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paenling · 4 years

Text

Psychosomatic

On Ao3.

Danny huffed against his forearm, chin pressed to the scratched-up surface of his desk. Lancer continued to ramble in his periphery—and he tried to pay attention, he really did, but the words floated in one ear and out the other, meaningless noise. He thumbed along the corner of his textbook, quietly flicking the pages with his left hand while his right took down sparse notes.

Sam and Tucker had both placed above him into a slightly more advanced section, so they could help if he asked, but it was still a pain to be without ready-made notes to borrow. It kind of really sucked.

“Turn to section five," said Mr. Lancer. “Page two-hundred sixty-one."

Lowering his pen, Danny moved to do as he was told, but found himself interrupted by a sudden slit of pain across the pad of his thumb. It was small, but a fresh paper cut stung on the most sensitive part of his dominant hand. He sighed. Just his luck, wasn’t it?

Lancer cast a wary eye towards Danny's noisy hiss of discomfort. He pressed his thumb against his lips, sucking briefly on the cut, before shaking his hand out with a sheepish grin. After a moment's examination, the teacher dipped his head and resumed whatever he was writing on the whiteboard. Danny swallowed.

Ectoplasm had a very distinct taste and texture. It was thick and syrupy and congealed easily into something like soft gelatin. Even as a liquid it was freezing to humans, mildly corrosive and sick-sour like rot. For Danny the taste was like sucking on a penny soaked in embalming honey. Dense and filling and refreshing and light. Coppery and bitter but giving way to stagnant sweetness, staticky like pop rocks but also luxuriously smooth and filling citrus-sharp ambrosia—

It made him feel like an odious, vulgar, wicked dead thing to have thoughts like that. But ghosts weren’t monsters and he really wasn’t a ghost. It was fine. He was fine.

Some shadowy echo of that alien bliss passed over his tongue when he swallowed, thrillingly cool as it slid down his throat. Faint, masked by heavy rust, diminished, but fresh. It must have been a mistake, but he knew it. His mouth grew immediately slick with desire, teeth seeming to throb with his pulse.

He glanced surreptitiously around and pressed a palm to his chest. His core hummed, frigid and dormant opposite his sluggish heart, but also weightless and prickling with muzzy excitement. Uneasily, he tamped it back down, shrugging to shake the eagerness from his back. It must have been nothing. Danny slowly, carefully picked up his pencil to resume jotting down notes. He just needed to last through class—

Ectoplasm, or something like it, dripped sluggishly down over the lead, fragrant and heady. Just a drop coaxed free of the seam, but his wet mouth flooded. Drool slipped past his lips to crawl down from the corner of his mouth, and he hastily tugged at the front of his shirt to wipe his face. His heart leapt up to his throat as he turned his hand over to examine his injury: virescent sludge oozed from the papercut on Danny’s thumb. It was black. He almost choked, but glanced up to find shaggy dark hair hung over his brows. He was human, but this wasn’t his blood. This had to be a mistake.

It didn’t glow like raw ectoplasm, but it wasn’t red either. It was too thick. He had no way to explain the oily dark green-grey stuff leaking from his skin. Danny closed his fist around it with a grimace. The not-blood beaded beneath the pressure of his fingers, but did not escape. He wiped it on the waistband of his jeans instead, where his baggy shirt would hide the stain. Shaking, Danny raised his uninjured hand.

“Yes, Daniel?" The teacher's sharp grey eyes passed him over once, then again, and his sleepy brow furrowed with just the slightest hint of worry. How many other eyes were on him? Everyone was staring. “You look pale. Are you feeling unwell?"

Danny wanted to answer, but his teeth were too big and his tongue felt thick and clumsy. His syrinx squeaked. This was a mistake. It was wrong. He was still drooling, but he couldn’t swallow. He must have been doing a worse job controlling his breathing than he'd thought, because Mr. Lancer was at his side in an instant. All the hair on his arms stood on end; his neck prickled, lips itching, ears burning.

When had he started to tremble? It was so loud in the classroom—a score and change of syncopated human heartbeats like drums pounding booming crashing constantly in the air. Pencils scratched and feet tapped and keychains clattered. It was loud like war. His core screamed beneath his ribs, drowning out his sluggish heart. Was he even breathing at all?

Mr. Lancer moved to help him up. “Do you need an escort to the nurse?"

He shook his head vigorously, fisting his hands in his shirt. “Bathr’m,” he managed to slur. He rose to his full height and wobbled that way. His skin was too tight. Vertigo pressed down on him, and he bent over with arms wrapped tightly around his middle. He was going to burst out of himself. Danny’s mouth was dripping; he hoped it could be passed off as symptomatic of the nausea. “G’nna throw’p.”

Danny started towards the door before Lancer even finished nodding. Distantly, he registered the teacher giving instructions to the rest of his class: do odd numbered problems on page two-eighty-seven, you can collaborate, finish the rest as homework—

The empty hallway stretched on forever. Wasn’t the bathroom only a few doors down? Danny swayed, vision swimming in watercolor smears. The cut on his hand was shallow and it hardly even bled at all. It didn’t even hurt. It was a paper cut. There was no reason for him to feel this way—this sickness. Suffering. A craving for something he couldn’t quite grasp. He’d swallowed a full ecto-filtration cell on Wednesday, so he couldn’t be Hungry. Besides, he’d never reacted to his own blood before at all, let alone so soon after feeding his ghost half.

This was a mistake. Was he really this paranoid? This weak?

What was wrong with him? He wasn’t Hungry, he was Full. Just the thought of Eating made him feel sick with guilt; his guts twisted at the sheer ugly selfishness of it. He could go without for weeks more, if he didn’t waste his energy—there was no reason to want to take so badly, to be so gluttonous, and yet here he was, drooling buckets in public at the mere suggestion of ghost-blood like some kind of starving animal. He was ugly and it was evil, bristling through his insides, sticking him full of shame.

His core was heavy in his chest, leaking cold into his bones like reverse-heartburn. The bathroom tile felt tacky and hot under his knees. When had he gotten there? He lunged over the bowl and coughed up a wet slurry of ectoplasmic slime. Ropes of mucous slobber swung from his parted jaws as he dry-heaved into the toilet—he had nothing to throw up but bile, briny and sour. Hot tears stung at his eyes and Danny choked on a wretched sob.

The bathroom door clicked shut. “Daniel?” Mr. Lancer’s nervous heart was very close behind him. “Do you need me to call your parents?”

Danny growled. His syrinx popped in his throat, issuing a low whine of ghostly static that he fought to swallow and suppress. “No,” he croaked, breathing hard enough to ruffle the water in the basin. He choked on his tongue. “No, no, no—J’zz—?”

“Jasmine?” Lancer ventured. His voice shook, panic spoken of in the rabbit’s pace of his heart. It filled the space where Danny’s own chest throbbed so quiet and sluggish, sticky, faltering—if he focused he could pretend it was his own. “Do you want me to get your sister?”

Danny nodded through his swimming vision, still slavering even as he retreated from the basin. It wasn’t going to stop. He wanted to ask for it to be over, but the English language was starting to become blurry. A ragged noise escaped him, broken and pathetic. Clear globs of slime fell from his mouth and hit the tile with faint wet smacks. He hoped Lancer couldn’t see that.

Could he see? What color were Danny’s eyes? How long were his teeth? Did he know?

Mr. Lancer’s warm hand burned through his shirt, a hot human print stamped between his shoulder blades—but then it was gone. “Strange Weather!” he swore. “You’re shaking—I’ll be right back,” he assured, and then his rapid, panicked steps clattered out of the bathroom.

Danny leaned back from the toilet, pressing his head against the graffitied side of the stall. He reached clumsily up to swipe lines of bilious drool from his chin, but succeeded only in smearing green-tinted slime onto his nose. Sour film thickened his mouth, and pressure throbbed steadily behind his eyes. He wanted to shed his skin and fly away, but his body betrayed any such plans. Jittery and sick, it was all he could do to fold his heavy limbs into a ball and shake as the walls collapsed around him.

Time dilated. He trembled on the bathroom floor for what felt like a long time. It could have been minutes, or just as easily hours. It made no difference to him.

He closed his eyes, but then Jazz was there. Her velvet flats scuffed quietly on the tile and her gentle hands flew to smooth down his sweaty bangs. “What happened?” She asked. The warm living body pressed against him made Danny feel sick, not Hungry, and that was a mercy.

“Can’t wanna eat,” he moaned, voice splintered and small. “Hate it!”

“Oh, Danny. He’s having a panic attack, Mr. Lancer.” A delicate grip wrapped around his arm and hauled him shakily to his feet, trembling with fear or effort or both. Jazz stroked his hair, pressing her knuckles against his sweaty forehead. “Running warm, too.” She patted his cheek to get his attention, and he allowed his head to loll towards her. “When’d you last—um, take your medicine?”

Danny swooned, dribbling all over the front of his shirt. “Wez’day.”

“That’s not right. You should be fine until next week,” said Jazz, and her face was a vague peach-colored smear in his periphery, but Danny could sense her frowning.

“M’sure,” he insisted through a hitching breath. Was he crying? When had he started?

She turned to Mr. Lancer. “You were there when this happened, right? Did you notice anything at all that could have triggered it?”

“No—or,” Lancer stammered. “He raised his hand and I thought—well, I thought he was making excuses again, but…”

“S’kay,” said Danny. “I geddit.” He did that a lot, didn’t he? And he could hardly remember the last time he was actually sick. An undead microbiome was bad for regular pathogens, probably. He heaved.

“Shouldn’t we be getting the nurse?” Lancer hovered behind them, wringing his hands over his belly.

“Won’t do much good at this point. Help me clean him up a little, please.”

Mr. Lancer’s heartbeat was very, very loud—enough to make Danny whine and cringe, pawing miserably at his ears. Somewhere in the walls, pipes rattled, and the vent above the door seemed to wheeze. Jazz’s faint perfume was nauseating. Everything was loud.

“Jasmine—is this something that happens often? Why was the school never notified?”

Danny could feel the older man’s wild heartbeat pounding through the hands on his shoulders, pounding booming crashing into his very bones. Some ugly instinct made him—part of him, anyway—want to give chase to such a beautiful prey-blood pulse, but the fleeting desire crashed against his wrenching sickness in a shower of inner sparks. His legs felt like rubber, and he coughed harsh and wet into one clumsy hand to mask his growl. Mr. Lancer patted him gently on the back and Danny hissed over the sink, choking and drivelling into the drain.

“It’s…” The tap turned on, washing away the slime, and suddenly there was a wet paper towel on his brow. “Do you remember his accident last year?”

“With your parents’ portal?”

“Yeah.” Jazz moved behind him, and there was another napkin pressed to his mouth, gently dabbing at his messy, trembling lips. “It had side effects,” she said, voice small and brittle. “There’s no cure, but it’s never gotten this bad since… well. Probably since around the actual Accident.”

“Your parents can’t do anything at all?” Lancer sounded dismayed.

“No,” Danny spat into the sink. “Can’t.”

He cringed as Jazz dumped a handful of water over his face, but it helped to clear his vision somewhat, and he grunted his thanks. It took some guidance, but Danny craned his neck to lap bitter spray straight from the faucet. Lukewarm and mixed as it was with slippery ectoplasmic bile, he had to force the first revolting mouthful down by sheer force of will alone, but after that Danny found himself drinking greedily.

“Slow down,” Jazz chastised, but she made no move to stop him. “You’ll make yourself sick again.”

Reluctantly, Danny did as he was told. His hair got soaked and he nearly brained himself on the faucet in the process, but he managed to withdraw, panting hard. From there, he slumped upright against the wall and lowered his head, letting excess water roll down his nose to pool in the grout between his sneakers.

“You don’t need more, do you?” She wasn’t talking about the water. “Mr. Lancer, can we have a minute?”

Hesitation. Fear? No, only concern. Talking sounds, heard through molasses. Low urgency, reticent agreement. The bathroom door creaked and clicked shut like a thunder-crash, but the heartbeat lingered outside. Jazz said something else. She repeated her question.

He tried to—pay attention—shake his head. He really did, but the—words—the motion fell beyond his reach, meaningless twitching. Danny slavered anew. Did he need more? Did he need it? He didn’t want it, but he was desperate. His stomach was Full but it wanted more, didn’t it? It really did, didn’t it? His fingers curled of their own accord against the cheap shiny surface of the tiles—did the off-white linoleum crack under his nails? Were they too sharp right now? Jazz’s hands were on his wrists. He growled low in his chest.

She was saying his name, but she was little. She was small. Danny was—what was he? Shaking. Drooling. Rumbling. He had to be Hungry. He screwed his eyes shut, shivering, and ground his sharp teeth together. The pipes groaned in the walls. Somebody said something, but it just floated in one ear and out the other, meaningless noise.

Jazz reached out and slapped him. Hard. His head whipped to the side with the force of it, and he almost fell—would have fallen, had she not caught him.

Danny swatted at her out of reflex, but quickly faltered, sagging instead into her imploring arms. “Fuck,” he gasped. How long had he been holding his breath? She held him just a little too tight to be purely supportive, and he tried not to feel too hurt by the knowledge that she didn’t trust him. He wouldn’t, in her position. “Shit, thanks, Jazz.”

“Are you going to flip out if I let go of you?”

He shook his head and the room spun. “Lemme sit.” His stomach felt heavy and cold.

“I didn’t hit you too hard, did I?” There was guilt in her voice as she helped him slide down against the cool surface of the wall. “You were getting… uh.” Her sea-green eyes flicked towards the door, then back again. “The way you do. I didn’t know how else to snap you out of it.”

Danny shrugged. “S’kay,” he mumbled, then realized. “Crud, I’m sorry.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “I made you run out of class.”

She laughed at him, short and strained. “I’d run out of a Harvard interview for you. You know that.”

Thick ghost-drool, still fresh, came away from his chin in syrupy ropes strung between his fingers. “Ew. I’ll try to refrain from having unplanned… emergencies while you’re shooting your shot.” He took the paper towel she offered him and scrubbed at the remaining mess. There was no way he could even think about Eating right now. “Where’re we at with Lancer, again? Er—where is he, anyway?”

“I asked him to step out when you started getting riled up,” explained Jazz, very patiently. “He thinks it’s a side effect of the portal accident.”

Danny groaned. “Yeah, that works. Why’d I wait a year to puke my guts up, though?”

Jazz rolled her eyes, but her voice was gentle. “You’re more likely to get sick if you’re stressed. We can tell him that you’ve been stressed out and that must have caused the flare-up.”

That made sense, he thought. “Do I get to go home?” Ancients, he was exhausted.

“I’ll drive you.” Danny opened his mouth to protest, but she bulldozed him with practiced ease. “It’s only one period we’re missing, and I wanna make sure you rest.” Her expression hardened, if only minutely, when she added, “And you’re sure you ate on Wednesday? This Wednesday?”

“Yes,” he insisted. “When I emptied the filtrator.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You hate the filtered stuff.”

“It’s piss, Jazz, but I’d take it over the alternative.” He grimaced and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Going feral and biting Skulker in half during a fight would be kinda shitty for my PR.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” scolded Jazz. “You know it doesn’t work on me. I just mean, did you have enough?”

“The whole cell,” promised Danny, with any luck sharply enough to brook no argument—maybe a little too sharply, if her skeptical frown was any indication. “Chugged it, and my activity’s normal. I don’t need more. My—I don’t know. These impulses don’t change that I’m Full.” He turned his eyes to the floor, cowing beneath her scrutiny. “Can we just go? Please? I wanna go home. I could sleep for a week and I miss my fucking blanket nest.”

Jazz nodded, but her expression was pinched, mouth set thin and unhappy. “It’s bad for you to repress this stuff,” she warned even as she pulled him to his feet. “Do it long enough and you’ll get… confused.”

“Not now,” he growled. Danny’s legs wobbled beneath him, knees knocking together, and a flush of anxious heat crawled up his neck. He hoped Mr. Lancer would be charitable in letting them go and asking few questions.

And he was, more or less. Mr. Lancer said he’d tell the attendance people that they were excused, and he also said something to Danny about hoping he’d feel better. It was probably a nice, tender moment of concern, but Danny wasn’t feeling it.

Nausea churned in his guts, and it took an embarrassing amount of support to stagger out of the bathroom and into the hall. His belly was full and soothingly cold as though he had never been sick or starving at all. It made him feel—what? Like a doll, maybe. As though all his inside parts had been scooped out and he was just feeling afterimages. Jazz would probably have a field day if he told her about that, so he didn’t.

This wasn’t all in his head. It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been fake, imaginary, made up. His feelings were real. They were real because ghosts weren’t monsters and he wasn’t a ghost. He was human and alive.

Wasn’t he?

#danny phantom #ghost hunger #angst #fanfiction #body horror #milo writes

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unholyhelbig · 5 years

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Can you do another family vampire Au with Chloe and Beca? I love the dynamic!

A/N: The last time I wrote something for this little AU was a whole year ago. But since it’s spooky season and something about domestic Bechloe just pulls at my heart.

Fic Name: Immortal Control

Word Count: 1.6k

First installment | AO3 Link

Beca thumbed the key in her left hand like it was keeping her afloat in a rocky sea. She couldn’t’ tell where the metal ended and where her sweaty palm began anymore. It was all one, a nervous habit that made her want to scoff and throw it into the ocean, or a tall field of grass that swayed in the wind.

She was 256 years old, for fuck's sake, something as little as this shouldn’t’ have her stomach in knots. It was a simple parent-teacher conference, one that the superintendant had called her specifically to arrange yesterday morning. It was abrupt, but the man explained that he needed them both there. Chloe took a long lunch from the hospital, and Beca sat in her car with the engine shut off and the key in her hand.

Beca had fought wars, she had trudged through mud and slick ice had pushed past the fear of death and outlived hundreds. Outshined the hunger that always nagged at the back of her throat, threatening to resurface the minute someone got a papercut or slammed their hand too hard in a car door. But she had never been a mother- not until fifteen years ago when they adopted Florence.

She was well behaved, her teaches having nothing but rave reviews about her posture, and how into gothic literature she had become. Her nose was always in a book, and when it wasn’t, she was charming and smart, and Beca never thought any less of her. Certainly, never spurring an early morning summons by an English teacher that Beca had yet to meet.

Three sharp knocks to her window pulled a sharp breath into her lungs, dark eyes flashing over to the woman leaning up against the side of her truck. A mused look on that immortally entrancing face. Beca thought the turn of the century fit Chloe well- every era did, but this was one of her favorites, she had decided. Her hair pulled up in a curly bun and suit jacket removed to show a silky purple blouse. She never got tired of those crystal eyes, or the way she smiled- especially around their youngest.

“You’d think you would hear me coming a mile away,” Chloe said the second the door creaked open, Beca met with the slight chill that early October carried.

“My love, I regret to inform you that I’m catatonic when I’m thinking too hard.”

Chloe let out a grunt at that, but she understood. Never interrupting Beca when her thoughts ran wild, if not to set a cup of scalding tea in front of her, or to finally pull her to bed because even those without a beating heart needed to rest at some point.

The taller of the pair started walking towards the looming building. Beca could already smell the macaroni art and cheap juice that they poured into plastic cups. Delia would come home with an orange rim around her mouth that made her bounce off the walls, the school not concerned with the gas they put in the engine.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Chloe soothed, pondering herself “There’s nothing we can’t handle that we haven’t before.”

“Please, Florence was an absolute saint at this age. Are we even sure she’s ours?”

“Positive, dear. She just takes after me.”

Beca drew in a breath to protest but let the comment hang in the air. She pulled the door to the elementary school open and followed her wife with her head held high. She remembers a therapist in the 80’s telling her to practice confidence without defense. Something she still struggled with thirty-six years later.

The woman behind the desk was stout. She had a pretty face with kind features, wearing a bright blouse that worked for her in all the right ways. She stood the second she saw Chloe, like old friends. She never understood how her wife did it- keeping up appearances and working a full-time job at the hospital.

“Mrs. Beale,” She beamed “And you must be Mrs. Mitchell”

She took the woman’s hand and shook it with a smile. This was progress. Not that Beca hadn’t interacted with people before, hadn’t charmed her way through casinos and past the nastiest of threats, but somehow this was different. It made her nervous.

The woman had them sign in on a sheet of paper with the time next to it before sending them to the small waiting room that had out of date magazines and the sounds of flutes playing from a speaker hidden somewhere in the corridor. Everything felt out of date, the metal chairs digging into her back as Chloe grasped one of those magazines and flipped through the pages. Beca crossed her arms over her chest and stared ahead.

“What do you think it’s about?”

“Maybe she’s doing so well they wanted to commend you on your control and flawless parenting style.” She flipped the page.

“Funny. But really, what do you think she did?”

Chloe let out a thick sigh, leaning forward to place the magazine on the coffee table before turning to her wife with a tender look on those delicate features. Even just a slight glance washed a wave of comfort over her like a shiver. “Beca, whatever it is, we will deal with it. Delia has a bit of that same spark that you do, it will undoubtedly but her into hot water more than once. But that’s who she is- who you are. You’ll both be fine.”

Beca furrowed her brow and stared for a minute, scanning Chloe’s features and mulling over the words she had left out in the open like this. From the minute Delia was born, Beca knew that she would be a handful- Hell, she was one herself. But it was a different time, certainly not one filled with parent-teacher conferences.

“Chloe,” A man walked into the waiting room. They both stood hastily, a bit of doubt even creeping into her wife’s confidant gaze. “And I assume you’re Beca? I don’t’ think we’ve had the pleasure. Not in person anyway.”

He was younger than Beca was expecting, maybe two or three years out of school. He had tried shaving this morning, cutting his chin and exposing a dot of red to the world. His collar was stained with the scent. Clumsy and unruly but exactly how she assumed he would appear. His hair curly and brown and his shirt untucked.

“Please, follow me”

Chloe lifted a brow at her wife before doing as she was told. They ended up in a conference room with a long table- only occupying the far end. Mr. Ramone sat at one side of the table while Chloe and Beca took camp at the other. There was an odd silence that filled the room.

“I’m sorry for all the theatrics,” He explained, spreading his fingers against the tabletop. “But there was a matter I wanted to discuss with the both of you about Delia.”

“Is she in trouble?” Beca asked, Chloe, placing her hand on her knee. “You sounded serious on the phone.”

“Not necessarily, Mrs. Mitchell, I don’t’ want you to worry too much. She’s just displaying a habit that we would like to get ahead of before it gets worse, with your permission, of course.” His chair creaked under his shifting weight. “Delia seems to have developed a biting problem.”

There was a thick silence in the room that enveloped all three of them. Beca could hear his heart pounding, and the coffee machine that was a few rooms over. The secretary that welcomed them in was playing Solitaire on her browser- and Chloe was suddenly giggling uncontrollably.

Beca stared at her, mouth ajar, and so did Mr. Ramone. A little more reserved but eyebrows raised. They waited for her to finish, snorting as she struggled to gain control. “No, no, I’m sorry- I’m listening, I just… continue, please.”

“Okay,” He sounded out the word. “Like I was saying, she hasn’t bitten down hard enough to break skin yet. But we don’t want it to escalate to that.”

Ramone slid a paper over to the two of them. One that Beca took possession. Chloe grinning like a jester as she looked over the girl's shoulder. There were a couple of books on how to get a child to stop biting and different methods that they can try.

“we have people here specifically trained to quell this too.” He said, glancing at Chloe as she pressed her fingers against her lips to hold back a building laugh. “But we usually let the parents try their own methods first.”

Beca nodded “Thank you, Mr. Ramone. We’ll get right on this, right Chloe?”

“Yeah, yes.” She nodded innocently. “Thank you for calling this to our attention.”

Chloe had waited until they got all the way back to let another outburst escape her lips, tears in her eyes as she chuckled to herself. Beca was not able to stifle her own smile. “Chloe this isn’t funny. She clearly learned the habit from us-“

“It’s a little funny!” She sniffed “Come on, dear. We are quite literally blood-sucking demons. I’m quite shocked Florence didn’t’ pick up on the habit too.”

Beca let out a small groan before shoving the paper that Mr. Ramone had given them into her wife’s grasp. Chloe frowning down at the book suggestions that were scrawled in black ink. “I’ll meet you back at home, then? After you go get those.”

“How did I get stuck with this?”

“Simple,” Beca beamed, slinking her arms over Chloe’s shoulders with a demonic smile “For once in my eternal life I controlled myself in there, and you didn’t.”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #bechloe fanfiction #bechloe fic rec #vampire au #request

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egopocalypse · 5 years

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Return Home

This is one of, if not the longest piece I have posted on this site. As such, most of it will be under the cut.

Also, some parts of it may seem… familiar. I published the original draft of this about two months ago, but have since revised and edited it for class. And as most things have recently, it turned into Domino Effect. What else did I expect.

TW: Suicide

“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. Stacy Danvers is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more op-” Click.

Chase sighs, flinging his phone onto the bed beside him. His eyes slip shut as his thumb digs into the scarred flesh on his temple, the circular motion working to loosen the muscle and tendons underneath his skin.

“Great,” he mutters. “Just great. Can she just pick up the phone and answer me for once?”

His hand stretches out, fingers curling tight around the cold glass as he raises it, damp condensation leaving a ring on the wooden nightstand. Water rolls down the sides, dripping on his jeans as he toasts the air, staring at the bland, off-white of the ceiling. “To a happy marriage,” he huffs. “And an even happier divorce.”

The whiskey burns the back of his throat. He grimaces at the taste, tipping the glass back to swallow it all in a single gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glances at the contents of the bottle gleaming in the lamplight. Only half-empty. Not bad for a bottle he picked up yesterday.

He bounces his leg. How long has it been since he called? Maybe she’s busy, or she’s eating dinner with the kids. Those are valid reasons to ignore him, right? They have to be. He twists around and grabs his phone, the bright light burning his eyes as he checks the time. 7:36 PM. And the call was made… not even five minutes ago. Great.

He pours another drink. It’s going to be a long night waiting for her to call back- that is, if she decides to call him back. At this point, he doesn’t know whether or not he can even expect a call. She might’ve just seen his number and ignored it. He wouldn’t put it past her.

What would they even talk about? Would she finally apologize for the shit she put him through? Would she let him see the kids?

He snorts. Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen. Ever since she dropped off the signed divorce papers two months ago, he hasn’t seen Sam and Emma except for a few hours every other weekend. If the court hadn’t ordered Stacy to give him partial custody, he wouldn’t even have that. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Changing her last name so soon was proof of that.

He can’t remember filling the glass the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that, but by the time he puts the glass down for the last time, it’s 4:30 A.M. The bottle’s empty, shattered pieces scattered across the carpeted floor. He doesn’t remember throwing it, but there’s a dent in wall that wasn’t there a few hours ago. The largest shard spins in his hand, the light reflecting off the sides as he stares at the foot of his bed, elbows on knees and a bored frown on his face.

She still hasn’t responded.

It shouldn’t bother him. It’s not like she hasn’t blown him off before. But something about this is different. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but something gnaws at him- a monster lurking out of sight, ready to pounce on him and rip him open for the world to see.

A sudden thud catches him off guard, the glass slipping through his fingers as he loses his grip, hitting the floor with a tiny thump. He freezes, his heart pounding furiously as a slow, disordered realization crosses his face.

There’s someone else in the house.

Chase clambers to his feet, clammy hands clutching at the covers as he staggers forward, stumbling through the glass maze. The hall beckons to him, spinning out of proportion and the door dancing out of view, but he trudges forward, stubby nails dragging along the wall as he leans against it.

“Hello?” His voice slurs, dragging the word from his tongue. “Anyone there?”

Silence.

He groans. Of course, no one was going to answer. Anyone in their right mind would be asleep, just like he should be if he has any hope of waking up without a hangover.

“Oh, who am I kidding?” he grumbles, holding the wall for support as he turns back to his room. “Tomorrow’s already gonna suck.”

Crunch.

He pauses, his eyebrows scrunched together as he turns back towards the kitchen. “What the hell?”

There’s that feeling again- that insatiable need itching at the back of his skull. He needs to know if someone’s there. He needs to know that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him.

A hand clamps his shoulder and shoves him against the wall, cold metal pressed against his throat. His head hits the edge of a frame, a searing pain flaring behind dull blue eyes and he blinks, his blurry vision refusing to clear.

“Wh-Who are you?”

“Forgotten me already, Chase?” The figure clicks his tongue and he’s paralyzed, frozen from head to toe. “We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”

“N-no, wait-” Fuck, why can’t he think? The knife’s cold steel seeps through his skin and he shivers, goosebumps prickling on his skin. “I-I just- I thought our meeting was next week?”

“Is that so?” Oh god, he can just imagine the smirk lurking in that damn voice. “Tell me, Chase, what else have you forgotten?”

He blinks again, the haze finally clearing from his eyes, and the figure’s exposed in full glory- pearlescent white teeth bared in a sharp grin, short brown hair combed back into a quiff, and beady black eyes staring deep into his soul.

A perfect copy of his own image, except for the eyes and a bloody gash ripped across his throat.

It sickens him to look at it, but he just can’t stop. He’s mesmerized, falling in line with cheap words and empty promises. The memories are faded, dim and just out of view. Something about the kids? Maybe?

“I…” He wets his lips, running his tongue over chapped and split skin. “I don’t know.”

Anti scowls, his eyes boring into Chase’s soul. “Have you forgotten? Or are you just too afraid to remember?” He reaches up and presses a thumb over his scar, digging it into his temple as Chase winces, pain shooting through his skull. “Maybe this will help.”

Anti murmurs something he can’t understand as the memories shove back into place. He staggers, grabbing at the demon to hold himself upright. “I remember!” he gasps. “I remember.”

Anti’s smile stretches, growing into a ghastly grin. “Go on.”

He swallows. “I remember the red seeping into my skin, the sirens blaring in the distance, and screams- screams calling out my…”

Oh.

“My name.”

“Very good.” The knife pulls back from his throat and he retreats, tucking into himself as he distances himself from it.

“I- I killed them, didn’t I?” He accuses, glaring at the figure. “All of them. Stacy, Sam, Emma- they’re gone.”

“You did what had to be done, Chase,” Anti smirks, his hand tilting up Chase’s chin. “I’m just returning the favor.”

He snarls, balling his hands into fists. “Why are you here?”

“What do you think the cops will do when they find you, Brody?” The knife flips in his hand, Chase’s eyes following the path up and down. “Do you think they’ll let you off easy? You shot your own children. You slit your ex-wife’s throat. They’ll charge you with murder and lock you up for good- if they don’t put you right on Death Row.”

Anti catches the knife by the blade and holds the handle out to him. “Better to get it done yourself than wait for the cops to do it for you.”

Chase tries to swallow past the thick lump in his throat. “I can’t-”

“Of course you can,” Anti cocks his head to the side, black eyes glittering in the flickering light. “You’re already a murderer, Brody. Suicide isn’t that different when you think about it. The only difference is whose blood is spilled.”

Chase slumps over, arms curling into his chest as he shudders, icy goosebumps racing along his skin. “I didn’t want this,” he mutters, his voice strained and weak.

“But it’s yours all the same.” The voice grates against his ears, a mockery of his shame, yet he can’t help but fall into it. He’s a wilted corpse; all the fight and anger dissolving into pure exhaustion, and he almost collapses into the other’s waiting arms, burying his head into the crook of his neck. A hand rakes through his hair, sharp nails scraping against his tingling scalp, and he barely resists the urge to sigh, leaning in closer despite his agitation.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to see himself like this. He doesn’t want his family to see him like this.

But what’s the point of living if they’re dead? Killed by his own hand, no less.

He’s missed this. He’s missed the touch of another person that he’s ready to cling onto the first thing- figment, demon, hallucination, whatever it is- that gives him even the slightest bit of attention, and he hates it. He can’t stand it.

And yet, he can’t get himself to let go.

“There we go,” Anti croons, caressing his hand through Chase’s hair. He melts into the touch as Anti chuckles, the low rumble of his chest a contrast to Chase’s racing heart. “A single slice and you won’t have to worry anymore.”

“What about you?” He asks, the words muffled by the other’s shoulder.

“Me?” Anti pulls back, a wicked grin splitting his face. “I’ll be right there with you, Chaser. When you go, I will too.” He stifles a laugh. “Hah- In a way, I’ll be the only thing you take with you.”

Chase glances to the side and reaches for the knife, gripping the handle in his clammy palm. “Will it hurt?”

There’s a scoff. “It’s a slit throat, Brody, not a papercut. Of course, it’s going to hurt.”

Chase swallows, staring at the blade in his hand. It wasn’t anything special, just a kitchen knife Anti had probably pilfered from a drawer, yet he can’t suppress the chill that raises the hair on the nape of his neck. One slice and it’d be over. Forever.

Sunlight filters in through the window and he squints, peeking at the colors poking from behind the trees. It’s a thing of beauty, and he appreciates the scenery for his death.

The steel drags across his throat, tearing through flesh and veins. Crimson blood flows from the jagged cut, spilling down his neck and staining his shirt collar a dull red.

The corpse falls forward, a small puddle spreading on the floor, and from his pocket, his phone buzzes. Anti takes it as his form shudders, stripping away his guise. The blood on his neck disappears. Black eyes turn silver. The brown hair becomes dark green, just long enough to tie back. Marvin slips several rings on his fingers and paints a smile on his lips as he looks at the caller ID. A picture of a blond woman with a bright smile lights up the screen, with a name flashing across the top.

Stacy Brody.

“Hey Stacy, Chase can’t pick up the phone right now. He’s a little… preoccupied at the moment. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure he calls you right back when he gets the chance…”

@ill-spink @abouttobesilenced @kisstheashes @lostinegomayhem @sylver-striings @here-be-becquerel @assbutt-of-the-readers @dakotathewhale @acuaticamber06 @spicy-spedicey @superbanananinja234 @imallwaysconfused @cest-mellow @starlightxnightmare @help-trashbin @epicfangirl01 @clownoutofdarkness @mihaela-tbg @iris-the-asparagus @cutewarmachine @sqxxddygremlin @nextstep17 @bunchofdoodlesinspace @dreamsoffallingstars @redangel201 @abyssshifter @eridangan @jaysflight @skyewardlight @wildhorsewolf @metautske @allons-ychey @stuck-in-a-l-o-o-p @kyerrio @unadventurousjulie @lunatrixyl @oliveroxenfree3 @kairomancerr @kitnkas @gray-avidan @dorito-with-no-weakness @lildevyl @glixbitch @spontaneoustornadoes @littleluversblog @hexatrash @paperhatcollection @bookwormscififan @novelistgeek @worm-does-shit @taikeero-lecoredier @mad-men-inc @seannbean

#jacksepticeye #antisepticeye #chase brody #marvin the magnificent #jacksepticeye fanfiction #writersofjack #river's writing #Domino Effect #Don't worry.#Chase will be back.#He trusts his necromancer after all ;)#Ink =)

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larksinging · 5 years

Text

aaaand here is a gift for @rorykillmore ‘s birthday! you didn’t say what you wanted which is good because i made you something completely fucking ridiculous instead. i call it “villanelle suffers”. also uh cw for graphic deaths

(also shoutout to jay for helping me brainstorm a bunch of this)

meeks!! i know its been a weird and difficult year, and you’ve been putting into so much hard work and dealing with a lot. i dont know if anything i alone can do can pay you back for all that, but i hope at least this can brighten your day a bit! you deserve it. and to get a bit sappy, you’re one of my best friends, and my life has greatly improved for knowing you. anyway i hope next year is more settled and all that hard work pays off!!

“Ah, quite the opposite. I’m here to congratulate you.” Konstantin sits down next to her on the couch. “I didn’t even have to tell you to make that last one an accident! Good job.”

Villanelle realizes she has two options: tell Konstantin the truth, or take credit for the freak accident.

“You know me, I just want to make you happy,” She replies in a sing-song voice.

“...Officials now believe that the incident started because of a mechanical failure in the pulley system, which caused it to snap and set off a chain reaction that sent the three elevators at the Delta hotel plummeting, killing twenty-three people.”

“Whoa,” Villanelle hums between mouthfuls of popcorn. “How terrible.”

The droning of the television doesn’t quite drown out the sound of Konstantin entering her apartment. Villanelle pretends it does and ignores him. He lingers near the arm of her couch, looks between her and the TV, and then grabs the remote and shuts it off.

“Hey, I was watching that!” Villanelle throws some popcorn at him. “That’s very rude.”

“I didn’t take you for the sort to watch the news,” Konstantin brushes himself off.

“Half of it nowadays is fake. So it’s like watching a soap opera!” Villanelle waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway. You have a job for me? You didn’t come here to watch TV with me, I guess. Too bad. I ‘borrowed’ Devil from my neighbor. It looks terrible.”

“You’re really selling this,” Konstantin responds dryly as he pulls a postcard out of his pocket. “But you should really get some rest. This one’s big.”

That’s curious and exciting enough that Villanelle can’t quite think of a good quip when he leaves.

By “big”, it turns out that Konstantin did not mean that it was exciting or dangerous, but that literally it was a bigger body count than usual. Five whole people this time!

Cursory research shows that they’re all a bunch of nobodies. No, literally! Most of them are college students from the same college. The only interesting thing about them is that they’re the five survivors of the weird elevator accident that was all over the news.

It could be some weird insurance fraud kind of thing. It’s gonna be real suspicious if all the survivors happen to die. But it’s not Villanelle’s job to care about that kind of stuff.

The first on her list is Jay, engineering, who she watches from across the street at a cafe. She notes them by their major because otherwise they blend together like the boring as of a B movie.

Right on time, exiting the building, there he is. She’s got a couple ideas in mind, most involving stabbing, but... then he takes a slight detour and goes over to a nearby payphone.

“Who even uses payphones anymore?” She grumbles to herself and gets up to find a good position to hang around in wait. Might as well lurk at nearby wall and pretend to look at her phone. He seems pretty serious about whatever call he’s making.

Villanelle’s there for barely more than a minute when the edge of the phone booth starts to spark ominously. She blinks, and before she can process it, he starts convulsing like he’s being electrocuted. She, and a few other shocked passersby watch in confused and terrified silence. Some smoke rises off his shoulders.

With no warning, he launches backwards and through the glass. It shattered and he sprawls out on the sidewalk below, blood starting to seep from cuts on his face and embedded glass in his shoulders and arms. Someone in the crowd screams. About five people reach for their phones, either to call for help or take a picture. Someone else rushes to his side, feels his wrist, and then (pathetically) starts trying CPR. Too late, Jay’s clearly dead.

Well. That works too.

The footsteps this time have a definitive lack of stomping, which means that Konstantin must be in a good mood. Great! Because Villanelle didn’t want his grumpiness to interrupt her painting her nails.

“If you tell me to hurry up, I’ll throw paint at you,” She warns. “Five is a lot! I’m working on it.”

“Ah, quite the opposite. I’m here to congratulate you.” Konstantin sits down next to her on the couch. “I didn’t even have to tell you to make that last one an accident! Good job.”

Villanelle realizes she has two options: tell Konstantin the truth, or take credit for the freak accident.

“You know me, I just want to make you happy,” She replies in a sing-song voice.

“O.K. Cool. Keep up the good work.” He gives her a thumbs up.

“Please never do that motion with your hands again. You doing that is -- ugh.”

The next one on her list is Charlie, art major. The first thing Villanelle notes about her is that her outfit is terrible. It’s like what a hangover would look like as clothes. Artists!

Villanelle tracks her to a mall. The parking garage is just a bit too full right now, but maybe she’ll stalk her through the mall until she comes back. She watches the girl enter the elevator (haha, ironic) heading down to ground level. Too bad there’s a couple other people in the elevator. That’s fine, Villanelle can just take the stairs.

Just as she turns to head down the stairs she hears a faint commotion. Someone in the elevator bumps into Charlie just as the elevator springs into motion. As she stumbles towards the door, something snaps and the elevator jerks and falls. Charlie’s positioned conveniently enough so that her head is separated clean from her shoulders as the elevator plummets. The freed head bounces along the floor and rolls almost to Villanelle’s feet.

The screaming from the elevator (which sounds like it’s stopped the next floor down, not crashed, now THAT’S ironic) is the perfect soundtrack to Villanelle’s disbelief.

“Wow,” She says, “Just like that movie! Genetic!”

-------

Bizarre accidents aside, Villanelle is not about to lose her momentum. The last three survivors all end up congregating on the beach. Villanelle, with a pair of new designer sunglasses coming out of her next paycheck, listens to their hushed conversation from an inconspicuous distance away. Who talks in hushed whispers about something serious at a beach? Seriously?

“I’m telling you, what if death has a plan, and we messed it up?” One of them, who Villanelle remembers as Billy, philosophy, is drawing something in the sand. “We were supposed to die in those elevators, but we didn’t.”

“Because of your... vision, or whatever?” Tommy, film, rolls his eyes. Villanelle also rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, because we got off. And now it’s coming to hunt us down one by one. If we can just see the signs, maybe...”

Villanelle doesn’t hear the rest of what he says, because a stray gust of wind blows sand into her face. She sputters even as some paper flies behind her to where they’re sitting.

“This is-- ow.” Villanelle glances back to see the last of them, Sara, dance, toss a book down. “Papercut. Anyway, this is ridiculous. Death isn’t stalking us. Get real.”

“You tell them,” Villanelle mutters to herself. Except she gets drowned out by some seagulls squawking ominously, which is weird, how can that obnoxious noise sound ominous?

“I’m going for a swim.” Sara stands up pointedly. “You two can keep making up nonsense.”

“Sara, wait--” Billy reaches out, but she’s already heading down the beach.

In the water, it’s easy enough to bump against someone with a concealed knife. So Villanelle stretches and languidly rises to her feet. Sara’s already wading past the shallows as Villanelle follows her. Except the shape of something cresting through the water slows her, and she watches the events unfold in dizzy shock.

Just as Billy shouts Sara’s name, a shark leaps from the water and drags Sara under. The water bubbles up red and someone behind Villanelle screams. After a few seconds, Sara actually does resurface and stumbles out of the water. Villanelle winces at the bite wound on her leg. Sara manages to limp back onto the beach when a rogue blast of wind hits. Nearby beach goers, still watching Sara, hold onto their hats as a beach umbrellas is ripped from its post. The umbrella goes spinning in the wind, gaining momentum. And then comes to a dead stop by impaling Sara.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Villanelle says.

“You lied to me,” Konstantin accuses.

“Whaat.” Villanelle doesn’t bother to get up from where she’s sprawled on the couch. “I did not.”

“You did,” He counters. “Those were all accidents. You didn’t actually do your job.”

“Oh. That. Okay, maybe I did lie.” Villanelle cranes her neck to look up at them. “But they’re dead either way, so does it really matter?”

Konstantin raises a finger to scold her, then hesitates and lowers it. He sighs. “Okay. Well. The Twelve aren’t angry, but they’re not going to pay you if you’re not actually the one doing it.”

“What! It’s not my fault the freak accidents are beating me to the punch!”

“Then get more clever about the last two. I know you can.” He turns and waves as Villanelle crosses her arms and pouts.

“Stupid... death, or whatever.”

This time, okay, this time she’s not gonna get one-upped by random acts of violence. Villanelle tracks Tommy to the library where he’s studying late into the night. Much better. There’s lots of quiet little opportunities for murder and ways for her to manipulate the situation.

For example: she’s put a wet floor sign in front of the bathroom on the ground floor so that he’ll be forced to go to one that’s more remote. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Perfect.

The corner of the library outside the third floor bathroom is perfectly quiet and dark. Lots of narrow corners to catch him where nobody else will see. Some of the books might get some blood on them, but… That’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make.

There’s a noise from inside the bathroom and Villanelle is just about ready to explode. But no, it’s fine, he emerges a moment later grumbling with wet shoes and a sizable trickle of water coming from the bathroom. Something must’ve broken, but it wasn’t his head!

Before anything else can happen, she turns around a corner to block him between some shelves.

“Can I help you?” He asks, glancing between her and the direction of the bathroom.

“You could... no, you know, I’m not really in the mood for clever lines.” She just shrugs and pulls out a knife. It spooks him enough that he turns and darts back. “Hey!”

He slips on a nearby puddle and bumps into one of the shelves, which sways and then collapses in his direction. It takes a moment of coughing for Villanelle to see through the dust that it kicked up. The shelf has him pinned face-down on the floor, but from the way he’s struggling he’s still alive.

“See? That is what you get for running.” Villanelle sighs dramatically and walks around the toppled shelf. “This would be easy, they said. And now I’m going to have to lift this off of you. That’s not easy at all.”

She shakes her head to see that he’s just twitching occasionally. Uh-oh. She goes to work lifting the shelf off of him, which is a little easier with all the books having fallen out. She moves it just enough to get to a point where she can lift him up, and….

He’s dead. His face is dripping wet. Villanelle looks down at the puddle on the ground.

“You drowned in a puddle.” She shakes his corpse. “You drowned in a puddle! How could you.”

This time, Villanelle’s just taking a walk through a park at like 1am because someone is playing a cosmic joke on her and she hates her life and goddamnit shes gonna find somewhere that serves ice cream and/or alcohol at 1am. One of those is easier than the other.

What she gets instead is Billy, wandering through the same wooded park that she is. Due to an extremely convoluted series of events that might be called a narrative climax, she’s sure. Villanelle just kind of stops and stares at him.

“It’s you,” He gasps, “The specter of death. You’re death itself.”

“No,” Villanelle answers. “Well, yes. I mean, I am here to kill you. But there’s nothing weird and supernatural about it. Get a grip!”

Billy stares at her for another second, and then fucking books it. Villanelle just sighs because of course, and follows him. She’s going to get this paycheck, damnit.

Her heart leaps into her throat when their chase rounds a corner and he stumbles into a wood chipper. She watches in horror as he goes tumbling in head first, and she holds up an arm to protect herself from a spray of blood...

...Only an annoyingly sinister leaf lands on her arm. Oh. The wood chipper wasn’t on. She goes over and wrenches Billy free of it, but he manages to squirm out of her grasp.

“Come back here!” She calls. Her voice is drowned out by a loud creaking.

Her last target turns to look at her while running and, before both their eyes, one of the trees inexplicably leans and then comes crashing down. Villanelle’s mouth hangs open as she watches it fall directly onto Billy and the comically horrific crunch that follows.

A moment of shocked silence hangs in the air as the leaves all settle.

“I give up,” Villanelle announces. “Okay, Death. You win! Give a girl a break, geeze.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Villanelle confesses when Konstantin comes in.

His pace slows to a stop. Something churns behind his expression. Concern, maybe? The realization that she might need to be taken care of?

“I can’t be upstaged by freak accidents anymore!” Villanelle wipes a tear away. “Do you know what this is doing for my reputation? For my self-esteem?”

Konstantin’s choked laugh just makes her glare dramatically. “Don’t worry. Your next job is in Florence. Political. You love that kind.”

Villanelle perks up. “Oh, good! You always know how to cheer me up.”

Kostantin smiles. “Okay, but tell me one thing. Did a tree really fall on him, or did you just make that up?”

“Of course it did! Would I ever lie? Okay, fair. Would I ever lie that badly if it’s warn’t true?”

“Mm. Fair enough.”

#rorykillmore #My writing #I DONT KNOW HOW ELSE TO TAG THIS #anyway this idea struck me out of nowhere #i hope you enjoy

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