why's he matter?”

“That's another question.”

“No, it is not,” Evan said, quiet and serious. “Do not argue with me in bad faith, Titus. I have very little patience for it in the best of times.”

Titus regarded him for a long moment. The man across from him was wider than the table they sat at. His muscles were so pronounced in some points that Titus could tell when he was about to move by the way they bulged and contracted. Yet he gave the impression that he was constantly trying to pull himself inward, to make himself smaller. He spoke quietly and with a simple formality, but only hours before Titus had watched him single-handedly beat down some of the nastiest people he'd met in the past month.

Hmm.

“Fine. Moreno matters because I'm after the guy he's working for. You see, Moreno isn't just a normal scumbag. He works for people who need nasty things done. Not like regular nasty, either. How much do you actually know about magic?”

“I've got some... notes. So far I'm not able to find a lot of coherent rules. It mostly seems like it relies on things that nobody would normally do.”

Titus snapped his fingers and pointed at Evan. “Hit it right on the head. Rituals, reagents, that kind of thing... the reason—well, one of the reasons—magic doesn't just happen all the time by accident is that it's all weird little things. A lot of the more heavy magic relies on some pretty elaborate and obtuse shit to get it going.”

Evan momentarily thought back to the Book of Fate and his ritual in the woods. “So Moreno does these things for people?”

“Yeah. Thing is, though...” Titus stopped raising a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and set it down again, as if he'd momentarily lost his appetite. “The people who use his services generally practice some pretty vile magic. Real depraved shit. And to empower depraved magic, you need depraved rituals. Moreno is the guy you go to when...”

“I think I get it,” Evan interjected, since Titus seemed to be struggling with deciding whether to continue. “Your turn.”

Titus tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, then looked Evan in the eye. “How smart are you?”

The scars on Evan's face squirmed around as he actually smirked. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey, we agreed no 'whys'.”

“Alright, alright. Well, there's really no objective metric for it, but... I have Master's degrees in computer science and theoretical physics, Bachelor's in those in addition to mathematics and electrical engineering, and associate's degrees and certificates in everything from EMT training to ballet. I should have my doctorate in physics, but...” he said, with a bitterness that Titus made a note of, then changed gears. “Oh, and I also speak Mandarin, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Arabic pretty fluently. I also know ASL. I can get by in German and Russian, too. I don't know if any of that is what you meant but--”

“Jesus, I get it,” Titus muttered, rubbing the side of his head. “How the fuck do you make money?”

“Software consulting, mostly. I specialize in security and processing efficiency. People pay me to break into their systems and then patch the holes, or to make their code run quicker or make their programs smaller. I've got a few patents I've licensed that bring in most of my income nowadays, though.”

“Anything I would have heard of?”

“If you've used a computer made in the last four years it probably has something I wrote integrated somewhere into it. I also helped develop a protein-sequencing program that helped develop a vaccine for this nasty SARS variant that broke out in China last year. They say if they hadn’t nipped it in the bud it could’ve spread worldwide and we’d be looking at millions of deaths by now.”

Titus scrunched up his face. “Oh yeah, just say that like it’s no big deal.”

“I’m just glad it turned out not to be one. What I'd really like to do is get my compression algorithm out there, but if I do that, somebody's going to try to hoard it all for themselves.”

“Are you talking to yourself or me?”

“Look, I... a few years ago I figured out a way to compress memory down by a exponential factor of six with zero loss. All it takes is a couple software plugins that don't take up much room themselves. Essentially, I could make a gigabyte fit in a kilobyte with very little trouble, now that the math's figured out.”

“Holy fuck, that's insane! Why haven't I heard anything about this?”

“Mainly because I don't tell people. If I put it up on the market, some ISP would buy it and bury it. If you make information smaller, you make it faster. Can you imagine what it'd do to internet access if dial-up and barebones cellular networks suddenly had the bandwidth of fiber optics? It would... maybe not revolutionize our society, but it would level a lot of playing fields. Bring a lot of underdeveloped areas of the world—hell, this country—up to modern levels with no extra cost. The telecomms would crash and burn so hard. But I don't have the means to get it out there without going through someone else. Yet,” Evan added. “So I basically work watered-down versions of the compressor into the software I make. Nothing that can be duplicated, and nowhere near its full potential, but enough to get me hailed as some kind of genius and pay the bills.”

“So why aren't you on your own private island or something somewhere instead of puttering around God's Ashtray in a shitty old Bug?”

“Hey, the Beetle is not shitty,” Evan said, defensively. “And I'm just waiting for the AC in my RV to get fixed or I'd be driving that.”

“Oh hot damn! Now that's the way to live!”

“Not the one I'd choose voluntarily, but it could be worse.”

“How come you're doing it, then?”

“I think it's my turn to ask,” Evan said, mildly.

“Fine,” Titus said grumpily, crossing his arms.

“How do you make money?”

“That's easy. I'm basically a freelance bailbondsman. I just roam around, drop my advertising around bars and courthouses.”

“You get many clients that way?” Evan asked, cocking his remaining eyebrow.

“Oh, you'd be amazed how desperate people can get,” Titus said, shrugging. “Of course, they're usually not the most responsible people, so when they bounce, I track 'em down myself, drag ‘em back to jail, get the money back. My eye usually makes it super easy. Sometimes they don't even see me before I get the cuffs on 'em.”

“Why did you feel the need to rob a bunch of drug dealers, then? The thrill of it?”

“I had a pressing need for a large amount of cash that my normal work doesn't bring in. That got me enough to hold it off for a while. My turn.”

Evan waved down a waitress for a refill of his coffee, trying not to take it personally when she gasped upon seeing his face. “Go ahead…”

“No, no, hang on.” Titus waved a hand dismissively. “I want to try something. Take your hair out of the ponytail.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Evan groaned and reached back, removing his hair tie. After shaking his head, his hair fell over his face, obscuring everything but his nose and mouth. Titus pursed his lips and regarded him seriously for a moment.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah, I guess. Well enough to not walk into things, I think, and I could probably read if I had to.”

Titus snapped his fingers. “Good. Go with that from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because now you don’t look like God’s mistake. Now you look like a big, dumb-but-lovable goon. Like Jack Black would voice you in a cartoon.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Do you like seeing people contemplating their own mortality and the general cruel absurdity of the tragic farce that is human existence when they get a glimpse of your face?”

Evan felt his cheeks burn and was actually grateful his hair was covering most of his face. “…not particularly, no.”

“Then there you go. You’re welcome. Okay, question time. Uh… how did you get your powers?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, now who’s arguing in bad faith? Fucking all of them, you thick-lipped gargoyle.”

Evan had the feeling he hit a sore spot. Titus's easy-going, jocular tone had bled away from him, leaving behind the hard-edged razor-blade of a man that had ambushed him the night before. He decided not to belabor the point.

“I don't know why I can rege—why I heal so quickly. No, I'm serious, as far as I know, it just started happening sometime in the past few months. I can't remember. Don't look at me like that, I'll get to that in a minute. When I was younger I recovered from a lot of injuries a lot quicker than the doctors thought I would, so maybe it's something I was born with and it just got stronger recently for some reason.”

Evan took a sip of coffee, mainly to buy a few seconds to think of how much to explain for the next part.

“The ability to shut off powers... that's part of, well, I guess you'd call it a magic ritual, because I don't know what else to call it. I found a weird old book that said it contained the key to making someone an instrument of universal justice, or something of the sort. Since then I can see... I guess they're souls? Maybe? I can sort of move mine and when I run it into someone else's it seems like I can shut off their powers. Or... take them entirely, if they're dying.”

“Horseshit!” Titus scoffed. “That's... that's like meta-magic. I don't even know if that's real.”

“No, seriously! I don't think it's just magic powers, I think it... 'normalizes' things.” He briefly recounted his encounter with the pain monster.

“Are you kidding me? That...” Titus took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly and loudly. “Look, I don't know much, but the fact that you even ran into something like that, let alone survived... those odds are astronomical. And you say you negated not just its powers, but its whole form?”

“Yeah. Once I... reached into it, like I did with you—oh don't make that face. Grow up—I kind of disrupted what made it... different, I guess? Like I cut it off from its special qualities. Like it was...”

“Disjuncted,” Titus cut in.

“Yeah, that's a good word for it. Like the old Mordenkainen spell?”

“Fucking nerd.”

“Eat my ass. Anyway, after I killed it, I was able to reach into its... soul? Animating force? Aura? I don't know what to call it. I was able to grab something and pull it out and it just got pulled into me.”

“Not aura.”

“What?”

“Aura's a different thing,” Titus said, dismissively. “So what did you get from doing that?”

“I.. I feel pain differently. I don't flinch or get adrenaline rushes from injuries that don't actually impede my ability to function. I think I have a better sense of what is actually dangerous to my body now. It still hurts, but I don't react to pain like people normally do. It's like...hmm.” Evan drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you know anything about video games? Fighting games, specifically?”

“I used to fuck around on an old Alpha 3rd Strike cabinet when I was a kid. Why?”

“Do you know what 'super armor' is?”

“Isn't that where a move can't get stopped by being hit when you're doing it?”

“Right. I'm kind of like that now. Pain doesn't interrupt me.”

“Fucking nerd.”

Evan's fist involuntarily clenched. “I'm trying to put this in terms you can understand, you stupid reprobate. My experience with your judgment thus far hasn't given me much faith in your intellect.”

Titus burst out laughing. “So he does know how to banter! I thought you might be one of those Rainman types.”

“Oh sure, call it 'banter' to try to excuse the fact that you've been insulting me for the past half hour. Do you say you're ‘just joking’ when people get mad at you for saying stupid shit, too?”

“C'mon, lighten up! We're partners now! Tell me more about this soul thing. I still think you're full of shit.”

Evan sighed through his nose, then held up his left hand, forming his fingers into a circle and peering through them.

“Yours is... a sort of cross between a sea green and an oil slick. The tendrils of it keep reaching out and snapping back, going all over the place. It seems to keep expanding and contracting. It's almost flickering, like... it's indecisive. Very chaotic. The tendrils that aren't snapping around seem to be kept pretty close to your body, wrapping around you like... I can't tell if it's protective or restrictive.”

Titus's expression slowly became serious. “What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I have a lot of theories, but nothing solid to go on. I'm not sure if it's allegorical or a literal representation of a person's... power, maybe? Yours definitely looks a lot different than most people's.”

“I don't believe this for a second. Let me see.”

“How would I do tha—hey!”

Titus grabbed Evan's wrist and held his hand up to his eye. “Ho-lee...”

He pulled back from Evan's hand, staring at him. Then he looked around the room, mouth slack as he took in the diner's other occupants.

“Huh. Did you know it keeps working until you blink?” He said after a moment, a faraway tone to his voice.

“I didn't even know other people could do it,” Evan said, awe in his voice. “Hey, wow, you're right!”

“Jesus, yours is, like, really blue. It looks like... a bunch of steel cables. It's weird, I felt like I both could and couldn't see the edges of it...”

“I can kind of move it, but I'm not sure if I can do anything with it beyond interfering with people's powers. It's like learning to use a muscle you didn't know you had.”

“Huh.” Titus was again silent for a long moment. “Your turn.”

“Can you do anything else supernatural? Besides your time-eye?”

“Don't call it that, it sounds stupid. And... sorta. I seem to have whatever innate talent you need to actually do magic, but it's not like it's easy to find instructions. Most of the people I know who can use it just dabble with half-broken magic items—wands, amulets, charms,” he pulled the silence charm out from under his coat and bounced it at the end of its chain. “I guess I'm sort of a dabbler. I know a few tricks, I can use a lot of magic tools, I can sense magic pretty well, I can dowse... Most of the time I really never have to use anything besides the eye, though.”

“Is the eye all-or-nothing?”

“Yeah. It's not nearly as useful as you'd think, but any edge is an edge.”

“When I turned off your power and it was coming back, though, you started speeding up—or, I guess, everything else was slowing down? You were moving faster, one way or the other. You were able to touch me, and those punches hurt.”

“Huh, yeah, you're right.”

“Do you think there's a way you could learn to only partially activate it?”

“That'd be great, wouldn't it? Thing is, just using it is a huge strain, and that time spend outside of time adds up. Going by normal calendar time I'm only 26.”

“Fuck, I'm 27!” Evan laughed.

“Yeah, well, I'd rather be prematurely gray than what you've got going on. My turn. Uh... huh, I can't really think of anything else. Uh... are you gay?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No, but the question still counts.”

“I'm bi,” Evan mumbled, crossing his arms across his prodigious chest. “Not that it matters. And before you ask, no, you are not my type. We're done talking about this.”

“Huh. You ever sucked--”

“We. Are. Done. Talking about this.”

“Fine, God. Go.”

Evan mentally circled back to an earlier question he felt hadn't been properly answered. “Why are you after Moreno?”

To Evan's surprise, Titus didn't hesitate. “I'm actually after his current boss. He's just the best lead I have to go on.” He took a deep breath, then started talking with a rushed, deadpan pace, as if he was eager to get the words out as quickly as possible so they wouldn't be in his mouth very long.

“Moreno is working for a guy only known as the Soultaker. He has an innate supernatural ability to pull a person's soul out of their body. When that happens, the person just... shuts down, usually. No motive force behind them. Eventually they just die of dehydration, usually. I've seen some people so set in routine that they keep going without a soul, but... it's not really life.

“It seems like the extraction process takes a while, so he can't just walk past you on the street and pickpocket your entire essence. So he needs people rounded up for him, held until he can do his nasty juju. So that's where a degenerate like Moreno comes in.

“So when he pulls out a soul, it, well, it looks like this.”

Titus pulled a battered, faded Crown Royale bag out of his jacket. It bulged strangely and made a quiet clacking when he set it on the table. He pulled out what looked like a large marble, or maybe a dull pearl, and handed it to Evan.

Evan brushed his hair out of his eyes and peered into the milky depths of the sphere. After a few moments of staring, the murky clouds inside the thing seemed to clear and a face floated to the surface. A black man, maybe in his late 40s, going thin on top. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but his expression had a look of discomfort to it, as if he was having a bad dream.

“Jesus Christ,” Evan whispered, “I've seen this guy... Martell Calloway? I saw some news article about how his family found him tied up in his apartment and completely comatose! But he didn't have any injuries beyond being a black eye... so he's dead?”

“Life support,” Titus said, taking Mr. Calloway's soul back from Evan's unresisting fingers, “technically, he's one of the lucky ones. They found his body before it wasted away to nothing, and I was able to intercept his soul before it got to a buyer.”

“Why would someone buy something like this? What use is it? Can you fix him?”

“A human soul is a damn near exhaustible arcane battery,” Titus said gravely. In the split second between sentences, Evan noticed something—after he'd put the bag back into his jacket, Titus surreptitiously touched a pocket on the other side of his jacket, as if he was making sure something was still there.

“If you know what you're doing, you can power a lot of magic using a soul. And you can reuse them as long as you don't overdo it. If you know what you're doing, you can wring all but the last drops of essence out of a soul and let it heal or recover or whatever, and it'll eventually be back to full strength. Very resilient things,” Titus continued. “I don't think they're conscious in there, but... anyway, it's supposed to be really hard to extract a soul. But this guy was born with or spontaneously developed or somehow figured out a shortcut to the whole process. So the market is getting flooded with torture-batteries and ECUs are getting flooded with vegetables. And families are winding up with loved ones who are as good as dead, without having any idea why this happened to them. Dozens of them have been taken off life support in the past few months. Half these souls have no body to return to. And no, I can't fix it. At least not yet,” he sighed again. “I was hoping once I found him, I could somehow get the secret out of him or force him to put them back, or... maybe I thought if I killed him it'd reverse the effect. He needs killing, either way.”

Titus's eye widened as a thought struck him and he looked Evan in the eye for the first time since he'd started the story. Evan realized what he was thinking and looked down at the tattoo on his left arm, flexing his fingers.

“If you can take people's powers after they die...”

“...then we can save these people.”

Titus put a hand over his mouth and for a moment Evan thought he saw his eye well up.

“I'm in,” Evan said, a sense of righteous purpose welling in his heart. “I don't really know what the universe wants, but I doubt... I know it's not this. We'll find him, we'll stop him, and we'll save as many of these people as we can.”

“...thanks,” Titus mumbled behind his hand. He swallowed hard, then seemed to come back to himself. “We're back to square one, though.”

“You said you could dowse? Like, for real?”

“Yes, for real. I can find things and people with the pendulum method. It's handy for tracking down bounties.”

“Why don't you dowse Moreno?”

“Why didn't I think of that?!” Titus said incredulously, smacking his forehead. “Because he's warded. He's not magic himself, but he's collected enough gear through his career that my normal methods don't work.”

Evan rubbed his chin. “What if we used an abnormal method?”

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

An hour later, they were in the RV. Titus was poring over the collection of Evan's notes and the strange papers he'd bought from Delmann's shop. Evan was very carefully slicing a strip of skin from his own ankle up all the way up his leg. The Guiding Light—the Finder's Follysat on the table between them, filled with fresh blood.

“Even if this works, he's going to know we're coming,” Titus muttered, engrossed in the pages. “Remember what I said?”

“That's why we're not going to look for him,” Evan said, adjusting his grip on the potato peeler. “I don't know how we'd even write his name. Can you read that, by the way?”

“Kind of. This is... most of this is written in, like, arcane pidgin. Who compiled these notes?”

“I did, I think.”

“You think?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to clarify on that. Apparently a couple months ago, before the ritual, I drilled a hole in my own brain to erase some kind of very dangerous memory.”

“You what.”

“That's not a metaphor or anything. Really did it. I could show you the video.”

“I'll pass. So you don't remember where this came from?” Titus shook the Book of Fate at him.

“Nope.”

“Jesus shit, do you have any idea--”

“How reckless that was? Yeah, yeah, I'm still here and I'm the answer to your fuckin' prayers, aren't I?” Evan gave a whoop as the peeling skin reached his thigh. “Got it this time!” he said cheerfully, snipping the flesh-ribbon off with scissors.

“God, that's so fucking gross. Anyway, you haven't explained how we're going to use that thing to find Moreno.”

“We don't set it to look for him. We look for somewhere he's been. Maybe the last place he slept. Do you think you can describe him well enough in that language for it to work?”

Titus looked like he might actually be impressed, but he hid it well. “Yeah, probably.”

“Good. I've got a dictionary I've put together on that tablet next to you, but I'm not sure how accurate it is. Maybe it'll help?”

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

Two hours later, they had it.

Find where a man born between the 27th and 28th north parallels during a new moon under the sign of capricorn with black hair and green eyes who has killed at least 10 people slept in the past week.

They really had to squeeze the letters in, but when Evan put a flame to the wick, it sprung to life, wavered for a moment, and then pointed east. Both men cheered. Evan threw Titus the keys.

“Drive! Drive north until I tell you otherwise!”

While Titus started the engine, Evan spread a map of the United States on the table in front of the lamp, then produced a protractor and a notebook from a drawer. “Okay, you bastard... let's see where you've been hiding...”

It took three days—one spent driving north, one spent driving back to where they'd started, and one spent driving south. While Titus drove, Evan made meticulous notes of the flame's direction, marking angles on the map. Finally he threw the pencil down triumphantly.

“He's in Salt Lake City.”

“Well, that narrows it down a little, I guess. So what, do we just go there and hope this thing points us in the right direction?”

“Too slow,” Evan called, stepping back into what used to be his bedroom and sitting at his computer. “Now I work my magic.”

After parking, Titus walked back to look over Evan's shoulder. The half-dozen monitors on the wall were flickering between rapidly-changing pictures of faces and what appeared to be CCTV footage.

“What is this?”

��This,” Evan said with dramatic pride, “is Blaccat. Facial recognition algorithms that the CIA wishesit had. I actually started working on it years ago before I thought about the implications of it, but I shelved it. I figured since I may be needing to, uh...”

“Be Batman?”

“...yeah...that I should get back to work on it. Right now it's comparing faces to the description you gave me and cycling through every damn security camera in the city looking for it.”

“How illegal is this?”

“Soooooo illegal.”

“Oh, hey, can you get into police department records?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“See if you can get into the Las Vegas mugshots from... February 2019. Run your face-recognition thingy there.”

“Alright.... and... is that our boy?”

A handsome Latino man in his early 30s with shoulder-length jet-black hair and piercing green eyes stared at them from over a booking clipboard.

“That's him,” Titus breathed.

“Perfect! Now I just have to feed that into... wow.” Evan made a gesture and a black and white video popped up on the biggest monitor. The man in the mugshot was walking along the street, flanked by a short stocky man in bandanna and a lanky man with the ugliest white-boy dreads Evan had ever seen.

“That's him! Where is that? When is that?”

Evan grinned up at Titus. “That's live. I can track him and put us at the nearest intersection.”

Titus smiled, eye overbright, and began breathing heavily through his nose. “We got him.”

Evan met his eye and nodded. “Let's get him.”

#my writing #urban fantasy #ugly man chronicles: reignition

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southeastasianists · 3 years

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Making movies about lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender can be daunting under Singapore’s restrictive censorship laws, but that didn’t stop one filmmaker from doing so in his directorial debut. Getting his work to the big screen, however, was a whole other obstacle to overcome.

It only took one month for Jet Ho to conceptualize, write, cast and film Aqua Man, a short film about a young Singaporean boy that looks at the hot-button topic of gay conversion therapy. But that was just the beginning of his struggle for anyone to see it. Because it touches the media third rail of homosexuality, his story of student Jun Jie, his distressed mom, and Bible-armed pastor was rejected at least 15 times, by Ho’s count, by streaming platforms and film festivals.

“It [was] quite fast to film, but it took me a very hard time to promote the film,” Ho told Coconuts. “It basically was rejected everywhere from the start until I decided to just launch it on YouTube and give it some justice to itself.”

There’s no Jason Momoa here coming to the rescue, so why Aqua Man? Aqua sounds similar to a derogatory Hokkien term for gay men, Ah Kua, which literally means transvestite. In Ho’s film, actor Josh Lim is the titular character, who comes home one day to find his mother has brought a pastor to pray the gay out of him with a praying ritual form of conversion therapy.

It’s a timely topic as Singaporeans clash over extending or suppressing LGBT rights and recognition in an uneven struggle that has seen one side given a voice over the other.

Because of the subject matter, Aqua Man could never be shown on television, as films featuring characters who are gay – an “alternative sexuality” to government censors – is automatically rated 21 and up.

That restriction, most often applied to movies containing nudity, was not something Ho was OK with. After all, he wanted to reach those who would most identify with his protagonist.

“It is a societal problem that starts out even with kids at a very young age,” Ho said, referring to the younger generation who struggle with their sexual identity. “This has got nothing to do with explicit pornographic material, that perhaps needs a higher age rating.”

So in December he premiered his film on YouTube, where it has struggled to find a large audience.

Unseen …

The commercial photographer for the National Museum and National Geographic channel said he was motivated to make his movie by the lack of a quality queer representation in Singaporean television shows and movies.

Queer characters portrayed as regular people are unheard of on national television, where they are relegated to cross-dressing tropes by the likes of Jack Neo and drag queen Kumar, or are sources of comic relief, such as transgender comedian Abigail Chay.

There is some good – last year’s depiction of a family man turning to drag culture to feed his family was nominated for two Taiwanese film awards – and a whole lot of ugly, such as Mediacorp TV series My Guardian Angels, which portrayed a gay character as an STD-infected pedophile.

“They just include this character and always hint him in a very bad light or bad influence, driving a misrepresentation of the LGBT population in Singapore,” Ho said. “Let’s say Disney has one gay character in a movie and it is premiering in Singapore. I can tell you a lot of people will make a big fuss out of it.”

Indeed Disney’s Beauty and the Beast did kick up some dust in 2017 from church councils, which denounced the film winning a PG-rating despite the inclusion of a gay character.

That said, Singaporeans are more open to discuss gender identity today than two decades ago, Ho said, noting that Aqua Man is set nearly 20 years ago, a time he thinks Singapore’s cultural conservatism was at its peak.

Now, in 2021, arch-conservatives appear to feel they are on the defensive, denouncing “woke cancel mobs” over arguments that seem to have moved on from their point of view as negative LGBT views continue to tick down. Singapore’s strain of evangelical Christianity remains a potent force, and the intersection between faith and family is an area Ho mined for his film.

“Sometimes when the parents face such a problem that is already existing in our very conservative society, they often find a solution with the church or with religious institutions but the answer to whether it is the right or the most moral approach, nobody is there to judge,” Ho said. “I find this dilemma in the film very interesting because there is no right or wrong answer.”

Ho, who is not Christian, had only heard stories of conversion therapy. So, prior to filming, he dove a little deeper into the topic by attending weekly sermons at churches and interviewing pastors in hope of portraying them more accurately. He sounded grateful for the opportunity.

“I don’t want to put any church or any organization in bad light, I want to make the whole film look as authentic as it is. With the church, I was very thankful to come out with this concept,” he said, describing them as “loving” and “very understanding.”

… but not unheard

Aqua Man could have reached a wider audience and been better funded were it not for the strict laws, believes Ho, who forked out S$16,000 (US$12,000) to make it. Even film festivals and competitions turned him down.

“The main problem was when I tried to send out to a few film competitions, I wasn’t notified on whether I lost or anything. Locally, like streaming platforms I actually send out a few emails to their main email and even directly to people who work there but I received zero emails,” he said. “That’s how serious it is, they are so repulsive against LGBT-centric films.”

Ho submitted his film to the Singapore International Film Festival and HBO Asia’s Invisible Stories series, which is marketed as surfacing untold Singapore stories. They were among the more than dozen platforms he says rejected or ignored his inquiries. But he took comfort in one HBO representative’s note.

“Even though we didn’t win anything, it was actually a great relief because she personally wrote an email to us, and that’s the only reply that we got. At first, I really thought the film was so bad and negative to the extent that it doesn’t deserve a place or it doesn’t deserve anything,” he said.

Though direct to YouTube wasn’t his first choice, Ho was gratified by the response he got.

“After the film was produced, it was very astonishing to find that many people actually reach out to say that this happened to them personally so it became a true story that I wrote. Initially, I just dictated the story and something I think will be interesting to show but it became a true story, told by people who watch the film,” he said.

Local LGBT group Oogachaga had also shared the movie on its online platform.

And it’s not the end of the road for Ho, who is still pushing for Aqua Man to reach a wider audience. He’s also writing another script and pledging to continue chasing stories on social issues such as transgenderism, racism, and abuse.

“Singapore has to have its own culture when it comes to filmmaking, our culture is our identity. We should portray more and show more, we shouldn’t hide it we should embrace it and move forward,” he said. “Trying to conceal the whole LGBT-centric material is not going to be helpful for us to progress into a more empathetic society.”

#Southeast Asia #Singapore #LGBTQIA Issues #Movies #Aqua Man

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years

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The Broken Soul of TK Strand (2/?)

once again, not my words, i'm just the messenger 😊

warning for a fair bit of gore in this chapter, some torture, and mentions of vomiting.

ao3 | 3.4k | chapter one

Carlos’s arrival at the station was Owen’s first sign that he needed to worry about TK. He had seen this expression before, when Carlos had come to his house, asking about his son. That time, TK had been kidnapped, almost killed, and he had spent two days in the hospital with a severe concussion.

“Have you heard from TK?”

This question was the second sign which set alarm bells ringing in the captain’s head.

Although he could just be acting a little bit paranoid; TK had left early to find an anniversary gift for Carlos, so that he would forgive him for having forgotten the day. There were many reasons why he might have been delayed, there was no reason to always think the worst. But, with the years, it was always easier for Owen to think about all the bad things that could have happened to his son.

“I’m sure I’m worrying about nothing,” Carlos continued whilst everyone was looking at him, accepting the coffee Mateo made for him. “But I’ve called him six times in the last two hours and he hasn’t answered or called me back. I’m worried that he feels bad for what happened this morning.”

“What did happen this morning?” Mateo asked, worry all over his face.

“TK didn’t remember that it was our anniversary. I think he still struggles to believe that we’re serious or that I’m not going to hurt him. I didn’t take it badly...well, I did a little. I was disappointed because I’d planned the whole day, and I didn’t hide it well. I think I scared him.”

“Oh, sweetheart, TK was mortified that he forgot your anniversary,” Tommy said, coming to sit at the table. She and Owen filled Carlos in on their conversation with TK and how they had told him that he could leave early.

“He even asked me what he could buy to impress you,” Owen added, trying to calm Carlos a little. “I’m sure that he has spent the time looking for the perfect gift to get you to forgive him.”

“So why doesn’t he answer my calls? He knows I worry.”

Carlos finished his coffee and tried to call TK again, this time with the speaker on, but he was sent to voicemail.

“I’ll send him a message saying that there’s an emergency here.” Tommy stood up to get her phone, but before she could go up the stairs to her office, Marjan’s voice grabbed everyone’s attention as she entered the kitchen.

“Guys, I just found TK’s phone on the ground outside with a bunch of missed calls from Carlos. Oh, hey, I didn’t know you were here. Is everything okay?”

Carlos clenched his jaw to keep from shouting, I knew it.

No more signs were needed to prove that something bad had happened to TK, so Owen mobilised everyone for the search operation he’d planned in his head in case anything happened to anyone.

He didn’t tell Carlos about the fear he always had when it came to TK, that when he was scared or feeling bad about something, he would end up in the first bar he found. This task he left for himself, and he headed off as fast as he could to some bars in the area to discard this possibility.

A panic attack could lead TK to drinking in order to free himself from insecurity or the fear that he wasn’t a good boyfriend to Carlos. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, and Owen didn’t want to find him drunk over a misunderstanding, ruining his more than twelve months of sobriety. Forgetting an anniversary wasn’t a good reason to throw it all away.

“You could go to your regular places in case anyone has seen him,” he told Carlos, then asked Tommy and Nancy to go for a look around, now that they had finished their shift.

“I’ll call Grace,” Judd offered. “She might have heard something at the call centre.”

Carlos thanked him, and Paul and Mateo decided to look around the station. If his phone had been left there, maybe they would find another hint.

“I’ll stay by the phone in case TK calls us or someone has something for us,” Marjan said, and they all set off.

The last thing Owen wanted was to return to the station without having found him. In a way, this would be good news, because it meant that TK wasn’t in a bar, but if Carlos had also heard nothing, it wouldn’t make him feel better, given how they’d called their close friends.

But nobody had seen TK all afternoon, and Tommy and Nancy had no luck either.

“Hey guys,” Grace greeted the group, hugging Carlos and Owen. “I haven’t had any call that could have anything to do with TK all shift today. I’m truly sorry, I wish I could help more.”

“Well, that could be a sign that nothing is wrong,” Mateo noted, smiling.

“Or it could mean that something is wrong, nobody found him, and TK wasn’t able to call for help,” Carlos replied, saying aloud what everyone else was thinking.

“Then where is he? Why doesn’t he call us?” Mateo said again, too innocent to realise that this was only serving to scare everyone more.

Paul sent him a murderous look.

Panic began to set in for Carlos. It wasn’t the first time someone had taken TK, and they had been so lucky then. He still dreamed about the gun sometimes, about hugging TK and sensing that he was about to pass out from the blow to his head. So it also wasn’t the first time he had feared for his boyfriend’s life, but as many times as it had happened, he couldn’t calm down any.

The next time could always be the last, after all.

TK woke up with the worst headache he’d ever had in his life. He’d suffered concussions before, and this was somehow even worse. He wanted to rip his head off, or at least stop hearing the banging that slammed against his eardrums.

He opened his eyes and looked around him, though the almost complete darkness made it impossible to see anything other than what was right next to him. He was sprawled on a mattress which someone had placed on the floor—a floor that smelt awful, like the whole room. It was a strong odour of blood and other horrible things that almost made him throw up right then and there.

He had to make a huge effort to push himself up so he was sitting on the mattress. Doing so made him touch the mattress, and he quickly regretted it; it was sticky with some substance that TK didn’t want to identify.

Lifting his hand to his head, he felt the blood smeared across part of his face, then turned his gaze down to his clothes. He was wearing the same hoodie he was when he left the station, but it was stained with blood.

His blood.

He couldn’t remember what happened. It hurt to think, but he tried anyway, going back to the last clear memory he had.

Carlos had been upset because he’d forgotten their anniversary. He’d decided to buy a gift at the end of shift, something unique and special, with which he would show Carlos how much he loved him and how stupid he’d been for forgetting.

Then nothing. He didn’t know what had happened after that, not even going to work, and much less how he had ended up in this situation.

TK tried to get to his feet, but he only managed to stumble a couple of steps until he had to hold himself up on the wall. He wouldn’t be able to get very far in his condition, so it made sense that whoever was holding him here didn’t see it necessary to tie him up; two steps and he was already about to throw up and fall to his knees.

He squeezed his eyes shut and, when he reopened them, he tried once more to concentrate on his surroundings. The room seemed like a basement; there wasn’t anything more than a tiny, dirty window, which was the only source of light. But it was so small that there was no chance he could escape through it, even if he wasn’t concussed.

Worse, though, was the smell. It was like something had died...or someone, though TK didn’t want to think about that, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to avoid the nausea, and he didn’t think there would be anyone to clean up after him.

TK groaned, hurting himself with how hard he was gritting his teeth. He fell to his knees, the pain in his head creating the sensation that someone was driving a million needles all over at the same time.

He breathed harshly, closed his eyes, then focused on moving.

Bad idea, though he realised it too late, when he was already on the ground. He looked at his arm where the stranger had cut it the day before, realising that the wound had opened and it was bleeding.

It did not look good.

But he didn’t have time to think on it anymore, as at that moment, the door opened and a dark shadow appeared. It was against the light, so TK could only see a double silhouette… He definitely had a concussion.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“It matters little who I am,” said an almost guttural voice, deep and dark, which made TK’s hair stand on end. “Nor does it matter what I want from you. It is my Dark Lord who has called you.”

“Who?” TK just about managed to sit up on the mattress again, though it wasn’t any better or worse than being on the floor. He must be pretty out of it, because what this guy was saying didn’t make any sense.

The other man stepped into the room. TK estimated that he was more or less as tall as him, maybe a little taller, but he was wearing a type of cape or hood or something that made it difficult to see his face. The man laughed as he closed in on TK and squatted down in front of him.

“The Lord of Darkness doesn’t show himself to those who don’t believe in him. But don’t worry—as soon as we perform the blood ritual and the mark of hell is on your skin, my Lord will present himself before you, and then you will understand.”

“You’re crazy, man. Let me go and I won’t tell anyone who you are. I don’t even know where I am, so if you just leave me somewhere…”

“I haven’t kidnapped you.”

“Oh, no?”

The ham shook his head and, being so close, TK could see his dark, piercing eyes, making him tremble.

“No. I’m not one of those crazy psychopaths on the news. My purpose is to open the door to this world for my Dark Lord. His kingdom of darkness will be better than the shit we are living in now.”

“Okay, um, that sounds great and all, but what does it have to do with me?” TK asked. The pain in his head stopped him from thinking clearly or quickly.

The man took TK’s chin in a large, rough hand and pulled him towards him. “There’s no rush. Rest your soul, you will be able to ask all the questions you want during eternity with your new master.”

TK feared that he would kiss him and after that, he would want… He shook that thought from his head. But no, his kidnappers pushed him hard so he landed on the bed, putting emphasis on ‘rest’.

“Aren’t you at least going to give me something to eat and drink?”

“You’re right; I almost forgot.” The man moved quickly, turning and walking out the door, only to return two seconds later with a cup in his hands. He was also carrying a dish, and he placed them both in front of the bed.

TK looked at them—the strong smell had already reached him from the door, but seeing it was even worse.

It was a large heart, hopefully from an animal so at least it wouldn’t be human; the madness of this guy knew no bounds. The smell was awful, nauseating, as if it had just been taken from the animal’s body and put there.

The cup almost made him feel worse—it was wine, and TK could even smell it over the odour of blood from the heart.

“Couldn’t I have a little water? It’s not that I’m not grateful for the wine, but I don’t drink.”

“It’s time to leave your normal life behind. Your soul needs to be perfect to accept my Lord.”

The guy got up, clearly having said what he needed to say. He did a kind of bow, or something like one, and prepared to leave.

“Hey, no. You don’t mean to make me eat this?” TK called, but the man didn’t turn and kept walking towards the door. “Don’t leave me here, just tell me what you want from me.”

TK tried to launch himself at the man; maybe he could knock him down, run to the door, and escape. But he only took two steps before his legs failed him; he fell to the floor, hit his arm, and lay there prone, dizzy, fighting against the rising nausea, and watching as the man left and closed the door.

“Thank you, really. Thanks for being so quick.”

Carlos left his phone on the table and covered his face with both hands; he felt about to cry, but there was so much to do, and not enough hours had passed since TK’s disappearance for him to lose hope.

“It’s TK’s, right?” Owen asked, sitting in front of him, two mugs of tea in hand. “The blood on the floor is TK’s.”

Carlos nodded. “It matches his.”

Carlos’s phone pinged with another message, and he looked over at it. It was a link to a police video database; Carlos was grateful that he had friends in all departments, as everyone started working at full speed when he told them that someone had kidnapped TK.

He asked Owen for a computer and opened the video he’d been sent.

“It’s the security feed from outside the station, right where we found the blood. In theory, this is the moment TK was taken, so maybe we’ll be able to see something.”

The two of them watched the video in silence. It began with TK leaving, just as Owen and Tommy had told Carlos. The officer felt his heart stop, thinking that this might be the last time that he saw his boyfriend.

An instant later, a hooded figure appeared at TK’s back.

“It matches the description he gave me of the guy he said attacked him by the dumpsters,” Carlos said, not looking away from the screen. “I don’t know why I didn’t take him seriously when he told me.”

The man hit TK on the head and he fell to the ground, Owen and Carlos holding their breath. TK turned, looking up from the ground, and they saw him say something. They couldn’t see the face of his attacker, only that he hit TK again, leaving him unconscious...or so they hoped.

A moment later, TK’s inert body was loaded into a car parked not far from there. Carlos zoomed in but, as expected, there was no license plate.

“So now we know that TK was kidnapped.”

“Those blows could have killed him,” Carlos whispered.

“You know as well as I do—TK has a hard head. We’re going to find him.”

TK didn’t know how much time had passed by the time the man returned. He had thrown up twice due to the smell and, though he had tried to throw the wine away, a part of him told him that he needed the liquid. This was better than nothing, despite the danger that alcohol posed for him.

He left it to one side and pushed the plate with the heart away—he had no intention of touching it.

The cell door opened again. It was the same man, or so TK thought, given the few things he could see. The guy looked at the plate and cut and clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed that TK hadn’t followed his orders.

But he didn’t say anything; instead, he took a knife from underneath his cape and TK forced himself to his knees as quickly as he could—which wasn’t very quick—backing up against the wall.

“Listen, I don’t know what you have in mind but…” His captor closed the gap separating them and grabbed TK’s arm; they struggled until he was able to free himself. “Don’t hurt me, please. I’ll meet your Lord, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Of course you will, starting right now.”

He stuck the knife into TK’s sweater and made a long enough cut so that he could rip it with his hands until TK’s shoulder blade was exposed. TK writhed but he was weak from thirst and the concussion, which was getting worse with every minute nothing was done about it.

“Please… No…”

“You have to do things right, just as my Lord likes, or else he won’t allow you to open the door.”

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do it, I promise, just don’t hurt me.”

The lord of darkness says that I have to teach those who don’t believe and make them obey rules so that, one day, they will follow them of their own will.”

TK tried to move away but the cold edge of the knife against his throat made him freeze. His captor was also straddling him, so TK couldn’t go anywhere or do anything.

“Drink the wine and eat the heart.”

“No… Please…”

TK stifled a moan as the knife dug into his throat, making a small cut. The man didn’t say anything, and he wasn’t going to give him any more options or opportunities. So there was nothing left to do—TK reached out and took the cup in a trembling hand, lifting it to his lips.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had wine, but the feeling of throwing his whole future away as he felt the alcohol running down his throat made him cry. Suddenly, the worst of torture didn’t seem so bad as what he was being forced to do know.

The man told him to drink it all, and TK did it.

“Now eat the heart.”

“If I do, I’ll throw up, and I don’t think your master would like that.”

“If you vomit, I will bring you another, until you have it inside you with the wine.”

The man pushed the plate closer. TK looked at it, terrible nausea rising up again, which only got worse when he took the organ in his hands and raised it to his mouth. The only way he could do it was by closing his eyes; thinking that he would never be able to eat anything again, he sank his teeth into the viscous, bloody, raw flesh. Blood ran down his throat and his face, staining his clothes, already ruined by his own blood.

Soon he felt pain in his shoulder. The man had stabbed him with the knife and he began to move it, drawing something on TK’s skin, paying no attention to his cries and protests. He had him well restrained and he wasn’t going to move until he was done, ordering TK to continue eating while he drew on his body.

When he climbed from on top of him, TK threw the heart to the other side of the room. He was barely able to hold onto consciousness for a few seconds, time in which he saw the man cleaning the knife on his clothes.

“Tomorrow we will finish the ritual, and with the full moon you will be the first to see the arrival of the lord in darkness in this world. You should feel proud.”

Then he left TK there alone, bleeding, in pain, terrified, fighting against nausea, trembling, and exhausted. He crawled over to the wall and hugged his legs, but he had no time to cry though he wanted to, as in a few seconds, he fell into unconsciousness.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #tk strand #carlos reyes #owen strand #911ls #lone star #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

Note

I adore your Merlin work!! Can I submit a prompt? Merlin finds a way to ensure the safety of Camelot without Arthur’s death, and all it requires is the sacrifice of his magic and his immortality. Cue Merlin willing to become a regular human so Arthur can live.

thanks for the prompt, anon! I hope it’s what you wanted, I had fun with it. Read on Ao3

Let Go

Pairings: Merthur

Warnings: none, this is pretty fluffy

Word Count: 3019

Merlin is magic.

Merlin was born with gold running through his veins, the energy of the earth thrumming through his fingers, sparks lingering just beneath his eyes. His mother used to shake her head when little Merlin ran down the paths, flicking up paths of leaves that would follow him gaily until they fluttered back down to the ground. That boy, she would think, destiny has big plans for that boy.

Destiny did.

Merlin teems with magic. It’s everywhere for him. It’s in the way the wind flicks at his hair as he walks outside, ruffling the strands and sending tingles down his spine. It’s in the way the ground thrums with energy as he sets foot in the forest, the earth rushing to and from the life flourishing around him. It’s in the waters of the lake, ebbing and flowing as it gently laps against the shore.

It’s no surprise, then, that when a shudder runs through the earth, reeking of dark forces, Merlin drops the tray he’s holding to clutch at his chest.

“Merlin?”

Arthur looks up at him from behind his desk, frowning at Merlin, hunched over the nearest table.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Merlin grits out, “it’s fine.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, looking at the contents of the tray now scattered all over the floor. “Right, that’s why you’re dropping things everywhere.”

“‘M just clumsy.”

“I know that, Merlin.” Arthur stands. “Which is why I also know this isn’t just you being clumsy.”

“You don’t know how clumsy I am.” Merlin isn’t even paying attention. He’s rubbing firm circles into his chest, trying to figure out what just happened.

So much so, in fact, that Arthur has to call his name three times before he realizes he’s standing right next to him.

“What?”

Arthur raises his hands. “No need to yell, Merlin, I’m just asking if you want to go see Gaius.”

Merlin opens his mouth to retort when Arthur’s words sink in properly and yeah, actually, Gaius sounds good. Gaius will know what’s going on.

“Uh, yeah,” Merlin mumbles, feet already carrying him toward the door, “I, uh, I’m gonna do that.”

Arthur just watches him go, a bemused smile on his face. Merlin, he decides, is strange, yes, but that doesn’t make this less odd. He glances around, at the food scattered across the floor, and at his desk. Surely this can wait for a moment. There’s something wrong with Merlin.

He follows Merlin down the stairs, keeping a reasonable distance, not that Merlin’s paying much attention. Honestly, it was a wonder they didn’t get ambushed by bandits more, considering how bad Merlin was at figuring out he was being followed.

Merlin’s too busy trying to stay upright to realize he’s being followed, thank you very much. He keeps one hand pressed to his chest, trying to dull the phantom ache, as he dodges and swerves around other servants, mumbling apologies when he isn’t fast enough. At last, Gaius’s chambers come into view and he could sob with relief, pushing the door open and all but collapsing into a chair.

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Merlin?”

“Something’s wrong,” Merlin manages through gritted teeth, “something’s wrong, I can feel it, it hurts.”

Gaius lays a hand on his forehead. “No fever…when was the last time you ate something?”

“Like…an hour ago, I’m fine,” Merlin protests, swatting Gaius’s hand away, “it’s not me, it’s something else.”

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “You complained of feeling pangs in your stomach and convinced yourself it was a curse when you hadn’t eaten in a day.”

Merlin hunches his shoulders sheepishly. “That time I also hadn’t slept so my decision-making skills were not at their best.”

“Mm. And how did you sleep last night?”

“Gaius.”

Something in Merlin’s tone must convey how serious this is for him because Gaius sobers, straightening and waiting for Merlin to swallow the lump in his throat.

“It hurts,” he says quietly, still rubbing his chest, “it…it feels like someone opened a crack in my chest and they’re…draining me.”

“Draining you how?”

“M-my...me, Gaius.” Merlin huddles closer around himself, still pressing his hand to his chest.

“Take your tunic off.”

“What?”

Gaius motions to his chest. “Let me see.”

Merlin winces but does as he’s told, the cool air raising goosebumps on his pale skin, the ache worsening when he has to move his hand. Gaius leans forward, prodding at his chest with a finger.

“Well?”

Looking around, Gaius finds a mirror and holds it up. “Look, Merlin.”

Merlin looks. His mouth drops open.

There’s a dark splotch right in the center of his chest, so dark it almost looks wet. Merlin hesitantly touches it, watching his finger in the mirror hover over the spot. He presses. Hard. It sends a jolt of pain through him but it looks like his finger is just…hovering in shadow. It isn’t just dark, it’s without color.

“…Gaius,” Merlin whispers, “what’s happening to me?”

“I don’t know Merlin,” comes the equally hoarse whisper, “I don’t know.”

Well, one thing’s for sure: Gaius isn’t letting Merlin go back to work. Merlin protests, because Arthur needs him, he left things scattered all over the floor, but no, Gaius is insistent, sending him up the stairs to bed without another thought. Merlin obeys, if even so the pain in his chest doesn’t steal his breath on the way back upstairs. Gaius waits until the door to Merlin’s room shuts and the bot slides to walk to the door and open it, revealing a very distressed Arthur.

“Typically, sire,” Gaius says in a low voice, “I do not allow eavesdroppers when I examine a patient.”

“What’s wrong with him,” Arthur mumbles, far too worried to be ashamed, “what’s wrong with Merlin?”

“As I presume you heard, sire, I don’t know.”

“But what—how—what do we do?”

Gaius sighs, ushering Arthur inside with the caveat that he keep his voice down. Arthur sits, worrying his hands until Gaius places a book down on the table and starts flipping through it.

“What’s that?”

“A book, sire.”

“But it’s…it’s…” Arthur frowns, tilting his head. It’s the alleged magic book that someone tried to arrest Merlin with. “Is that…”

Gaius just looks up at him. “Sire, I truly do not mean to insult your intelligence.”

And just like that, Arthur knows.

Arthur knows there’s a reason bandits keep conveniently falling unconscious. Arthur knows there’s a reason Merlin always manages to bollox up some big thing, and yet by the time they show up everything’s taken care of. Arthur knows there’s a reason that whenever there’s a whisper of magic in Camelot, Merlin’s not far behind.

Arthur swallows. “…can you heal him?”

Gaius rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say it, I—“

“Don’t know what’s wrong with him, I know,” Arthur interrupts, “but let me help.”

They scour the books. It’s no use. They can’t find any mention of being drained of magic, nor of mysterious colorless blobs that look like living shadows.

Merlin finds the answer in what might just be the worst way possible.

“Merlin.”

“No,” Merlin whines, rolling over and covering his ears with the pillow, “go away.”

“Merlin.”

“Shut up.”

“Merlin.”

“Fine,” Merlin mumbles, getting out of bed and pulling on his boots, “fine.”

It doesn’t take long to get to their field. After so many years, Merlin could walk this path in his sleep. And sure enough, as soon as he breaks through the trees into the clearing, there he is.

“Young warlock,” Kilgharrah rumbles, raising his head, “you are in pain.”

“Yeah, well, someone did just drag me out of bed,” Merlin grumbles, even as his knees threaten to buckle under him. “Do you know what’s going on with me?”

“I do.”

“Why is it,” Merlin sighs, “that whenever you have something to tell me, it’s always cryptic and vague?”

“I haven’t even told you anything yet.”

“Blanket statement.”

The dragon chuckles. “You have grown cynical, young warlock.”

“Years of being persecuted and saving the world will do that to you.”

“I regret to inform you,” the dragon rumbles, his massive head leaning down, “that those days may soon be behind you.”

Merlin squints up at him. “What’re you talking about?”

“Magic,” Kilgharrah says, “is at a turning point. The earth is weary. Too much magic has been poured into living beings and not enough of it has been returned to the earth.”

Groaning, Merlin closes his eyes. “Please,” he mumbles, “for once, can you just…speak plainly?”

“Too many sorcerers have been executed and the remaining ones don’t hold enough magic to keep the entire earth from threatening to break apart.”

Merlin gapes up at the dragon.

“You did request I speak plainly.”

“Okay…okay.” Merlin presses his hands against his throbbing temples. “What?”

“Magic is…an interesting thing,” the dragon decides on finally, “and it must be handled very, very carefully when it is being transferred.”

“Transferred, you mean…”

“When a being of magic dies,” Kilgharrah says, “it is not as simple as the magic finding its way back into the earth. That is why there are so many rituals for the death of a magic-user. A true magic-user, those that are born with the gift.”

“So…”

The dragon sighs. “There used to be many. Now there are scarcely a few.”

Merlin sinks to his knees. This shouldn’t be a shock. He knows this. He knows it. And yet…

“Quite,” the dragon murmurs as Merlin buries his head in his hands.

“What can be done,” Merlin manages around the lump in his throat, “to stop it?”

“Stop what?”

“The earth breaking apart or whatever it is that you said.”

Kilgharrah sighs. Why is he the one sighing? Merlin’s the one who’s just been told that his people are so few in number now that the very ground he walks upon is under threat.

“Magic must be returned to the earth,” Kilgharrah says, “in the quantity that it was given and without strings attached.”

“Okay, so how do we do that?”

The dragon gives him a strange look. “A large quantity,” he repeats slowly, “must be returned…with no strings attached.”

“You just said that.”

“I am wondering whether or not you will realize what I am saying.”

“I just said for you to speak plainly.”

“You must give up your magic,” Kilgharrah says softly, “and forfeit everything that has made you the Greatest Warlock to Walk the Earth.”

Oh.

Merlin’s mouth runs dry.

Merlin is magic.

It is so much a part of him that Merlin doesn’t know where the magic ends and he begins. Merlin doesn’t know what it would be like without the rush through him or the faint tingle that keeps him company while he sleeps. He doesn’t know what it would be like to have it not be there. He’s had his magic stopped before, blocked, but it was still there. He could feel it, locked away in a corner of his body, utterly useless and beyond his reach but still very much there.

He has no idea what it would feel like to reach for it and stumble into nothing but an empty void.

And yet…

“What happens,” Merlin asks lowly, “when the earth breaks apart?”

“The earth will try to get back what has been stolen from it,” Kilgharrah rumbles, “it will seek out what little bits of magic remain and reabsorb them, create itself anew, right the wrongs that have been done against it.”

A chill rushes through Merlin that has nothing to do with the ache in his chest.

“The world will end.”

“Not the world,” the dragon corrects softly, “but…yes.”

There’s no telling how many people would die. There’s no telling what damage that would do. There’s no telling whether there would even be a world after this is over.

“How do I do it,” Merlin mumbles, his eyes falling closed, “how do I return my magic?”

“There are places where the barrier between the worlds is thinner,” the dragon says, “here…in these places, at special times, the spell can be cast that would return your magic in its entirety, to the earth.”

Merlin swallows. “Will it kill me?”

“No. That is part of the deal. You will live, your magic will not.”

Merlin sets his jaw, the ache in his chest settling. “When is the next time?”

“…at the next full moon.”

“Where?”

“I believe you know where.”

“…the lake?”

The dragon nods sagely. Merlin bows his head.

“Will I get to see Freya?”

“That, young warlock, I do not know.”

Despite everything, a smile touches the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “You might want to start looking for something else to call me.”

A realization crosses his mind.

“You must be excited,” he says, “after me…no more Dragonlords.”

“That is true,” Kilgharrah concedes with a nod of his head, “and yet…out of all the Dragonlords, I fear I will miss you the most.”

“You could still visit.”

Kilgharrah huffs a laugh. “I could. Though it was not long ago that you and I were not on such good terms.”

“Not long ago I thought my magic would be mine forever,” Merlin says. “Things change.”

“Indeed they do.” Kilgharrah stretches his neck out, looking down at Merlin. The dragon lowers himself to his belly. “And you, young warlock, you have changed greatly.”

“Mm.”

“You were so small,” the dragon murmurs, “so wide-eyed when you first came to Camelot. Sometimes I wonder what happened to that very young boy.”

“Yes,” Merlin murmurs, “I wonder what happened to me.”

Kilgharrah has the decency to bow his head. Then, in a shocking display of tenderness that startles the both of them, he stretches his massive neck out, rumbling quietly. Merlin, still curled up on the ground, reaches out, arms open.

The dragon buries his head in Merlin’s lap, pushing his snout gently into his belly, closing his eyes as Merlin rests against his broad face.

I forgive you, they say to each other, I forgive you.

The next full moon is in a few weeks. In that time, Merlin thinks.

He has the spell. He’s told Gaius. Gaius isn’t pleased, but…as Merlin reminds them both, it could be worse. Merlin will survive. It will just be…different.

Merlin uses those weeks to try and figure out who he is without magic.

He figures out that he should probably learn how to fight without magic.

The knights are more than happy to help him, even if Lancelot pulls him into a rough hug when Merlin tells him, even if Leon looks at him and bows, even if Gwaine curses lightly.

He learns. He learns through bumps and bruises but he learns.

He figures out that he is absolute rubbish as a physician’s assistant.

Gaius simply shakes his head and tells him it’s a good thing he’s Arthur’s servant, there’s no way he’d make it as Court Physician after he’s gone. The good news, Gaius tells him, is that not having magic shouldn’t impact his knowledge of magic in the slightest.

He learns. He learns through trial and error and sleepless nights, trying to learn all that he can while he still can.

He figures out that really, he’s doing this for Arthur.

Not that it surprises him much, he hadn’t been lying to Kilgharrah. Arthur is the reason, at least the main reason, he’s like this now. Arthur and the hope that Arthur will create the kingdom meant to last, unite the land of Albion. He’s doing it for the way Arthur stands tall, amidst a council that is still more Uther than Arthur, and refuses to compromise. He’s doing it for the way a knight no longer has to be of noble blood, the way Percival and Lancelot and Elyan are more valued than ever because of their abilities, not their names. He’s doing it for the way he sees the people smile when Arthur walks by, no longer fearful of their king but proud.

He’s doing it for the way Arthur is strangely softer in the mornings, before he puts on the crown, still dozing in the warm sunlight. He’s doing it for the way Arthur still can’t remember where he’s put his quill, even if he was holding it only a few seconds ago. He’s doing it for the way Arthur smiles at him, alone in his chambers, just at Merlin.

He’s doing it for the way that Arthur hugs him fiercely in the early morning light, strong enough to take Merlin’s breath away, and says softly that Merlin is enough, he doesn’t want a normal servant, he doesn’t want a knight, he doesn’t want a sorcerer, he just wants Merlin. And all Merlin can do it hold him back.

He’s doing it for Arthur.

He casts one last spell as he stands there, at the edge of the lake, in the moonlight. He cups his hands and whispers into them.

A single blue butterfly flutters away, its wings almost glowing in the pale silvery light.

Merlin is magic.

He is gold and he is silver and he is strength and he is tenderness. He is the way the earth curves about itself and the way the sky stretches farther than the eye can see.

And yet, as Merlin smiles, murmuring the last spell he’ll ever cast and feeling the ache in his chest start to lessen, the magic start to pull away from him, he knows he can be more.

For the others who were born with magic, he can be more.

For those that have yet to learn what magic truly is, he can be more.

For Arthur, he can be more.

Merlin closes his eyes and lets go.

#bbc merlin #merlin #merthur #merthur fic #arthur pendragon #merlin x arthur #dragonbabbles #fic

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youllallriseintheink · 3 years

Text

Alice’s Christmas Adventure

Hello, @theinkedfantasy! I’m your secret Satan. I really hope you enjoy this little story about Alice’s first Christmas outside of the sketch dimension.

---

When Alice first found out about Christmas, it was on the first of December, when her teacher announced that her seventh-grade class would be decorating the school for it. It seemed like an adorable little tradition to her- another human world holiday, definitely more her style than Halloween and definitely the one that humans seemed to make the biggest deal about (though, Alice had only been out of the sketch dimension for six months at the time. Who knew what the other six months of the year might hold?). Amongst the lights and tinsel that Alice found in the box of decorations, she even found some silver angels. It was as Alice was decorating that one of her classmates came up to her. It was Alanna, one of Alice’s bullies. Her two lackeys were following her as well. Alice turned away and looked for her friend- Alanna usually left her alone if she was with someone who would stand up for her.

“Hey, Alice,” Alanna said, seemingly nicely enough.

“Go away,” Alice said, focusing in on the tinsel she was hanging up.

“I just figured you wouldn’t know much about Christmas and you’d want someone to fill you in.”

Alice sighed. “Fine. Tell me about it.”

“Well, on Christmas, families get together. Has your family gotten together, yet? While you were around, I mean.”

Alice stayed quiet. It was obvious that Alanna was searching for ammo. Alice hadn’t met Henry’s family yet- they’d spent Thanksgiving with Linda’s mother, who was so senile that she’d mistaken Alice and her two brothers as two regular kids and a dog.

“I wonder how your dad is going to explain you to everyone else. I mean, what are you? You’re like a plastic doll and you were essentially born yesterday. They’re going to think that he lost his mind.”

Alice continued to decorate, ignoring them entirely- just as Linda had taught her to do.

“Whatever, let’s go,” one Alanna’s lackeys said, and they did.

Alice didn’t let herself think about it until she was back at home. Being saved from the sketch dimension was the best thing that had ever happened to Alice- there was no doubt about that- but maybe choosing to go to school had been the wrong choice. Even outside of school, Alice couldn’t do so much as go to the corner store without being stared at. School was the worst, though. In terms of learning, she had to catch up with everyone, who had been in school since kindergarten. And preteens were merciless when it came to her looks and her naivety. She’d found one friend in her drama club, but that was it. Her friend had even tried to cover up her toonishness in brown paint and make up- not that it helped to hide the massive pie-cut eyes or the jointless limbs, and not that it ended in anything but Alice leaving paint everywhere (to the mockery and delight of her classmates), but it had been a nice thought.

Alice was used to shocked stares from strangers. But the thought of Henry trying to explain her existence to his family was painful to say the least. Come to think about it, Henry had actually gone to visit his youngest child, Rosa, a few times- and had always left his three toons behind. That night over dinner, Alice asked Henry who was coming over for Christmas that year. As it turned out, not only was Henry was inviting all four of his kids over for Christmas dinner, two of them were bringing wives and young children, and one of them was bringing his girlfriend over to meet his family for the first time. Her first introduction to the family, and it would include Henry trying to explain that he’d adopted living toons made from human sacrifice rituals.

Weeks ticked on. Alice found that she really did love the Christmas season- the baking, the music, the snowy weather. But as Christmas came closer, she couldn’t ignore her worry anymore. Late one night, she caved and shook Bendy awake.

“Bendy?”

“Huh? What is it?” Bendy asked, none too impressed to be woken up.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot about how on earth Henry’s going to explain us to his family. I know that some people are open to us right away, but most aren’t, and I don’t see why Henry’s family will be any different. Remember how Linda first reacted to us? She practically had a heart attack. And if Henry’s ever mentioned us to them, he hasn’t said it. I’m scared that his sons won’t want me around their kids, and I really don’t like that we’re going to be some girl’s first impression of Henry’s family.”

Bendy slid back into bed. “Ya worry too much, Alice. For every person that doesn’t like seeing us, there’s been one that thinks we’re amazing. Just go back to bed.”

Alice pulled the covers off of him. “That isn’t a good thing! If half of Henry’s kids like us, then we’ll be at the center of some stupid argument on Christmas. And this isn’t just our first Christmas, it’s Henry’s first Christmas since he spent years of lapsed time in a time loop. I don’t want to ruin this for him, either.”

Suddenly, Bendy came alert. “Good thinkin’- I don’t wanna ruin Christmas for Henry either. But what can be done?”

“I have a plan. But it’ll probably get us in trouble.”

“Well, lucky fer you, I’m not afraid of trouble.”

Alice hugged him. “I know you aren’t.”

---

“And how long exactly do we stay out here?” Bendy asked. The three of them had snuck out their window while Henry and Linda were distracted.

“Until late. I think we should be able to sneak back in at one in the morning. The others should be on their way home by then.”

“So... we’re missing Christmas dinner over this?” Bendy sounded less than impressed. Behind them, Boris whined at the thought of it.

“There will be plenty of food leftover from it. We won’t miss out on a thing. And in the meantime, I have three weeks’ worth of allowance and we have all day to do as we please. I left mom and dad a note saying that we’d decided to spend Christmas with Jasmine. He’s definitely going to ground us, but it’ll be worth it. So, what do you want to do today, Bendy?”

Bendy smiled. All day with no supervision? He was going to teach his siblings how to live.

The three of them spent the afternoon pulling pranks on the various townfolk with items that Bendy had pulled out of his hammer space (a way of saying that he could pull things essentially out of thin air). After they got tired of that, they found a sled hill and played in the snow, building things like snow forts and snowmen and snowballs until the sun went down and the snow was too frozen to mold anymore. The temperature had dropped off, and Boris nudged at Alice, pointing in the direction of home.

“It’s not even seven, yet, Boris. Still a few hours, yet. And anyhow, it being frozen like this means that the hill is basically a slanted skating rink. Bendy, you got any sleds in your hammer space?”

“Let’s see...” Bendy began pulling out items. After bringing out a train brick, a rubber chicken, a live goat, and a banana cream pie, he found what he was looking for. “Ah ha!” he called, pulling out a sled that was big enough for two of them to use.

After a few rounds of sledding, though, it became apparent that the dropping temperature would be a problem for them. Their winter clothes were wet from their previous snowball fight, and it was chilling them to the bone.

“Do you have anything drier for us to wear, Bendy?” Alice asked, after the two of them had wiped out on the sled and gotten covered in snow.

Bendy pulled out various items from his hammer space, but none of them were wearable. “No.”

“What about money? Did you bring any money?”

“No.”

“Okay. I have twenty dollars. Let’s try and find a place that’s open, so we can go inside for a while and maybe buy something dry to wear.”

Boris tried to run down the hill to join them, but slipped and ended up gliding the rest of the way down to them on his belly.

“Hey, Boris. We’re going to look for a store, now.”

Boris cringed and shook his head, then tried to pull Alice towards home. When Alice refused to come with him, he reluctantly started heading for home without them.

“Think he’ll make it back okay?”

“For sure. He has a dog’s sense of direction.”

With that, the two set off to the downtown area. Unfortunately, nothing was open on Christmas. No lights were aglow except for the streetlights. No one was out except for a few homeless people.

“Alice? I’m tired. Can we sit down a while? I think I have an, uh, here-” Bendy dug a blanket out of hammer space. The two sat down for a while, huddled under the blanket. A homeless man, clearly intoxicated, approached them. They clung tighter to each other.

“have you kids had Christmas dinner yet?”

Their first instinct was to stay still, like scared animals. Eventually, Alice spoke up. “No.”

“They’re serving it over at the Lighthouse. You might wanna take a look. Might still have some, or at least let you warm up.”

“Are they serving it inside?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of them knew what a Lighthouse was, but once Bendy saw the words, “Lighthouse Homeless Shelter” on the sign outside the building, Bendy immediately got cold feet.

“No. I’m going home. We are not eating with a bunch of bums instead of family!”

“Bendy!” Alice yelled, “That’s a really disrespectful thing to say. We don’t know how they ended up here.”

Bendy sighed. “Let me translate this to ‘nice’ for you, then: this isn’t worth it anymore! I know you don’t want to take a meal from a person who needs it- we don’t even technically need to eat. And I’m cold, and staying out at night is scary, and some of the people in there might be bad people, and I want to go home! Now are you coming with me?”

“I-” Alice took a look at her watch. It was nine at night. “I’ll be okay. It’s only a couple hours, so I might as well not quit now. And I know the way back.”

“Okay. Good luck. And Merry Christmas, Alice,” Bendy said bitterly.

The shelter was warm, at least. They’d stopped serving food a while ago, but there were still plenty of people there. Alice drew stares, of course. She always did. But the folks there were used to strange sights, and within minutes she was talking with one of the women who had found her way there, just listening to her story.

About forty minutes into this, the door opened, and Henry stepped into the shelter, Bendy by his side. Alice wasn’t sure whether to leap into his arms or hide. She knew she’d be in trouble for this eventually, but she didn’t think it would be now. She couldn’t force herself to meet his eyes.

“Alice- it’s okay. Bendy explained everything to me. Come here.”

Alice quickly said goodbye to the homeless woman and went to Henry, who scooped her up into his arms.

“You should have talked to me. I had no idea you felt the way you did. But I’m not ashamed of you. I never wanted to hide you away from my family or anyone else, and if you’d told me, I could have just sent them pictures of the three of you ahead of time. Next time something like this happens, just tell me, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You should be,” Henry admitted, in that calming voice of his, “but let’s not worry about that tonight.”

The three of them got home, and the the toons got to meet Henry’s kids without issue. They spent a few hours talking and playing cards before they had to head back home.

The next day, Henry and Linda grounded Alice for a month and the other two toons for three weeks. Alice also came out to them about her situation at school, and they were able to give her recommendations on how to deal with it. No one ever said that parenting such special children would be easy. No one ever said that living in a world you didn’t belong in was easy. But it was certainly a blessing.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Henry Stein #Toon bendy #toon alice #boris the wolf #my fanfiction

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leahxx129 · 4 years

Text

His Name (demon!Dean Winchester x Reader)

This is a submission for the immensely talented @fvckingavengers ‘ quarantine writing challenge. Also, I’d like to credit @angelkurenai since her soulmate AU imagines provided the main idea for this fic.

My prompt for inspiration was:

You’re all I need when I’m holding you tight / If you walk away I will suffer tonightI found a man I can trust / And boy, I believe in us / I am terrified to love for the first time / Can’t you see that I’m bound in chains? / I finally found my way / I am bound to you - Bound to You by Christina Aguilera

Summary: Nobody knew why or how, but on their thirteenth birthday every person on planet Earth would start feeling this burning sensation on their left lower arm, which intensifies as the day carries on. By the time the sun goes down, the burning sensation would leave a scar, forming a name. It’s believed to be the name of the person one belongs with. The letters on your skin spell out Dean Winchester.

Warnings: angst, mild swearing

Word count: 3.275-ish

Sam Winchester is staring intensely on the map in the War room as if he watched it closely enough, it would show where his brother went from the last place he’d been spotted at. Sam is tired beyond words – he has spent every waking hour searching for Dean, even though he is not sure that the demon curing ritual would work on a Knight of Hell.

„You know we’re gonna find him, right?” Cas speaks up, making Sam jump a little.

„Cas... didn’t see you there... Uhm, sure, I know. It’s just harder than I thought.” his words don’t really comply with his facial expression.

„Well, I do not know if this is helpful, but Crowley sent me a photo a few minutes ago with a text saying ’Show this to Moose’. It depicts a woman I have never seen before.” he hands Sam the phone.

„Oh my God!” Sam’s eyes light up with excitement. „Why haven’t I thought of that?!”

„Thought of what? I think I’m in the dark here, Sam.”

But Sam is too busy looking for something in his pockets to answer. A couple of seconds later a familiar rattle indicates he found his car keys and he claps Cas on the shoulder.

„We have a long drive ahead of us, buddy.”

It‘s 2. a.m. on a Thursday night, you are wiping the bar counter with a cloth. Nothing out of the ordinary happened all evening. You started your shift around 6 p.m. at the local bar, only the regulars came in. The air was heavy with the scent of liquor and cigarette smoke. Even the old jukebox in the corner and the clatter of billiard balls sounded pretty much the same as every night.

Just as you’ve finished wiping and start washing the glasses, the main door opens then closes slowly with a squeak.

„I’m sorry but were closed! Try tomorrow, pal.” you say without looking at the newly arrived guest. It’s not a rare phenomenon that someone wants to stick around for a couple more drinks after closing time, so you don’t suspect anything. Not until the person begins talking, anyway.

’Really? I thought you’d make an exception for an old friend...”

Hearing Sam Winchester’s voice makes your blood run cold, numbing you to an extent that the glass you are holding slips out of your grasp and shatters to a dozen pieces on the floor.

„Sam...” despite your best efforts you can’t muster anything other than his name.

„I mean, I was hoping you’d be excited to see me, Y/N, but breaking glasses is not necessary. Or safe.” he chuckles, sitting down on a bar stool.

„Shut up, smartass!” you intend to look serious, but a smile creeps on your face, nevertheless.

There’s a long moment of silence. Neither of you want to spoil the joy of reunion so you just look at one another, taking in how the other has changed over the years. You pour two scotches and finally Sam clears his throat.

„I see you’re still covering up his name.” he states, referring to your bracelets that hide most of your left lower arm.

Oh, right. His name. Frankly, you tend to forget about those words burnt in your skin quite easily.

Nobody knew why or how, but on their thirteenth birthday every person on planet Earth would start feeling this burning sensation on their left lower arm, which intensifies as the day carries on. By the time the sun goes down, the burning sensation would leave a scar, forming a name. It’s believed to be the name of the person one belongs with. The letters on your skin spell out Dean Winchester.

You can still picture the day you got it crystal clearly.

It was around 10 p.m. when it finished burning and you were able to read it. Your father’s face turned to an ashy color and he drove you to Bobby Singer’s house where the Winchesters were staying at the time. Hearing an engine die, Bobby and John came out to see who the unexpected visitors were.

“Stay in the car!” your father ordered through gritted teeth as he got out and you obeyed.

John smiled when he recognized him, but his smile soon turned to a painful grimace – courtesy of your father’s amazing left hook.

“What the hell, man?!” he shouted in disbelief, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand. Bobby was visibly indecisive whether to stop the fight or let it play out.

“I could ask you the very same question, Winchester!” your father bellowed in response.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“I’m talking about the name that formed on my little girl’s arm, John! You have some dark connections, you must’ve got something to do with it!”

“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” you could see the epiphany on his face even in the poor light that filtered through Bobby’s kitchen window. “Look, pal... you and I both know damn well that this cannot be controlled.”

A long silence ensued. Only the crickets could be heard.

“Ever since my girl’s name showed up on your boy’s arm, I prayed every single night for it to be a mistake. For her to get a different name when the time comes, and you know I don’t believe in God, John!” your father’s voice cracked. “I prayed for her to get the name of a lawyer, a doctor or a dentist… somebody that’ll provide for her. And she got a hunter. Out of seven billion people, she got a hunter… I don’t want her to end up like Mary, or her Mom.”

John took a step closer and squeezed your father’s shoulder.

“Dean will take good care of her, I promise.”

You banish the memory as quickly as you can. The only thing you’re thankful for is the fact that none of your dads lived long enough to see how much of a lie John’s promise would prove to be.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cover it up.” you answer Sam coldly and he shoots you an apologetic look.

“What about yours? Have you found your, uhm... what’s her face… Eileen Leahy?” your pronunciation earns a genuine smile from him.

“No, not yet. I’m starting to think she’s a myth.”

“Well then, she’s the luckiest myth in this whole damn world, I can tell you that much.”

You down your drink in one gulp and decide to ask what’s been bothering you ever since he set foot in the bar.

“Alright, Sam, honest talk. Why are you here? What’s up? I gave you this address for emergencies and the fact that we’re having a face-to-face conversation right here, right now is a bad sign in my book.”

He looks like he’s contemplating the way to present the situation to you, but you’re having none of it.

“No need for sugarcoating, hot stuff, just spill it.”

“Dean’s a demon.”

You’re not sure if you’ve heard it right or the scotch you’ve just drunk was spiked.

“Excuse me?”

“Dean’s a demon. He died with the Mark of Cain on his arm and he turned into a Knight of Hell. Gone rogue. I want to fix him, but you know Dean... it’s damn hard to find him when he doesn’t wanna be found.” he flashes you a smile but when you don’t replicate it, he continues “I’m here because he’s here, Y/N. Based on my intel, he’s been visiting this bar to see you. Will you help me cure him?”

With a blank stare you pour yourself another drink, now wishing for it to be spiked.

The next day after closing you don’t get into your car immediately; you decide to light a cigarette first. Sam’s words are still echoing in your ears. A demon? And he’s been visiting the bar to see you? Why the hell would he do that? You’re about to stub the remainder of your cigarette when you hear his voice from behind you.

“I always thought you looked incredibly sexy when you smoked, darlin’. Turned me on so much.”

You spin around on your heels just to bump straight into Dean’s chest. He grabs hold of your arms to steady you. His touch gives you goosebumps, but you compose yourself swiftly. You cannot allow him to see the effect he still has on you, even after everything that happened.

“I know, Dean, you made it clear quite a few times with your actions… what I don’t know, however, is the reason behind your little visit... so, a fucking explanation would be nice. But first, let go of me!”

“That’s such an ugly word from such a pretty mouth… and to be honest, I think you know damn well what I’m doing here. A birdy tells me Sammy paid you a visit and I doubt that he didn’t share a few things about me, Y/N. As for letting you go… sorry, no can do.” he smirks.

“What do you mean ‘no can do’, Winchester?!” you ask sharply, panic rising withing you.

“Well, more precisely, I don’t want to. I’ve missed you.” he leans in closer to your face “And frankly, I don’t want you to put those engraved demon cuffs on me that peek from your back pocket, sweetie.” he whispers against your lips.

“Okay. How ‘bout the ones Sam is about to put on you?” you whisper back, causing him to furrow his brows in confusion and lean away. This gives you enough space to headbutt him and he automatically stumbles a step backwards, allowing Sam to cuff him from behind.

With united forces you manage to hustle Dean into the trunk of your car.

“You know, demon or not, it’s nice to know some things never change. You’ve always let your dick do the thinking instead of your brain.” you tell him condescendingly before closing the trunk.

When Dean wakes up in the Men of Letters’ dungeon restrained, at first, he’s perplexed. Then as realization slowly hits him, his face becomes distorted with fury and he starts wriggling in an attempt to break free, but he doesn’t succeed. A frustrated, unhuman-like growl leaves his throat. You watch this with undeniable pleasure.

„Mornin’, sunshine!” you greet him jovially.

There’s a short silence as he watches you prepare some syringes on the nearby iron table.

„So, you’re the one who’s gonna do it, huh? Or at least try...” he says arrogantly.

„Yup!”

„Now that’s funny ’cause you see I thought you hated needl-„ but you don’t let him complete his sentence as you pierce your skin faster than he could finish it. Your blood fills up the syringe in no time.

You walk over to him and sit on his lap in a straddling position.

„I do hate needles, Dean.” You admit „Kudos for remembering. But I’m pretty sure that you’ll hate what comes next even more than I hate them and that makes it worth it.”

Before he could react, you stab him in the neck with the syringe, completely emptying its content into his artery. The unhuman growl breaks out once again, but this time it turns into manic laughter.

„Wow, that was exciting!” he exclaims as his eyes turn black „Almost as exciting as Jo holding me at gunpoint when we first met. But just almost... You know, there were times I wished it was her name on my arm instead of yours.”

„Interesting. Because there were times I wished it was your brother’s name on mine, but I guess we can’t always get what we want, now can we?” you shrug and walk back to the table, not minding Dean’s pitch-black stare. He thought he could hurt you since Jo was your best friend, but you manage to hit closer to home.

You sit down on a chair, place your legs on the table and put your headphones on.

„What are doing?” Dean asks, clearly upset.

„You didn’t seriously think I was gonna listen to your annoying blabber until the next shot, did you?” he opens his mouth to reply but you turn on the music on your phone and start lip-syncing to ’Dream on’ by Aerosmith.

In the following four hours you administer the next four shots, each at every clock turn. Dean says something insulting each time and you try to ignore him each time - with more or less success.

“Alright, hot stuff, time for the sixth shot!” examining your arm you realize it starts resembling to a needle pillow, but you draw another fix for him all the same.

This time he appears calmer. He’s not trying to pull his head away or even bite you like at some previous occasions. No shouting or growls either. You can see he started sweating, the small drops glisten on his skin like illuminated diamonds. Could the ritual actually be working?

You’re halfway back to the table when he calls you by the nickname he gave you, forcing you to turn back.

“I just want you to know I admire you. I really do, Y/N. Seeing you put this much effort into this makes me wish I put more in our relationship.” he shoots you a sad, crooked smile.

“Careful, Dean. If you don’t stop attempting to manipulate my emotions, I’m gonna punch you in the face. Again. But this time harder.” you warn him.

“I’m not toying with you. I honestly wish.”

“Well it’s kind of too late for that, isn’t it?” you take a step closer to him and pull up the bracelets on your arm. “See these words? They are the sole reason I’m here and doing this. Okay?”

“Who are you trying to fool, sweet thing? Me or yourself?”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Your hands tremble when you get back to the table and put the headphones on. You feared this moment would come and here it is. He’s trying to get under your skin. And it’s working.

Later on when you approach him with the seventh shot, he tilts his head to the side, offering his neck.

“Go on.” he encourages you and you take the opportunity. The ferocious, invincible being Sam chained down is nowhere to be seen – a broken man with beautiful green eyes looks longingly at you instead.

“There’s one more to go and you’ll be your annoying self again, hot stuff.” you tell him softly, relenting a little.

“And you?”

“I’ll be on my way to the farthest place from here.” you decide to tell him the truth, which seems to render him speechless for a minute.

“Why do you hate me so much, Y/N?” I mean, I know I’ve never been the high definition of an awesome boyfriend, trust me, but the amount of resentment I sense baffles me.” he asks, sounding genuinely intrigued.

The ball of uneasiness in your stomach grows two sizes in the span of a minute.

“You’ve lost your right to ask such personal questions four years ago, Winchester. You’ve lost it when you left that letter on the kitchen counter, and you walked out on us!” you say in a strained voice.

Suddenly, all the memories you‘ve worked so hard to suppress flood back in.

When Sam jumped in the pit, Dean was lost. His self-destructive behavior foreshadowed a gruesome end and you just couldn’t let him spiral down like that. You made arrangements and got out of the life. Rented a house in the countryside and started living like a normal couple. Beforehand, your relationship was stormy to say the least, but settling down steadied it a lot. Everything was picture perfect for about a year - then you found that damn letter when you arrived home from work. Dean explained in it that Sam was alive, and he needed some time to figure stuff out. You didn’t even get the chance to tell him what you learned that day… and this was the last straw. You never contacted Dean Winchester again, nor did you speak to him directly. Your liaison was Sam up until that night in the bar’s parking lot.

Dean’s voice brings you back to reality.

“My brother came back from the dead… I was confused, Y/N. Just like I wrote, I needed time! After a while I was trying to reach out to you, but you refused to even-“he stops mid-sentence “Wait a minute… walked out on you… as in… plural?”

You nod mechanically and his eyes widen.

“Wha-what happened?” he chokes out eventually.

“I was pregnant. Then miscarried. Don’t worry about it.”

Is that really a teardrop running down his cheek, or are you imagining things?

“Don’t worry about it?” he raises his voice in disbelief. “That’s all you’re gonna say about it?!”

“I don’t want to say anything else, Dean. Because if I pull on that thread again, my mind will go to a dark, lonely place and I think I deserve better than that.”

“Goddamnit…” he exhales loudly, then continues “When all of this is over, I want you to stay.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I want you to stay with me. Here. I want a clean slate, a-a new beginning.”

You can’t comprehend what’s happening. One minute you were curing your ex-boyfriend from demonism, and the other he wants to start things over despite your history together.

Instead of replying, you fill up the last syringe and administer the eighth shot quickly, then deliver the required incantation. Just as you finish, Sam enters the dungeon and you run past him straight to your car. You open the door but before you could sit in somebody closes it from behind. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is, but you do it anyway. Dean takes your left arm and reveals his own name.

“I remember the night you got this thing. I was in the house when you and your dad arrived at Bobby’s and I witnessed the whole ordeal. I know that ‘til now I did a crappy job keeping the promise my dad made to yours but give me one last chance to do it right, okay?”

You look away, trying to blink back a few tears that want to escape your eyes deperately.

“I don’t know, Dean…”

He gently grasps your chin to make you face him.

“You know, when Sam gave me your message saying you don’t need me anymore, I thought – fine. If you don’t need me, I don’t need you, simple as that. But it was a lie. I only realized how big when I became a Knight of Hell… I enjoyed killing, Y/N. I enjoyed killing so much that it scared the crap out of me. But all this darkness and anger brought on by the mark alleviated one night when I accidentally stopped at that bar and saw you…”

“Damn, Winchester, are we having a chick-flick moment here?” you ask, trying to take the edge off the situation while wiping your eyes.

“Yeah…I guess we are. But don’t tell anyone ‘cause it would ruin my reputation.” he whispers the last part.

You scoff loudly.

“What reputation are you talking about, exactly? I think you lost every bit of it back in the parking lot when I kicked your demon ass.”

“Oh, well, I guess you’re right, sweet thing.” he admits with a breathy laughter.

“As for a second chance… fine. But fail to keep that promise once more and I’ll be gone for good. Understood?”

At first a look of genuine surprise spreads on his face but it soon gets switched up by gratitude. He places a feather light kiss on your lips as confirmation.

Truth be told, you could never leave him just as he could never leave you – at least not permanently. No matter the pain and the misery, you belong with each other. Your souls are bound by an invisible lace that nothing can tear apart.

#dean winchester #reader #dean x reader #supernatural #SPN #spnfic #deanmon

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Secrets & Fury || Morgan & Blanche Feat. Agnes Bachman

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Bachman House Ruins

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Blanche make contact with the past. The truth is not meant to soothe.

CONTENT: brief mentions of suicide

The only thing left of what had once been the Bachman House was a few outer support beams and a wall, sticking out of the ground in a way that wouldn’t have been possible unless the ground swallowed the house whole. Which, in fairness, it did. Blanche remembered Morgan, Cassie, and herself throwing themselves out of the home and into the adjacent garden as the ground trembled and swallowed the cursed house… Blanche had never asked Morgan where the house went. Was the house still lingering below the soil or had it disappeared somewhere else entirely? Blanche stared at the dirt, grimacing at the patches of weeds that had feebly tried to break through to no avail, and decided that she would ask ahat at different time. There were no spirits here, not this time. The cool chill that ran up Blanche’s spine from time to time was the cold December air… And the dark, leafless trees that loomed around the area as if they were watching her. As Blanche painstakingly drew the circle in the dirt, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was doing this in front of an audience. Like this was a final test to see if it was worth it -- if she was worth it.

The silver, jeweled barrette kept her blonde hair out of her face, and every once in a while, she would reach up to run her fingers along the smooth, teal gemstones encrusted on the trinket. It made her feel better. Blanche remembered what Jasmine said about Focal Points, and even if it was false, at least it gave her peace of mind. At least it brought her closer to the one she missed most of all. Even that made her feel more powerful than before.

This was what she was doing when Morgan arrived. Blanche glanced at her, her hand falling back to her side as she gave her a strained smile. “Hey,” she said softly, and she grabbed her pink lighter from her pocket. Time to light the candles. “You can put it in the middle of the circle. What you brought of Agnes’, I mean.”

Morgan had tried to come early. She hadn’t been to the old Bachman house for even a drive-by hello since it had tried to collapse with her, Blanche, and Cassie in it. She couldn’t see the place as a benign victim of circumstance after having to face off against Hannah Bachman, hearing the ways she mimicked her own mother in her brand of cruelty. Pulling alongside the street now made her feel as though the wood and nails had been as complicit as Constance in the horrible things that had happened here. What she had expected to find, to get used to, she wasn’t sure. All she knew now was that Blanche had beaten her to the punch and settled into a circle inside the ruins. That’s what happened when you got too anxiously punctual people together, she guessed. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said wryly. “Our appointment isn’t for another ten minutes, Blanche.” She reached into her bag and took out the arm bone she had stolen from Agnes’ grave, wrapped in fabric. Deirdre had been able to identify her with just a touch: thick dark hair like Morgan’s, large eyes that were brown instead of blue, and an anguished look as she laid down in a rickety bed and worked a pillow around half her face, a pistol in her hand. She had been crying, Deirdre said. Morgan couldn’t think of any other way she might have gone, not with what she’d been made to live with. “Genuine, banshee-identified great great grandma Agnes,” she said softly. Agnes’ family title sounded strange, knowing that she had died only a few years older than Morgan. They felt more like equals now, women who had been ground up and bent into the wrong shape, who were tired, who just needed to catch a break for once. Morgan sat down just outside the circle, careful not to disrupt any of the markings. “You um...when you bring them here, you don’t have to see how they died, right Blanche? I mean, she’ll look…” Like there’s a massive exit wound on the side of her skull. “How she did when it happened. But that’s not something you have to carry, is it?” Morgan asked.

“I’m nothing if not efficient,” Blanche replied. The grin on her face didn’t quite reach her eyes, though she was pleased to see that Morgan looked alright. Blanche had been here for forty-five minutes already, but she wasn't’ about to tell Morgan that - she sought out the flattest part of the ruins and spent an absurdly long time drawing the circle. She looked sharply at Morgan, the question burning in her throat. How did great, great Grandma Agnes die? Not that it mattered, because she would do the seance no matter what, but she couldn’t help but think of the bullet wound inside Sammy’s skull and Winn’s chest, and how Bea’s head never sat quite right on her shoulders… But Blanche shook her head. “I’ve seen some pretty gruesome deaths,” she said. Blanche didn’t know Agnes, so she hoped her appearance wouldn’t stay burned into her memory like her friends. There was some part of her that knew this wasn’t true, she remembered spirits maimed in all sorts of ways… But as Blanche finished lighting her candles, she stood, brushing the dirt off her jeans. “She’ll look how she chooses too,” Blanche said, “If she’s been around since she died… Then she’ll probably have learned to change her appearance by now. But if she hasn’t or she doesn’t want too…” Blanche reached to fiddle with the hair clip in her hair again, chewing on her lip in thought. “That’s her choice. It won’t prevent us from doing what we’re here to do.” She examined her circle for the upteenth time, looking for imperfections. She could find none. With a small breath, she looked back to Morgan. “Are you ready, Morgan?” She waited for Morgan to nod, before going to settle into the dirt.

Blanche took a few deep breaths, glancing over at Morgan to really make sure she was ready, before she began reciting the sanskrit. The power Blanche felt flowing through her and the circle was almost on par with the deep seeded resentment in her soul. It was strange and exciting and somehow different than when they had been in her apartment. It was a mistake, Blanche decided, to not have come here the first time. Wind howled around them, the flickering of the candles erratic but never going out as it circled them. She was clear headed, drawing her energy from the back of her mind - rather, the back of her head, she supposed, where her great grandmother’s clip lay. She focused on that as she opened the portal of communication, the chilling wind whining in protest as she pushed forward. It was tiring, but slowly, a woman flickered into sight. Slowly, her transparent form grew stronger, and Blanche could make out her features and the frumpy old clothes she wore. With a push forward, Blanche ended the opening of the ritual.

“Are you Agnes Bachman?” Blanche asked, glanced at Morgan for confirmation before anything else.

Morgan kept her eyes trained on the center of the circle, like letting her hair blow the wrong way might turn everything around for the worse. She heard the wind in her ears, saw the small candle flames surge on their wicks. Doubt gnawed in her stomach, she’s not coming, she’s not here and she’s not coming and I’m never gonna know what really happened. Shit, was she awful for trying to reach out with her will and pull her toward them? For wanting her to be stuck here all this time, just to have someone she could talk to? Morgan didn’t have time to find an answer inside herself. A silhouette formed in a circle, then a face.

“Oh, shit…”

Agnes Bachman didn’t have a hole in her head. Her wavy hair hung just below her jaw, styled in waves Morgan had seen in fashion panels from the 1910’s. She had loose housecoat, or maybe it was just a regular day coat that had been retired after getting too big and patchy, hung heavy on her frame. (Morgan couldn’t figure out how that worked, the woman before her didn’t have a body, so how could anything be loose or tight or anything in between? And yet just from looking at her, Morgan could imagine the pointy ends of her joints and the ridges on her stomach from going hungry on and off for years.) She had a bemused half smile, one that was way past surprise, and a face that looked hauntingly like the one Cece had pulled out of the magic trunk. “It’s you,” Morgan whispered. “This whole time, I’ve been looking at… Agnes.”

“Is there someone else I would be?” Agnes asked. She had a high, tired kind of voice, not unlike the wind that had swelled around them only a minute ago. It was a reedy voice, torn up from too many cigarettes. Smoking was unladylike in Agnes’ time, but maybe she’d stolen her husband’s cigarettes, or bummed some off people with more money. Maybe after a certain point she had decided not to care. She looked around, taking in what was left of the house, the hole in its core, the stars above and the jagged, splintered ruins reaching through it like so many broken fingers. “I remember this place.” She scoffed, smirking. “It feels a shame I’m not more surprised to see it in pieces. You’re supposed to bond with the place you grow up. It’s how you maintain your ties with the earth.” She turned back to them, gesturing self consciously around her temples. “Is anyone gonna tell me what this party’s about...?” The smile she gave each of them was thin, like she was afraid something bad was going to happen. How often had she been blamed or yelled at for Constance’s mess? “One of you has to know something, if you’re pulling me cross-country to my old house.”

“Y-yes. I mean...we...uh…” Morgan fumbled for words and gaped at Blanche, silently asking for help.

Awestruck by her success, Blanche stared at Agnes in a sort of wonder. The wind grew calm around them, still lightly tugging at loose hairs and flame to let them know it was still there. She had done it. She pulled Agnes Bachman back here. Blanche gaped right back at Morgan, suddenly speechless herself. All coherent thoughts flew out of her head and suddenly she forgot how to speak any language whatsoever.

“Wha-” Blanche stuttered, and then realized she was the one supposed to be running this ‘party’. She almost leapt to her feet, but stayed rooted to the spot so she wouldn’t jostle the circle. “Agnes,” Blanche tried again. “My name is Blanche Harlow. I’m a local medium in White Crest. This is Morgan Beck, she’s your great, great Granddaughter. I’ve… We, rather… We’ve contacted you because we want to ask you about the past, specifically relating to Constance Cunningham.” Her words were formal, but they were at least confident.

“Is it alright if we ask you a few questions?”

Agnes hadn’t stopped looking at Morgan since she’d appeared. Morgan straightened her shoulders under her gaze and angled her head this way and that, trying to find the angle that would give her the most ‘respectable impressive descendant’ look, not that she knew what that was. Agnes smirked at Blanche’s fumbling and Morgan noticed an array of little smile wrinkles that gave her some comfort. She must have been happy, or something like it, for a little while.

“I should tell you,” Agnes said, leaning in with a conspiratorial look, “I told my kids not to settle down, so they maybe wouldn’t have any of their own. But I’m not surprised they didn’t listen to me. Kids never do, so don’t get any ideas.” She squinted taking in more of Morgan. “But that’s not going to be a problem for you, is it, sweetie?”

“No,” Morgan whispered. “I mean, I have a...I haven’t really discussed it with my girlfriend, we’re gonna wait fifty, maybe a hundred years first. That’s the kind of family planning you get with a zombie and a banshee!” She laughed, shrill and pained. Was this how you were supposed to talk to your grandmother? Did it matter when she only looked five years older than you? “I died. Because of the family curse. Seven months and change, so I’m still adjusting. But it’s fine! I mean, it’s not, but it will be.” She gripped her wool skirt, fighting the urge to crawl closer to Agnes.

“Girlfriend, you say? I’ve seen things get better for some girls like that in the last hundred years. I should’ve figured it ran in the family. Mama was right about something after all.” The smirk she gave was bitter, scratching an old scab on her heart, and if Morgan hadn’t already heard about Hannah Bachman’s dismay from Leah, she would’ve seen the cut her response had left in Agnes’ face. “Your death, sweetie, does that mean the magic doesn’t touch you anymore? Whatever you and your girl do, are you safe from it?”

Morgan nodded, eyes beginning to well. “Yeah, we are. The curse didn’t follow me after. We’re good. It’s just uh…” She looked sidelong at Blanche. “It’s Constance? She’s here and she is…” Evil. Cruel. A walking nightmare. “Really, really determined to make up for what her curse can’t do anymore. And I...we were wondering...if you could tell us what really happened. I read Lucrecia’s diary, but I want the truth from you. And before you say anything, I don’t blame you. I don’t know where it started in the family, but I know you didn’t deserve to carry this like it was all your fault, and I don’t blame you for what she did.”

Agnes straightened up. “I can’t talk about Constance,” she said flatly. “And the person who started that story was me, because it was true.” She turned to Blanche. “Can you put me back somewhere? It doesn’t have to be home, I don’t much like my new grave. But somewhere else, please.”

Blanche thanked every God that may or may not have existed that she had excellent memory recall. She backed off of Agnes, ready to do what she, as a private investigator trainee, did best: listened. The true extent of the Bachman curse had been made apparent to her when Morgan died violently in the middle of town and became a zombie, but Constance never put into thought that there could be life after death… Funnily enough, Blanche hadn’t put that much thought into it either, before she met Remmy. Blanche rested her hands in her lap, leaning forward on her knees as she concentrated on keeping the line of connection open.

“You can’t talk about Constance? Or you won’t talk about Constance?” Perhaps Blanche’s voice was a little sharper than it needed to be, but she wasn’t here to pull punches. She was here for the truth. After the truth was known… Well, then she could deal with Agnes. Agnes, from what she felt, would need to move on. But one ghost problem at a time. This seance wasn’t for Agnes, it was for Morgan. And, to an extent, though Morgan could never find this out, it was for Constance too. Constance deserved closure and peace - the last thing Blanche wanted for her was to Cordelia or Lauren Langley.

Blanche leaned back, her head tilting to the side slightly as she examined the ghost. “Don’t you want to make sure the right one is known?” Maybe she didn’t, though. Blanche pressed her lips together for a moment. “I won’t be sending you anywhere,” she said, “Until we get some answers. And I’ll have you know… I’m very persistent.”

“Is there much of a difference as far as you’re concerned?” Agnes asked. Her squinting gaze turned on Blanche, running up and down to appraise her. Morgan’s mother had a similar look when she was trying to worm out of a conversation she didn’t want to have, but Morgan didn’t get the sense that Agnes was looking for points of weakness or ways to hurt Blanche. It looked more like she was working a puzzle. “If people think badly of me, it’s because I got the ball rolling. I don’t have any right to be sore about any tall tales that have gotten rolled into the truth.” She looked at Morgan again, smiling in a sad way that made the zombie’s heart lurch. “You should blame me. And I am sorry, I will always be sorry, for my part in your death. Even if it means you get to wait a hundred years to have a family with a woman you love--” she paused, staring off somewhere Morgan couldn’t follow. “It shouldn’t cost you what it has. Death is too high a price, especially after what you must have suffered. It’s not much of a life to begin with.”

“Don’t say that,” Morgan whispered. “I know you’re...yes, I was miserable and I didn’t get to do anything I set out to, but you didn’t cast the spell. You didn’t take one falling out and turn it into a hundred plus years of--”

“No.” Agnes’ voice turned to rock while somehow never rising above her quiet. “No, Morgan. I’m not going to discuss it in those terms. Or at all.” Agnes looked over at Blanche, checking to see if her point had been effectively made, but Agnes had never gone up against Blanche ‘I do what I want’ Harlow. She withered under the young woman’s look and pursed her lips as her position sank in.

“Listen,” Morgan said gently. “I’m going to get her back for what she did to you, to all of us. However hurtful, however awful or complicated, it didn’t merrit what she did for retribution. I’m going to make sure she…” Morgan winced, not wanting to throw her position in Blanche’s face. Of all her friends, she had been the most honest, and the most kind, about her position. “I’m going to make us even.”

Agnes’ face dropped with horror. “You what? You can’t. Sweetie, whatever you’re up to, you can’t do that to her. You have no idea what she--It was my idea to run away! I made her take all the risks. Crafting the glamours that would make us look older, hiding the money I’d stolen in her tree, hiding travel clothes, securing our transport. My mother watched me at all times, I was afraid we wouldn’t stand a chance if I slipped away somewhere I couldn’t explain. I was selfish and I was scared and I made her do everything for me, and then I--” She looked helplessly at Blanche again, her wish transparent in her eyes: please, please. “I let her fall for me too,” she said. “We were caught, the morning we were set to leave. Constance told the truth and I--I didn’t. She had given a story and I knew we were sunk and I wouldn’t see the light of day for weeks unless I did something different. I--”

Agnes’ reedy voice seemed to snap. Her silent appeals to Blanche were going nowhere; the medium only stared her down harder than before. And every, “hey,” and “you don’t have to be afraid,” that Morgan gave only seemed to make her more desperate.

“I said she was kidnapping me. That she’d hurt me.” Agnes said at last. “We had stolen pistols from the Logan’s house to protect ourselves. I told my mother to check her reticule, where I’d told her to put them and she thought it was proof. I didn’t know they were going to tell everyone or turn her into a pariah. I thought she would be run out of town, dropped on the nearest cart, never to return. I had no illusion of being forgiven, but gods help me, I did not know my mother would leave her with nothing and make her live like some poor animal. When I realized, it was too late.” Agnes clenched her airy fists, fighting the impulse to cry. “I would like to go back now. Send me back now and have done with it.”

Morgan tried to reach for her, forgetting everything except how badly she wanted to know the woman in front of her. “No, you can stay, Agnes. It doesn’t matter what happened before—”

“Now. I want to be gone now. Please. I will not answer anything else. I won’t.”

Anger was an emotion Blanche was used to, and the more Agnes said, the more angry she got. Fury and disgust twisted into her stone faced expression as she sat there, her arms crossed as Morgan and Agnes conversed. Finally, with a wail, Agnes turned to her, begging to be set free. “Coward,” Blanche said unkindly. “You’re a coward.” Blanche pushed herself up to her knees, as if she was going to move to stand. She didn’t, however, because her energy was being spent in keeping the connection open. Still, Blanche’s eyes flashed angrily.

“I’m not naive enough to say Constance is blameless. Constance is to blame for a lot of things -- Morgan’s death and the subsequent death of others in her path for revenge - but you…” Blanche shook her head, “You chose wrong and you lied. You lied to save yourself and threw the one you loved under the bus.” Blanche scoffed in disgust. Never before had she felt such anger towards another ghost. The closest that came was Lauren Langley, but even that held a different sort of anger than the rage that bubbled in the pit of her stomach now. If she could, she’d throw a fist in Agnes’ face.

“You are not to blame for Constance’s actions,” Blanche said, folding her arms over her chest. “She is able to make her own decisions and do what she will but… You are to blame for hurting her. You are to blame for lying. You are to blame for the misery that was thrust upon her as punishment for a crime she did not commit. You lied because you were a coward. And that -” Blanche jabbed a finger at Agnes. “- Is what you should feel remorse for. That is what you need to reflect on. And then you’ll be able to move on.” While Constance was on a warpath for vengeance that would end up destroying her. It was hard not to blame Agnes for everything.

With a sweep of her hand, the wind howled around them, growing louder as Blanche recited the end of the ritual that would close the communication with Agnes. She didn’t want to hear what Agnes had to say, even as her pain stricken face was seared into Blanche’s mind even as she disappeared from the circle. The wind quieted and the candles surrounding them extinguished. The ritual was over. Blanche slumped back into the dirt, exhausted, but too angry to give in to sleep.

“All of this…” Blanche said, sneering at the place Agnes once stood. “Because of a cruel lie…”

Morgan flinched at Blanche’s words as if they had cracked against her skin. She called out her name, trying to interrupt, “That can’t be the whole story, there has to be something else…” But Blanche’s fury had found its target, and though Morgan couldn’t fathom why, she understood that it would not let go. “Don’t be cruel. Blanche, please!” But please only got Blanche to say the words that would send Agnes back to wherever she had been before. Morgan grasped at the air as Agnes vanished, her face shut and clenched with shame. Something in the air lifted, like heat diffusing a cold room. Morgan continued to stare into the circle. There had to be something else. Maybe Hannah Bachman was the real culprit, for making her daughter so afraid that she wanted to run away in the first place. Maybe Agnes had sensed something unstable, even dangerous in Constance and took her change to back out rather than run away with someone who was willing to sign off on the misery of generations of people. There had to be something, because if Morgan’s family had been right about Agnes, then how was she supposed to split her vengeance between them? Who was she destroying Constance for besides herself if Agnes had tried so hard to beg her not to? Morgan’s gaze dropped from the air where Agnes had just sat and down to her own hands: discolored around the nails because she was between meals, protected by gold cuff bracelets on her wrist, so no one would see the bite that made her what she was. Ruth Beck hadn’t cared a wit that she was going to be avenged, Morgan wasn’t even sure if she believed it. Morgan’s father had lost his last tie to the earth when he saw her happy with Deirdre. Deirdre herself insisted the choice was hers to determine. And now the memory of Agnes’ horrified face stood frozen in Morgan’s memory. Was it still fair, and still enough, if this was for her satisfaction and hers alone?

“She was just…” Young? Stars above, could Morgan really say that without it getting thrown back in her face two seconds later? “She was scared. She didn’t know what was going to happen and we don’t know why she really…” Threw someone she supposedly loved under the bus. If Hannah was so dangerous, enough to run away from, why wouldn’t Anges have figured out that Constance was going to suffer without her protection? Wouldn’t that have been obvious? Was her ignorance to the consequences just another lie too? Morgan shivered, frowning into the ground. She was long used to disappointment, but she hadn’t thought that meeting Agnes would leave her more confused than when she’d started. “I don’t know,” Morgan sighed. Nothing she put together in her mind fit the way she wanted it to. “Whatever, why-ever she really did anything, she paid for it with her life and a hundred years of being hated.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Blanche, scrutinizing her expression. She had seemed more invested in Morgan’s family drama than she had before. Morgan had taken great care to keep her out of it as much as possible. “What was that all about, just a minute ago?” She asked gently. “I’ve never seen you like that with a ghost before. Is everything okay…?”

She was just - Blanche almost snarled the word ‘young’ right back at Morgan. Constance was just as young. She was nineteen. Blanche could remember, back in high school, where her only long term boyfriend broke up with her and how devastated she had been. If that situation had been anything like Agnes’, which it hadn’t, and Logan had wronged her in some type of way, Blanche would have wanted to curse him and his entire family too. The thought was snide, and filled with anger. She realized, with a start, that she was two seconds away from defending Constance’s honor, and that wasn’t right either. Constance had done wrong, Blanche reminded herself, her palms suddenly sweaty. She hadn’t meant to, mostly, of course. Maxine had been an unfortunate accident, and the incident with Nell… Blanche wanted to believe that she really didn’t know that Nell had been in the car until it was too late. And Morgan had said intentions matter. Blanche wanted to believe that, and she wanted Constance to give up this calling of vengeance on Morgan’s family because at the end of the day, Morgan hadn’t done anything wrong. Morgan hadn’t done this to Constance. Agnes, she thought the name with disgust, started this.

But that didn’t make Morgan’s target goal right either. She had the cold reminder that Morgan’s end goal was to torture and erase Constance from existence. The thought of her being in pain made Blanche… Well, it made her sick to her stomach. Constance didn’t deserve that. She needed to be at peace while she was still able. At least, then, she would be happy. She would be able to move past what Agnes had done, and it wouldn’t have to lock her into a toxic storm of resentment and fury. At Morgan’s question, though, Blanche’s palms frew more sweaty, and she wiped them on her jeans. “I wasn’t wrong,” Blanche mumbled to her shoes, shaking her head. She refused to look at Morgan, instead turning to start gathering her things in her back. Her face had flushed, but it had been a little pink already from the anger she burst out with during the seance and from the exhaustion the clung to her. “In order to move on, Agnes needs to come to term with her choices she made while she was living. She can’t do anything to change them, not now,” Blanche’s lip curled in disgust as she carefully stuck the candles in her bag, straightening to sling it over her shoulder. She went to the magic circle she had so carefully carved into the dirt with a sharp stick and some chalk and destroyed it. While Blanche hadn’t listened to Granny’s teachings, she did remember that Granny said to never leave a circle unattended, just in case. Finally, she reached up and pulled the jeweled, silver hairpin from her hair, letting her blonde hair tumble down. Carefully, she put that in a separate pocket of her backpack. Her shoulders slumped tiredly and looked at Morgan, “I’ll talk to her again soon,” Blanche said, decidingly. “I’ll call upon her again and speak her more closely, once… this is all over.”

Silence froze and bristled around them; Morgan held her tongue. Blanche’s ire was hot and sharp as a needle fresh out of the fire. She didn’t have to say a word for Morgan to know she was angry at her too. For Constance. For being “unfair.” Maybe if she wasn’t the one crushed over her whole life and promptly murdered, Morgan could understand these good for nothing principles, or whatever strange projection was going on from Blanche’s angle. She’d confounded people on moral questions before. Only the stars above knew how many passes she gave Deirdre, and that was just for starters.

“No,” Morgan admitted quietly. “But I never said you were. That wasn’t my point.” The point was that Agnes’ mistake should have only destroyed two people, at most. Tragic, but contained. Constance had driven Agnes to the kind of misery that made her want to end her life. And then proceeded to do the same to every other Bachman descendant, those who weren’t horribly killed by her meddling out right. It was unbalanced to the point of grotesque. What pity, what understanding was there left when Constance’s last stand was with someone she’d never met, except to try and destroy? At least Morgan was taking a stand for her own family.

“If there’s another way to get Agnes to White Crest, some way she can be around without a circle, I’ll look after her so you don’t have to keep your hotel for ghosts open longer than you already have to. She’s my family, I should at least try to help her. I want to.” And she wanted to understand why Agnes was so opposed to her finishing this ugly game Constance had turned their lives into. Seeing Ruth’s total apathy at the news had been one thing, but Agnes’ horrified face sat heavy and sick in Morgan’s stomach. She shouldered her bag and dusted herself off, looking down at Blanche with guarded concern. “I still don’t know why you’re so determined to help me, but thank you, Blanche.” She reached out a hand to pull her up. “You need anything right now?” She asked quietly. The differences between them felt as strong as the similarities in this moment, certainly nothing that could be solved with a trip to a diner or a few twenties stuffed into Blanche’s bag. But Morgan was tired of losing people, and she had a sick, prickly feeling in her stomach, almost like guilt, and she was desperate to be rid of it.

It was a strange fury that had settled in Blanche’s stomach, and she didn’t understand it. Blanche knew Morgan held different opinions on the whole subject and that their end goals were different, so she wasn’t understanding why she was so upset at Morgan’s insistence that Constance was the only one in the wrong here. It wasn’t fair - none of this was fair. Perhaps Constance had been right in that the Bachmans - that Agnes Bachman and whatever that thing Cassie, Morgan, and Blanche had confronted in the house so many months ago - were the evil ones. Whatever that meant made Blanche’s head spin because she also knew that no matter what, killing Morgan was inexcusable. How was it possible to care so much for a ghost that did something so horrible to a friend? And was she so determined to help Morgan, or was she determined to help Constance? Couldn’t there be a way for her to help both? Why was the answer one or the other? Blanche was sick of having to choose and she was sick of having to ask herself hard questions and she was sick of having to think.

Not for the first time, Blanche felt that fuzzy, static feeling in her head.

“You could summon her, or she could travel herself,” Blanche finally said, her tone devoid of any true emotion. “What I just did isn’t anything other than opening a line of communication. If I don’t close the line, she could get stuck in the circle. That’s why, even after you dissipated wrong Agnes, I had to close the ritual. But it’s not a permanent means of keeping them here.” She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself as she shook her head. Blanche was quiet a moment as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and looked at Morgan. There were words on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite find them. Confusion and anger melded together, and Blanche realized that it might be better to not say anything at all. “I don’t need anything, no.” Blanche said. “I’m going to go home though, I’m… I’m tired.” It wasn’t a lie, she realized. She was exhausted, and Blanche wondered if she hadn’t overdone it. There was supposed to be a balance so she didn’t feel like complete shit afterwards. But as she turned on her heel, giving a quiet goodbye to Morgan as she trudged back to her jeep, she started to think that maybe the energy she spent on the seance wasn’t the only reason why she didn’t feel well.

#wr blanche #wr chatzy #wr blanche chatzy #suicide tw #secrets and fury #wickedswriting

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yesloverboy · 4 years

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You and Michael playing PC games in the Sanctuary. Everything was okay until Michael decides to play the infamous "Cat Mario". That fucking fan made game that you can even past the first level. His rage level just explode with this game. I took inspiration from that youtuber named "Rooster Teeth".

listen y’all this is pure crack, but it was super fun to write. thanks so much for such a hilarious idea!

…

When Michael finally brought you to the Sanctuary, it was everything you dreamt it would be. Your new home felt like it existed on an entirely different plane of reality; a little slice of what you imagined heaven would be like, yet it was so much more. It was better than heaven, all because Michael had created it, and he created it just for you. It certainly wasn’t a complete picture of what yours and Michael’s new world would be, but for now, it was everything you could ever need to enjoy your victories and plan for the future.

The Sanctuary itself was like an oasis in the desert, overflowing with lavish gardens, ornate palaces, and artful sculptures that were seemingly derived from all the rococo masterpieces you could recall from the previous Earth. The sun always shone brightly, and it only ever thunderstormed when you were tucked safely inside; a blanket wrapped securely around your shoulders and a book in your hands.

Best of all, Michael seemed relaxed, more relaxed than you ever remembered. The scowl he had adopted back in the Outpost had melted away, his mildly cherubic face becoming one of ease, the soft look in his eyes making your heart flutter. He still maintained his elegance– after all, he is the son of Satan and heir to Earth’s throne –but now, Michael was free to breathe a little. As the days went by, he became the playful boy you first fell in love with, indulging you in movie marathons, ruthless game nights, and impromptu dances in the kitchen.

As elegant as your Sanctuary was, it wasn’t long before you and your beloved ventured back into some of the more nostalgic creature comforts of your previous lives. You’re unsure how, but Michael managed to save the remnants of whatever the human race had left of the internet before the nuclear fallout.

On a particularly lazy day, you find yourself in Michael’s study, diving deep into the rabbit hole of PC games from your childhood. You’re halfway through Resident Evil 2, when Michael strolls in, the sound of him humming softly under his breath drawing your attention away from the computer screen. His hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and a pair of beige linen pants hand loosely on his hips. You smile to yourself as an image of Michael in crimson velvet flashes in your mind, and you feel proud of how much he’s let himself grow.

Sure, he’s still the antichrist, but now the darkness inside of him doesn’t have to fight for space anymore. There’s no good half or bad half, human or nonhuman– there’s just Michael. Your Michael.

“What are you up to, my love?”

You open the game menu, pausing your progress for a moment. “Oh nothing, just rotting my brain with the old Resident Evil games. You remember these? God they used to scare the shit out of me.”

“Language, darling,” he teases, poking fun at your casual mention of the Lord Almighty. “Mind if I join you?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you giggle. “Now pull up a chair so I can kick your ass, pretty boy.”

Michael drags one of the plush lounge chairs over to the desk, all the while chuckling to himself. “Someone’s feeling feisty, today. Why don’t we find something we both can play? I wouldn’t want to inhibit my baby’s progress in her crusade against the undead.”

You playfully shove Michael as he flops down beside you, the chair squeaking against the wooden floor as he stumbles into it. “Hey, you don’t have to make up excuses, I’d be intimidated by my zombie-killing prowess, too.”

Michael just rolls his eyes, a coy smile tugging at his perfect lips. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely it. Now hurry up and pick something before I change my mind.”

You save your progress on Resident Evil 2 and close its window, promptly opening your folder of games you filed away for later. You had all the classics: the rest of the Resident Evil series, Silent Hill, Doom, Super Mario Brothers, Super Mario World, and a few indie games you had yet to try.

“What about this one?” Michael asks, pointing to a game labeled Cat Mario.

The game looks innocent enough. Based on appearance alone, it seems to be the exact format of a regular Mario game but just a little more homemade. Rather than having the adorable Italian plumber you know and love being the game’s main protagonist, a little white cat stands in his place. The instructions are in Japanese, but everything about it is virtually the same game– how different could it be?

“Sure! I mean, I haven’t played it yet, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t love a good Mario rendition.”

“Game on,” Michael grins, “Why don’t you go first?”

You happily oblige, and select the only available stage on the colorful screen. It may not be a true Mario game, but the delightful pastel blue sky and white little clouds make you feel right at home.

The first thing you notice as you move the little white cat is how much slower everything is. No problem, you think. Maybe it’s just a little hiccup in the developer’s design. It is an indie game, after all, so you can’t expect it to be perfect. It isn’t until you reach the first green pipe that you realize something is terribly off about the whole thing.

Rather than your adorable little cat character hopping inside and materializing through another pipe, the cat sinks within in and the pipe flies off the top of the screen, effectively wasting your first life.

“Whoa, what the fuck?” you look over at Michael, but his confused expression is just a mirror of your own.

“Yeah what the fuck is right,” he murmurs, “Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

You scoff indignantly, “What do you mean, am I sure?”

“Here,” he smiles confidently, “Let me give it a shot.”

Pushing yourself away from the desk, you allow the office chair to roll you out of Michael’s way, wondering what he could possibly do that would be any different from what you were trying.

Annoyingly enough, Michael gets farther than you did on your first attempt, quickly correcting every mistake he had observed you making.

“You know, the controls may be slow, but once you get the hang of it–” Michael starts, but is immediately cut off by the sight of a floating platform falling from the powder blue sky and onto the little white cat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Michael growls, “That’s never happened in a Mario game before, has it?”

Even though you’re just as perplexed as Michael, you can’t help but be amused by just how much he hates losing. “I don’t know, boy wonder. Has a green pipe ever flown off-screen in a Mario game before?”

Michael just turns his attention back to the screen, his teeth clenched tightly in frustration. “Whatever, I’m trying it again.”

This time around, Michael tries to make the cat jump and punch a question block, only for it to soar upwards and out of his reach.

“Please tell me you’re seeing this shit, and I’m not going crazy.” Michael whines.

“Oh you’re going crazy, alright,” you smirk, trying your best to bury the laugh that’s starting to bubble in your throat.

Michael continues on a little further, dodging green pipes and avoiding slow-moving enemies like the plague. You’re just about to tell him that he might be out of the woods when suddenly, the little white cat jumps up to hit a series of hidden blocks, only to be immediately boxed in by every single one of them.

You don’t have to look at him directly to know that his face is bright red with aggravation. In all the years you’d been with Michael, you’ve spent enough time with him to know that it’s taking him everything within his power not to smash the PC to bits with the wave of his fingers.

“This isn’t happening, this isn’t fucking happening.” Michael huffs, his eyes darting between the pastel-colored screen and your face, trying to gauge your reaction. “Listen, I’ve seen a lot of evil in this world– hell, I’ve done a lot of evil –but this is something else.”

You let out a hearty laugh and plant a firm kiss on his anger-flushed cheek. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure that whatever internet troll invented this horrible thing probably perished in the blast.”

“Kicking and screaming?” Michael inquires, a hint of humor returning to his velvety voice.

“Kicking and screaming,” you confirm, “Although, I can’t help but wonder what that kind of evil genius could have done for the new world…”

Michael looks at an empty corner of the room thoughtfully, his brilliant eyes sparkling. “Well, we could always do a good old fashioned blood ritual later tonight…maybe bring the bastard back. You know, for old time’s sake.”

You grin, feeling an overwhelming sense of affection for your competitive husband. He may be the son of the Devil, but he had all the competitive fire of a Greek God, scorned and beautiful all at the same time.

“It’s a date.”

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #blurbs #american horror story #american horror story apocalypse #ahs apocalypse #ahs

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snowflake-of-destruction · 4 years

Note

vanikai!!

1. How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET

Fun fact: I started out as maybe and moved to the ship category while writing

2. What non sexual activities do they like to do together?

Grass is Greener Verse:

Theater, as shocking as it is that they can fixate on something where the eyes aren't on either of them. Well, there is the pre-show ritual of Kairi talking about how well she would have done as a stage actress. Vanitas more often takes a supportive rather than sarcastic response to this, and tells her she should go to some open auditions. It's far from too late. She's young, hot, and talented (He presumes the last one, but he'd never bet the opposite...and after he sees the one movie she did and some of the commercials...he'll just keep his mouth shut on talented). Sometimes, she'll beam, call him right, and make plans she doesn't follow through on. Sometimes she's noncommittal. Sometimes she'll glare at him, deciding he's just trying to end conversation or mock that she is all talk. Post-show there's also talk--this time from both of them--about how they could have done better in certain roles, which is a couples bonding activity all on its own. HOWEVER, these types of fantasies are not why they love plays. They think is an engrossing form of storytelling, that make worlds come to life and put you in them more than movies or tv. Also, they are simply dramatic nerds at heart.

They also play tennis. Primarily doubles, though you would be foolish to play against them, but they enjoy competing with each other too.

Rock climbing, but at an indoor rock gym. Anyone who asks them if they are training for something/ever planning a trip receives incredibly incredulous looks and scoffing. Not because of the potential danger, because of the very idea of them out in the wilderness...though sometimes Kairi will counter this by mentioning that one summer she worked for her father's, now Axel's, landscaping business. That was getting dirty in nature. Vanitas's response to this is not for this headcanon space

A more canon-verse approach (what do you mean Vanitas not joining the guardians of light post-kh3 is not canon?): There is a lot of sparring. Vanitas helps Kairi advance her keyblade training and just plain get out some of the anger in the grief of losing Sora. Van doesn't go easy and Kairi likes that. Kairi helps Vanitas with any gaps in education without talking down, pitying or even mentioning his strange upbringing, or, the worst, comparing him to Roxas or Xion (because he has identity issues too). I'm not even talking traditional education, though that too if he wants, but education on social situations...which he's not a complete idiot about. He's actually really good at reading people. He just needs a little guidance on what way to use the info, because he only has like five moves and not every situation calls for "taunt" or "threaten loved one". Kairi makes him a much better manipulator. Thanks Kairi. There's also a lot of snuggling, because I say so, that's why. I just see them both as a bit yearning for physical reassurance in their lonely spells, and also the least likely to say it for their own different reasons, so they read it in each other and just give each other what they need but won't ask for.

Read More before this gets too long

3. Who does chores around the house?

Grass is Greener: Neither, as much as it can be helped. It's a stand off about most of the regular chores, and periodically they have a cleaning service come through that is more thorough than either of them are. More often than not, Kairi is the one that "breaks" over keeping the kitchen clean, and Vanitas about cleaning bathrooms and straightening living areas. Vanitas is very neat as a habit, and Kairi likes her surroundings to show a little bit of how she likes chaos--she just is grossed out by dirty dishes, grease stains, and food crumbs. Cooking is a bit of a fifty-fifty with both preferring quickly assembled meals. Laundry is taken down to nothing-to-wear levels, and then it's whoever needs something first. Though sometimes this all goes out the windows, and Kairi goes through "Look, I'm a fifties housewife" sprints where suddenly everything's spotless and she's cooked a three course dinner and did it all in a cocktail dress because she didn't realize you're supposed to change into the dress after.

Kinda-canon: Vanitas. He has a lot of pent up emotions and sometimes you have got to stress clean or cook. Kairi would help, but the arrangement of Vanitas doing the lion's share and it seeming to help him definitely works for the self-described lazy bum.

4. Who’s the better cook?

Grass is Greener: Vanitas. Kairi is a bit careless following recipes and doesn't have the innate "cooking sense" in regard to estimating amounts, flavors, heat, or time to freestyle. Vanitas, when he does cook, tends to get really serious about it even though he prefers the simple to assemble, like I said in the last answer.

Kinda Canon: Kairi. Vanitas is slow to adjust from the “food is only fuel not pleasure” mindset and Kairi starts out with a base of her adoptive parents having taught her some things. Vanitas has a sharp learning curve though, bullying Little Chef into helping him (because he's not going to lose) and not realizing that the bullying is what makes Little Chef more reluctant and ensures Remy doesn't teach him all the secrets he does to others. Anyone can cook, but if you're mean you are taught to cook less well. Once Kairi gets Little Chef tutelage, it's all over.

5. Who’s the funniest drunk?

Grass is Greener: Both and neither in a way. They both have a very high tolerance. They tend to act out more on purpose out of the excuse than act out because of a truly altered state. Alcohol isn't magic. It just lowers inhibitions and neither has those to begin with. If I had to choose though, Kairi is a funnier drunk, because Vanitas's mean streak becomes more developed the drunker he is, whereas Kairi's mean streak, when she chooses to have one, is more practiced and purposeful cultivation instead of a natural harshness.

Kinda Canon: Vanitas. He is not prepared, and once he loses his filter everything spills out, and it's a lot less ugly than some people expected. Kairi just gets giggly and slightly louder, but otherwise doesn't change.

6. Do they have kids?

Grass is Greener: :) :D Listen. Listen. If Shaky was the one who carelessly put "I don't think it fits me the way it used to" on the Vanikai picture she drew. SUPPOSEDLY this was done for cleavage and for the "help you take it off" joke but I know a dangled plotline when I see it.

Kinda Canon: That partially depends on the state of the worlds and how many other keybearers there are when they are older. Even in a stable universe, I don't see them having kids young and it being a long discussion of whether they want kids at all, not the least because of the implications of Vanitas's powers and whether they are only his or would be passed down--what could happen to an infant that could summon Unversed and not know how to retract them even if they were loyal especially if it would be hurt by them being vanquished. I see them adopting orphans from other worlds and saying fuck world order more than having kids naturally.

7. Do they have any traditions?

Grass is Greener: Annual trip to Vegas to recreate the way they met under new created identities.

Kinda Canon: Vanitas calls every tradition he's introduced to stupid without fail. Vanitas also gets VERY into every holiday, and Kairi is all too happy to indulge. Then, he starts nudging her about teaching him more dumb holidays. Their tradition becomes ALL THE TRADITIONS. They celebrate holidays from every world and from every religion if there's a way to do it respectfully--and if it's not appropriate to participate, then they just learn about it as much as they are permitted--and then they look up and celebrate obscure or "made up" things like Leave a Zucchini on a Neighbor's Porch Day.

8. What do they fight about?

Grass is Greener: What you would expect.

Housework.

Why do you take criticism like a personal attack?

What do you do all day? versus Why are you never home?

Were you flirting with the waiter?

Did you even want the baby? Was it a relief when I lost it?

Kind of Canon: Imagine Kairi saying in the same tone as Belle in Disney's Beauty and the Beast "Well you should learn to control your temper!"

No, really, it's mainly about Vanitas being "mean" to people...and then sometimes it's about Kairi doing the same and then blaming him as a bad influence.

9. What would they do if they found their paring tag on tumblr? (If they have one)

Grass is Greener: The flippant answer is that they are really confused about this whole Disney crossover with weird swords thing, and why they are teenagers in so many of these pictures. Don't even get them started on the skirt over the muscle suit paired with the motorcycle helmet Vanitas sees himself put in. When he wears a skirt he has a lot better style, especially if Kairi helps put together the outfit.

But let's take this in a different way. That one bad movie Kairi did is actually gaining a small cult following now years after its release. Someone does a "What Happened to Kairi Emberson? The Answer Will Shock You!" clickbait. The answer...is not shocking but enough people see a photo of Kairi, fine as ever, now Kairi White and looking so happy with Vanitas, and the pair get an objectively creepy because the next few pictures are pulled from social media they don't lock, but well intentioned few people finding and posting more cute pictures of the, and they become a sparse tag and one that is half joking, but a RPS all the same. Kairi pretends to hate this, but is not so secretly really flattered. Vanitas genuinely hates it.

Kinda-canon: Kairi loves it. Vanitas is fascinated despite himself. Everyone else is disappointed because they expected flustered denials or anger at those that portray them wrong, but Van and Kairi both just think it's cool.

10. Who cried at the end of Marley and me?

Grass is Greener: Neither. They roasted it for filth. They cried about it much later. Vanitas in the shower, and Kairi the next day when she was over at Xion's, saw her dog Elmo, and it all busted loose.

Kinda Canon: Vanitas. Cue a discussion about how movies work, how they are not real, and Vanitas snapping that he knows that until there are now multiple types of Unversed to take care of. Kairi gently cuddles both her man and the Unversed until equilibrium returns.

11. Who always wins at Mario kart?

Kairi in all universes. Vanitas doesn't care in GiG, but in canon there is a shout of "Rematch and this time it counts!" despite it being the 100th rematch

12. One thing I like about this ship?

That they have potential to understand each other more than people who technically know them better, or at least the concept of being seen a certain way and having a different "certain way" that everyone thinks it would be better if they grew toward instead of just being allowed to be. Princess of Heart and Agent of Darkness aren't really so different after all.

13. One thing I don’t like about the ship?

When it's clear that it's a fill in for people who want Soriku but can't think of anyone but Sora for Kairi, and so pick "other Sora." There's not anything wrong with that outright, and this isn't me annoyed with pair the spares (though that can rub wrong if it is handled wrong or I'm in a mood to make a point about how not everyone needs a romantic relationship), but annoyed with the reduction of Vanitas to "edgy Sora"

14. The song I would say fits them?

Grass is Greener:

Sibella, and I'll quote a verse and a half because clearly this isn't already long enough.

"You are vain and you are heartless and yet

I can feel in you a shade of sadness

That's barely detectable

That I still want you at all

I may live to regret

You're deceitful

You're delectable

You see the fate of a man

Who has had the misfortune

To spend his life caught in your sway

I see Sibella

My Sibella

And I like her that way"

It works both ways. Change whatever pronouns you want.

Kind of Canon: I...don't know. I can't think off the top of my head.

15. Another headcanon about the paring? (Free space)

Grass is Greener: Even though they think they met in Vegas, they had crossed paths before and probably more than once. I don't have specific headcanons (yet), but this may be something if I ever write the other 20 bazillion Grass is Greener scenes for various characters and relationships that I want to do first.

Kind of Canon: Kairi makes her own version of the suit and borrows Vanitas's helmet sometimes to do things she would never "get away with" as herself. Vanitas blesses this, helps her with the suit, and hands over the helmet after kissing the visor for luck. He also exposes her as a fake Vanitas by showing up at the worst time on purpose.

#vanikai #grass is greener verse #vanitas #kairi #spiiderbiites

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punkwithpaints · 4 years

Text

The Rammstein Magic!AU no one asked for

Sorry this is kinda Richard heavy. I originally was just going to use him as an inspiration for a single character, but the deeper I went for his character, the more I started pulling in the rest of the gang until I decided it was easier to call it an AU. This is absolute word vomit and spit balling an idea, but I’d love to hear what you think and some feedback! Pardon the rambling and sorry if this makes zero sense.

Richard: Alright, so, basically he can summon spirits/entities things like that. He knows about the forest’s darker secrets. Think of those spooky writings that are like “If you’re in the woods and hear 3 knocks, knock back but leave immediately.” Like, this fucker knows every old spirit, good, bad and unknown that go through the forest. He knows all the do’s and don’t’s and people come to him when they manage to get curses put on them or their families. He also knows about monsters that lurk around at night and other things.

With summoning, it’s a skill where at first it’s overwhelming since he starts to see and hear spirits and all that, so it’s a hard power to learn. Most summon animals or things that are living, not the dead. Most people’s minds can’t handle the added effect of seeing and hearing that stuff constantly.

He goes to churches or houses that people are like, “Uh, What is happening in this place?”. And he can strut in, look around and be like, “lmao that’s a demon, I see you fucker.” And he’s gotten so good at summoning that he can kinda reverse uno whatever it is, causing to it to be able to be seen by everyone else as well.

Problem is, when he first started learning, he got cocky and ended up fucking around with something way stronger than what he could handle at the time and basically got possessed. For years he is basically a dick. He’s dangerous, reclusive, hurts his friends and those around him, yadda yadda. Finally, he has enough will power to try and stop this thing, but the only way he knows how to get rid of it is to kill himself. Because without a living soul/body, the demon has nothing to feed off of or a place to stay. So he attempts by trying to slit his wrists, however, the demon is so impressed with his willpower and determination he offers a deal. It basically says, “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You will have free will over your body and mind, but I get to stay.” Fine. Demon doesn’t let him die, heals his wounds, but there are scars obviously.

Richard now has a demon inside him. Fantastic. Richard and the demon can converse back and forth. So, Richard will be like, “Yeah, looks like you’re dealing with *insert demon thing here*.” And suddenly his voice will change and the demon is like, “I don’t know, it seems more like *other demon thing*”. Freaks people out pretty bad usually, if they aren’t expecting it. Richard also has a regular eye and a blind eye. Regular eye is just a regular eye, but his other blind eye is what gives him the ability to see the spirits. It’s like a right of passage for his type of people, where they have to blind one of their own eyes somehow.

ANYWAY

With the demon inside him, the demon has the ability to bring things back from the dead. Hence why Richard was able to come back after attempting to kill himself. Technically speaking, Richard is sorta permanently dead but living. I considered giving him no heart beat but I’ll get back to that in a sec. So, Demon and him slowly start working together where he lets the demon influence and strengthen his summoning powers and summon the actual dead as well as see them. Now he has necromancy.

When the demon made his deal, he tells Richard he can summon him if he needs him, but it’s gonna be hella taxing. Richard has to summon him exactly as he did the first time. AKA, slit his wrists to activate it. So, demon would take back into control causing Richards magic to get stronger by God knows how much. Obviously, he can’t do this very often or for too long, but if shit really hits the fan, this could help him make it out alive. I mean, the demon really doesn’t want to lose his flesh home. I’m thinking this is where the heart beat thing comes into play. Where he’s sorta half dead, his heart would stop when he activates the demon to take over.

Till: TILL. THIS GUY. So, I figured where Till likes the water/swimming/animals so much, he’d live at the edge of the forest by the ocean cliff sides. He’s specialize in familiars and mythological creatures. Like, he’s BFF’s with the local sirens and mermaids. He’s the opposite of Richard. Till has the magic that I forget the name of but it revolves around communicating with animals, knowing what the area is saying through them, that kinda stuff if that makes any sense. He likes growing special and rare herbs for potions and rituals. He’s pretty quiet and doesn’t like being around people, so he keeps his magic on the down low usually and spends his time talking to the sirens and mermaids, creatures/animals around him. Tends to his garden and such. He sells it at the weekend markets where he does fine since he’s one of the few that can offer certain herbs. I think he would have a shapeshifting ability or have a familiar he could change into. I’m thinking a bear or a griffin. Druid-ish????

Although Till loves the water, he’s actually specializes in pyromancy. He doesn’t use it too often, since he keeps his magic mainly hidden, but hey, he can start a camp fire or his stove with it, so that’s nice. He loves to gossip with the mermaids and sirens. They were a little confused when their tricks and songs didn’t work on him, well, they did a little, but not completely. But then they put 2 and 2 together and go, “Oh….Wait….I don’t think he likes girls as much as some of the other sailors we’ve met.” So now they just accept him as their bestie and like talking to him about their crushes and the newest dumb sailors they all lured in. They both share fish catches with each other, and Till does sketches of the market/forest so he can come and show them what it looks like since they’re curious.

He also owns a dragon. Not a big one. One that’s the size of a parrot. It likes to chill on his shoulder and likes crackers and grasshoppers. He raised it from an egg. Everyone is all like, “Dude yeah he’s scary omg, I heard he has a whole dragon!!” and they stop by, only to find this burly dude having a cup of tea with the mermaids and a tiny dragon nibbling a graham cracker on his shoulder.

However, his herbs/garden is what links him to Paul and Flake.

Paul/Flake: So, these two bois live together (Definitely no homo going on here) and Flake is even more recluse than Till. They have a cloaking spell on their cabin. You have to absolutely know a certain tree with a ritual attached to it or a spell/password sorta deal to gain access/the ability to see it.

They’re in an open field/prairie area. Flake would be a healer and very good at protection based spells and rituals. He always buys a lot of his herbs from Till so him and Till are close because 1.) Both reclusive as fuck and 2.) P L A N T S.

Meanwhile, Paul has telekinesis and mind reading. He’s a cocky boi but he does care a ton. Even if everyone wants to smack him half the time. I keep thinking their first meeting was something along the lines of:

Flake brings him along when he goes to Till to stock up on herbs, and Paul meets Richard for the first time since Richard stopped by to visit. It’s probably pretty fresh after the whole “Tried to kill myself to yeet the demon out of me and now we’re roommates” deal. And They have barely shaken hands when Paul is looks smug and goes, “You regret you didn’t die but you were honestly too scared too as well.” And Richard is like “ALRIGHT I HAVE TO KILL HIM DON’T YOU DARE READ MY MIND LIKE THAT”. So, Paul and Richard hate each other for a while. Well, Richard hates Paul, Paul doesn’t mind Richard, he’s just waiting for him to come back to him cause that’s usually how first meetings go for him.

Later on, as they start to talk, Paul confides in Richard (after apologizing) that he understands what Richard felt and that he had attempted before as well. Being able to hear everyone’s thoughts and feel their emotions is horrible when you first start out, and is incredibly overwhelming. Over time, Richard and him end up connecting pretty well. Richard still hates the mind reading thing (so does Till), but despite the differences, they’re friends.

Paul can also temporarily slow/reverse time in a certain limit around him. Maybe like, 15-20 foot radius? For about 30 seconds? Let’s say Till decided to use his pyromancy towards him, Paul can decide to halt it and slow it, or it can begin to reverse itself. Richard sends out some hellhounds, Paul can cause them to slow way down once they get close so he can duck around them and hurry off somewhere else.

Flake, despite the hatred of being around people, is actually a pretty great guy once he warms up to you. He’s someone you can have a good cry with but also, he can absolutely fuck up your whole day. I’d think since he can do cloaking spells, he’d understand spells about portals and rifts. To make something ‘invisible’ (AKA, their house), he’s more so just shifting the dimensions people can see, making it into one that they can’t. And sometimes, you got to yeet your idiot friends through portals to somewhere safe cause they don’t know when to shut the hell up. One of my inspirations for his powers was the music video to the song Falling to Pieces by David Guetta, specifically around the 2:55 mark. I’d imagine that, instead of getting obliterated like the people in the music video, it more that he’s shifting every part of that person into different portals/dimensions. I mean, technically, yeah, they die. BUT HEY, who can say they died via getting blasted through different portals and shifts down to a molecular level? Flake can’t do it a lot obviously. It’s hard enough opening one or two portals, so to pull a stunt like that could kill him if he isn’t careful enough. So many times everyone has had to be like FLAKE NO HEY CHILL WE ARE OKAY DON’T DO THAT.

I imagine Flake and Paul have been friends since they were teenagers, so they watched each other’s powers develop. Once Paul starts figuring his powers out, it starts becoming too much. Flake tries his best to be supportive and encourage him and keep him sane, but Paul can feel how much he’s scaring Flake and making him worry. Paul finally tries to end it (in a similar fashion to Richard, so they have matching scars which is another bonding point for them), but Flake finds him in time. However, Flake hasn’t quite got his healing abilities down yet, but the fear and adrenaline of losing his best friend is what flips the switch to finally allow him to completely channel it. Paul heals up and startles back into reality and is like “EXCUSE ME, I THOUGHT YOU COULDN’T DO THAT” and Flake is shaking him like, “YOU DUMBASS IF YOU EVER DIE IM GOING TO KILL YOU.”

Ollie: My tall boi. I’m thinking he’s part wood elf. His magic is based off of using the environment such as tree roots or trees, manipulating and summoning eco life around him. Wanna get beat by a root system? Ollie is your guy. His powers are kinda like Till, but not as animal heavy. I know there’s a word for this magic too but my ass cannot remember it for the life of me. He’s probably one of the rarest of the bunch to spot, but unlike Till or Flake, he doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to seeing people or going out. People are intimidated by him cause, I mean, this fucker is 6’7 and came out of the woods like some magical sasquatch lumberjack.

But he’s very down to earth (Pun intended). Ollie crafts armor or blades in his spare time. Sometimes he’ll join Till at the market and sell his stuff or take commissions from anyone who needs new weapons/armor, or if they need anything repaired. He knows how to lace objects with magic so it can do a better job with protection or heighten the users own abilities. Ollie is able to know what’s happening in his neck of the woods. He lives in the deepest part of the forest, Richard isn’t too far from him actually. But Ollie’s area is more of a calm area of the woods, not the spooky ass weird area Richard stays in. Ollie has way more ALIVE deer, first off. No wendigos. What a difference.

I don’t know how to phrase this without it sounding dumb as hell, but basically he talks to trees. He can tap his magic into the systems of the trees and plants and pick up on conversations miles away from him. The trees become his eyes and ears, if that makes sense. It’s never super sharp or in focus (Dream like maybe?), but he’ll know when you’ve entered his section of the woods. He can sometimes tell roughly how many, and catch snippets of your conversations. He’ll make sure to keep an eye on you.

Schneider: My boy. I’m thinking he’s a witch mage kinda guy who has visions and predictions. He fucking loves crystals, tarot cards, special odds and ends, things like that. Reading the stars kinda guy. Schneider actually gets called in by the king or whomst the fuck ever is running this world I’m coming up with, to predict the futures of queens incoming babies, wars, decision making, yadda yadda. He’s hella guidance and damn good at what he does. His visions are never in perfect clarity, but with the aid of his other doodads and such, he can give you a pretty good estimate. He’s like Turbo Tax, but with life choices.

I’m thinking his powers would probably be something along the lines of a copy cat? He can usually tell what your about to do a few seconds before you do it. Somethings are super easy for him to predict (like a punch), other things are harder (complicated magic). I think he might fit under the title Warlock with a Vestige pact? Where the souls/echos of his ancestors that have passed on stay with him. They’re the ones that help him see glimpses into the future make sure he’s protected. They’re also why he can replicate (roughly) most spells that are done towards him. For example: If Paul tried to levitate something and toss it at him, there’s a chance that someone before Schneider, in his linage, had some kind of knowledge of that form of magic. If Schneider reacts fast enough, he can reverse uno that shit back at Paul or toss it somewhere else. Sometimes, it’s more of a canceling effect. So, if Richard tried to resurrect something to attack him, he could undo the resurrection spell, making the dead thing fall back apart, since you can’t double bring something back to life.

Him and Richard went through a similar process to gain their abilities. Richard is a host and dealt with/is dealing with being possessed, and Schneider is temporily possessed/influenced by his ancestors when needed. For a bit, they’re tense around each other cause both felt they were better than the other. Schneider felt like Richard “cheated” to gain his necromancy powers, while Richard is pissed that Schneider had it “so easy” compared to what he went through.

Like Paul and Richard, Schneider and Richard finally have a sit down and Schneider admits his whole ritual/process of gaining his abilities.

To gain access to all the souls/echos, Schneider had to ‘live’ through each ones most painful times via his visions. So, easily 100+ memories that he has to go through in one go. No stopping, feeling/seeing/hearing everything that happened to these people, one at a time. Sometimes it’s their deaths, sometimes it’s a fight or injury, sometimes is verbal things. It totally wrecks with a persons mind and body. A lot of times, the people who go through this process don’t make it because they try and kill themselves afterwards or during. If they stop the line of visions, they cannot ever be started again. They usually develop a severe fever and cold chills, and the process can take several days. So if the fever or themselves don’t kill them, they might make it. So him and Richard bond over that.

I know it sounds stupid, but Schneider lives in a cave. Once you enter, it’s lined with different crystals, crystal balls, dices, maps, star charts, ornate rugs on the floor, silks all over the place, just really nice and cozy.

Overall, each one could work together and combine powers. Examples include: Richard and Till combining Richard Necromancy and Till’s Pyromancy to create a physical embodiment of hell and scare the absolute shit out of anyone.

Ollie (Controlling trees/roots) and Till (connections with animals and mythical beasts) deciding to just use a whole ass forest all that lives in it to really fuck up someone’s day.

Schneider and Paul staying 50 plus steps ahead of the game. Even more so, could Schneider have Paul slow time so he could have a better chance of knowing what’s about to happen/copy a spell?

Flake and Paul working together to slow time, then open portals for enemies to run head first into at last second.

There’s some other ways but there’s a few! I’m so sorry this is so long.

#personal #rammstein #AU #till lindemann #Richard kruspe #paul landers #flake #christian lorenz #oliver riedel #christoph schneider

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wispandwhispers · 4 years

Text

moonboy

Notes: I have a logicality angsty oneshot in the works, two on going fics and this one. Help me.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality, qpr dukeceit

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tw(s): Implied stuff from the get go, cursing, Remus being Remus, witchcraft stuff, rituals, hypnotism (I'm going to hell).

Words: 2176

"Kiddo, are you ok?" The round glasses wearing father had bust down the door to Roman's room.

"Noth-i-i-ng, I just-just stubbed my toe."

"But you're still in bed." He gestured to the bed which he obviously had not left.

Shit. Time to make and excuse.

"I stubbed my toe in my-y-y dream?.."

You dumbass. He just has to look at your crotch .

The parent stared at him very closely. "Well that checks out," He leaped off the bed, "If there is anything wrong, remember you can always come to me, no matter how big or small."

A wary smile from Roman with an equally shaky thumbs up and the parental figure took it as a queue to leave.

Now a more prepared Roman grabbed his pillow and then promptly had a mental breakdown into it.

******

ThePrince: Bro you got to help me

TheDuke: Look, I've got some erection medicine in my closet, I'll go and get it

ThePrince: NO!

TheDuke: What is it then?

ThePrince : Its too complex to talk talk on text I'll talk to you about it later

******

Despite the twins being sixteen years old, they would always argue over whose turn it was to wash the dishes and because their Pa was so sick of their bitching that he proposed a solution: They both wash the dishes together. And as both parents would leave the house quickly after breakfast and they had time to burn, Roman decided to inform his twin on the incident.

"So, someone sent you your wet dream in smut format and you're complaining?"

A splash of water across Remus' face

"Can't you see that the problem is that someone knew what my dream was in the first place! Someone had access to my fucking dreams!"

"Dad would be proud of that-"

"It wasn't supposed to be a pun!"

Remus looked at his brother.

"Look, if you are so worried about the text, just give Pa your phone and he can probably track the-"

"Yeah, fuck no," Roman started to scrub the mug he was holding harder. "I would then have to explain why I even care and I'm not doing that."

("If you scrub that any harder, you'll break it.")

("Oh, thanks.")

(He passed the mug over for the other to rinse off.)

"Well if you aren't going to Pa about it, I might have an idea..."

Why did he trail off like that?

******

"So basically, someone transcript your ... fanfiction about Lunaper and you need my help?"

"Yeah, don't you-"

"And your dumbass hasn't even fucking acknowledged the first part of the message?"

Janus walked up and snatched Ro's phone away from him and unlocked it.

("Excuse me, but how do you my phone password?")

(Janus chuckled seemingly to himself, with an otherworldly feel in his voice. " You don't want to know.")

" ' Do not fucking touch him or'; the or is important as the anonymous messenger is giving you a choice: Stop trying to be friends with Virgil or suffer the consequences."

The twins stared blankly at Janus.

(Janus mentally judged them.)

"Choose the former, stop trying to be friends with your crush."

Silence filled the room.

Roman walked up to the gloved wearing male who might as well as told him to stick his hand into a blender.

"Do you have any physical idea how impossible what you just said is?" Roman said this in a voice so cold and unfeeling that would of probably scarred any other organism for life.

But he was talking to Janus Vale. The kid who was queer platonic partners with Remus Xia. Pretty sure he doesn't fear God anymore.

"If you are that, entranced by him, there is always other options..." And again that voice that seemed to be powered by undead spirts, those the seemed to leak-

I should really just ask what the hell he means.

"Just cut to the chase, what do you mean by options?"

What the fuck have I got myself into?

"Let's just say ...," And this is where the gloved figure eyes started to glow a blinding gold and the palm of his hands that were covered shortly followed. "I know ṡ̩̣͡h͙̣̺̽̿̆i̬̝̼̾̒̚t͇̿."

******

"So you could do hypnotism, and you never told me this?!"

"That's not important at the moment, we need to start the ritual soon or shit is going to go south."

"Wait, why do we need to finish so soon, we have thirty minutes until first period?"

"Don't question things, just follow my instructions."

Janus took of his gloves and discarded them to the side and Roman could finally see the truth. The palms of his hand seemed to be printed with an gold open eye shape . And Xia couldn't shake off the feeling that they were watching his every move.

"Give me your hand, Roman." Roman complied and Janus' eyes and hands started to glow so intense it threatened to be brighter than the sun.

"L̵̡̫͙̣̼̼̪͈̦̈́͊ö̷̺̳͓̫̰̮̦͍̓́̅̓̊ö̴̧̞̥̤̞̱̟̳́͝͝k̷̡̠̟͕͖̜͖̦̯̣̐̓̎́͋̽̂ ̴̺̩͖̹̹̓̅̈̌͐i̷͉̭͉͖̭̝̝̼̪͋̈́̀́͝͝ͅn̷̬̙̖̲̥̪̹̰̜͗͗̈̔͑͗͆̚̚t̵͔̖̤̲̥̟̜͘ͅo̷͍̩͍͖̤̲͒͌̌̒͝ ̷̡͔̱̝̱͇̎m̷̜̓̕͠ȳ̸̺̻̱̩̹̎̉̀͋̆͌ ̵̦̤̹̪̞̲͓̽͐̚é̵̡̛̹̬̪̣̅̓ͅẙ̴̉̚͜e̵̛̺̾͌̂͗̕s̸̞̖̱̎̿ ̸͉̣̫̉͝͝y̴̗̤̐͂̐̍̏͘o̴̡͖̟͎̯̹̯͍̹̕ų̷̧̨̯̠̳͈̬̰̒͘͠ͅn̴͕̗͌̓̿͛g̴͓͊ ̵̹̳͔͉͚̄͂o̴̥͍̮͉̠̼͚̓͜n̴̢̧͉̳͔͓̈́̓e̵͎̻͉̰͙̝͉̹͗̋̃̈́̒͂̚͝͝."

Ok, it now sounds like there is seven people speaking, this was a bad idea.

He looked into Janus' ( Was he even there anymore?) eyes. A feeling of absolute calm washed over him.

̫͂"̡̡̛̖͇̙͂̑͆͊F͙̦͛̀e̊͜e̻̰̎̈́l̑͜ ̠̯̯̭̺̈́̈́̉̂͝ṫ͎h̪̽͢͠e̡͇̻͓͍͂͛͠͞͠ ͓̖̟̼͍̾̀̽̌͊p̲̬͋̿ṳ̿l̡͔̳̓̇̌ḽ̛͉͚̮̽̒̈ ̫̕o̥͖̞͐̐̋f̧̠͓̔̇̈ ̡̦̙̟̊̐̕͞tḩ͈̼̗̈̊̓̂e ̫͗c̣̺̘͊̋̄͜͡a̲͔̟͌͛̾̾͞ͅͅl̦̓m̛̓͜ͅn͚͓̊͡é̟ş͓̋͠s̻͉̲͖̀̃̿͂͘ͅ ̦̂͟͝j͉̱̾͠͞ͅu̗̳̇̇ş̣̗͙̂̈́͗̑t̛͈̮̹̣̅͋̊̓͟ ̟͓̮͒̒͝d͍̻̠̪͊͋͝͡r̼̍ag̣̮͉̟̺̍̀̓̉͌ y͕̖̏͘ŏ̭u͇̥͆̍͜͝ ď̪̲̋͋̑͟ͅơ̢̭̓̆͢wń̹̳͡,͙͞ ̡̢̣̣̫̈̒̈́̿͘d̡̗̖̣̑͛ē̘̮̖̠͋̉̓e͈̥͑͌p̮̤̠̓̈́̇ę̻̎̆r̟͈̬̗̮̾͆̉́̚ ̡̲̯̔͋̏á̫͛̎͢ͅn̰̓̋͟ḏ͖̈́̈͆ͅ ̛̜̩͉̆̃̏͢ḑ̋eḙpȅ̙̤̀ŗ̞̓̀ ̟͉͕̟͋̆̅̃͟͞i̫̠͂̾ń̨͕͍̻͇̃̀̉͡ẗ̢̙͓͕͂̕͘ǭ̗͕̻͂̋͗ ̬͂ṫ͈̭͂h̙̣͎͆̊ē̹̝̫̮̇̒̔̎͟ ̤̫̭͂̉̐͘͟pḛ͛͆ͅa̩̽c̱̺͇̐́̿̊̂͢͟ĕ̦̠͔̳͂̾͒ ̡̲̺̑̓o̩͉̳͕̟͂̈͒͌̍f̠̱̊̽ ̛̰͖͍̌̊̽ͅḭ̭͍͋͝t̤̔͋͜ ̝̙̟̻̠̀̽̾͘͝à͙̳͉̐̔ll̮̠̙̖̃̋͒͐͢͝ ̹̠͇̔̍͠an͍̒d͙̙̞̬̂́̀͛ b̪̼̠͇̽̄̔̊̕ͅy̡̘̝̖͋̉̚͡ ̡̻̩̠̱̋̍̐̓͝t̡̞͈̺͌͗̈́̓͜͠he̝̿ ť̻i̯̓m̡̫̑͘e ̢̛̫̈̍͐͜ͅI̯̒ f̧͙̤͛͛̊͜͟͡i̲̱̬͉͗̂̌̉n̼̺͈̩̈͐͘ȋ̢͙̏s͎͔̘̏͛͞ḧ͇͖̮́͠ ̺̅t̢̢̲͖͛̈̓̌h͕̭̹̙͖͊̒̀̏͋i̡̺̫͐̊̊̾ͅs͎̫̃̈́̏͜͟ ̝̟̾̇s̻͚̟̽̎̑ȩ̻͇̼̐̾͝n͌͜t̛͉͍̅e̟͍̱͓͆͗̄n̞̫̓c̮͗e̼̊̚͢,̧̡̩͇̞̾̓̀̃͌ ̣̓y̤̙̞̳̍̈͒̔ǫ̼͘͝u̟̅ ̧͔̲̫̿̇͘͠w̘͇͍̟͆̑̀̔͜il̢͍̓͊l̩̖̼̂̎͐ ̪̽j̡͈̝͛̄u͕̝̐̓̏͟ş̹͎̈́͗̀̐͢t̛̖͍͎͈͂̕͡ ̻wa̖͘ṉ̪̾͝t̺͡ ̢̳̣͛̀t̬̭̋͘o̧͍̹͓̝̔̇͒͡͞ ̖̜̆̑l̮̟̾͘ǐ͕͔̺̳͌̀͊st̛̙͉̺͎͆̓̃̕ͅẽ̢̮͊̏͢͡ͅn͙̯͎͐̊͗͠ͅ ͈͗͜t̛̤̜̃õ̭̺͞ ̨̜͗̆͢m̤͌ȳ̫͔̳̏̕ ̡̘̟̋̎͛s̼̝͉̰̆͆̈́̓ȕ̟̖͔͆̍̋͜g̯̪̙̤̎̇̾ğ̪e̲͍͆͗s̬̿t̡̠̟̔̓̕i̧͔͓̋͛̃o̱̺̗̟̩͋̓̓̇͠ń̗̳͚̥̫̔̀̕͝s̯̭͑͛̽̕͜͟.̨̈͗ͅ"̬͇̈́

And with that Roman's mind went blank.

"G̛̟̯̭̾̿o̬͡o̥͒d͇̼͔͂͌͘,̢̯̙̭̽͛̓̊ I̪͂ ̧̮̩̩̟̈̑͛͂͘k͙͎͕̒̑̅n̪̲͂̈ow̠̑ ̨̱̊w̧͉̻̩̐͛̅̎h͉̼̤͂̊̐̓͢á̠̪̃͌͜t̨͚̳̜͖̃̾̓͐͞ y̯͓̑̕ò̖̘͡u̱̰͋̒ ͇̜̼̒͌̈́ͅd͔̩̑̿e͕̜̅̿̓̍͟͢s͎̯͖̚ir̩̗͓̃͛͐e, ͖̳͐̅I̦̅ ̓͢à͍m̲͎̲͔̎͋͒̕ ̭̺͕̬̐̾̉̃͜͡ṯ̭̝̞͊̍̅͡r̡̻̣̹͖͋͒̂͑͑ȳ͕͓͘i̢̖̳̯̐̅͛̒n͍̟͈͑̏͞g̨͍̑̾́ͅ t̞̞̿͞ö̙́ he̩̲̾̊̋͜ļ̝̱̯̺͂̉̇̉͛p̥̌͆͢ ÿ͎́ou͎̓ ̛̲̲̘̿̃̚͟,͖̰̂̋n̡̖̼͌̐͒o̢͔͓̜͊̾̌͆t͓͍̤̎̽͘ ͚͚̞̺̄̿͌̚h̥̻͛͝i̖̤͌͆n̨͋ḓ̛͉̭̑͊͢͝ẹ̞̘̪͒̔̽̕ř̺̺̖̽͑͗͜, "Roman nodded in acknowledgement of this statement. "An͉̖͉̄̄̄d͔̣̪͐̋̕ ̼̙̜̑̃̀al̨͖͈͎͖̅̅̈̉̕l̝͐ ̛̖͙͊̑͢y̢̡̰͂͂͟͡͠o̺̾u̮͋ ͈͞ẅ̧́a̳̒n̯͉͔̂̋̌̃͜ť͙ to̝̳̐̅ ͖̹͔̓͂̔d̥͡o͔̣̳̮͂͑͐̂ i͓͠s ̺̪͗̒̔͟ma̧̡͓͍͛̏͒̕k̡̨͑͞e ̰̎s̈́̕͢͢u̧̺͈͑̾͐r̰͓̆͛̄ͅe̛̘̼̎͌͢͢ ̣̤̜̆͐͋t̛̜̰̉h̨͇͌͡ă͚̭͈̲̮̍̈́̄̃t ͉͌t͍̤͕̞̋̐̚͡h͈͆̊͟ą̮̝̥̏̈́̆t̨̙͖̀́̋ f̡͎͎̭̎͂͆̀í̛̬͜l̡͚̤̘̄̄̂̍e̳͂ ͙̤͌̆͜͞d̢͎͇̰̑̌̇͘ò̖ḙ̲̞̂͆͑̕͢ś̥͢͠n'̮̚t̬̦͕͋̌̍ ͙͎̲͛̑g̮̖̱̻̈́̇̔ȇ̤̞̘̓̓͟͝t͔̰̺̯̂̆̆͞ ̟̟̾̆s̗̻̆̾p͔̌̒͜͜͞r̛̯̜̽e̥͂a̾͜d̛̖͖̣͎͌̄͗."

Roman repeated his previous action.

" Tḧ̢̨̃ĩ͔̋ͅş̧̫͗́̔̒͟ ̝̥͎̟͋͆͝i͎s̢̛̞̋͘͜ ̖̭̀͐m͓̯͔͎̋̓̄͝y̯͌ ̣̅s̱̳̘̅͆̉u͓̎g͔̹̍̆g̖̲̮̈̏̚ȇ͎̰͕̞̍̾͛s̢̐t͎͡i̲͙͆͘o̧̤̻̦̽̓́n̙̻̭͕̉̐̐ ̨̛̲̟̦̃̋̇:̖͔̼̤̦̄̊̋͂̕ ͖̜͉̪͕̂̊̌̑̎t̛̪̖̱͐̍he̢̫̒̓ l̯̻̙͚̗̎̓́̔͘ǔ͜s̯̭̝̠͍̈́̄̆̾͡t̪͒ ̛̫̪̩̤͎̏̉̑̋ạ̙̊͒n̛̮͔͙͗̈d ̺̏l̼̗͖̅̾͒o̭̓v̡͎͇̚̕e̢͙͚̦̓͒̈̚ ̮͙͐̋y͖͞o̡͇̳͚̎̽̂͒u̻̘̐̔̃͜͜ ̹͇̮͒̿̒f̘̱̿̋ë̗͍̇e̱͕̥͗̃͡l̮͝ ̪̤͕̼͑͆͂f̩͚̈́͊o̳͠r͈̳͌͘ ̺̘̊͞h̛̹̙̳͚̺̾͌̇͠ĩ̡̛͉͖͘m̧̧̛͔̻̄̈̊̔͢ w̻̌i͕̮̺̖̋̾͝ll̙̩͛͒ ͐ͅbȩ ȩ͓̄̏͑͢x̩̃ť̲i̯͉̳̤͍̽̋́̕ń̙ḡ̥̱͘uis̬̟̽̾h̩͡e̤̹͇̮̋̅̊͋d͈̦͖̦͑̓̉̚ ̼̘́͐b͙̼̻͒́͋y̹̳̦̱̓͐̾͒̾͜ ̘̕ä̹n̳̹̥͎̜̈̀͘͡ ̰͍̽̊̅͟ő̻̖̟͇͆̓̈́p̡̠̝͕͊̾̑̄͜͡p̣̰̿̈o͕̭̜͑͊̓̕͢s̛̬͔̥͈̎̓́ỉ̧̨̞̪̺̂̒̋̑t̖̂̈ͅe͕͘ ̦̥͗̓͢͝f̺͚͔̃͊͝o͔͈͑͗r̢͛c͍̎e̺͆."

Whatever Janus was at the moment smiled as Xia bopped his head, a sign that he was ok with this.

"Ok̡͈͇͒̈́͘͜͞ ẇ͢h̫̣͊͂̕͟ẽ̺̭̦̃͞ň̲͋͟ ̨̦͊̇̂͜Ì̻͖̬̜͛̄͘ ̩͂l͎̙̻͊̓̈e̜̯̤̅̅̓͡ͅt̰͈̤̬̽̏͊ ̙͆g̘o̪͖̙̠͂͂͆̓̓ͅ ̗̈ỗ͈̠̜͇̔̕f͓̃ ͓̍y͓͌ơ̬̲̱̓̈u̮͂r̟̫̱̍̏̈͘ͅ ̧̎ḥ͝a̢̲͛̋͢͝n͇̲̊͝d̟̻̲͓̏͆͗̕,̢͓̩̤͛̌̏̎ ̞͇̔̍yọ̠̞̑̔̌̍͟ư͖̼̑͜͞ ̺̹̬̆̊̇͟w͔̯͂̾i̗̠̩̖̔͂̀͞l̯͈̳̔̊l̞̅ ͍̖̬̫̰̔̃̉̕͡r͕̝̜̆͗͒e̡̻̻̣̫̾̃̋͋͘m̼̟̅͋è͙̤̙̘͂́͠m͖̯̻̯̀̽̒͐b͉̗̎̾̊͐͜͢͡ͅe̥̠͕̝̓͛̉̾r͇̩̖̲͈̄̓̌͞ ͔̹̃̕n̻͡o̞̚͟͠n̳̉e̮̓ ̝̎o̱̪͍͇̐̽͠f̮̻̋̈́ ţ̹̋͊ḫ̻͔̻̞̏͋̊̍̚ǐ͟s̙̠̾̚͜͞͡ͅ ̖̳͆͡a̫̯̠̔͊̃n͎͉͍̪̓͐̑̕d̨͓̰͕͚͊̎͛̓̉ ͎͋o̫̺̻͙͐̊̏̿ṇ̍l͚͗y̜͕̙̎̿͛̚͜ ̩͙̻̭͇̒̑̽̽̊r̜̄e̫̩̼̓̄̀͜͠m͖̼͗̎ḙ̇m̧̢̡͔̜̓̌͛͑̚b̢̰̙̱͊͆̅̉è̻̺̳̹̓̚͝ȓ̠͓̬̟͂͝͞ ̟̆ţ̲̎̓hä͉t͙̠̓͡ ̡̧̣͍̘̿̇͘͞y̨̲̗͈̐̉͋͝ó̟̘̓ȗ͖̼̻͌̑ ̪̹͐͞ä̧̲̜̬́̽̂́ȑ̥̑͢e͎͇̣͖͓͛̆̋̏͡ ̪͠n̰̒ọ̮̟̈́͛̾ẁ͎̥̹̪͌͞ ̢̼͖̲̅͒͂͝s̞̼̆a̱̖͑͛f̟̯̦̑̃͑ė̻̘̣̰̫̋͠͝."

The golden eyed one let go of him and Xia promptly flickered his eyes for a moment before snapping back to reality.

( Janus returned to his eyes to their regular state.)

"So, what happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

( He was putting back on his gloves.)

"So something happened by default."

Janus decided to ignore him.

******

Roman felt off.

He didn't know why.

It felt like something was off, something majorly important was off, and it felt like the type of thing you would notice until it was too late.

Pull it together Xia, nothing is wrong, it's just-

Virgil walked into the classroom and every single fibre in his body despised the fact the hoodie wearer could breathe.

So he decided to act on it.

"What the hell, princey?," He gestured to the fact that Ro had just pulled the childish trick of pulling your chair back right before you sit on it. "Are you a fucking infant?"

("No cursing in the classroom.")

"At least am not you, whose shit eyeshadow bags might as well be done blind!"

("Nice, she gets to curse but he can't, the double standards are-")

"Ok, princey...," And those eyes that held so much power and so much cosmic energy that made it see like the universe itself was at his command but all Roman saw was a nightmare, darkness and evil that needed to be slayed. But he would always dismiss the fact that his chair was currently vibrating the power, he was too focus on planning to destroy what was in front of him. "You want to fight, fucking come at me!"

Has this always been the feeling I've had towards him? N̛̤͎̬͍͆͂̚Õ̋̒͢͜͜ ̩̿İ͔̬͇͌͠T̢̮̽̽ ̺̖̣͒̈̆̕͟H̱̬̝̾̀̿̾͜Ă͔S͉̦̳̈́̀͝N͈̖̣̓̉͑'T̨̙̣̱͒̓͊̕,̟͝ ̧̤̔̄͂͜Ÿ̰̗̫̓͠Ò̫Ủ̩͚̽ ̡̢̫̙̓̒͂͂L̢͓̬͕͆̀̎͝Õ̻̻̩͎̕͠V̻͂-̲͍̳͂̒͛ It must of been, why would this feeling of loathing be so intense otherwise?

("Sunday, Vale~" And that was all it took to shut Janus up.)

Roman held his head in pain, feeling like there was two people speaking, feeling like his skull was going to split in two, feeling like-

"Roman, are you ok?" Virgil's eyes had turned a softer shade of galaxy, if that even made sense, almost like he could see what-

There is nothing wrong with me, I've always been NÓ͍̞͎͇̋̓͆,͍̦̹͈͐̾̏͂͜͡ ̳̺̺̖̄̽͌N̝͕̆̓O̖̚,̙̣̦͗̊̿ ̹̳̼̀̎̐Ṅ͉̦͓̻̓̍̈Ǒ͍,̧͙̱̭̃̐̒̕ ͎͂N̝̒O̡͖̜͖͑̓͐͠-͂̒͛like this.

"Yes, but it would be better if you were choking by my hands."

("This is the weirdest foreplay I have ever seen.")

Roman grabbed Virgil's ripped shirt and proceed to slam him to the floor.

("Remus!")

The nova in his the slammed eyes were almost as black as the darkest void of space, a black hole that showed no mercy to those who dared to cross its path.

"Wanna play, let's fucking play..."

******

"Mr Xia and Mr Lunaper, would you please explain why there is three broken tables and nine smashed chairs in 3Q?" The principal was terrifying in the way that they never rose their voice, they were always so calm and collected that it scared or scarred any student shitless and made them never want to fuck up again.

(Except Remus and Janus but then again they are the specimens that are Remus and Janus.)

"You should not even have the strength to fling a table across the room, with your poor gym academic records Mr Lunaper but you were able too anyway, why?"

"I'm not answering that question, Mx Spring ."

"Fine, but you Mr Xia, I have gathered from eye-witness reports that you were quite good companions with him less than a day ago and now you were throwing chairs at him, why?"

Roman stood up defensively. "I did it because.."

Why did I do it though ?E͈͠X͙́A̧̱̖͋̈C̡̨̺͍̝͂̉̄͘̕T̞͈̙̬̎̿̇͘L̘̗̝̭̃̈́Y̛͚͎̻̊͝ ̢͚̩̤́͐͘Y̻̐͌͢O̤̼̜̒͆͘Ǔ̦ ̰̦̖̾͗̓Ḍ̛͕̩̲̐͑̈́O̰͊Ņ̹̎̿'̨̩͛͛̒͟T̰͔̼͆̊ ͈̮̈̆M̥̐E̟̒Ḁ̧̧͉̅̾̒͠Ń͚͇̲͈̃͛͆ ̻̋T̢̰̐͌͟͝H͇̆IS̥̪̈͋͢͝ͅ,ͅ ̝͌J̤͗U̺̼͘̕Ŝ̫̞͘T̺̼̱̼̖̆̐͆ ͇̩̅̕Ĺ͙̪̮̓̇̕͞ͅͅIS̙̎T̳͈̮̏̿̎EN̨̖̬̦̮̈͌̍͐̿ ̢̤̊̉Ṱ̣͐͘O͍̲͓͆̌͗̅͜ ̛͈̰͎̃M̭̓E̢̧̼̫͛̂͌͞-̮̍ It did it for reasons though.

"....because he is insufferable, because I see him rage fills me...that's it really."

"So you destroyed a classroom and endangered the safety of more than two dozen people because you don't like Virgil's face. A month's worth of after school detention .You are now dismissed and Virgil can you please stay behind for a moment."

"I politely decline that offer Mx.-"

"What if I told you that I know, why you were able to fling that table?"

Virgil stayed behind as Roman left cursing profanities under his breath over his unjust ruling.

******

"I'm just going to tell you one thing, Spring...Stop while you think you are ahead because if you have any idea what I am, you would know not to screw with me."

*******

Over the span of the nest fortnight, a rivalry like no other emerged between Virgil and Roman, both needlessly trying to get the other on their last nerve at all given times, which one incident ended with Xia's phone cracking. The peculiar thing about this is the fact that his phone perfectly was cracked in the phase of the moon that night but no one took notice of except the twins Pa when Roman had to explain why his new phone was cracked.

But on the days he would have the worst fights with Virgil, he always dreamed about this beautiful man dressed in all the colours of the stars slowly waltzing with him and sometimes embracing him. The dream would always end with him whispering into his ear something along the lines of 'Remember what you long for before the veil dropped'. Now he was obviously disturbed that he was falling in love with a person of his imagination but anytime he was to think about the cryptic message, his head would feel like it was about to spilt into two.

Meanwhile, Janus had become Virgil's new guide around the school and because both of them had a similar 'I'm done with this bullshit and it's only eight thirty' mentality , they became fast friends. Because of this, Janus learnt that Virgil had extreme social anxiety, that he was a fellow homosexual and the fact that he was cousins with Remy.

Remus also found it weird that his brother, who had never given up on a crush until they flat out rejected him, now despised him with every fibre of his being. He was aware that Janus' could hypnotise people but he also didn't know if his partner had any idea how batshit Roman would get over his crush.

******

LittleTrashMan: Jan, what exactly did you suggest to my brother

DoubleDs: Well I just suggested that the feelings he has for Virgil will be extinguished by an equal force

DoubleDs :Making him just see Virgil as a normal person

DoubleDs: That's it

LittleTrashMan: My brother, the guy who tried to hack to speaker system on a train to try and ask out a guy, who still has a childhood crush on Aladdin, who has never let go of a fucking crush unless they say no and even then he pines hard.

LittleTrashMan: My brother's love for people is endless, so his hatred will be endless

DoubleDs: ...shit

#logicality #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #platonic dukeceit #prinxiety #wisp writes #moonboy au

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just-horrible-things · 4 years

Text

[Content warnings: dehydration, solitary confinement, hallucinations, torture, waterboarding, futile interrogation.]

Thirst clogs his throat. Swallowing is painful. He feels sick, and his head pounds incessantly. It’s been so long, since they brought water. How long? Days, yet? How long does it take to die?

He doesn’t know.

Illusions play in the dark, flickers of life and motion, snatches of music and the overpowering sense that someone was just here, just now, just a moment ago... He’s used to them. He knows it’s just his mind, trying to escape where his body cannot.

He watches the holoflick of his own scattered imagination, and tries not to panic. How long, how long has it been? Have they forgotten about him? Surely not. Has she decided that he is useless after all, and left him to die?

Or has something bad happened? If there were an accident, warp madness, a mutiny... he’d never know. Every other soul aboard the ship could be dead - but no, wouldn’t he have Seen the resonance of that many deaths? Maybe. Maybe not. They could all be dead or worse, and he would never know. He could die here not knowing...

He panicked, when he was stronger. Oh, hours or days ago now... He banged on the cell door and screamed and howled. He begged for a guard, he pretended he was sick, he promised invented secrets if someone would just come and acknowledge him, reassure him that the world outside still existed...

But no one came. Maybe no one heard.

He doesn’t have the strength to try any more.

---

They come when he’s asleep, or unconscious, or somewhere between the two.

The door is already open, when he wakes, bright light falling across his face and bringing blindness. He can See the guards, sense their warmth, and he’s so glad. Whatever torment they are bringing, at least he is not dead, at least he is not alone in the dark.

“Water,” he tries to croak, but his dry mouth won’t form the syllables. There’s just a dry rasp of breath, and fresh cracks in his lips from trying to make them move. “Out,” they order. If he does not obey they will beat him. He is afraid, but he has no strength. Standing is out of the question, and even pushing himself up to hands and knees feels impossible.

He drags himself painfully across the floor by his elbows, broken bones protesting as he crawls inch-by-inch on his belly. It feels like an eternity before he reaches the cell door and can stop, panting and shuddering, at the soldiers’ feets.

Please, water. They must give him water soon, surely, or he will die.

When they pick him up, the world spirals away into breathless blackness.

---

He comes to face up on the table, feeling the familiar weight of the straps pinning him down. There she stands, as always. The terror of imminent torture floods his body, but he’s too weak to tremble. Her image wavers and blurs. His eyes feel full of sand.

Beside her, on the table that she leans against, he can see a pitcher of water. Rather than hope, he feels only despair. She will have the same questions as always, and he will not be able to answer, and he will get no water. It’s not worth the pain of trying to speak.

But to his surprise, she opens by dipping her gloved fingertips into the water and brushing them across his lips. He’s caught off guard by the wash of sheer gratitude he feels. His tongue instinctively moves to lick his lips, but the water is already gone, absorbed into the dryness of his mouth. A wordless whimper makes it out of his tight throat. He’s not sure if he’s trying to thank her for the small mercy, or beg for more.

“Give me something,” she orders. Her voice is low and confident, almost warm. “Tell me something new.” She clearly expects him to fold. But he can’t. He tries to tell her so, but only croaks out another weak whimper.

She wets her fingers again. But she pauses with the liquid just out of reach, studying his face intently. “Beg for it,” she says. He has no shame left, he tries without hesitation. But his swollen tongue and cracked lips won’t form the words, and his dizzy mind can scarcely string a sentence together anyway. Even maintaining eye contact is hard. Her face keeps wavering in and out of focus. She watches him struggle. He whines like an animal - a wavering, fractured sound - trying desperately to convey his desperation. He would be weeping, if his eyes were not dust-dry.

Eventually she relents, and allows him the precious drops of water. He is oh so grateful to receive from her hand.

In this vein, she makes him debase himself for each taste, trying over and over until at last his mouth is damped enough to form intelligible words. “Please, Interrogator,” he rasps, eyes fixed on hers despite how badly he wants to look at the water on her fingertips, “Please, p-please, please...” “Enough,” she tells him, and he falls silent. “I have shown you more mercy than you deserve, wouldn’t you agree?” “Yes, Interrogator,” he breathes miserably. “What do you deserve?” “Nothing, Interrogator.” It has never felt more true. He is a wretched thing, far from the Emperor’s light.

“You deserve to be punished,” she corrects him. His chest judders with a dry, broken sob. “Now. Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” Her eyes flicker to the pitcher of water. The implication is clear. But he has nothing to give her. There’s no escape. Despair rises. “The Red C-Council,” he blurts breathlessly. Oh no. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He didn’t mean to lie again, he didn’t, he remembers all too clearly how all the other lies ended. But... he wants the water so badly.

“Tell me more.” “The Red C-Council, they...” his throat is still so dry, still raw, his voice is gone, he can only whisper. “They taught me... daemonology...” It’s a weak lie, desperate, not thought through. He is panicking. “Where are they based?” He hesitates, but he sees in her eyes the look that presages pain. “Aventine,” he gasps, the first place that comes into his head. It’s a terrible choice, he knows almost nothing about the planet. It’s a stupid lie, she’s going to catch him and the pain will be so bad and he will get nothing to drink... “Where on Aventine? Be specific.” He’s gasping with fear, but he’s so weak maybe it looks like regular desperation, and thirst. “W-water?” he pleads anxiously, trying to stall for time.

She slaps him. It catches him off guard - she rarely hits him herself - usually it’s tools, or having the guard do it - no, think. “You don’t deserve water.” He cringes. “Where on Aventine?” “Palca,” he invents desperately.

For a moment, she doesn’t speak. He cannot meet her eyes, and he cannot control his involuntary reactions. “There is no such place.” Her tone is flat and unimpressed. His gut clenches, expecting pain any second. “It’s-- a secret--” he gasps hurriedly, brain running one step behind his mouth. Her gaze is hard and suspicious. How does she know? Does she know? Is she bluffing? She seems certain but he knows he’s not thinking clearly. “A, a secret island.” Secret island? Idiot! How could an entire island stay secret on a world with as many satellites as Aventine? “It, it, they use d-dark magics to, to hide it...” It hurts to speak, but he barely cares. “I, I know it... it s-sounds rid-dic-c-- r-r-- I, I know... b-but p-please, it’s t-true...” “Dark magicks.” She doesn’t believe him. She doesn’t believe a word. He should confess and stop making it worse, but he’s so scared. “Tell me about these magicks. How do they work?” “I d-d-don’t know, Interrog-gator,” he pleads almost silently, “I’m sorry, I don’t... they, they d-didn’t... didn’t sh-share their secrets...” “Did you ever see this sorcery performed?” “No Interrog-gator, I was, I was - j-just a, a student, lowly. I, I d-didn’t--” “Was there a ritual site,” she speaks over him, “Where such a thing could take place?” “I, I, yes,” he bluffs, “There, there were l-lots of ritual circ-cles, please Interrog-gator, wa-ater?” He can taste blood in the back of his mouth. He gets another slap for his trouble.

“Describe these circles,” she orders. He despairs at speaking on. But her word is law. So he rasps his way falteringly through a plausible lie. He knows enough of sorcery to invent some circles - and he knows more than she does, so maybe.... But she cuts him off unexpectedly, in the middle of a sentence. “Remind me. What was the name of your so-called ‘secret island’?”

When he hesitates, he knows he is lost.

He sees the suspicion on her face solidify into the certainty that he’s lying. The force of her fury leaves him quailing and dizzy and gasping out fragmented apologies. As the soldiers drag him off the table, he blacks out again.

He comes round in tighter bonds, on the rack, head ringing as a soldier slaps him over and over. He tries to feign continued unconsciousness, but he can’t keep from flinching. “He’s awake,” the guard says, then shoves a rag roughly into his mouth. Still woozy from fainting, he can’t stop her. She puts her hand on his chin to keep him from struggling, and her partner pours water over his face.

It’s almost pleasant, for a few seconds. He swallows urgently.

But he soon runs out of oxygen, and starts to choke and drown on the water that he was begging for just moments ago.

Somehow, despite the pain and the suffocation, despite the terror of knowing that this is just the start of his punishment, he is still distantly aware of the irony.

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