#and the scene with the bodies hanging from the rafters or whatever that was and garrett living in a clock tower | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dalishious · 11 months

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Still got my Trevelyan rotating in my brain so here is an excerpt of his cameo in my fic, Journey's End...

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The main hall looked far grander in size than Briala remembered, with it mostly empty. It was also decorated differently, now with large red curtains hanging from the rafters, black and white banners all along the walls with the Inquisition insignia, and most noticeably, a large dragon skull at the end of the hall, right above the throne. Corypheus’ dragon, Briala guessed.

Beneath the skull was the Inquisitor himself, dressed in red and gold robes that matched the drapery. The throne was a giant wooden seat covered in furs, large enough that he looked quite comfortable with his back resting against one arm rest and legs dangling over the other. Rather than show any sign of interest in what the two human men standing before him were saying, the Inquisitor was glowering at the ball of flame he held in his hand. Briala was rarely intimidated by human nobility at this point in her life, but there was something about this scene that caught her breath, if only for a second. Here they stood before one of the most powerful men in Thedas… …And he was settling an argument between farmers.

After one of the men finished shakily accusing the other of using blood magic to grow his crops, and prompted the Inquisitor’s response, the Inquisitor looked to the Ambassador instead. “Josephine, why exactly is this our problem, and not whoever owns the land?” Josephine smiled, something Briala was quick to pick up as a cover for thinning patience by the slight twitch at her corner. “If you recall, my Lord, the Council of Heralds declared the Ylenn Basin the holdings of the Inquisition.” “Oh?” The Inquisitor suddenly extinguished the fire around his fist, brushed back his shoulder length light brown hair and swung his body so that he was now leaning forward to face the two farmers. “Well in that case, your petition is dismissed, ser.” “What?�� The farmer on the left balked. “Inquisitor Trevelyan, perhaps you did not hear me correctly. This man is a blood mage!” He furiously pointed at the man next to him. The Inquisitor looked to the accused mage. “You using anyone’s blood but your own?” “No, my lord! Never, my lord! Only my own, and only to keep my walnut trees thriving!” The other farmer quit his pointing and began stomping his foot instead. “I understand you are a mage yourself Inquisitor, but surely you cannot defend this confessed maleficar!” “May I remind you, ah, whatever you said your name was, that Divine Victoria declared all mages free to run their own lives when she disbanded the Circle of Magi. If this maleficar wishes to use his Maker given gifts to grow fucking walnuts, then as the lord of Ylenn, I give him full authority to do so.” “But how can I compete with that?” “Hmm. Right then. I also give him full authority to use his Maker given gifts to grow anyone else’s fucking walnuts, who’s willing to give their blood.” The upset farmer paled at that suggestion, and the Inquisitor then looked again to Lady Montilyet. “Can we get this man a permit, or something? A blood magic permit?” “I… suppose so, Inquisitor.” Josephine scribbled something on the board she gripped tightly to her chest, and with nothing else to say, the two farmers bowed and left, one with a smug look and the other with fear in his eyes.

Briala took their departure as her time to step forward. The Inquisitor began getting out of his throne, then sat back down again with a sigh when he saw her and Ethena take the place of the farmers. “Briala. Who’s your friend?” “This is Ethena of Clan Aradin,” Briala motioned to said woman beside her, who waved at the sound of her name. “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Briala said as she bowed slightly, but he held up his hand. “Can we not? I don’t know how many damn times I’ve heard that today. Please, just call me Alec. Fuck, call me whatever you want as long as it’s not ‘Inquisitor Trevelyan,’ or ‘Herald,’ or ‘Tevinter’s bitch.’” Briala raised her eyebrow at that last one, but made no comment. Before she could speak, Ethena tugged on Briala’s sleeve. “That’s the Inquisitor? Why is he so pale?” Briala could feel her face begin to flush. She found it hard to believe that in sight of all the display of riches and power, the Inquisitor’s ghostly complexion is what Ethena was curious about. The Inquisitor looked to his Ambassador. “Josephine?” “I believe Lady Aradin means to express her concern for your heath, My Lord,” Josephine very loosely translated. This seemed to amuse the Inquisitor, for he smirked, and apparently suspected exactly what Ethena was really questioning. “Shit-level weak blood. Well, that and having spent most of my life locked away certainly doesn’t help matters. But I doubt you came all the way here just to check up on my wellbeing.” “Alec,” Briala nodded and began instead with the correction, “I hope you can forgive my arrival’s lack of notice, but I bring an urgent request to the Inquisition.” “And here I expected more magic walnut debates.” Ah, this. This, Briala remembered. It was so much harder to bend nobility who didn’t take their positions seriously. But she steeled herself and continued on, ignoring his interruption.

#alec trevelyan

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siderealscribblings · 1 year

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Devil Summoner: Akechi Goro vs the Phantom Thieves Chapter 8 Scenes from a Memory Sweet air wafted over Sumire's face as she re-materialized in Tokyo. A knot of anxiety that had grown since arriving in the Metaverse seemed to ease almost instantly as once again she was back in a dimension she was familiar with. From the floor, she could see Akechi panting as he leaned against the wall, still winded from their escape as he fumbled with Loki’s kuda.

“Devil Summoner Akechi…sorry, Junior Devil Summoner Akechi…oh fuck it ,” Goro spat into the intercom as he passed the kuda through a slat in the wall. “I just outran seven Fiends and stole from the Thieves of Hell; if that doesn’t earn me full Devil Summoner qualifications, I’m quitting.”

The door to the chamber opened slowly, with several armed S.E.E.S. operatives flanking Narukami as he entered. “That would have been more persuasive if you didn’t threaten to quit every other week,” Narukami said, nodding at Sumire as she stumbled to her feet. “Not quite what you expected from your first assignment, I’m sure.”

Sumire’s grip tightened on the envelope under her shirt. “You could say that.”

The thought of Kasumi treating with demons, selling secrets to the Phantom Thieves was troubling; not the least because it raised questions about who was responsible for her death. For months, Sumire was convinced a demon put Kasumi down because her sister was becoming a nuisance; now it was just as likely that her double-agent operation was discovered and snuffed out by someone on the human side of things. It could have been anyone; Narukami might have disposed of her because she was ratting out an agent. Shirogane might have also decided to take matters into her own hands on behalf of her pupil…or maybe Akechi and strangled her himself and left her hanging in the rafters for Sumire to find.

The image of the High Pixie fighting against his grip as he crushed the life out of her wouldn’t leave her…but then why did he go through the trouble of trying to save her?

“No such thing as a normal day at the office,” Goro groused, raising his arms as a S.E.E.S. agent approached and ran a wand over his body. Sumire did the same, tucking the envelope into the waistband of her skirt and praying whatever they were scanning for didn’t include stolen photographs. Her heart stopped until the wand stopped, only restarting with the agent waved her forward and through the tunnel where Morgana was waiting for her.

“All in all a successful mission,” Morgana said cheerfully, falling behind Narukami and Akechi as they spoke in hushed tones. “Not everyone gets assigned to manage eight fiends in a single day…your sister would be proud of you.”

Would she? Sumire thought. At best she was betraying Akechi for a decent cause…at worst, she was part of The Phantom Thieves' cult.

Start from the beginning.

#my writing #akeshu fanfic #p5 fanfic #polythieves #dream theater titles let's goooooooooooooooooooooooooooo #back at it again with the prog metal horseshit bay-bay

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hail-gail · 1 year

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Sooooooooooo

I really wanna show someone this but there's no one I feel comfortable showing this to IRL. Instead, I'm going to throw it up on here and hope someone sees it so I finally get to talk about it. It is a scene with that one couple I described in another post, but they haven't gotten together quite yet.

***

The late hours of the night when none are awake are always the loneliest. These hours are the hours I take for myself, doing what I could not during the day's worry. Perhaps I should sleep with the rest of the world, but I never seem to be able to no matter what I do. Sleep never comes, and I stopped searching long ago.

Tonight feels darker than most, the silence heavy, weighed down by some unseen thing. I don't like it. The air is near frigid, frozen in place, and somehow hollow.

The hearth pops and crackles, the sparks quickly dying outside the fire's nurture.

I stare into the low flames, watching them struggle and fade to glowing red embers. The wood is not wet, it's been drying since the early summer months. There can't have been any flame retardant put on it since it burned just fine at the start not half an hour past. Yet the logs lay not half consumed, the tops charred and barely casting any light. Something is wrong. I close my book and lay it carefully aside.

I crouch by the firewood and hold my hand close; it's cold. The charred cracks scrape at my palm as I rest it over the cool wood, bits of it crumbling off at my touch. Strange.

Cold tendrils of ice-like air rake through my hair and caress the side of my face.

I stand slowly, too tired to move with anything resembling the urgency the situation seems to demand. "You've come to kill me."

The man in the darkness moves closer, his pale face almost luminous in the moonlight flooding in from the now open window.

"You can try, if you must," I amble around him and take up my water. "But it is a waste of time."

"I am stronger now," the voice is deep, almost a rasp. "You won't overcome me this time."

"Yes," a morose little smile comes to me. "You are stronger now. I feel it. I have no intention to fight."

"You fear me?" His gaze bores into my back, the murmured question scarcely audible even to my heightened senses.

"No." I set the empty glass down, my thirst sated. In two long steps, I reach the man and grab his wrist, pulling his blade to my throat. "Go ahead, try."

Startled eyes stare at me and within seconds the shock succumbs to desperate wrath. But there is something else, a conflict of sorts.

"You waste time." I shove his hand away and whatever it was I saw in him snaps.

He lunges.

The corner of my lip twists up and I would laugh.

(‘◉⌓◉’)

I find myself staring at the rafters, the metallic tang of my blood flooding my mouth as I struggle without avail to breathe. I clamp a hand around my gaping throat and prop myself on my elbow. The room is empty.

Dawn creeps down the wall, lighting the study in gold.

I must have blanked out for a while. Some of the blood on my skin is dried. My mouth is painfully parched, every fiber in me aching. Regardless, I sit and wait as my throat mends itself from the inside out, agony tearing through the area with every tissue that replicates. I squeeze my eyes shut as the world spins, my lungs desperate for air and my heart beat so fast it's liable to burst out of my chest.

Just a little bit longer and I'll be able to breathe again, I just need to hang on.

My lungs spasm and pull in an involuntary breath of bloody air that sears my throat with white-hot agony and the itch to expel the blood from my lungs.

Darkness closes around me as I fight to keep from coughing; just a little longer.

The pain eases.

I carefully inhale through my nose, the cool air like swallowing coals of fire but still going through to my lungs. I can't help but take another breath and after that yet another, my entire body screaming for oxygen. Each breath I take is shallow and fast, hardly enough to satisfy my needs.

I loosen my grip from around my neck, the air stinging the open gash. Not much longer now, and I should try to get some water. My eyes crack open, wandering from the dark puddle around me, my desk, and to the door still bolted shut as I had it last night.

I swallow in an attempt to push down nausea; Water. I need to get water. The blood is mine. I have to replace it. Can I even stand in this state?

I have before. I've fought like this. Years ago. That was years ago. So, so long ago. I was another man back then. He died. That part of me died, and they buried that man with my father and sisters.

I could have joined them. He wasn't strong enough. Stronger, yes, by far, but not strong enough. Pity. My eyes sink closed again, something trailing down my back; I should get up now, it isn't good to stay in a pool of blood. I don't feel like moving, let alone getting up. My limbs are heavy, my very soul tired. Can't I just rest for a while? Is that too much to ask, or have I done too much wrong to deserve anything good? I let him try, I didn't fight. I didn't lift a finger and yet I see the dawn of another day.

Better men have fought for life, strove with all their might and where are they? Dead. They are dead and buried six feet down with no one to mourn them.

Why should I be different? Why should I live and they die? They say one either dies a hero or lives to be the villain, is that what this is? Did I die a hero only to come back and live the life of a monster? No, I was a monster even then; in the dark, when no one saw I was in secret what I openly am now.

A rasp of a sigh slips out as my fingers trace carefully over my throat; the wound hasn't fully closed. I haul myself to my feet, stumble to catch myself on the corner of my desk, and wait for the spinning to stop. This is going to be a long day. For now, I am going to focus on replenishing the blood I lost.

⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

I stop barely inside the kitchen only just hearing the voices as they stop. There are people here now. I forgot.

"Damian?"

I look away, ambling with unsteady legs to the cupboard to find a glass. I can't meet her gaze, I refuse.

Silence hangs heavy, my back itching from the blood sticking my shirt to my skin and multiple pairs of watching eyes. I down three cups before finally turning to see through bleary eyes who I'd interrupted by my appearance.

"Sir, do you want me to take care of," who I think is Mrs. Cowell sort of grimaces and gestures at the blood. "Wherever the rest of that is?"

I shake my head, careful not to reopen the wound but desperate to keep her away from the mess. She could get sick, very sick, from being exposed to my blood. Anyone can, and I'm not sure if the sickness won't spread. I look to Ella for some help explaining, but she stares back at me blankly.

"Are you sure, I am more than familiar with those sorts of messes, it doesn't bother me?"

I shake my head again.

She raises an eyebrow.

(ಠ_ಠ)>⌐■-■

I could smell the blood before Damian ever stepped into the room; I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly was not the scabbed slit across his neck nor the blood covering his clothes. I glance between him and the older Mrs. Cowell, Damian still not uttering a word.

He shoots me another weary look, darkness pooling under his eyes and the hand holding his water slightly trembling.

"I don't know that is a good idea," I turn my gaze to the elder lady. "I don't doubt that you have plenty of experience with those situations working for him, but this time is different."

She gives me an annoyed glare but otherwise says nothing.

I glance from her to Leese; she looks like she may just be sick with worry. Sipping my coffee, I lean back in my chair, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders. "So, I imagine your voice is shot."

Damian's eyes are distant, not quite focused on anything or anyone in particular.

"Damian."

He jolts, body gone ridged.

"You should have a seat, let Leese help you." I watch said woman as she stands up, ready.

He eyes her almost suspiciously, his brows drawn together and mouth tilted down.

"I'll clean it, nothing more."

He somewhat reluctantly relents and gracelessly moves to perch on one of the bar stools around the island.

I slide off my own stool and sidle up next to the old Mrs. Cowell. "Can you get him a change of clothes and see if you can find Mr. Bakson?"

She huffs, eyes not leaving the King. "But of course. Do you think he'll soak if I were to draw a bath?"

"He might. Do what you deem sensible."

She smiles a little at that, "and what of the mess?"

"He probably left a trail. He needn't know how it disappeared, just be cautious and leave the pool to him."

She nods, a satisfied glint in her eyes.

Time 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜 skip

Water drips from Damian's hair to his eyes, his lips pressed into a grimace and jaw clenched tight.

Leese gently spreads a salv over the reopened wound, the tips of her fingers emanating a soft glow. Her face twists in a barely concealed wince.

Damian notices and catches her by the wrist, pulling her hand away.

She only stares at him calmly, not demanding or pleading for anything.

He scowls but lets her continue to heal him.

She does, and as the wound begins to close on him, an identical one begins to appear on her.

"You should wear gloves." His voice is gravelly, hoarse. "You can get blood sick."

She smiles a little, the wound fading just as quickly as it appears. "Then I couldn't heal you."

"Is that so bad?"

She frowns and gives him a disapproving eye. "Yes. It is."

"I won't die."

"But you're in pain."

He shrugs at that, "I am always in pain."

"I would take that pain away too if I could."

"I would rather you not get sick because of me. Please." He takes her hand, holding it this time with both of his. "Leese, I would rather be in torment with you alive than to never feel pain again and live without you." His eyes are shamelessly pleading, earnest.

"How many times, Damian, has your blood stained my hands?" She pulls away, setting down the salv. "Too many to count. You worry too much."

#writing #random writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #dark writing #original story #original writing #my wrtitng

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unofficialadamtaurus · 2 years

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Matters of Survival

1000 words re: Torchwick and Adam’s first meeting.

Cinder sauntered away from the meeting table. Given her glass heels, she must’ve practiced her stride until it looked effortless. Paradoxically, that just made her dedication all the more obvious to anyone bothering to look.

Adam didn’t want to look. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, want anything to do with her or whatever hang ups had gotten her to practice walking in shoes made out of glass. If the world were kind enough to bend to his will, the next and last interaction he and Cinder would have would be her body collapsing at his feet.

The door closed behind her and his vengeance was left to simmer for another day.

Across the table, Roman produced and lit a cigar in the same motion, the click of his lighter snapping shut all too loud in the cramped back office as he shut and stowed it. He hid a wince; with how high strung the other man in the room was, that alone could be enough to set him off. Gods knew Cinder would’ve been a pile of smoldering ash if looks could kill; Roman didn’t have to see Taurus’s eyes to feel the heat of his glare.

It wasn’t like this cramped room in the back of a warehouse that hadn’t been maintained since the war was Roman’s ideal spot for a first meeting, either. He’d counted three dead rats on the way in and there were any number of bats nesting in the rafters of the main space. The whole place smelled like rot and mildew. He’d really thought he was past little vacation destinations like this.

At least his cigar smoke took the edge off everything else. He savored it while sparing a glance at his unwilling ally.

What had possessed Cinder to recruit Adam Taurus of all people was beyond him. The White Fang in Vale were unpredictable at best and dangerous at worst ever since Taurus took charge. New to the scene he may have been, but he had a vendetta and the means to see it through.

Roman had pissed off a fair few people in his life. It came with the job and, frankly, he was just too damn good at it to let his talents go to waste. By that same token he was well versed in reading anger to make sure he didn’t cross a line he couldn’t walk back. Cinder either hadn’t refined that aspect of the art or she didn’t care to; Taurus wanted her dead, consequences be damned. It was only the threat against his people keeping him in line, and with how he carried himself, that yoke was almost a visible chain around his neck. One wrong move and even that wouldn’t be enough.

Now that Roman was getting a good look at him in the light of the bare bulb suspended over the table, though, there was one thing he couldn’t ignore: Taurus really wasn’t that old. Roman had thought he was at least in his late twenties, early thirties. Young enough to light fires and old enough to keep them burning. But no, if he was over twenty-five then Roman would eat his hat.

Roman had never been good at keeping his mouth shut during a tense moment and that observation of Taurus’s age was the final nail in the silence’s coffin.

He blew out smoke and spoke into the lingering wisps. “You’re an open book, kid. Ever heard of a poker face?”

He blamed his passing concern on the Taurus brat looking young. For all his anger and posturing he had the air of someone helplessly out of his depth.

“She killed my men to get me here,” Taurus said. “There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow but opted to take another drag of his cigar before anything else. He had to tread carefully, both for his own sake and because Cinder had just made it quite clear that she didn’t want her pawns to target each other. He still had a burn mark on his shirt from when she’d taken exception to his needling the last time.

“You think glaring is going to get under her skin? She probably enjoys it. All you’re doing is ensuring she keeps her eyes on you.”

“She should.”

Hoo, that unbridled young adult angst almost had him forgetting to savor his next pull. Letting it out slow, Torchwick took the cigar from his mouth and gestured with it to the door. “Let me put it this way. She has things she wants you to do and you have things that you want to do that don’t necessarily impact her. She might not like those things, but if she doesn’t care enough to look out for them, then it’s no harm no foul. Everyone wins.”

He wasn’t about to admit outright that some of the Dust he’d been stealing wasn’t going to the train out in the ruins, but Taurus was probably bright enough to pick up on the insinuation. Cinder could have her grand plans, and she could even convince Roman into helping her since any idiot could see that there was more to her and her allies than just petty violence, but she couldn’t stop him from doing what he did best: looking after himself and his people.

Although these days his people had dwindled down to a single person.

Taurus regarded him in the way a wolf did a dog: full of disdain but not without the awareness that the bridge between them was shorter than it seemed. “I have no plans to bow to her in the hope that it lets me move more freely. The Faunus have degraded themselves enough already.”

Ah, it was a pride thing. Thorny, those kinds of issues. “I think you’ve already opened that door. You’re here, after all.”

Taurus could pull off a truly impressive scowl. “Easy words for a human who stands for nothing.”

“Oh, ouch.” He regarded his cigar. Still plenty left. “I know exactly why I’m here, and it isn’t about pride. It’s about survival. You’ve seen what she can do; I’m not about to stick my neck out into a hurricane on the idea that that’ll save it.”

Taurus’s scowl shifted to a sneer. “Coward.”

Both of Roman’s eyebrows shot up, but he let the seething Faunus go before he lost the fight against the urge to get the last word and Taurus saw fit to use that sword of his.

“Well, I tried,” he said into the now empty room.

The next person who wanted some charity from him would have to pay for it.

#adam taurus #roman torchwick #cinder fall #uat writing #someone decided to put a whole bunch of Torchwick on my dash so here we are

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enochianribs · 3 years

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until it no longer hurts. (cabin/wing fic). read it here, or under the cut.

(accompanying playlist / aesthetic board (thanks @disableddean)

CHAPTER 3. (formatting is lost via tumblr text post fyi)

ch.1 / ch.2

As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after— not for the first time.

In fact, there were several times before this. There was before the fire, before the loss of his mother, before John started hunting, before Jess died, before Sammy went to rehab, before Dean picked up that knife.

Before before before.

The question has hung in front of him for quite some time now.

What happens after?

What happens to him, when all is said and done?

The bed is warm and soft and he sinks into it. A hand presses against his chest, pins him down and muscle memory tells him to go for the knife, fingers flexing outward and then curling in, his nails catching on the sheet.

This is safe.

Here in this moment, no one can touch him. The tiny flowers on the sheets molt before his eyes, little petals rising out of the fabric and blooming. They're feather light against his bare skin, and the weight of his body is crushing them. He makes a noise of upset, and a hand comes down to press a finger to his mouth, hushing him gently.

<It's okay.>

Slowly, he wakes. The warmth from the finger still lingers against his lips, but the bed is hard where his face presses against it, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes open just a crack. The wood of the table greets him, and the sunlight is just now poking through the blinds once again, casting the same lines across the pine knots, along the curves of his outstretched forearm and across where his head faces towards the sun.

"It's okay." He murmurs, and for an incredibly brief moment he is perplexed by why the words slip from between his lips, until one of his knuckles grazes bare skin.

His evening comes back.

Before.

Before Wings.

Slowly, Dean sits upright, suddenly entirely aware of the being lying on his table, and his heart beats in his mouth and his fingers catch on something, pulling him even further from the comfort and haze of his dream. He ducks his head in, looking down at where his hand is stuck. His fingers are still woven between Wings', his own a shade lighter.

Dean sits very still.

He’s afraid to make a sound and wake him up, so he stays there for a moment, assessing the situation he’s willingly walked himself into.

The stranger’s chest rises and lowers every few seconds, almost imperceptibly so. The gauze is brown from oxidized blood, but it doesn't appear to have been soaked through in the night, proving Dean's improvised medic work satisfactory. The stitches held.

Huh, Dean thinks. He should be thankful for the live or die experiences thrust upon him by his father's recklessness.

Half the time, Dean's afraid he took pages out of John's book.

And that would be okay. Well, it wouldn’t— but he— he could cope with that. He could work through it. He’s beginning to understand that even as the world ended, it would still spin, and day would come and the night would consume and he’d be okay.

It’s unspeakably comforting, the feeling of fingers tucked between his own, the way Dean’s calloused palm presses against another, like a bond is forming quietly between a man waking from his dream and another still ensnared.

“It’s okay.” Dean says one more time, the words an impulse.

Wings stirs, his upper lip twitching a hairsbreadth, and Dean braces for the cry of pain that always comes with waking, even if it’s not aloud. Anticipating the event horizon of his world ending with Wings consciousness, Dean grabs a glass of water, and the bottle of alcohol, and a rag before coming to stand next to his head, his thighs pressed against the edge of the table.

He stares down at him, and his head feels clearer than it did last night. The stranger’s hair is unruly, unkempt, and Dean can’t tell how long it’s been like that— how long this winged man has been living in the forest. The locks are nearly as dark as his wings, but the sunlight exposes their truthful deep brown color. It’s tangled here and there, and Dean has to try and restrain himself from carding his fingers through it to work out the knots. A residual caretaking instinct he has had yet no luck fighting.

When they were kids, Sammy always refused to brush his hair, and it was never really a problem when it was just him and Sam. But school begged a shred of presentability from the two, lest child services were called, so he kept up Sam’s appearance for him. Dean kept them fed, schooled, he took care of them both, though Sam always came first.

Should have always come first.

Now Dean’s here with someone else’s blood under his fingernails, and there’s a hunter on the loose who probably has it out for them both. And he’s not even a real hunter. He's just some guy with a gun and a penchant for killing things.

Dean’s officially in over his head.

Dark smudges look like they’ve been pressed underneath his eyes with two uncaring thumbs, and a distinct line of his cheekbones drags in a swoop across either side of his face. His lips are full but chapped and Dean wonders why he cares, but the urge to dab a spot of lotion against them nearly overpowers him.

He’s trying hard to ignore the wings.

There’s finding a human man and then there is finding a man with wings, real wings, with muscle and tendons and quivering feathers, and yep there it is, that edge of panic.

The word hangs over his head but Dean refuses to use it. His mother’s bedtime stories aren’t real.

Demons are. He knows that now, though they are few and far between. But the a-- no.

Dean shakes his head.

There's never been any proof.

He rocks his weight from foot to foot, debating his best course of action. Minutes pass, but the man doesn’t stir again, so finally Dean sucks it up and takes his hand and pats it against his cheek, gently. His skin feels rough against the surprising softness, even the barest hint of stubble is nearly feather soft.

He comes to sit on the edge of the table.

“Hey.” He murmurs, uselessly. “Wake up?”

Please wake up.

Wings’ head moves, only slightly, pressing against his hand. Dean freezes like a deer in headlights, caught touching when he should have only been looking. Heat crawls up his cheeks and his stomach flips.

“Fucking hell, Dean.” He mutters, pulling his hand away and he cocks his head, unsure if he really heard a quiet, sad noise leave the man still lying seemingly unconscious on his table.

A warm, steady hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. Dean swallows his own quiet noise. It takes everything to look up again, scared of what he’s going to see.

When they lock eyes that fear melts.

Wings flexing underneath his back, extending as far as they can go until the longest feathers graze the floor and the farthest tip brushes the wall near the dining table, the stranger looks up at him with clear eyes. His lips move rapidly, as he soundlessly repeats something over and over. One side of his face clenches up in pain as he tries to sit up.

Dust particles drift from the rafters like nothing is amiss, little bokehs proving that what Dean sees is real. He still doesn’t believe it.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he keeps his voice low, holding his breath and extending his hands, palms out, as a friendly act. “I’m not— I’m not gonna hurt you, just, you gotta let me get—”

Before Dean’s fingers even lift the bandaging to inspect the damage, there’s a forearm against his throat, and he’s pinned against the table by strong arms and they form an iron cage to hold him there. Two strong legs straddle him. Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat.

“Wings—”

The stranger barks something out, the syllables harsh and completely foreign, staring down at Dean with a combustion-prone concoction of fear, confusion and leftover adrenaline mixing behind the blue.

“Please I—”

The arm presses against his windpipe even harder, and Dean meets the icy stare. Wings tilts his head, and his eyes narrow, his lips hanging open slightly, like he wants to say something.

“I’m trying to help you.”

The pressure lessens a fraction, and Dean takes the opportunity to whip his arm up, hand sliding between him and Wings’ own, and he pushes him away and back a short inch, but it’s enough to throw the smaller man. Finally free, his throat drags in a breath but he doesn’t plan on giving wings another opening, so he brings his knee up from under the other man, using it as a brace to prevent him from overpowering him again.

He says the first thing that flies through his pea-brain. “Who are you?” Lord help him, he may just be the stupidest man alive. “What do I call you?” Asking him to introduce himself seems like the dumbest possible direction for the scene playing out.

With the quilt long gone, the stranger is fully indecent again, and Dean’s trying very hard to ignore it, because it’s the icing on the unreal cake. Fire creeps up his cheeks regardless and Dean squirms.

A black arm brings itself up and around Wing’s body curling as though it was a protective stance. It reminds him of a knight with a shield. Everything else about his posture screams prey animal, and Dean can tell when the ghost of a fight is reverberating through someone’s muscle memory.

What the fuck did Campbell do to him?

To top it all off, Dean realizes he did a terrible job of cleaning the blood away from his mouth. The blue takes over his eyes as his pupil’s become pinpricks of something primal and it doubles with the dried blood smeared down the hollow of his throat.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is low and shaking and he feels just like he did when he spent all those years helpless, just a child yanked around. “Stay with me. C’mon.”

The wing lowers, and as it does so it catches the light, and the entire wing is made up of feathers that look just like the ones sitting on his mantle, an oil slick in sunshine. Without thinking, Dean brings his hand to his thigh and squeezes it, thumb digging into the meat of it. The touch is meant to be grounding, though he’s not sure who for.

“You know me.” He hums, in a futile effort to comfort him.

A flip must switch in the stranger’s mind, because he nods suddenly, pulling his weight off of Dean and settling down on his own legs, his wings larger than life, spread out in the room.

“Dean.” He says, and it sounds reverent, his voice rough, the syllable catching in his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, but fresh scarlet blooms across the bandage. “Dean.”

Dean stays as still as a statue and he can’t recall ever saying his name, though that’s usually how it goes for most anything. Words pour out of his mouth ceaselessly, and he’s always embarrassing himself, dumping his scattered thoughts on poor unsuspecting souls: hey, did you know that Led Zeppelin were tolkien fans? Simply because he’d seen someone had walked past wearing a Tree of Gondor shirt.

But Dean doesn’t remember saying his own name. His fathers harsh words rattle around inside his mind: kill first, figure out what it is later.

This thought has to wait, though, because the bullet wound seems to have caught up to him, and Wings slumps forward, his entire body going limp in Dean’s arms, his wings thumping down against the table. Dean drags his hands up his back, until his fingers are buried in the downy feathers that molt into his shoulder blades. Dean can’t be certain, but he feels warmer than last night, like he’d been sleeping next to a fire.

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Dean has no idea how to treat an infection, not really. He can try and prevent one from happening, sure— he’s done that what feels like hundreds of times. But if the infection takes hold it’s out of his hands and he’s going to be left with a dead winged man on his table, or a possibly alive winged man forced into the spotlight.

Dean presses his fist to his mouth, and his body feels like a bow-string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. There’s no one who can help, and there’s no one he trusts.

Dean sits there for nearly thirty minutes, ignoring where his friend’s blood has stained his shirt. The cabin smells like iron, and like feathers, which he hadn’t realized was a distinct scent until it filled up the room. His phone sits in his hands.

The texture of the rug on the floor blurs with the sound of the ragged breathing next to him.

His phone rings.

His fingertips burn where they touched his warm, soon to be cold thigh.

It rings again.

“Hey.” Dean expects Sam’s voice on the other end, and blinks, confused when he’s greeted with a familiar short drawl that he can’t immediately place.

“Missouri says he’s gonna be fine, kid.”

The voice belongs to Pamela.

“Who?” Dean stands up abruptly. Is she outside?

“Your birdman.”

Dean doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Who?”

Once again, Dean is privy to a conversation happening away from the phone. It sounds like another woman talking, and she sounds annoyed.

“Oh. Missouri. The ol’ wife.”

“Wife?” He runs a quick calculation in his head and then raises his eyebrows. That tracks.

“Dean Winchester, are you listening to me.”

Uh, no?

“Yeah, yeah okay. I heard you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Whatever she thinks she knows, she better not.

Something that sounds, in a honey sweet and dainty voice, like ‘Give it here’ comes from the other end and then she’s speaking to him directly.

“Dean Winchester?” She asks.

“Speaking.”

“Mmkay, good. You better listen up, sweetheart because he’s gonna be fine, but I’m still sending Pam your way. She was a nurse before she retired early, so whatever is wrong with the wound, she should be able to help.”

For once, Dean is rendered speechless, and utterly, utterly confused.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.” Dean croaks. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He looks over at where Wings is laying. His skin should look sunkissed, but instead beads of sweat form along his tendons, and they’re pulled tight, his body tense even if he’s out cold. “How do you know about him?”

“Pamela and I… we share some unique gifts. But that shouldn’t concern you right now. You’ve got a fallen angel dying in your living room. She’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, alright?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Go dig up some of Rufus’ old stash. The good stuff.”

“Why?” He feels deeply out of the loop.

“To calm your nerves. I can feel them from here. Alright now, I’m gonna hang up. Sit tight until she gets there.”

▵▿▵

Knuckles rap against the door, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. From the time it took him to hang up to Pamela showing up at his door it had started to rain again. This time the storm was black, and he had a feeling there would be no sunset, just the dimming of the sky until the charcoal was pitch. He flips the porchlight on as he opens the door.

Pamela’s black hair is caught under the strap of an army green duffel bag, and the rain drips down her forehead and off her chin, smearing her smokey eye shadow slightly. Standing next to her is a woman Dean hasn’t met yet. She stands tall, and if there is a height difference between her and Pamela, he can’t tell. Her ringlets are just as soaked as her wife's and her dark eyes catch the yellow of the porch light. Inexplicably, they're warm, and Dean lends himself to trusting them.

“The psychic forgot her umbrella, huh?” Dean asks, stepping aside to let them in.

Missouri makes a face.

“I was gonna say you’re the prettiest thing in these hills but…” Whatever she was going to say, dies as she takes in the sight strewn across the dining table.

Pamela sets her duffle bag down in one of the seats pulled away from the table and then her arm goes limp as she stands there. Missouri stops by her side, the fingers of her hand trailing her arm until it rests stationary by Pamela’s, their pinkies intertwining.

“Seeing and believing are truly two different things.” Missouri sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, and, actually, he gets that. “Earlier, on the phone you called him a…”

“An angel.”

There are a million questions he could ask but he settles on one. “How do you know?”

Pamela tears her gaze away for just a moment, to look over her shoulder at Dean. “That’s a long story for another night. Right now, we have an angel to save. You look terrible, by the way.”

“Mmhm. Dead on your feet. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. We’ll take care of your angel.”

“Have you eaten anything since you found him?” Pam asks. The duffle bag zipper slices through the ambient silence between words, and she rifles through it for a solid minute before she finally produces a pair of tweezers and what looks to be military grade cotton balls with a pleased grin.

His stomach makes a pathetic noise in response, however instead of making a move to eat something, he's standing there staring validly, wondering why these two women who live in the middle of nowhere are completely calm about Mr. Comatose being heaven sent.

It’s fairly obvious from the way their backs are turned to him now, heads leaning in close until they're almost touching so they can whisper in confidence, that he isn’t going to get any answers tonight.

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave, breezing through his muscles, seeping straight into his bones and burrowing in his marrow. Pamela seems to have some left over hospital grade drugs in her nursing kit, and his new friend is completely subdued under the quiet blanket of sleep.

“Dean.” He tears his gaze away from the middle distance, where it had gotten comfortable to see Pamela watching him, her eyes narrow with concern. “I don’t want to have to take care of you next. Eat something and get some rest. You’ve done enough. We’ll be out of your hair once we’re done.”

Dean shouldn’t trust them. But he does. He doesn’t have any other choice. Shuffling around, he shows Missouri the outlets, where Rufus’s first aid-kit (nearly an end-of-days cold war quantity) stash is shoved into the top three shelves of one of the three storage closets. Missouri promises to lock up and leave the key under the worn-through doormat, and Dean nods sleepily.

Missouri pats his cheek, and for the briefest of moments, Dean misses home. He misses Sammy. His life had never been simple or easy or even nice, but at least it had been predictable.

“He’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

▵▿▵

When he wakes, he’s in his bed and sleep-drunk, and there’s an empty space to his side, a starless void that he’d never been able to fill. In his living room lies the moon, and the stars, and the hopeful sliver of himself wonders if even the sun can be found there as well. The cabin is peaceful, a comforting fog of quiet wrapping him up. Sleep drags him under again, and he goes willingly.

#uinlh #cabin fic #*#mine

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dhaston · 3 years

Text

Paper Tiger

The familiar sound of a tape deck whirrs to life at the press of a button filling the room with a soft hum of silence before the noise of boots stepping along earth and rubble, crunching whatever came before them under their heels echoed out from the speakers. The walking kept going for what seemed like hours but was mere minutes, calming in a way actually as the only sound that came was the boots. That is until the light drip of water passed along the speaker till it faded out and was followed with a heavy creak of wood being pushed away to allow Dhaston to enter what ever place he was headed to.

“Still a damn mess, huh.”

The scoundrels voice rang out and bounced off walls of the large chamber he stood in.

“Well, better than it was. Least the bodies are gone, shit’s still on the floor though.”

A thump was heard, a boot connecting with heavy lumber. Then came a heavy breath, a sigh of exhaustion caused something ailing the man.

“This place was somethin’ when it was around, The Red Lamb it was called. Always wondered why she named it that but it was somethin’ about weak folk bein’ led to their end, paint the wool in blood, some deep meanin’ that I ain’t ever got. Big damn arena packed to the rafters with people screamin’ and cheerin’. Callin’ for blood from the fighters here and showerin’ the winners with praise and desire for them. I was one of them winners, got damn good with my fists, made a name in the whole bareknuckle boxin’ scene down here. Or well I had one when I had my head in it, fell out of it when I got...Complacent as I was told.”

Dhaston let out a soft grumble that was low enough to be picked up by the speakers but the sound that came next was much more important that the recording picking up a man dealing with his thoughts. First came the low stomping of boots bouncing about the area, echoing through what probably was a tunnel till the sound got louder and louder and then mingled with the next noise.

“Well look who it is. If it isn’t our old pal Dhaston Braddock come back to check up on things.”

The voice belonged to what sounded like an older gentleman with a self-serving tone dancing about with every word he spoke. His voice was a bit faint as if there was some distance between him and Dhaston but it wasn’t just one man. The same sounds of boots continued on their journey closer and closer to the recording device causing the audio to get louder and louder. What seemed like one pair shifted in to multiple.

“I ain’t here for problems Harlowe so you can just turn yer ass around and take yer boys with you.”

“You don’t tell the boss what he can and can’t do.”

The next voice was young but gruff and deep; like the sound of rocks dragging across the ground.

“Harlowe you put a leash on your pet or I’m gonna have to do it for ya.”

“That’s enough, Bryson. Dhaston here is all bark and no bite. He wouldn’t do anything anyway. Which is funny because he’s here right now, in the place where fighting always happened...Fighting that he was very much a part of. But now look at him, lost in the dark and talking to some dumb box.”

A chorus of one sided laughter filled the room while the low growl of another man crept above it due to being so damn close to the recording device.

“Thing is boys as much as Dhaston does love fighting he didn’t even put up any after all his friends were killed. You see Dhaston here, whole crew was executed. His boss, Serena--I heard she was found in his home, bullet in her fucking head, hands cut off and teeth gone. Damn shame though.”

Harlowe tsks softly as the sound of him walking a bit closer towards the recording device came through the speakers.

“She was such a pretty woman. But it’s astounding that the whole damn city saw those fires, saw all those bodies yet you still stand Dhaston. No fight. No...Repercussions from you. Just silence. But then we hear stories of you hanging about a new woman...That, what was she, daughter of that family that Serena took over in Kul Tiras. Doing nothing except another woman’s bidding.”

“Sounds like he’s some bitch, boss.”

“Oh no no, Bryson. Dhaston is far from a bitch. He is scary, or well, he was. You know there was a time that, I saw it with my own damn eyes, that he killed a man with a broken mug.”

“A mug?”

“A fucking mug. Snapped it right in half, jammed it right in the man’s gut and carved him up like a pig. Vicious son of a bitch he is...But now he’s doing nothing. So it makes us wonder, makes every one wonder why didn’t he die fighting for Serena. Why didn’t he fight back...But you see Dhaston isn’t a bitch, he’s what we call a paper tiger.”

“A what?”

Dhaston’s voice finally rang out from the speaker. The anger dripped from every letter, every word, every sound that came from him.

“A paper tiger, Dhaston. You have no claws. No roar. No fangs. You are merely a shadow of your former self but you always were weren’t you. You got too lazy, enjoyed life too much and let your name be the threat. Not you.”

Silence fell over the tape and only the faint ambient noise of water dripping, wood creak, the possible chitter of a rat; that was the only sound the machine picked up for what seemed to be eternity. But then came the shifting noise of boot across dirt that grew louder as if the two men had bridged the gap between the device and them.

“You both better sit your five gold piece asses down before I make change.”

Still that anger was easily heard through the recording but it was worse now. It was louder, harsher, words were like daggers stabbing the listener even if they weren’t aimed their way.

“There’s a lot that I owe you for Dhaston. A lot I owe Serena but she isn’t here, luckily you are. So I do have one question before we collect...How good must that pussy be for you to not even defend Serena’s corpse.”

It was as if a switch were instantly flipped and the situation being played out took a turn for the worse. The sound of Dhaston growling in pure rage peaked the audio just as a loud BANG came through like the box came crashing down to the ground. The sound of fist on flesh came next, bodies connecting with one another, clothes rustling fast. Voices were mingled with anger and pain filled grunts.

“Fuck off me!”

Dhaston was the first to cry out followed by more fists connecting with flesh then the heavy thud of a body falling like lumber to the ground. Another loud cry came from the Scoundrel but not in frustration but in pain.

“Beat him fucking senseless, Bryson!”

Harlowe screamed over the fight that was being heard. Then came a wet smack followed by another. A body being beaten worse than it probably had ever taken before. It wasn’t until the screech of pain from the young gruff man filled the room followed by what sounded like something snapping in half did the fight seem to stop.

“Fuckfuckfuck! He fucking broke by goddamn leg! FUCK!”

That gruff young voice wasn’t as hard as it was earlier. Now it sounded like a young boy in pain, crying out.

“Yeah now I'm gonna break your goddamn /neck/!”

The crash of bodies came swift after the call for more blood by Dhaston was heard. Thump after thump peeked on the track but stopped with the noise of a gasp of pain and what seemed to be a body being dragged off.

“Leave Dhaston. He ain’t worth this shit!”

Harlowe’s voice faded away as did the shuffling boots down what ever path they came in leaving the just the faint white noise of nothingness to be heard. After a moment or two the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing, from Dhaston to be exact. Like he was trying to catch his breath or trying to make sense of what just happened to him. Still nothing came from him, just the huff and puff of a man pushed to his edge lingered upon the audio track.

The tape finally stopped with a soft click due to the button rising back up. There had been many fights in the Red Lamb but only one man can say he was the champion of the last one ever. That man is Dhaston Braddock. A paper tiger who’s claws are beginning to grow back in.

#inner demons #character development #original character #warcraft character #warcraft rp

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the-last-cuddlebender · 4 years

Text

Webs We Weave

A spider has decided to move in. Aang has decided to let it stay. ...Zuko and Sokka did not agree on this new roommate, and they will do what needs to be done.

**************************************

A/N: This was originally a vent-write (because I had a horrifying in-my-face encounter with an airborne spider) that #1. I had way to much fun writing and #2. Spiraled far beyond what I originally imagined lmao

(Also jumping spiders are tiny and precious and wear raindrops as lil hats and Aang would take a bullet for one.)

Rating: G (S for Short Aang is bae)

Words: 2,376

ArchiveOfOurOwn

**************************************

Aang had a considerable grip for someone more than two heads shorter than who he was trying to restrain. The young Avatar managed to hold Sokka back, nonetheless. “Stop it, guys! Please! You can’t kill him!”

Sokka shrugged Aang off. He side-stepped the airbender before he could weasel past him. The kitchen wasn’t big enough for Aang to do a tricky-trick on him this time.

Sokka almost felt bad when Aang’s cheeks puffed red and his fists clenched. Sokka had hit his growth spurt, so Aang had to tilt his head vertical to meet his (in all but blood) big brother’s eyes. He stood on his tip-toes, and Sokka had to bank on his warrior’s discipline not to laugh when Aang couldn’t even get his head close to his shoulder-level.

“You guys can’t kill him! It’s just—It’s just wrong!”

“Yeah, we can. Easily, in fact.”

“Sokka!”

Sokka rolled his eyes not for the first time that night.

Behind Sokka and just beyond Aang’s reach, Zuko crouched close to the very small, very fuzzy, somewhat colorful eight-legged critter not even a full half-inch big. It huddled into the corner under the umbrella of its tiny web. Its legs looked almost too short for its body. Six of its beady eyes blankly stared at them, but the two eyes at the forefront—which were so big they almost looked like they were glued on—shined with a waxy gloss that rivaled the tears gathering in Aang’s eyes.

“B-But you can’t! Every life is sacred!”

Zuko made his finger into a blowtorch and crouched like a prince performing a formal execution on a war criminal. “It’s the natural order, Aang.”

“But you can’t!”

Aang tried to dart past, but Sokka snagged him by the scruff of his robes. The short airbender yelped as his feet left the ground. He was as light as his element. He squirmed not too unlike Momo when he refused to bathe, but Sokka held him higher so his kicking legs couldn’t even toe the floor.

Aang’s face bloomed several shades of frustration and embarrassment, and Sokka made a mental note to thank Suki for teaching him some elemental chi-blocking.

Because judging by the look on his little brother’s face, he would have been taking the brunt of all four elements five-times-over by now.

“Sokka! Put me down!”

“Sorry, but no can do, sport.” Sokka turned his head. “Do it, Zuko.”

Aang thrashed harder. “No, don’t! Zuko, please—!”

Katara—winded and whipping her head around like she was looking for a horde of assassins—appeared from around the corner like Aang’s plea had summoned her from across the continent. A warrior’s discipline and experience let her take in the scene at a glance. Sokka nearly rolled his eyes again when her glare zeroed-in on and burned him in particular.

Sokka wanted to rub his head. Spirits, he had thought the constant headaches he got during the war would go away, but with stuff like this always happening, it’s no wonder they were getting worse and worse. It felt like his head was about to split in two.

Katara waterbended her liquid ammo back into her waterskin, though she didn’t become any less of a threat. “Sokka, put him down. Now. And Zuko, what—What in the world are you guys doing?”

“What must be done.”

Katara cocked her jaw at Zuko, grim-faced like a true executioner. “That explains so much and yet so little.”

Aang struggled more, but Sokka just held him higher and away from himself.

“Katara! Katara, they’re gonna kill Bartholomew!”

Katara looked affronted. “Bartholomew?” She glared between Zuko and Sokka with equal levels of disgust.

Zuko and Sokka shared a side-eyed glance and an exasperated sigh.

“Katara, look,” Sokka said, gesticulating with even Aang who was hanging from his grasp like a polarbeardog pup by its scruff, “the spider has to go. It’s a pest, and Zuko and I are not going to let those things curl up and make their home wherever they damn well please. They can hide in the rafters or whatever, but not out in the most open corner of the kitchen. If you let them see that there’s no threat in places where we don’t want them, then, before you know it, we’ll have dozens of them in the kitchen.”

Zuko sagely nodded. His finger was still a torch. Bartholomew’s six small and two abnormally large eyes reflected the red glow of its would-be murder weapon but were otherwise as black as ink and void of fear. “Have to make an example out of it.”

“Thank you, Zuko, for listening to reason.”

“He’s not hurting anything!” Aang gave up his struggle and hung limp in Sokka’s one-handed grip. The young Avatar’s pooled robes made him look even smaller, and Sokka could feel the blinding rays of his wounded pigmypuma eyes getting bigger. “Bartholomew just likes to hang out and watch you cook and—”

Sokka held Aang to his eye-level and got nearly nose-to-nose with his little brother. “It is a spider, Aang.”

Aang poked Sokka’s chest. “He is my friend, Sokka.”

Katara crossed her arms. Despite themselves, Sokka and Zuko both flinched. “Zuko, put that out. Sokka, put Aang down. Now.”

Sokka, in fact, did not put Aang down. He returned her glare with his own and subtly stepped between his love and his sister as he felt the heat of her glare reach the capacity to melt steel bars.

“I can’t do that, Katara.”

“Well, you’d better figure out how before I make you, Sokka.”

The searing whish of Zuko’s finger-torch got stronger. Aang pawed Sokka’s hand on the back of his robe’s collar and cursed his genetics into oblivion for not having hit his presumed growth spurt yet.

“Zuko, don’t! Please!”

Zuko growled. He put his torch out and threw his arms up. “Fine! Whatever! Just give me a cup or something and I’ll take it outside!”

Aang looked appalled. “You can’t!”

“Why the hell not?”

Aang fiddled with the end of his robe. “He’s—Bartholomew’s been inside too long. He won’t know how to survive outdoors. And he isn’t—”

Sokka groaned. His urge to bang his migraine-aching head into the wall was becoming more of a compulsion that bordered on a need.

“—the outdoor spiders don’t like him? And what if—”

“Do it, babe.”

The torch was back. “On it.”

“No!”

Aang got free of Sokka’s grip but didn’t stay free for long. Airbender or not, Sokka was a big brother, and he easily scooped the young monk off his feet again in a light but firm headlock. Aang wiggled and pushed against him, but Sokka tightened his grip. “Bartholomew!” Aang cried out as he reached out to his tiny insect friend.

Katara snarled. “Sokka, put him down! He’s not—Zuko. Don’t. You. Dare.”

Zuko paused his finger-torch an inch away from its target. The chilly voice that bent the Southern Raiders to their knees crawled like frost freezing over into his ears.

The pressure in the room nearly crushed them. The universe rippled in a strange way that made the hairs on the napes of their necks stand on end. He and Sokka looked at each other before turning inches at a time to face the tempest-made-flesh who was glaring them down.

Katara’s eyes held the promise of bloodshed, and her voice bellied the threat of major bodily harm. Arms crossed and hackles raised like a sabretooth-mooselion, she stalked towards them.

“You two are not going to lay hand or foot on Bartholomew. Got it?”

Sokka rolled his eyes again and tightened his slippery grip on the escape-artist whining and wiggling in his hold. He wound one of his arms around Aang’s middle to pin him flush against him. “Or what? Are you going to freeze our—”

“Don’t give her any ideas, you idiot,” Zuko hissed. He put his fire out and stood, though he subtly-but-not-as-subtly-as-he-thought shimmied away from the heated waterbender so that he had partial cover behind his boyfriend.

Sokka turned to him with half-lidded eyes and a half-blinding migraine. “Not you, too. Come on, guys, it’s a spider. It’s not like it’s a puppy or—”

Sokka looked down. The kicked puppy trapped in his arms was looking up. Aang’s grey eyes were miserable puddles of pleading that were so dilated that Sokka almost fell into their tear-filled abyss.

“Please, Sokka?”

Aang’s voice broke, and when Katara clasped her hands to her chest in a heartbroken aw while simultaneously letting her brother know her very clear intent to shed blood should Aang shed a tear, Sokka rolled his eyes so hard that his whole head nearly rolled with them.

Aang tugged the arm around his neck with his one free hand, and he somehow changed his facial anatomy to make his eyes even bigger.

“Pretty please?”

Sokka sighed. “Fine. You can keep the damn spider.”

Aang smiled so brightly that Sokka had to look away to save himself from being blinded. He let Aang go and tried to nurse the now full headache he had.

Aang raced to his pest-pet and cooed it like it was a newborn. Zuko touched Sokka’s shoulder to offer his condolences and share his frustrations...and to shimmy further out of Katara’s path.

Katara smiled and nodded like they were soldiers in battle who had satisfied their honor. Sokka stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture in kind. Zuko backed him up, and Katara grumbled and looked away in defeat.

Zuko and Sokka, without looking, shared a small high-five.

Aang zoomed up to them and gave his de facto big brothers a group hug. He jumped on the balls of his feet and thanked them profusely. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the moment when the two of them went braindead to his rambling and just nodded when he stopped for breath.

Behind her boyfriend, Katara kissed Aang’s arrow. She plopped her head on top of his as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Aang placed his hands on hers and smiled so wide that the force of it had Zuko and Sokka bracing themselves from being blown backward.

Katara tugged her rambling boyfriend flush against her chest, and she protectively curled around him. When her eyes met their others’, she stuck her tongue out again.

Sokka huffed. He side-stepped Zuko and mirrored his sister’s maneuver with his boyfriend.

Zuko blushed in Sokka’s arms, Aang redirected his smile to his Sifu Hotman, and Sokka returned his sister's stuck-out tongue with a hidden middle finger in addition.

Aang, with his smile creeping dangerously close to a supernova, looked back and forth between the water tribe siblings until Zuko, done with this and ready for a nap or a drink or both, gave the airbender a partial head-pat like he really was a polarbeardog.

...(later that day)

“No! No, Sokka, wait! You can’t!”

“I can! I will! I’m gonna! And you will watch me! Now get out of the way, Aang!”

“But it’s true love! Petunia is his Forever Girl!”

“I cannot put into words the depth and intensity of the fuck I do not give! Now move!”

“Think of their children, Sokka!”

“I AM THINKING OF THEIR CHILDREN!”

Zuko saved his and Katara’s boyfriends from bodily harm while Katara quickly but quietly set up the terrarium she and Zuko had special-ordered for Bartholomew (and Petunia, now, as well).

Aang still kept it in the kitchen, though. He didn't want to stress out his ‘lil babu’ and his ‘lil babu’s babu’ by moving them to a change in scenery.

Sokka (gently but with passion) flicked the corner of the glass whenever he walked by. Zuko flipped it the bird.

Aang saw neither action. He just smiled and melted into Katara’s hug as he relished thinking about how well all of his friends were getting along.

Bartholomew and Petunia watched on from their new home in the corner on the counter.

And they watched.

And though they were nocturnal, they always crawled out of their hide when the humans’ voices drew near so that they could watch them some more.

...That night—Petunia’s first in the house, to Sokka’s dismay—Bartholomew and Petunia crawled onto the clump of bark and moss outside their burrow. The moon was full, and some of its light reached the terrarium just like Aang had hoped their minor change of scenery would do.

They curled their thin legs together and sat in the strongest of the moon’s rays. And, once everything was quiet and all were asleep, Bartholomew turned to his companion and shared his thoughts with her.

/This Avatar is a strange one./

/Very./ Petunia curled closer to his side. /The two males are very quick to violence, it seems. The Avatar’s mate, as well. I’m surprised you didn’t blast the firebender into the Spirit Wilds./

/I was going to, but I was curious to see how the situation would unfold. I probably should have taken a different form. The lemur and skybison said their master would take interest instead of offense to this form. They failed to mention the opinions of the others sharing his dwelling./

/I’m sorry, my love. It won’t be too much longer, now, will it? Because I swear on the Ancients themselves, if the firebender’s mate flicks the glass one more time, I will flick him into—/

/Calm yourself, my dear. It won’t be too long. The web is woven, and we need him near if it is to work./

/I suppose that is one benefit to this form, then./

/Aye./ Bartholomew drummed all of his legs like he was shifting his weight impatiently. /He is the last one Hei Bai took into his forest during the Solstice. Thankfully, it hasn’t festered long enough to corrupt his spirit./

/Because of the firebender?/

Bartholomew pawed the bits of a dead leaf and would have grumbled if he had a voice. /Yes. And he’s lucky, too, because otherwise I would not have hesitated to banish him and his mate to the Spirit Wilds./

Petunia touched her legs to his and gently herded him back to their den. One of her legs gently tapped his back. /I’m sure you would have, dear./

**************************************

The spiders know all

(Many thanks and more to @coldmentalitystudentme @thecaroliner for helping me settle what these dorks’ reactions to spiders might be!!!)

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trensu · 4 years

Text

Episode 32: The One where the Moonlit Rooftop BETRAYS Us

Remember how the last episode brutally tore the heart right out of our collective chest?

Well get ready to dial that pain up to ELEVEN BC THIS TIME AROUND THEY RIP THE HEART RIGHT OUT OF US AND THEN CRUSHES IT BENEATH THEIR HEEL

And i can’t even skip most of it!! Bc it is crucially important to know what state of mind our beloved sunshine boy is in for everything to make sense!!

Especially for what’s going to happen in the next episode!

So we HAVE TO SUFFER. THERE’S NO WAY AROUND IT.

We start our episode at the super fun jin ancestral hall in lanling where jyl is mourning the death of her husband!!

Enjoy this bc this is literally the least painful moment in the entire episode!!!

My precious sunshine boy is lurking behind a pillar, guilt-ridden and alone

He can’t get any nearer bc of the guilt

But he can’t stay away bc that’s his sister, his most precious person

Too bad madam jin spots him

AND THEN JYL SEES HIM AND STARTS CRYING

WWX’S FACE HERE, OH GOD, I CAN’T EVEN DESCRIBE IT

STRICKEN? HEARTBROKEN? DESPAIRING?? WHATEVER IT IS, IT MAKES ME WANNA CRY

So he flees, he can’t face his sister, not when he’s the reason she’s grieving

We’re in the middle of a forest again! It’s even less fun than the last time we were in the forest!

MY DARLING WWX IS HALLUCINATING

HE’S HALLUCINATING HIS SISTER

HE’S SO DESPERATE FOR ANY SCRAP OF KINDNESS OR AFFECTION HERE.

HE’S SO ALONE.

THE RESENTFUL ENERGY IS TAUNTING HIM “LET US OUT, LET US HELP YOU. YOU CAN ONLY RELY ON US”

HE’S SCREAMING BACK AT THEM, “GET LOST, GET LOST, LEAVE ME ALONE”

IT’S AWFUL. I WANNA DIE.

Now we’re at Qishan, listening to a bunch of cultivators gossip

Again.

The Wens’ bodies are hanging from rafters, all out on display in the open

Because slaughtering them wasn’t horrifying enough, they had to humiliate them after death too. Fucking jin clan.

Wwx appears behind the group and scares the shit out of them (GOOD)

He calmly pulls out his demon flute and starts playing

Within three notes he’s got the entire group of gossips pinned to the ground. Then he played a little extra just for kicks.

THAT’S MY BOY, SHOW ‘EM WHO’S BOSS

Now he’s like, why’d y’all stop talking? Weren’t you saying how you were gonna stop me?

And some idiot rando is like, you think you’re hot shit bully us weaklings?? You should go fight the clan leaders at their big celebration.

Wwx starts to choke him out bc he’s annoying him but wwx gives us this epic line

“Every injustice has its perpetrator.”

And he ditches those basic bitches to hunt down the guys that killed his people

Now we’re watching all this pompous sect leaders celebrating the murder of innocent lives, but we’re not gonna get into it bc they piss me off and nobody needs to pay attention to jgs’s speeches ever

Although i will mention that lxc and jc both look very conflicted at the events that are going down

HANGUANG JUN!!!

We’re back with the basic bitches and lwj appears!!

Lwj: where is wei ying?

Of course his first words in the episode are about wei ying.

And they’re all aw, you just missed him bro, he left about an hour ago

Lwj: where did he go?

And they’re like, Nightless City to hang out with the sect leaders!

Lwj’s face here is just, Worry and Dread.

We’re back with the sect leaders. Jgs is talking again

Thankfully, wwx interrupts him with his mental breakdown!!

AND HE INTERRUPTS BY SHOWING UP ON A MOONLIT ROOFTOP

MOONLIT ROOFTOP, HOW COULD YOU??

YOU WERE SO KIND TO US BEFORE!! WE TRUSTED YOU!! WE LOVED YOU!!!

WHAT DID WE DO WRONG?? HOW COULD YOU BETRAY US THIS WAY??

Jgs: what are you doing here?

Wwx: why can’t i be here? don’t you guys want me here? I’m saving you the effort of hunting me down!

Then there’s a lot of back and forth with rando cultivators throwing accusations at him and wwx making Valid Points left and right

As we all know, Valid Points don’t make a smidge of difference against the incredibly stupid and obstinate.

We won’t get into too much detail here bc it honestly doesn’t even matter what they’re saying, but there are a couple cool lines that i wanted to include

Somebody says something about him having a grudge against Jin Zixun a year ago

Wwx: Little characters like him i forget in 3 days, much less a year.

Which, like, LOL bc he’s right, jz was an insignificant little worm except worms are good for soil so he’s MORE insignificant than a little worm (i’m sorry worms, i shouldn’t have insulted you that way!!)

Later somebody says something about how they had admired wwx before but now they hate him

Wwx: Both your hatred and admiration is so cheap!

WE DO GET A COOL SCENE HERE THO

Some basic bitch shoots him with an arrow and it hits him right in the chest

Wwx barely even flinches

He tears that arrow right back out and covers it with resentful energy

Then LITERALLY THROWS IT BACK AT THE GUY WHO SHOT HIM AND PIERCES HIS CHEST

IT WAS AWESOME

And then he gives us another cool line.

Someone calls him vicious for shooting the guy who shot him before and he says “you’re already branding me as someone who uses wicked tricks, you can’t be counting on my mercy to let it go, right?”

It’s basically a whole ‘you want a bad guy? I’LL SHOW YOU A BAD GUY’ moment. Which looks cool, right, but is also super upsetting bc THIS IS MY PRECIOUS SUNSHINE BOY

MY PRECIOUS SUNSHINE BOY WHO ONLY EVER WANTED TO PROTECT THE WEAK AND DEFENSELESS

Now there’s a battle breaking out! Between the cultivators and the resentful spirits wwx summons

WWX LOOKS SICK AF PLAYING HIS DEMON FLUTE AND SUMMONING SPIRITS, LIKE ALWAYS.

But we don’t care about this battle.

This battle doesn’t matter. Even if it does look pretty cool.

Because all the important stuff happens on rooftops, as we already know.

And on the rooftop WE SUDDENLY HAVE LWJ SHOW UP WITH HIS GUQIN

HE’S PLAYING MAGIC MUSIC.

HE’S FACING DOWN WWX.

Wwx: lan zhan, you’re here. You should have known i’d be immune to the Song of Clarity

Lwj whooshes his guqin away.

Wwx: lan zhan, i knew one day we were gonna have a real fight.

anD WWX STARTS PLAYING HIS DEMON FLUTE AGAINST LWJ

LWJ DRAWS BICHEN AND STARTS DIVING SWORD FIRST TOWARDS WWX

AND EVERYTHING HURTS

WWX SLAMS HIM BACK WITH RESENTFUL ENERGY BUT LWJ PUSHES RIGHT BACK

Lwj: wei ying, stop it!

Wwx doesn’t respond. In fact, he’s kept his eyes closed and unresponsive since he started playing his flute, PROBABLY BC HE CAN’T BEAR TO WATCH HIMSELF ATTACK HIS SOULMATE

I ALSO CAN’T BEAR TO WATCH HIM ATTACK HIS SOULMATE BUT HERE I AM WATCHING BC APPARENTLY I ENJOY SUFFERING

Lwj: wei ying, stop it now!

Wwx: lan zhan, do you think i have any other choice now?

Lwj: the situation has changed!

Wwx: what?

Lwj: trust me. It’s not that simple.

Wwx: what do you mean?

But before we can get any answers or clues or anything useful, we get interrupted by jyl’s voice crying “a-xian!”

And thus begins the world’s WORST, MOST PAINFUL GAME OF MARCO POLO EVER

Because jyl is on the battlefield, still in her mourning robes. And she’s calling for her brothers.

Both jc and wwx hear her and instantly start looking for her

Wwx ditches the rooftop (and lwj with it), gives up his high ground and dives into the battlefield to look for his sister

He gets attacked by some cultivators and we hear the strum of a guqin

Lwj followed him! And defended him against attacks, BC THAT’S WHAT HE DOES FOR HIS SOULMATE. THAT’S HIS WHOLE THING.

Lwj: wei ying, your flute!

What he means is, keep playing, i’ll protect you from attacks while you get to your sister

And wwx starts playing again, bc EVEN AFTER he and lwj fought one another with all they had, he still trusts lwj

Jyl, jc, and wwx all take turns calling each other’s names. MY YUNMENG SIBS ARE TRYING TO REUNITE

Meanwhile we see lwj flitting about the edges of the screen blocking attacks left and right, and keeping wwx safe

SUDDENLY, we hear the sound of a second flute pierce the air! And the puppets get more vicious. WWX IS NO LONGER IN CONTROL

Btw, apparently, we the audience are the only ones who can hear this second flute BC NOBODY ON-SCREEN SEEMS TO QUESTION THE FLUTE MUSIC PLAYING EVEN WHEN WWX VERY OBVIOUSLY DOESN’T HAVE THE FLUTE AT HIS MOUTH TO PLAY IT

IT’S SO FRUSTRATING. I THOUGHT THESE CULTIVATORS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE SOMEWHAT INTELLIGENT BUT NOTHING THEY’VE DONE EVER SHOWS THIS

And oh fuck, once the second flute takes over the puppets we get the SAD BACKGROUND MUSIC FROM “THE ONES WHERE WE GROSS SOB FOREVER”

FUCK

I CAN’T

I’VE BEEN FUCKING PAVLOV’D TO INSTANT TEARS AT THIS MUSIC, DAMN IT ALL.

NOOOO, NONONONONO I’M NOT READY, I’M NOT READY, I’M NOT READY

The yunmeng sibs are still crying out for each other as this Sad Music plays aND I JUST CAN’T.

They finally set eyes on one another, only to see a puppet come up behind jyl

Jc is begging wwx to stop the puppet bc he thinks wwx is still in control

Wwx is so desperate here that he doesn’t even use his flute, he just starts SCREAMING at the puppet to stop, “GO AWAY, DON’T TOUCH HER”

And lwj sees this all happening! He follows wwx’s line of sight and sees that jyl is about to get cut down by a puppet

LWJ SEES THIS AND IMMEDIATELY TRIES TO GO TO HER AID

BC HE KNOWS JYL IS WWX’S PRECIOUS PERSON. TO PROTECT HER IS TO PROTECT WWX’S HEART

Also i like to think that lwj and jyl bonded over their love for wwx way back in “the one where jyl captains the ship” so he’d want to protect his friend anyway

But he gets intercepted by two other puppets who attack him and keep him stalled far away from jyl and wwx

FUCK

WHY

GOD DAMN IT

The puppet cuts down jyl from behind

AND IT FUCKING HURTS ME IN THE DEEPEST PART MY SOUL

And wwx is in a state of shock bc HIS SISTER, HIS BELOVED SISTER IS HURT, HIS SISTER IS HURT

Wwx makes a mad dash towards her

But Lwj intercepts him and says “wei ying, stop your puppets! Stop them!”

Wwx doesn’t listen to him. He flings lwj’s arm away and keeps running

Wwx finally makes it to where jyl fell, where she’s now being cradled in jc’s arms

Wwx reaches for her but jc shoves him away

Jc: you said you could control them, you said there was no problem

He’s not even really yelling here, but his voice is all cracked, hoarse, and pained

Wwx: it’s not me, i don’t know! i didn’t make them kill people, why can’t i control them? I lost control of them!

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING

I’M HURTING SO MUCH RIGHT NOW

I’M SICK OF CRYING, SHOW, I’M SICK OF IT. PLEASE STOP. WHY MUST YOU HURT ME

Jyl is still alive!

Jyl: a-xian, xianxian

She reaches and puts her hand on the side of his face

Jyl: you ran so fast, i didn’t have enough time to look at you and talk to you

AND I’M FUCKING SOBBING BC SHE SOUNDS SO WEAK AND WWX HAS TEARS STREAMING DOWN HIS FACE AND EVERYTHING FUCKING HURTS

Jyl: i wanted to tell you--

But she doesn’t get to finish that sentence bc she sees someone aiming for wwx’s back and she shoves him out of the way to protect him

She gets a sword to the chest

And the rando cultivator holding the sword is all it’s not my fault, i was aiming for you, wwx this is your fault!

FUCK YOU RANDO CULTIVATOR FUCK YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL

Wwx starts to choke him out, which is good bc i wanted to do that myself too

And jc is sobbing, rocking his sister’s body

AND THIS IS WHERE THE EPISODE ENDS

WHAT

THE

FUCK

NO, I CNA’T, I CAN’T, I’M HURTING SO MUCH, COME BACK AND MAKE IT BETTER GOD DAMN IT

I HAVE NO MORE TISSUES!! TISSUES ARE CURRENTLY A HOT COMMODITY, I CAN’T JUST GO OUT AND BUY MORE

FUCK, JUST LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE. I CNA’T ANYMORE.

Return to Masterpost

#WangXiantics #wangxian #the untamed #cql

61 notes · View notes

threnodygrimblood · 5 years

Text

The Family that Shouldn’t Be

Summary: With Muriel and Eustace dead, Courage finds himself all alone at the farmhouse. Fortunately or unfortunately for Courage, the villains he faced in the past begins to make themselves at home at the farmhouse, bringing with them much fun and mayhem the small pink dog can handle.

Rated T for just in case

All Courage the Cowardly Dog character belongs to John Dilworth

I was intending to finish this chapter last night and I was almost done with it, but the typhoon had knocked out my power and it was out until a little after 8 pm tonight. I'm just so happy I saved what I had typed and didn't have to recreate whatever I might’ve lost. Since I have two Courage fanfics I'm going to alternate between writing them so I don't end up neglecting either one. My second Courage fanfic is going to be mature and I don’t think I can post it here so you can find it on FanFiction.net or Archive of Our Own and it’s called Keeping Secrets

The Duck Who Brought Back the Windmill Vandals

֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍֍

It turned out the fox decided to extend his stay at the farmhouse by claiming he needed a place to lie low until he's sure the fox hunt was over — much to Katz's annoyance. Katz and Cajun Fox were like water and oil. The fox's laid-back personality and messy behavior clashed with Katz's calm and sadistic nature and his need for order and cleanliness, and those two were continually arguing with each other like a married couple. One such case was when Cajun Fox decided he would cook for all of them every day, and Katz objected to the idea, saying they will all take turns making dinner each night. It would've fallen on deaf ears if Courage didn't take Katz's side. Another problem Katz seemed to have with the fox was that not only would he make enough for five or six people, but their grocery bill had skyrocketed thanks to the fox.

The problem was brought up by Katz, who said with the way Cajun had them spent on the food, they were better off trying to grow their food in the garden behind the house. So, a few days afterward, as Katz drove all three to the city, Cajun spied a nursery next to the road. Whether Cajun was excited to see the nursery or impatient for Katz to pull over to it, he had grabbed at the wheel. Their truck swerved along the road as fox and cat fought for the wheel, both yelling at each other, while Courage, sitting between the fox and cat, screamed in wanton terror as they sped towards a truck. Luckily, they swerved out the way at the last second and came to a stop next to the nursery.

Both Courage's teeth and body shook in fear as he gripped the dashboard in a death grip as his blunt canine claws dug into it.

"You crazy, suicidal, moronic, backwater fox!" Katz screamed, turning towards Cajun Fox.

Courage never saw Katz so angry before. Oh, he has seen him angry plenty of times in the past, but never has he seen fur raised all over his body angry before.

Cajun crossed his arms. "I take offense to that backwater remark. Besides, you're the one that said we're better off growing our food."

"You could've gotten us all killed!" Katz stated.

"But we ain't dead, now are we?" Cajun replied nonchalantly as he got the passenger door open.

Katz swore as the fox hopped out the truck and raced for the nursery. Once calm, Courage was at a loss at what to do. He wanted to go after Cajun Fox, but he didn't want to leave Katz. He surveyed the feline's face and saw Katz pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed and his fur still partly raised.

"Katz?" Courage voiced out with caution.

"Go, dog. I'll be there momentarily once I no longer desire to skin the fox and sell his pelt to an old rich woman." Katz informed the dog.

Courage didn't hesitate to comply; Courage jumped down and gently closed the door so as not to get on Katz's simmering temper. The nursery had a small building in front that held the register, garden tools, plant food, outdoor furniture, and seeds. Behind the building was a large greenhouse, and to the left were the bushes and sapling trees, and to the right were tables placed in rows with potted plants on top and potted plants hanging from the rafters.

Courage was able to spot Cajun Fox as he looked at some plants, a cart next to him already had some plants placed in it. Courage made his way over to the fox to see what he had. Looking at the images sticking out the dirt, Courage saw Cajun and chosen green, red, orange, and yellow peppers and that he was looking at some hot peppers.

Courage looked at the table across from them to see what it held. Courage and Muriel rarely went into nurseries like this one. Anytime Muriel wanted to grow something, Eustace would refuse to allow them in one, "Too expensive." being his constant excuse, thus the only place Muriel would be able to buy any plants or seeds were from the store they bought their groceries in or when she would receive seeds as a gift with whatever she purchased. Muriel always tried to grow something on the farm, and Eustace repeatedly whined that he could never produce anything. Courage knew the reason the farmer could never grow anything was simply that he never really tried, and if Eustace tried, he didn't put any effort into it and then whined when he didn't get the result he wanted.

"What'cha think, pup?" Cajun asked, pulling Courage out of his thoughts.

Courage turned his attention towards Cajun, who held up a potted plant to the dog. After making their careful selections, Cajun and Courage went to pay for their plants. Courage hadn't seen Katz at all. He even glanced around every chance he got looking for the cat. He worried at first until both he and the fox walked into the building, and the dog spotted Katz looking at one the books in the corner of the room. Courage wasn't sure why he was relieved to see him. The dog was about to take a step when a rack holding seed packets caught his eyes. He spun the tray, looking at each seed packet until he got to the corn.

Other than sweet corn and popcorn seeds but also blue corn and what was more intriguing was a packet of rainbow corn seeds. Courage never saw corn like it before, and each corn kernel looked like a gemstone. Courage plucked the seed packet off the rack and read the instruction on the back. Courage intended to put the package back, but someone snatched it from the dog's paws.

"What's this? Corn?" Cajun inquired, looking at the item in his paw. "Pretty. Didn't see you as the type to like pretty things."

Courage chuckled, clearly embarrassed. Cajun held onto the package and not only picked out the blue corn but other different variety of corn seeds.

"Not sure if corn will grow in the desert, but we can still it give a try," Cajun stated.

"Are you quite done?" Katz asked after joining the two.

"Where you been, pussy cat?" Cajun asked the cat.

Katz's eye twitched and said calmly, "I've been reading up on gardening." he directed his attention to Courage. "I never understood why the Bagges have hay in the barn, but we make compost we can add them to help the vegetables grow."

That was a brilliant idea, and Courage was impressed.

"Can we go pay, or are you two gonna keep standing there making googly eyes at each other?" Cajun asked.

Courage blushed, and Katz growled. "I swear fox. . ." Courage attempted to stop Katz from causing a scene.

"Boy, I can't wait for these vegetables to grow!" Cajun Fox proclaimed.

"Mm-hm." Courage agreed.

The three made it back to the farmhouse with no problem. Katz had grabbed a shovel and smashed it against Cajun Fox's head, but other than that, it was all right. Katz had gone inside while Courage and Cajun worked on tilling the soil and planting the seeds and plants. Courage picked up the watering can and discovered it empty. He headed over to the water pump and was about to fill the watering can when he heard a noise.

"Huh?" curious, Courage followed the noise to the windmill. He approached the tall structure and looked up. His eyes widen in panic as he saw Le Quack at the top of the windmill tinkering with the engine.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" screamed Courage.

"What's up, pup?" Cajun asked as he strolled over to Courage at the same time, Katz came out the kitchen door asking, "What is all the screaming about?"

Courage stood rooted to his spot as he shook and gibbered away.

"Is that Le Quack up there?" Cajun asked, shielding his eyes from the sun. Katz raised a brow at Cajun and wondered if the fox realized that he had sunglasses to block out the sun for him. The fox didn't notice Katz's expression as he hollered up, "What'cha doin' up there, Le Quack?"

Le Quack looked down at the three and went back to looking for a tool. "I fix the windmill for you."

"But it ain't broken," Cajun interjected.

"Observant, aren't we?" Katz said.

Katz couldn't see it, but Cajun glared at him behind his sunglasses.

"I break, then you pay me to fix it, oui?" Le Quack answered.

"He knows that since we're watchin' him break it, we ain't gonna pay to fix it, right?" Cajun inquired.

"I do not know how someone's mind works, so I can't say what Le Quack's thinking," Katz answered.

While all this was happening, memories of what happened when the windmill stopped ran rampant through Courage's brain until he ran screaming for the cellar door.

"For a small dog with tiny legs, he sure can run fast," Cajun commented, watching the dog go.

"Agreed," Katz said.

Courage didn't bother to open the cellar doors; he crashed through them. Clattering sounds drifted out the cellar as Courage rummaged around down there. He came back out carrying Eustace's old tool bag. Most of the tools had bits of rust on them, and they were cheap, but he hoped they would get the job done. Sweat poured off the dog as he climbed up the windmill and sat the tool bag down next to Le Quack.

"Qu'est-ce que ç'est? Go away." Le Quack tried to shoo Courage away, but he wouldn't budge.

The dog dug around the toolbox and pulled out a socket wrench. The dog tried to push the duck out the way and find what he did before the blades stopped.

"How annoying." Le Quack articulated and managed to kick Courage off the top.

Courage screamed as he fell but luckily grabbed hold of the tower. He looked up when he heard a terrible noise come from the motor and the blades come to a stop.

"Nooo!" he wailed as the sky turned red. "Oh, no."

"Skies shouldn't be this color of red," commented Cajun.

"I'm amazed at how observant you've been today," Katz told the fox as neither aware of the cloud of smoke coming right for them.

"You know what pussy cat, you can kiss my-"

The sound of a blade hitting flesh rend the air as Cajun Fox's body twitched. Courage screamed in horror as Katz stared at Cajun's headless body mystified. He felt a presence behind him, he turned and found himself face to face with one of the undead vandal's undead horse. The vandal swung his double-headed ax at Katz.

"Noooo!" Courage wailed again.

"I wish you hadn't done that," Katz said perturbed as the double-headed ax-wielding vandal held up the cat's head.

"Qu'est-ce que ç'est?" Le Quack asked, looking over the side at what's happening.

Coming out of his horrified state, Courage climbed back to the top. "You got to fix this!" he commanded the duck.

"And why should I?" Le Quack asked, crossing his wings over his chest.

"'Cus, they'll come after you next." Courage answered.

He could see Le Quack process that, and the duck said, "I fix ze windmill, oui?"

Courage nodded as Le Quack picked up a tool, the dog gulped as he jumped off the tower, screaming the whole way down. Air rushed out his lungs as he landed on something hard, bony, and moving. He looked behind him to see that he had landed on one of the vandal's steed. He made a strangled sound, and then his ears perked at the sound of "Pup!"

"Huh?" Courage wondered and looked down to see Cajun's head attached to the saddle.

"Help me out here!" implored Cajun.

Courage grabbed the fox's head and jumped off the horse. Courage landed on his bottom then got to his feet as the vandal turned his steed around and went after them. Courage once again belted out a scream as he noted the other three vandals came right at him. Before they got close, they vanished in the same cloud of smoke that brought the vandals to the farm. Courage stopped running and looked up to see the windmill blades turning. He sighed in relief.

"Ah, pup?" Courage looked up at Cajun's head, smiled sheepishly, and dashed over to Cajun's body.

He handed the head to the body, and Cajun said, "Thanks, pup." as he placed his head back onto his body.

Courage was relieved until he turned and was horrified to see Katz's body wandering around without its head. He forgot about Katz! The dog wailed as he recalled the first time the vandals appeared, they took Eustace's head first, and it had disappeared with the vandals when Courage got the windmill working temporarily. They needed to get the mill to stop working to bring back the vandals and get Katz's head. Courage hatched a plan, and he climbed up the windmill. Le Quack turned to him, "I have, how do you say, fixed the windmill."

"I need you to make it stop working for a bit." Courage informed him.

"Why, after telling me to fix it?" Le Quack asked.

"One of the vandals' took Katz's head, and we need to get it back," explained Courage.

Le Quack sighed. "Very well, I will jam the windmill."

"Jam it once I tell you to and fix it when I tell you, okay?" Courage told him.

"Oui." Le Quack answered.

Courage then climbed back down, and he quickly explained it to Cajun.

"You want me to be bait so you can retrieve the cat's head?" Cajun tried to clarify, and Courage nodded. "Ya know, I think pussy cat looks better like this. We won't have to continue listening to him be all high and mighty towards us."

Courage placed his paws on his hips and glared up at Cajun. "Just do it."

"Fine, fine. I'll run around for you." Cajun conceded.

Satisfied, Courage took Katz's hand and led him over to the windmill.

"Stay." Courage didn't notice the irony of a dog commanding a cat to stay. Courage stayed near the windmill and called up, "Are you ready, Le Quack?"

"Oui," answered Le Quack.

"Are you ready, Cajun?" Courage asked the fox.

"No!" was Cajun's answer.

"Do it!" Courage instructed Le Quack.

The windmill came to a squeaking stop, and the clouds came back. Cajun pelted out a scream and took off as the vandals gave chase. Sweat flew off Courage as he frantically looked for Katz's head among the vandals. Where is it? Where is it? There! He spotted Katz's head attached to the double-headed ax-wielding vandal's steed. Courage took off after the vandal. The dog panted as he worked his legs to run faster, he leaped and snatched Katz's head.

Courage landed on the ground and stared into Katz's stony eyes. "Yay!" he declared happily.

"Ahhh! Move your puppy dog tail!" Cajun screamed as he ran past, one paw attempting to keep his head attached to his neck.

Courage looked back and screamed at the vandals coming his way with their weapons held up high. Courage ran off in the same direction as Cajun and screamed as loud as he could. "Now! Now!"

The sword-wielding vandal came closer and closer towards Courage; he swung his sword down and towards the dog's neck. Courage felt the air against the back of his neck. He stopped and gasping to catch his breath found the vandals gone. He sighed in relief.

"My dear boy." Courage looked down at the head in his paws. "A little help getting back onto my body would be appreciated."

Courage chuckled nervously and walked over to Katz's wandering body again. He handed the feline's head over to Katz's body and watched as Katz set his head back onto his neck.

"Thank you. . . Courage." Katz expressed his gratitude.

Courage was surprised, never hearing Katz call him by his name before. But he smiled and said, "I'm just glad you're okay."

Katz gave Courage a strange look and turned away. Courage wanted to ask him what was wrong when Cajun said, "I'm fine too, thanks for asking."

Whatever Katz was going to say to the fox died when Le Quack came down the windmill and said, "I get paid now, oui?"

"Paid?!" Katz and Cajun bellowed at the same time.

Courage let out a sigh, decided to get a drink for his aching throat, and leaving Katz and Cajun to deal with Le Quack.

#Courage the Cowardly Dog #Courage the Cowardly Dog fanfic #Courage #Katz #Cajun Fox #Le Quack #the windmill vandals #fanfic #The Family that Shouldn't Be #The Duck Who Brought Back the Windmill Vandals #ThrenodyGrimblood

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hotheadhero · 4 years

Text

The first thing Caspar realized when he woke up was: This isn’t my ceiling.

In another context, that might not be so alarming - every so often he’d crash on Linhardt’s bed instead of his own when he was just too worn out to climb the long flight of stairs back up - but what he saw above his head looked so completely unfamiliar to him that he promptly bolted upright in his bed.

He should have clocked himself into next week, he came at that too-hard, too-close steel-wooden frame so fast, but instead his head passed right on through and he was greeted with a field of pitch-black, glinting randomly in places like metal. Caspar squinted - somehow the simple reflex did much to improve his night vision, but still, none of it was anything he recognized. Packed cotton, thick twine here and there, and several heavy coiled springs interspersed throughout... If he didn’t know any better, he might think he’d ended up inside his own mattress somehow. A self-deprecating laugh escaped him, and he absentmindedly raised a hand to pinch himself. Some crazy dream, right? He’d never even seen a bed mattress be assembled; how would he know what one looks like inside--

No pinch. No pain. Caspar took one look down at himself, and screamed.

“SHIT, what--?!?” Shock and terror sent him flying into the rafters (higher than he had any right to be), and he realized that he’d never actually left his dorm room at all. What’s more, his sight was wreathed in faint glowing cyan and he was floating, digging incorporeal fingers into and through the planks as if doing so would keep him grounded in this world he’d so prematurely left. There was no body in his bed; the sheets were rumpled but showed no sign of having been slept in; and he was pretty sure there’d be no body underneath his bed even though he knew now that was where he’d woken up this morning.

I’ve been turned into a ghost. The rest of him already knew it but his head and heart were still in denial. Still, there was little other way to explain this literal out-of-body experience. Only - where was his body? The one book he could recall ever reading about ghosts had said they were malevolent spirits chained to the world of the living by some lingering regret, usually embodied in some physical object that needed to be destroyed to release their prisoner. But what about reversing the spell? He didn’t want to go away just yet; he still had so much left to do! He hadn’t even managed to accomplish his dream!

“Oh, what do I do, what do I do, what do I DOOO--!!”

Frustration and panic tore from him in an unearthly sound he hadn’t even known he was capable of making. He could feel his heart - or whatever passed for it in this ghostly form - racing, literally threatening to blow him to pieces. Could ghosts even blow themselves apart with their own evil energy? Scratch that - he didn’t want to find out.

Caspar had never been known for restraining himself, but with his very life on the line, somehow he managed to wrestle his fear down to a low boil. Think, Caspar. There has to be some way out of this. This had to be a curse of some kind, right? Or a spell? He could brainstorm all he wanted, but only a mage could give him any definitive answers, and that was assuming they even knew what had caused this mischief in the first place.

Hubert. Linhardt. Celica. One of those three had to be able to help him, right? Hell, he’d take anyone with a magical enough look to them, as long as he could sleep in his bed like a normal human again. Or eat. ... Oh, goddess, did ghosts get hungry? Would he ever get to enjoy the dining hall’s food again?!?

Fuck - That tearing sensation again--

No. Don’t get distracted. Try not to think about that... or the way you don’t need to open the door to go right through. Mage. Find one.

It was night out. Here and there a lamp-flame flickered. Silence. Odds were low that he’d find anybody wandering around campus right now, but maybe the library would have some answers. Or the mages’ dorm rooms. He didn’t know how long he had to reverse this, but time was short - either one of them would do. He’d simply have to try his luck.

...

Non-IC thoughts and rules below the cut.

Spontaneous April Fool’s writing, just because Caspar has a name-alike. Also, the mages named above are only there because Caspar has had canon and/or TOA interaction with them - I am by no means narrowing his interactions to just those three. If all this intrigues you, feel free to interact with ghost-Caspar however or with whoever. I’ll take asks, submits, or reblogs of this scene-setter/starter. Just be sure to get your ideas in my inbox, notices, or DMs before April 1, 11:59PM PST (might be flexible with long thread ideas). I left open where he goes first, but ghost Caspar can be found anywhere he normally hangs out as well as the above stated other locations. Or anywhere at all, really.

Given that this idea has only existed for as long as it took me to write this, I don’t have a lot of premeditated constraints for ghost Caspar other than the following:

He’s effectively made of mana/an energy-being here. If he’s stuck in this form too long, he may need to leech off someone’s magical (or life?!?) energy.

What happened to his body?!? Could be stolen or transmuted or something else entirely; you decide! (Or it might differ by interaction?)

At base, he looks like himself but glows faint cyan (like his hair, but electric). He’s easier to see at night and near impossible to see in day. Magically attuned people OR people observant enough to notice a “heat mirage” effect when the temperature really isn’t hot enough to have one may still be able to see him even in daylight, though.

If he gets too emotionally distressed, his form distorts and fuzzes out - think old TV static meets Photoshop Liquefy/Shear. Same happens to his voice - the latter scream could be likened to a banshee’s.

He can talk to anyone who sees him, or to anyone who doesn’t via dreams/possession. Possessing someone in broad daylight (e.g. to hold conversation, though theoretically it could be done to frighten someone?) might manifest physically, e.g. host feels their body temperature drop, or their eyes change color.

He can move physical objects if he concentrates. This might look like repeated attempts to grab/clench an object if you can see his full incorporeal form, or a cyan wisp of variable thickness/opacity if you can’t.

Ironically, being made of pure mana here, he might have an easier time casting spells than he would normally. Too bad he has no affinity for dark magic. (Fire and wind could blow apart his form; he retains his fear of thunder and lightning; and he might be able to pull off a supremely weak “Sagittae” if it ever came up... e.g. one "arrow”, and more a stylus at that.) Nosferatu would come surprisingly easy thanks to the whole mana vampire HC.

#april fools #au: ghost #// this is awfully long for a spontaneous idea haha

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charmingpplincardigans · 4 years

Note

👀

Thank you! (I’ve been enjoying your snippets so much.

This is one of the sections of the Ben & Klaus Brothers (TM) fic. I got 15,000 words into that before giving up, which is the longest I’ve ever gotten into a fic without just deciding I would finish it. I kind of feel like I should get back to it to post before season two comes out, but I also kind of feel like it doesn’t matter either way. I don’t know, we’re working on our brains in 2020 lads! Gonna stop worrying what other people want when it comes to the words we want to write!

. . .

“I don’t feel good about this,” Ben said.

They were standing on the sidewalk in front of a house on the outer edges of the city. It had taken Klaus two bus rides and twenty minutes of walking to even get here and now that they were here Ben wasn’t sure they wouldn’t be better off back in the alley where Klaus had been curling up to take quick cat naps for the last week. On their side of the leaning chain link fence the sidewalk was tidy and the grass was recently mowed. On the other side of it the stones to the front walk were all cracked with tall tufts of weeds growing up through and around them. The grass in the rest of the yard was intermittent with patches of grey dirt between hip high islands of weeds.

The house itself looked like a squat layer cake someone had left out in the storm. The second and third stories seemed to lean to the right. The light blue paint was flaking off the wooden slat boards that made up the side of the house and settling into the grass like melting snow. There was so much graffiti sprayed on the sides that only the boards nearest the overhang of the uneven first floor roof showed what the original color of it might have been. The graffiti was actually the least worrisome part of the scene to Ben. At least graffiti gave the impression that someone cared enough about the place to still be interacting with it. By contrast, the darkened windows and broken glass made it look unwelcoming and untouched.

“You don’t feel good about anything,” Klaus said. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve forgotten how to feel full stop.”

“When would I have had time to forget that when I’m forced to spend all of my time with you?”

Klaus scoffed and gently touched the tips of his fingers to his chest. “Me? I try my best not to feel anything at all.”

By way of demonstration he pulled a half-smoked blunt from his pocket and lit it. A woman coming up the sidewalk brushed past where Klaus was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk and cleared her throat loudly while dragging her rolling grocery basket over his feet. Klaus let the blunt hang from his lips while he used both fingers to flick her off.

“And what a good job you’re doing of that,” Ben observed.

Klaus turned his fingers on Ben. Then he spread his long legs wide like he was doing stretches and made a point of taking up as much of the sidewalk as he could while finishing off the blunt. He dropped the tip of it onto the sidewalk and let it burn itself out.

“I’ve got a song in my heart and I will not let you silence it,” Klaus said.

On the scale of nonsensical non-sequiturs Ben had gotten from Klaus over the last year that he’d been haunting him, this one didn’t even rate as interesting.

“Is that song Teenage Dirtbag by any chance?” Ben asked.

Klaus did not dignify Ben with an answer. He resituated the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and stepped into the yard. Ben followed behind him as he wandered from patch of weeds to patch of weeds and collected a fistfull of limp yellow and white flowers. He stuffed the stems of them into the front pocket of his jeans.

When he looked at Ben, Ben just raised an eyebrow at him.

“For the girl who’s letting me borrow her bed,” he said, as if fistfuls of weeds were a usual form of payment for anyone over the age of seven.

“If she lives here, she knows the flowers are here. She could bring them inside if she wanted them inside.”

Klaus shrugged, plucked an extra clutch of the white ones, and tucked them behind his right ear. Then he turned toward the front steps and Ben followed him reluctantly.

Ben didn’t want his brother sleeping rough, but Klaus was determined not to go back to the Academy and also to spend any money he got within fifteen minutes of it hitting his grubby little hands instead of saving up for a place to live. It was just that he didn’t want his brother sleeping in a murder squat in the suburbs either, but here they were, walking up a very creaky set of decrepit front steps and trying a door knob that slipped about inside of its frame when it was turned.

The inside of the house was not more well-preserved than the outside. Klaus walked across the entryway and started up the staircase in front of them without stopping to look around, but Ben did peer into the rooms to either side of them as they passed. The walls of the living room on the first floor were also sprayed in a rainbow clutter of designs, but the couch in the center of the room looked relatively clean. There was a pile of belongings next to it which probably meant someone had claimed it. The kitchen was a disaster he’d rather not think about. On the second floor they passed three bedrooms in various states of clutter, all of them had groups of people in them in various states of living their lives, some of which Ben really wished they’d shut the door for. The second floor bathroom was in a worse state than the kitchen.

Around a corner off the second floor hallway there was a tight doorway with a small rickety wooden staircase leading up into darkness. Klaus started up, running his hand along the wall as he went. When he reached the top he felt around in the dark for a few seconds before saying “aha!” and pushing a creaking door open. Late afternoon light flooded down the stairs and framed Klaus’s body in a halo of dust particles and cobwebs hanging from the door frame. The shadow thrown from him darkened his clothing and washed out his skin and for a moment he looked like he’d looked in the before, when they’d stood next to each other in black uniforms and faced possible death together.

Now they lived a life where they faced obvious and certain death together and it was not nearly as fun or sure as their life before had been. And given how stressful and traumatic their life before had actually been, that was saying something.

“Come on or don’t,” Klaus said. “I don’t care.” He turned and moved out of sight, leaving Ben to look down at himself as the afternoon light fell through him with no resistance.

Ben felt the sting of that, but tried to let it slide off. Klaus had only said it to sting Ben. He seemed to spend a lot of their time alone together trying to figure out how to get Ben to go away. Ben had yet to work out whether this was out of shame or self-preservation or maybe both. Some days his words landed deep enough that Ben absolutely would have left Klaus if he could, but he couldn’t. No matter where he tried to go he ended up back at Klaus’s side eventually, once whatever Klaus had done to himself wore off.

He waited a few minutes and then continued up the steps. Through the doorway there was a pretty sizeable attic. It was cordoned off into portions by shees tacked to the rafters with a crooked path leading down the center of them as a hallway. He drifted down it, dragging his fingers along the fabric of the sheets even though he could feel them, until he found Klaus in the far corner.

The space was just large enough for a twin sized four poster bed clothed in dirty thin sheets, a rickety dresser, and a person-sized alley between them. The wooden floors had been covered with a large stained rug that was bigger than the room area. It had the whole window though, cracked and dirty as it was. A faded pink sheet was tacked up just to the left of it, which meant the light was catching and bouncing against the pink sheet and the white one hanging perpendicular to it. The whole space glowed. Ben wondered distantly if this was what heaven would look like if he had ended up there.

Klaus dropped his bag next to the bed. He pulled the flowers out of his pocket and left them on the dresser. Then he pulled a baggy of pills out of the other pocket and dumped several into his hand.

“Don’t do that,” Ben said.

Klaus tipped his head back and let the drugs fall into his mouth without even bothering to argue his case to Ben. There wasn’t much of a case to argue anyway. Ben had long ago stopped trying to come up with logical, reasonable reasons why Klaus shouldn’t drug himself to oblivion. He wasn’t going to do it for Ben’s sake and he certainly wasn’t going to do it for his own sake. Anyway, the problem with trying to argue logic with an addict who could talk to the dead was that withdrawal hurt and ghosts hurt and drugs didn’t hurt. In the short term anyway.

When Ben had been alive he hadn’t realized just how much of Klaus was a naked nerve, how everything he brushed up against could light him up with mental and physical pain Ben didn’t have a reference for. Not that he’d never been in pain, just that Klaus seemed to feel it all differently than Ben did. Instead of viewing it as an extension of himself he viewed it as the core of himself, pulled every drop of it into himself because the more he had the bigger he felt. One would hope that eventually he could make himself big enough to be immune to much more of it, but that hadn’t happened yet.

Ben hopped up onto the dresser as Klaus lowered himself onto the bed and its creaking mattress. They sat and watched the sun filter in through the window in silence.

“We should get out of town,” Ben said after some minutes.

“We are out of town,” Klaus said, voice quiet.

“No, for real. Too far to take a bus.” Ben felt wistful. Outside the window the sun was setting over the street and tinting everything a hopeful gold. It lit up in the cracks in the glass like a river burning through a map. He wondered if sunsets looked the same everywhere or if different streets and trees and wider skies reflected it differently. He had a strong urge to leave now and stop in every city between here and the Pacific Ocean to check, and then continue on past the end of the land toward the mystery who the two of them might be when they weren’t hiding in plain sight in the shadow of their collective past. “If you’re not going to go home, if you’re going to insist on living as perilously as possible, you can do that anywhere.”

Klaus didn’t answer. When Ben turned to look at him he was sitting hunched over his drawn up knees with his eyes closed. The light was hitting his face full on, but there were still shadows collecting around the ridges and shallow hollows of his cheeks and jaw. The flowers behind his ear were drooping forward, thin stems and petals arching down as if they were reaching back toward the earth. Klaus looked tired and very close to slipping away.

Ben did not want to lose him, and that wasn’t entirely because he worried that if he did he would lose himself.

“Are you even listening to me? I bet we could get Pogo to give us the money for it. Somehow.”

Klaus fell back on the mattress with his arms spread wide. He dragged them across the mess of sheets, up and down, up and down, creating the top half of a wrinkled and stained, threadbare snow angel. He stared up at the ceiling for several long minutes while Ben listened to the sounds of rustling from the other inhabitants of the abandoned house.

Some of the sounds were human. Ben was sure that at most, a quarter of the sounds that didn’t seem human were being made by actual non-human beings. By contrast, only a quarter of the inhabitants of the place were not rats or other ghosts. From the outside the place had looked empty, but it was teeming with life and afterlife.

“I am, in fact, trying not to listen to you,” Klaus said. “In case you couldn’t tell.”

“You can’t live like this,” Ben said. He hadn’t had a living body that could fall to injury or disease for at least a year, but he was still wary of brushing up against too many things. There were stains and needles and spent matches on almost every surface of every part of the house he’d seen. He was very glad he couldn’t smell it.

Klaus giggled, high and manic, and because they were connected and Ben could feel him he could feel the moment when the drugs hit his head. There was an unsettling swoop in Ben’s gut.

Klaus rubbed his hands over his face. “No,” he said. “You can’t live like this. You can’t live at all. Anymore.”

“Fuck you,” Ben replied, though he couldn’t bring himself to put any real anger behind it.

Klaus was an asshole, but he was right. And he was the only thread Ben could hold on to that linked him to his life, kept him from disappearing into the void of after-life. They had been close once, and in some ways Ben was mourning that as much as he was still mourning the loss of his breath or his beating heart. Ben simply didn’t know this person anymore, this pretty, unwashed, painted up boy made of angles and hollows who was on the cusp of becoming a man, but who still seemed so young.

It was Klaus’s recklessness and the utter disregard for his own well-being that bothered Ben the most. To Ben, Klaus’s whole being was a precious flame of life that he knew could go out at any moment. It was urgent and imperative that he block it from the wind. Which was difficult, when all Klaus seemed to want to do was step into the gale.

“I just need, ten minutes,” Klaus mumbled. “Just give me ten minutes to exist by myself.” His voice was soft, and it trailed off into the final f.

Ben felt it the moment he was cut off. The feeling of dread for Klaus diminished and he was left with his own feeling of complete and total lightness, in the setting but not of it, not affected by it. He knew Klaus wouldn’t hear him now, probably couldn’t see him. It didn’t matter. He would wait. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do.

He pulled a battered copy of The Myth of Sisyphus from the pocket of his jacket and opened it to page 165. When he had been living the book only had 160 pages in it, but it seemed that authors and philosophers were frequently uneasy in death, adding adding adding to the things they did in life as if they could somehow change who they had been. Ben was not doing that. He wasn’t.

But he would chase Klaus from low to low if he had to. He’d make him see how important his muted, shallow breathing was. And then…well, he wasn’t sure he’d actually get that accomplished, so he’d hold off for now on putting anything else on the list.

#memes #i write things #girlfriendsofthegalaxy #the umbrella academy #klaus hargreeves #ben hargreeves #i feel like some of the writing in this dumb fic #is actually pretty good #pfah #adding it to the list for the new year

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thecomicsnexus · 4 years

Text

Juliet's Revenge

TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES #42 DECEMBER 1991 BY RICK MCCOLLUM AND BILL ANDERSON

SYNOPSIS (FROM TURTLEPEDIA)

The story opens with a tied-up Casey, refusing to reveal what his captors wish to know. A voice indicates that a truth serum will be administered.

The next few panels cut between cryptozoologist Charlie Forté receiving a series of photos of the Turtles from a mysterious man in black, and Casey spilling his guts about his "extended family" and his childhood. Then, the Charlie scenes are inter-spliced with similar scenes of April O'Neil - also tied up and refusing to talk, but eventually revealing about the Turtles and going in to her childhood. Both Casey and April are administered an amnesiac drug after their sequence of panels.

The man in black provides Charlie with a second set of photographs, this series depicting Foot, T.C.R.I. Alien, Unknown, Triceraton, Leatherhead, and Carnage. Charlie decides to work with this mysterious man, then indicating that the man looks familiar, but due to having researched more into science than literature, he only recognizes him as, potentially, a famous author. The man in black is then revealed to be Edgar Allan Poe.

Meanwhile, the Turtles are at the farmhouse. Leonardo is reading "The Way of the Zen Warrior", Michelangelo is scouring the refrigerator in vain for food, and Raphael is beating Donatello at arm-wrestling. The Turtles ponder the fate of their friends, who left for food hours previously. Klunk lies sleeping on the floor.

Surmising that it may be enemy action that is behind their friends' tardiness, Leonardo suggests that the four of them set out. In the fields, they spot Casey's hockey mask, bloodied. They then come across Casey's car and scattered weapons, as well as April's purse - still filled with cash. Leonardo finds his theory is correct. The Turtles split up.

Raphael is approached by a portly man in a cowboy hat, who complements his sai. The man says that he wishes that he would have known about Raph, as he would have written about him. He then says he has to "blow away" Raph. An angry Raphael swipes the man's arm with his sai, but the man is unharmed. Simply by pointing an index finger at Raph and saying "Bang", he shoots Raphael in the chest. As he passes out, Raph questions the man's identity. He reveals himself after Raphael loses consciousness.

"Lovecraft called me "Two-Gun Bob." But you can call me Mister Howard."

Walking through the trees, Michelangelo is ambushed by Bruce Lee. After wailing on him with his own nunchaku, Bruce knocks Michelangelo out.

Donatello stands still and attempts to mentally focus on his friends to locate them. His concentration is broken by a feminine voice.

"Hey, Big Boy... Is that a staff in your hand. - or are you just happy to see me?"

Mae West approaches Donatello from the cornstalks, hypnotizing him with her gaze, and kissing him, causing him to pass out. She then laments the "Turtle Spit" she swapped with the ninja.

Leonardo is approached by a bearded man in a robe with a palette and a paintbrush.

"Tires, cars, automobiles, so wonderful, don't you know- given time, I'd have invented them."

Leonardo recognizes the man as his own namesake and gets into a fighting stance, katana drawn.

"You, I would have dissected" Da Vinci says as he paints a swirl on the Turtle's plastron. The Turtle screams in pain and collapses. Da Vinci then adds "I'd have painted you first, I think."

A mysterious, gauchely dressed woman strolls through a macabre garden full of monstrous bugs, mouth-bearing flowers, disembodied heads, and rosebush-impaled bodies. She contemplates the events that have occurred over the thousands of years of her life, culminating in this night's plot for revenge for her husband,

Splinter, wearing naught but a fundoshi sits in a tree; Poe sits on a nearby branch. The two discuss how Poe's friend Lovecraft resisted whatever events are to follow, and was "cast screaming into Rl'yeh". Splinter notes that he will not resist, and a tearful Poe thanks him.

April and Casey freak out about their kidnapping, although they don't have any clue what happened to them. They spot the Turtles' tracks and Casey's mask (although it is no longer bloodied). Casey dons his mask and is reinvigorated.

Charlie Forté interrogates Splinter, who is tied upside-down. Not receiving the answers he seeks, Forté is angered, but interrupted by the mysterious woman and Poe, who appear from a butt of mystic smoke. The Turtles are revealed to be hanging upside-down as well, and the woman awakens them.

The mysterious woman begins her exposition to the turtles, indicating that she found a spell three-hundred years ago that would allow her to enact her revenge. An angered Poe leaps at the woman to attack her, but is vaporized by her, reducing him to nothing but a smoking skull.

As April and Casey approach the barn in which Splinter and the Turtles are being held, the hostages mock the clearly insane woman. Breaking down in tears, she calls the Turtles monsters, insisting that they have taken her beloved from them. The Turtles haven't a clue who she or her lover are still. The woman explains that her husband was a powerful sorcerer that ruled for centuries over the barbarians with her at his side, until the Turtles and a "hairy, smelly Earth pig" appeared. Leonardo still protests that her identity is unknown to them. This sets the woman off and causes her to transform, yelling

"DOES THE NAME SAVANTI JULIET RING A BELL? Do you remember my husband now?"

Brandishing each of their weapons (her own nails to mimic Splinter's claws), Juliet sings an indecipherable tune whilst striking each of them in turn with their own weapons. With the blood gained from these strikes, she marks a pattern on Charlie Forté's forehead. Charlie objects to the use of the Turtles and Splinter in this ritual, wishing to use them for his own scientific research. Juliet painfully reminds him who's boss as everything turns black. Flaming sigils are drawn in the air by Juliet as the ceiling appears to open up into the universe.

April sneaks up behind Juliet as Casey cuts down the Turtles and Splinter from the rafters with a pocket knife. April swipes a hand through part of Juliet's mandala and interrupts the spell however briefly, causing her to turn and blast April in the side with a beam of magic. Juliet then summons a massive wave of goblins.

Casey, Splinter, and the Turtles fight off these hideous beasts as Juliet attempts to complete her time mastery/revenge spell. Proclaiming the Turtles to be "his", an enraged and insane Charlie attacks Splinter with a bite to the arm. Mystic flames burn Juliet's head as she continues her spell; even more goblins spill forth. The noble warriors are falling, soon to be dead, as Juliet's plan nears its conclusion.

Suddenly, a beam of light cascades down through the roof from the sky, bringing with it a frizzle-haired woman in a toga, who commands that Savanti Juliet "STOP!"

Juliet seems to know this woman, and the two supernatural females square off. Regaining consciousness, April uses a piece of lumber to knock Charlie off of Splinter, before she is batted away by a goblin. The goblins begin attacking Charlie as well; he looks toward Savanti Juliet for assistance, and the last of his courage is burned away by seeing her flaming skull.

Savanti Juliet and the woman draw hands toward one another, and the barn explodes. Casey, April, Splinter, and the Turtles find themselves on a hill overlooking the flaming barn, demolishing the last of the goblin horde. The woman explains that she saved them, as she couldn't let any harm come to her good friends. Once again, Leonardo fails to identify this woman, leading her to use a line reminiscent of days past to clue in her friends....

"C'mon dudes, this scene would gag me with its groadiness!"

The Turtles correctly realize that this savior is Renet, and she explains that she is from thousands of years in the future, haven taken over Lord Simultaneous' position, and is currently the Mistress of Time. Renet heals the group and then takes her leave.

Meanwhile, a young couple is making out in the woods, when some noise startles the female of the couple. They are approached by a disfigured and deranged Charlie Forté, burned by the mystic fires of Savanti Juliet, still proclaiming the Turtles to be "his". The closing panel indicates that Charlie is reported as another Bigfoot sighting, ironically making him seen as one of the very cryptids he had studied his entire life.

REVIEW

This is a decent story, but becomes weaker by depending on past stories. This one not being canon, and the other one involving a creation from a different studio, makes both stories “rare”. That story, though, was part of the canon, and this apparently isn’t. Then again, that’s debatable.

In any case, it is unclear why Juliet had to recruit these figures from the past, at least to me. She seemed powerful enough to do the job herself. Even before the transformation.

The art on the other hand, is pretty solid. Keeps the indie feel of the Turtles mixed with a lot of iconography and symbolism that was very popular in the early nineties.

I give the issue a score of 7.

#mirage studios #bill anderson #rick mccollum #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #comics #review #1991 #modern age #indie #splinter

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bedbellyandbeyond · 6 years

Text

Codename: Red

Long Post, Art At End - NEW CHARACTER

"Dari? You awake back there?" Fay asked. "We've almost arrived." They were on their way to Fay's work to have Dari checked up. For his pregnancy, he'd been regularly house visited by an external doctor, but he still had to come into the EID to see his psychiatrist and update his rehabilitation progress every other month. "I'm awake…" Since returning to Earth, Dari was much more comfortable riding in the back of the car so he could lie down and not have to look out the window. Making any eye contact with strangers on the outside made him terribly anxious and he didn't much like to watch the road either. It just made him motion sick and he didn't want to go back to the vomiting part of his pregnancy. He kept a hand on his stomach throughout the entire ride. At five months in, there was a fair bit to hold onto.

Fay pulled up to the front gates and fobbed his way into the facility and underground parking lot. After parking in his reserved space, he got out of the car and opened Dari's door for him. "Come on out, sweetheart." Dari groaned and sat up, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I hate check-ups." "I know. Don't worry. It'll be over soon." "You say that but it's not true," Dari said grabbing Fay's arm to help himself out. They made their way inside and up to Fay's office. Since Dari's appointment was in the afternoon, Dari was to hang around Fay for the time being. Even though Fay told him to ignore them, Dari couldn't help noticing the looks from his boyfriend's co-workers as they went down the hall to the separate office. "I'm going to be going over some files," Fay said. "You can use the couch to lie down if you feel like and of course there's water and some snack in the fridge, so-" "-Fay," Dari said. "We've done this before. I know. I curl up on the couch, you do some filing then you go off and see some clients and leave me all alone locked up in your office until my appointment." Fay sighed. "I just want to make you comfortable." "I'll be fine." With that Dari scooped up the blanket draped over the back of the sofa, wrapped himself up, and got snug on the couch. He was asleep almost instantaneously. Fay let out another sigh and got to work. After organising his things and updating Vi's information again, he slid all his paperwork into his drawer, pulled out a file and stood up. He looked over to the bundle that was Dari and rubbed his shoulder. "Hm?" "I'm off now," Fay said. "One hour with my first client, then I'll be back, okay?" "Mm…" "The door'll be locked so no one can bother you but you can get out in case you need the washroom or anything… You remember the passcode to get back in, right?" "Mm…17091989…" "Good. Love you." "Love you…" Fay leaned in and kissed Dari's head before leaving the room. He waited a moment outside the door to make sure he heard the door lock. Nothing worried him more than a snoopy or jealous co-worker finding their way into his room and potentially bothering Dari. He got to the elevator and swiped a card inside. Only these cards allowed access to the lowest floors of the EID where they kept new arrivals to Earth. Being so deep underground never ceased to put Fay on edge. As an ocean dweller, being so extremely buried in dirt felt rather threatening. But it was part of his job and while not comfortable, he was used to it. On the very bottom floor, security was dense. It took a good several minutes for Fay to get through all the procedures before he could walk freely again. The ceilings were high and the halls well lit in an attempt to make things feel more above ground, but the steel columns and rafters all but dissolved the illusion. Steel doors lined the halls and Fay made his way halfway down to the room number he was looking for. Even after dealing with this client many times, Fay still had to check the number since there were simply too many rooms. A low growl assured him it was the right room and he let himself in. The resident was sitting on a bed at the other end of the room. Fay did not miss the days when he'd be right at the door when Fay walked in, nearly scaring him. "Good morning," Fay said, in his best Yulini. He made his way to the table in the middle of the room and sat. There was a plate in the centre with a leg of lamb and seasoned potatoes. Fay's nose crinkle. "You haven't eaten breakfast?" His client didn't respond and just sniffed the air. Slowly he got up and came over, his seven feet of height lumbering over Fay. He stood beside him, sniffing again. He was the one who'd crashed in the Golf. His skin was a deep ashy red, his eyes big and black with white pupils, gem like structures protruding from his body including a single horn on his forehead. A long tail swung from side to side behind him, a dark plate at the end, flanked by two prongs. They'd given him pants but he'd arrived with ripped off world clothing, damaged in the crash it seemed. "Are you not talking to me, Red?" Fay asked pouting. "Did I do something wrong? Are we having a falling out?" Suddenly the alien Fay called Red grabbed his shirt and lifted him up. Fay's heart skipped a beat but he stayed calm and held up a hand at the cameras, knowing someone on the other end probably had their hand on the security button. "Hey. Speak to me please," Fay said looking in the dark eyes of his holder. "I don't like this and you're hurting me." His client lifted him closer and took another sniff before putting him down. "He's here," Red finally said through his own gruff and heavily grunt based language, sniffing the air above his head. "...What..." Fay's eyes widened suddenly. "Oh. Oh no. He's not." "He's here," Red repeated, turning to the door. "Hey, I know what you're thinking," Fay said. "It's not worth it. You'll only get hurt." Red quickly stomped to the door and sniffed around it. With two quick motions, he jabbed his fingers into the concrete on both sides of the door and ripped it from the wall, flinging it over his shoulder. Concrete dust scattered and showered Fay, blinding him for a moment. After a terrible coughing fit, the dust settled and Red was no longer there. Fay panicked and ran out to the hall, finding Red galloping on all fours down towards the elevator. He barrelled through security, knocking guards to either side. Once at the elevator doors, he threw himself at them, denting them inwards. By this time the alarms were sounding and security was catching up. Guards with tranquilisers got to the scene and were frantically shooting. It did little to deter the escapee and he pried the elevator doors open. There was no lift on the other side but it didn't seem to bother him. He leapt into the shaft and started climbing. Fay cursed and decided to run to the freight elevator. With the facility now in lockdown, he scrambled to put in the emergency override code. He managed to get it in and the elevator flung upward. He panted in the corner, catching his breath and praying that Dari would be alright.

Dari didn't know what to think when the alarms started going off. He had been napping and at first thought it was an alarm clock. When he realised he was still in Fay's office, he got up quickly and tried the door. The lockdown however had sealed it shut and he started to get scared. Fay's window was much to high to climb from so he was stuck. Shaking, he crawled under Fay's desk with the blanket and sobbed. Without a clue in the world what was going on, he feared the worst. He didn't know where Fay was. He didn't know what happened. He didn't know how to get out. He stayed huddled there for an uncountable amount of time. What bothered him most was the alarms ringing and reverberating in his head. He kept his hands over his ears trying to keep out the sound. It reminded him so much of the alarms on the captors' ship when they'd been attacked. All he knew was it meant danger. Suddenly, there was a loud crash and the floor trembled. Someone screamed. He balled up further, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Something was out there. He could hear the loud footfalls as whatever it was moved about the floor. It got close. Then stopped. He was in tears now. He couldn't help the sobs escaping him. Whatever it was, it had to be an alien, right? That's what Fay dealt with. That's what this place dealt with. And it's what Dari feared most. Whatever it was, he was not going to be captured again. He unfurled, looking around. Poking his head up from the desk, he froze. It was there. Right outside the door. A tall looming figure silhouetted in the frosted window of the door. His eyes glanced down to the desk and found a reasonably pointy letter opener. Dari grabbed it quickly and curled back up under the door. He needed to fight. There was no way his child was going to be abducted. He'd kill them and himself before that could ever happen. The door flew open. Dari held his breath, hoping if he didn't move and stayed quiet enough, he wouldn't be found out. The beast moved around the room. He could hear it sniffing the air. A big red two toed foot stepped in front of the opening of the desk. Dari's breath hitched. He recognised this foot. He couldn't help but let out a whimper. The desk disappeared from above him and crashed against the wall. Dari brandished the knife but his hands were trembling so hard, there was no way he could use it. He was already defeated. He just cried, his eyes shut tight. The knife was easily pulled out of his hands. He prepared for the worst. He felt himself being picked up by the big solid arms. Still sniffling and sobbing, he was pressed against the beast's shoulder. Fine, he said. I give up. Take me away. I know, I'm just a thing to you… But they didn't go anywhere he was just held there, tight in the beast's arms. Is this… he wondered. Is this a…hug? After a solid minute of being squished against the alien, he was relinquished and put down. Dari opened his eyes and panted, trying to catch his breath. He looked at his 'captor'. They were big, yes, but not as big as the alien he remembered, and not quite as rugged. In fact, he was missing a few qualities from the species he remembered, including a many more horns and a much thicker tail. Instead, this one was a lot more…human. "…You're…" Dari mumbled, raising a hand and pointing. "…You're…" The alien just sat there across from him, seemingly smiling and watching him. Dari still tried to gather his word. "…You're my…" Suddenly Dari could hear running coming down the hall and his name being called. The alien stood up quickly and got between him and the door. Dari recognised the voice. "Fay! Fay!" Fay got to the door, panting. "Dari! Are you…" He scowled up at the alien before him. "If you've done anything to Dari, I swear…" "He didn't do anything!" Dari said getting up and trying to move around the alien. "Fay, he's my son!" Fay got to Dari and pulled him into a hug. "Dari, you're okay, right? I'm so sorry…" "He's my son, Fay!" Dari said. "I can't believe… My first…" Then he looked at Fay. "Wait, did you know?" Fay's eyes widened. "No, no… Well… I…" Dari's pulled away from him. "You knew?! You knew one of my children was here and you didn't tell me?" "Dari," Fay said. "In your state, I didn't want you to get upset. I knew Red would bring back bad memories!" "I don't care!" Dari said. "He's my son! I can…" He turned to the alien who was just watching them both. "I can hold my child…" Dari reached out for his face. "Red?" "We named him that... His species doesn't seem to really have names," Fay said. "It's mostly visually and scent based identification." Red dropped his face into Dari's hands and let him feel his features. "I'll find him a name," Dari said, rubbing his thumbs over his son's cheeks. "Hah, he got my freckles…" Fay raised an eyebrow and looked back to Red. "Those are diamond shaped markings, not freckles." "They're freckles, Fay," Dari said. "Don't be jealous." Fay huffed. "I'm not jealous." Dari moved his hands down to his son's big arms. "…He should come home with us." Fay blinked. "What? Absolutely not. There's no way." "Fay, he's all alone and scared," Dari said. "Dari, listen to me," Fay said. "He just did hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of damage here and also happens to be a loose unregistered alien from a hostile planet. We are not taking him home with us." "You can talk to him though, right?" Dari asked. "You know what he's about. He's good and you like him, I bet." "It's not about whether I like him or not!" Fay said. "After doing this, there is no way anyone's going to let him go anywhere but back to the planet he came from." "Fay, he doesn't fit in there," Dari said. "He'd be too small. He's probably a refugee." "There is nothing at all small about him," Fay stated. "I've seen his kind!" Dari said. "I know, not you! They are three times his size! They'll kill him if he goes back!" "My hands are tied, Dari!" Fay said. "Even if he hadn't just destroyed my office, he would need years of processing before they even let him set foot outside." "Fay," Dari said. "I'm not leaving this building without him." "Dari." "Fay." "Dari!" "He's my son." Fay grit his teeth and looked between Red and Dari, both watching him expectantly. He sighed. "This is going to get me fired."

Dari: My son is so handsome and beautiful and tall and strong and just...really real. I can touch him and hug him and... Fay, I’m gonna cry...

Fay: There, there. *hugs him* He gets all his good looks from you.

#new character #Dari #Fay #Red #mpreg #alien #alien abduction #alien abductee #lore

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imagines-oneshots-blog · 6 years

Photo

The Boys In Blue

Chapter 1

Chapter Two: Color Coded Memos, A Few Beers, and A Line Begging To Be Crossed

There was something in the air today, dank and heaving, coiling anxiously with covert purpose in the timber and tedium filled room as you sat through your fourth police sanctioned lecture of the day.

Maybe it was the perfume of the woman sitting a few seats away from you, the scent wafting from her pompously coifed hair smelling suspiciously like Aqua Net and Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. Or maybe it was the stale musk of the cabin you and about twenty other women were crowded into, all of you currently being assailed with the finer points of writing a good memo. As you checked the tacky bird shaped clock perched precariously on the far wall, you mused that you were about forty-two minutes into the titillating seminar, and you were so bored that you could cry.

Boredom; maybe that was the something perched nefariously in the rafters. No, that was certainly part of it, but not quite all of it. Whatever it was hung too vibrant and sharp along the notches of your spine to be mere boredom, though you couldn’t quite stop yourself from checking the fowl clock again to confirm that you were now forty three minutes in, and then again in about sixty five seconds to confirm at forty four minutes. Fuck, would this ever end?

Impatience, then? No, this feeling was more concentrated, less caustic. You glanced down at your lap to have something more interesting to look at, studying the worn wash of your jeans as though it would be so forthcoming as to provide you with an escape from this hellish afternoon. The denim stared back up at you, seemed to shrug as you uncrossed your legs, crossed them again.

This was the second day of the Roane County Police Department Retreat, each hour chock full of lectures on every stimulating subject, from department wide safety measure enforcement to properly utilizing the state provided fax machines so charitably supplied to each county station. As if any of the numerous arrogant, egotistical officers swarming the retreat site this weekend would ever give a damn about sending a fax, let alone deign to learn how to use the machine themselves. Such tasks were left to secretaries, like yourself and the handfuls of other pant suited, polite tempered ladies attending the event.

When the lecturer, an older woman sporting a hideous coral suit jacket-skirt combo and far too much lip liner, began her last segment on penmanship, you had to try very hard to remember the real reason you were here, the reason that your bored, denim clad ass was currently parked in this bracing plastic chair, and it sure as shit wasn’t legible cursive.

It was Hopper, with his stormy blue eyes and his gravely pleas, his damned favors and his rare smiles that made fire sizzle in your belly. That unnamed feeling sparking in the air stirred, coiling more fiercely about you at that thought, buzzing so strongly that for a moment you could almost give it a name, but Lip Liner up front prattling on about the correct way to write a ‘Z’ in the cursive alphabet had the adjectives slipping away like sand through upturned fingers.

Given something more interesting to think about, your bored mind eagerly fixated, conjuring up images of Hopper’s hands clutching the worn edges of his wide brimmed hat or braced upon the holster of his gun where it was clipped to his belt; and of his fingers, long and thick, curled around the white slip of cigarette poised between his lips, or raking through the sandy blond hair strewn messy and unkempt about his forehead. You sighed heavily, tentatively giving in to the daydreams prodding insistently at the nape of your neck, aversely toeing that proprietary line etched in sturdy mahogany desks and yellowed memo pads, the one that screamed quite clearly that it was inappropriate, improper, to harbor fantasies about your boss.

But then why did these images of Hopper so abruptly and gleefully turn from innocent scenes in the office to markedly wanton images of those same hands clutching not at any wide brimmed head gear but at you, those long thick fingers tripping down the swell of your waist, splaying eager and wanting about the curves of your ass to clutch you tighter to him as his lips slid hungrily down the exposed slope of your neck. You’d bet that his beard would feel like heaven as it rasped against the delicate flesh of your collarbones, or better yet, the sensitive skin near the cradle of your thighs.

The Hopper of this daydream wasn’t simply a grumpy, quick tempered, secretly lovable boss who had made it clear from his previous actions that he had no problem scoring when it came to the ladies of Hawkins; he was also attentive, resolute and single-minded in his intimacy. Somewhere in the back of your mind, far removed from the place where you stalwartly refused to admit that you pondered such things, you firmly suspected that was how Hopper was, that he would show the same devotion and determination when he explored your body, wrung shattering pleasure from you, as he had while solving Hawkins’ only missing persons case since ’23. For a moment you let yourself imagine giving in to his heated caresses, falling into bed with him, tugging his huge, hulking body against yours. Would he mindfully slip his hands down your waist, splay his fingers in the dips of your ribs and lower, slide them down between the jutting cliffs of your hip bones; was he the kind of man that relished in the musky, earthen scents and tastes of a woman, in the teasing and tormenting of a willing body with an all too hungry tongue and a tempting pair of lips?

Was Jim Hopper the kind of man who loved to eat women out? Just then, you thought that you might kill to find out.

Chairs scraping loudly against worn wooden floors and the low hum of gentle chatter broke you much too soon from your Hopper filled reverie, and you had to take a few shuddering moments to shake your head and clear your throat, those molten, midnight tinged imaginings of huge hands curled around writhing hips and a familiar bearded jaw scraping across quivering flesh proving remarkably reluctant to leave your mind.

You found your legs were surprisingly jelly-like beneath you as you rose and followed the steady stream of shoulder pads and stockings out of the cabin, eternally grateful that these goddamned lectures were officially over for the weekend. In addition to being immensely boring, they also conjured up grating, somewhat uncomfortable memories of the tedium of school - never your favorite thing - and all of the angst and monotony that came with it.

As you burst from the small cabin door and bounded down the rickety porch steps you suddenly caught sight of a familiar scrub of ruddy beard and a bright flash of tempestuous blue peeking from beneath drawn brows and you smiled as you neared the towering figure leaning against a tan and white Chevy Blazer, strangely pleased that the picture Hopper cut in person was so meticulously similar to the ruggedly hewn man nipping at your thighs in your fervent daydreams.

“Hey,” you chanted as you plucked the cigarette burning slowly between Hopper’s upturned fingers and raised it to your lips to take a much-needed drag, relying on the nicotine firing against your tongue to distract you from how you’d imagined Hopper’s kiss would taste after he’d coaxed a blistering orgasm out of you with those sinful lips of his. A spark of pleasure roiled hotly in your chest as you spotted the grin tugging at Hopper’s mouth, spurred no doubt by your playful, jovial attitude at finally escaping that hellish seminar. Molten thoughts about scathing, toe-curling orgasms wrung from your trembling body by a certain tall, burly Police Chief didn’t exactly hurt your expression either.

“How was it?” Hopper questioned as he slid his fingers against yours to reclaim the cigarette from where it was balanced between your forefinger and thumb, and you attempted to look like you were thinking of an answer to his question instead of reveling in the rough whisper of his skin against yours. You weren’t entirely sure you succeeded.

“Better than the lecture on color-coding memos,” you mused, turning your face to the weak, late afternoon sunlight as you spoke, crossing your arms over the simple black long sleeved t shirt you wore to ward off the slight spring evening chill biting in the air, “But worse than the one on office bathroom etiquette,” you rolled your eyes up in Hopper’s direction, meeting amused, churning sapphire as you continued, “At least that was useful.”

Hopper chuckled lightly, the sound slightly jarring - you were still getting used to the fact that you could wring laughter out of notorious grump Jim Hopper – as he stubbed out the last of his cigarette and tugged open the creaky door to the Blazer.

“Bar?” he questioned, his stormy eyes following you as you walked around the front of the car and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“Bar,” you confirmed, settling in for the brief ride to the relatively tidy accommodations a half-mile or so away from the retreat compound that you and Hopper had secured yesterday when you’d arrived. He had insisted that you and him not bunk on site, at the five people to a cabin dorms that the retreat center provided, suggesting instead that you make use of the numerous motels lining the nearby highway

“They’ve already got us here,” Hopper had husked, a smoldering cigarette hanging lank between his lips, white smoke billowing freely into the air, pouring from the small furnace reflected in the deep blue pools of his eyes, “I’ll be damned if they make us stay at that glorified Boy Scout camp too.” And with that Hopper had slammed open the Roane County Yellow Pages in search of the nearest motel.

Thankfully, that same motel you were headed to now also sported a spectacularly dingy dive bar propped up right beside it, and after the day you’d had you needed a damn beer.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, as Hopper swung the Blazer into a gravel parking space and glanced at you with something warm and thrumming in his gaze, you had a name for that feeling firing through you all day, the one that had spilt down your spine and coiled between your shoulder blades, the one that had quickened your steps as you’d spotted Hopper waiting for you by the Blazer outside of the cabin, that had your heart twisting strangely in your chest now.

Anticipation.

And it almost concerned you, how much you enjoyed it.

___

Read the rest of the chapter here!

New Chapter! Anyone need a Hopper fix?? Can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

@raspberrymama

@jobean12-blog

@darthnerd25

@gettinjoyful

#Jim Hopper #Hopper x Reader #Stranger Things #Chief Jim Hopper

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princessofthedarkrealm · 7 years

Text

Stroke of Midnight - Chapter 5 (Pennywise x reader)

You were digging around in the prop room for tape when you heard the screams. Your head shot up and you stood up quickly, rushing to the door. You turned the corner and stood staring down at the end of the hallway where the dressing room was. The screams had to have come from there. Sure enough, the dressing room door flew open. Regina and Jessica came scrambling out, their hands flying up around their heads and shoulders as if they were trying to brush something off of them.

Mrs. Tunstall came running. “What? What’s wrong?” she hollered at the frantic girls.

“Rats! There were some rats!” the girls hollered.

“They were all over us!” Jessica was almost in tears.

“They jumped down from the rafters,” Regina chimed in.

You stood there taking in this strange scene. Where would rats have come from all of a sudden? Before you could step forward, you felt yourself being pulled backwards into the shadows. You whirled around to protest and came face to face with Pennywise.

“Wha-” Your mouth fell open as you stared in shock at your clown stalker. “What are you doing here?” you hissed.

Pennywise giggled, his usual grin on his face. “Did I surprise you?” he asked gleefully.

You scowled. “I’m beginning to think nothing surprises me anymore.”

“Well now…” He giggled again and nodded. “We’re going to have to work on that.”

You sighed. With the exception of that night that he had saved you, the clown could never show up at a time that was convenient.

“We shouldn’t talk in the open like this.” You pointed towards the open prop room door. You grabbed Pennywise by the arm as you walked around him to go inside. Somehow you didn’t think he would mind that you had done that. He left the door open, so you had to go behind him and close it. You spread out your arms. “So I hear screams and you show up. What’s up with that, Pennywise?”

You stood in front of him and crossed your arms over your chest, glowering at him. He didn’t say anything, but his brow furrowed. He stepped towards you, his eyes traveling up and down your body. You shifted uncomfortably. He stopped right in front of you, and to your surprise his hand came up and touched the torn bodice of your dress.

“Those other girls were not nice to you. Maybe next time they will be.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish. Was he the one that had put the rats in the dressing room to scare the girls? He sounded so serious. Did he really not realize that they had just been acting?

“Pennywise, they just… they were acting. This is a play. This is…” You picked up the torn piece of pink fabric that was hanging off your bodice. “This is my costume.” You showed him the pieces of Velcro that attached it and put it back in place. “See? The character that I play was supposed to wear this to the ball, but her stepsisters were jealous, so they ripped it. It’s supposed to tear like that.”

Pennywise had his head tilted to the side as you explained this to him. “You wanted them to tear your clothes?”

You nodded. “Of course. I mean, my character didn’t want them to, but I was just…” you waved your hands in the air. “I was pretending to be upset. We’re uh, doing a play of Cinderella. It’s about this girl whose mom dies when she’s little. And then her dad remarries. But the woman’s kind of a jerk. And she has two daughters.” You took a breath. Were you really having to explain the story of Cinderella to him? You started to say more when your heard voices down the hallway. Your mouth fell open when you realized that you hadn’t locked the door, so you rushed to do so.

“I think you should leave,” You said shortly. “Please, I don’t think it would be good if people would see you.”

Pennywise’s brow furrowed and his lips puckered. “You don’t…want me here?”

Your eyes grew wide as you caught the hint of anger in his voice. You held up your hand. “No, no it’s not that! It’s just… You’re just…” You gestured at him. “Please don’t be angry. We can talk some other time if you want.” The voices had gotten closer. “I can finish telling you Cinderella’s story.”

Pennywise’s face lit up. “You would tell me a story?”

“Yes,” You said quickly. “Whatever you want. I can show you some of my drawings too.”

Someone pulled at the doorknob.

“Just…” You held up a finger. “Wait right here.” You went to unlock the door and stuck your head out. It was Mr. Grayson, the props director.

“Y/N?”

You smiled at him. “Hey.”

Mr. Grayson laughed. “What are you doing locked in here?”

You thought fast. “I was just looking for some tape. I decided to re-adjust my costume and didn’t want anyone to walk in.”

“Ah. Well just let me know when you’re done.”

“Um…I should be…” You glanced behind you. Pennywise was nowhere to be seen. Why am I not surprised? you thought. You turned back to Mr. Grayson and gave him a cheesy grin. “I’m done. Have fun.”

You walked past him to go back to the stage and realized that you were shaking a little. He had just disappeared. No telling what other tricks he has up his sleeve. You shook your head. “Not normal. He is definitely not normal.”

******

You sat up with a jolt. Something had woken you. You listened for a second, but all was quiet. You glanced over at the clock. 11:35. Almost midnight. You rubbed your eyes and were about to lay back down when you saw something. A large white shape stood on the other side of your room. You sat straight up, your heart beating faster. How had he gotten in your house?

“Pennywise,” you whispered.

He slowly stepped into the moonlight. “I didn’t startle you, did I?” he asked quietly. His voice was so soft, so velvety.

You pulled your feet up as he approached your bed. You thought he was going to sit down, but what he did instead shocked you exponentially more. Very slowly he climbed onto the bed, the mattress sunk under his weight, springs creaking. His bells jingled as he moved. You backed up until you were against the headboard. Your heart was pounding. You started shaking. What was he going to do to you?

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice quavering.

“I just wanted to see my little princess.” He was almost in your face. His eyes shone silver in the moonlight. His cherry red mouth widened into his signature grin. “Let’s make you more comfortable.”

His hands firmly grabbed your legs. You yelped as he pulled you back down the bed.

“That’s better.” He was right over you now. “Isn’t my little princess more comfortable?”

You started squirming, trying to get back out from underneath him. Your heart pounded against your ribcage. “N-not really.”

He placed his hand on your stomach. Your stomach muscles quivered in response. You stopped moving.

“And what can I do to make my kitten more comfortable?”

“Uh…” was all you could reply.

He leaned in towards your neck. You instantly moved your head sideways, away from him. He inhaled. You whimpered. You were shaking violently now. This was now the second time he had been this close to you. Except this time was different. He was in your bed. He was on top of you. You gasped when you felt him lick your neck. You reached out and placed your hands on his chest. You started to push him away, but something stopped you. So many emotions flooded through you. The main part of you was petrified with fear, but deep down, there was another sensation beginning to take root. He started rubbing your stomach as if he could sense your desire. He inhaled your scent again.

“Tasty, tasty beautiful fear.” His voice was almost a growl. “But there is something else.” He pulled back to look at you, a dark, hungry look in his eyes. You heard a rumble in his throat. His eyes moved down to your chest. Before you could say or do anything, he grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled, ripping it. You gasped loudly. You tried to pull away, but he ripped farther. You hollered.

Pennywise dropped the torn fabric like it had burned him when he reached your breasts, which were now half exposed. You tried frantically to pull your shirt together. Pennywise was frozen, staring at your chest. The look on his face was undiscernible.

"What in the hell!" you hollered as you tried to scramble out from underneath him, which was very difficult since your hands were preoccupied. Your face burned like fire. "Why did you do that?" you screeched.

Pennywise backed up, but still leaned over you. "I thought you would want me to do that."

"What?" you shot back heatedly as you yanked your sheet up to cover yourself. "Why would you think that?"

"Those girls at your play tore your clothes. You said you wanted them too. I thought you would want me to also."

You stared at Pennywise with a look of shock. You covered your face with your hands. "Oh my God," you moaned. He had totally misunderstood you. He thought he was trying to please you. It was just too much. "Get out," you said through your hands. You moved them away from your face to pull your hair back. "Please get out." Pennywise just sat there looking at you. His face wore a deep frown.

"Get out," you said more forcefully.

He stood. "I didn't-"

"I don't care what you meant to do. Just leave." You felt hot tears prick at your eyes. You didn't want to hurt him. He had been nothing but nice and gentle with you, if not more than a little creepy, but a line had been drawn. You brushed a hand through your hair. A tear fell. "I can't do this, Penny. I just... I can't."

Pennywise hung his head and slowly tromped out of the room. You put your face in your hands and wept.

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