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watchmegetobsessed · 3 years

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Never Have I Ever - Harry Styles (part 5)

uh ohh, part 5 baby! im quite enjoying this story so far and i have some fun things planned for it, so i hope you’ll stay with me for them! in today’s part, our fav new celeb couple takes it all the way, though i chose not to include the actual sex part, however im still treating you all with some dirty stuff so enjoy!

pairing: Harry x actress!reader

word count: 4.6k

warning: NSFW content

SERIES MASTERPOST

masterlist

New couple alert?

Harry Styles and Y/N Y/L/N have been spotted having lunch and grabbing coffee several times in the course of the past few weeks. All the outings looked casual and friendly, they gladly stopped for fans that approached them and the word has it that they’ve been getting closer to each other, though neither of them confirmed anything.

Harry Styles has been known to be single for a while now, only faint rumors swirling up sometimes, but none of them were proven to be true, the young actress is the first woman he has been linked to in a long time. Y/N Y/L/N has been focusing on her blooming career and has been single since her split from long time exboyfriend and fellow actor, Levi Hudson. The pair dated all through 2018, splitting in the beginning of 2019. Hudson has admitted their hectic schedules made it impossible to maintain their relationship while Y/N did not confirm anything.

Styles is going on his world-wide tour soon, while Y/L/N is currently between two projects. The young celebs seem to be enjoying each other’s company and fans have been quick to jump into speculations about their alleged romance, however there is no evidence as of right now.

“Thank you so much for your time, it was a pleasure to talk to you,” the young interviewer smiles at you, holding her hand out and you shake it with a warm smile.

“Thank you for having me! And I really like your shoes, by the way,” you point down at her electric blue pumps that you’ve been eyeing since the start of the interview.

“Oh, thank you! Got them from a vintage store,” she beams, a slight blush playing on her cheeks clearly a little starstruck from your compliment.

“Love those little stores.”

“Me too,” she giggles collecting her papers and notes. “Someone will contact you and your team soon about the photoshoot and I’ll email you a draft of the interview in about a week.”

“That’s perfect, thank you so much,” you nod at her grabbing your purse from the side table next to you. Grabbing your phone from the depth of it you smile to yourself upon seeing the text from Harry.

“Call me when you’re done with the interview Xx.”

You say your goodbye to everyone before heading out of the building. Lawrence is at the front waiting for you in the car and he greets you with a warm smile when you sit into the backseat. As he starts the car and heads back to your home, you call Harry, who picks it up after the second ring.

“Hey! How was the interview?” he beams brightly, his voice immediately making you smile.

“Great! This young girl did it and she had some exciting questions.”

“Sounds lovely. Can’t wait to buy a Cosmopolitan with you on the cover soon,” he says and you can hear the grin through his voice.

“Will look good in your hands for sure,” you chuckle.

“Right. So I have a question for you.”

“Go for it.”

“I’m doing this very small show at Beacon Theater this weekend, kind of a practice before the real tour begins and I was wondering if you’d be up to come. Would love to have you there.”

“When is it exactly?”

“Saturday at nine. I know it’s a short notice and I get it if you have something else going on, just wanted to ask.”

“I think I can make it work,” you smile, thinking back at what your day looks like on Saturday. “Can I bring someone?”

“Of course! Just let me know how many people so I can have the tickets sent over to you.”

“Thank you. It’s sweet of you to think about me.”

“You know I always think about you,” he murmurs and his voice sends a shiver down your spine. Crazy to think how much he can affect you with just his words, he just has a special spell on you, it seems.

“Still such a flirt, I see,” you chuckle, feeling your cheeks heating up as you hear his soft laugh on the other end of the line.

“For you, always.��

“Alright. I’ll text you about the tickets and thank you again. Can’t wait to see you perform finally.”

“It’s been due for a while now, right? Kind of promised you some tickets on Ellen, if I remember correctly.”

“You did!” you laugh thinking back at the time you met him. How funny that just one short game on a talk show led the two of you here. You have to thank Ellen though.

“Now I’m finally keeping my promise. Talk to you later then, Love. Have a great day.”

“You too, Harry.”

You manage to convince Sydney to join you for the concert, she sounds excited when you ask if she had anything to do on Saturday. Seeing Harry perform before his tour kicks off is a thrill for her she wouldn’t pass on for anything, so she is really grateful that you thought of her as your plus one.

Harry has your passes sent over to your place on Friday and it comes with a bouquet of flowers as well as a card.

“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. What’s your favorite song? I’ll make sure to perform it just for you. –H”

He never fails to make you feel like the only woman on the planet and you can definitely see why so many fall for him even without meeting him. The man has all the power to charm anyone with just a smile.

You put the flowers into a vase and leave them on your dining table before grabbing your phone and sending him a quick text.

“It’s Only Angel,” you simply write, hoping he’ll get it why you just wrote that. Luckily, he does.

“Straight to the setlist. Dedicated to You.”

Finishing up the last touches to your makeup you bop your head to the song blasting through the stereo. It’s Only Angel, of course. You’ve had it on repeat all afternoon and now you can’t wait to actually see Harry perform it live.

Just as you are about to get changed, Syd arrives so you let her in with a beaming smile and when she hears the music upon walking into your place she cheers in excitement.

“Yes! This is such a jam!” she smirks, doing a little dance as you lock the door behind her.

“You look fantastic, Syd,” you tell her. The black short dress looks amazing paired with the lilac oversized blazer. Her makeup matches the same color and you are obsessed with the fishnet tights. She will surely make men wish she was into them.

“Thank you! Spent two hours figuring out what to wear, so I hope I look fantastic,” she giggles.

She helps you put together your outfit as well. Wide legged flaming red pants that make your waist look snatched, a black sheer top tucked into it with just a black bralette underneath. You already know Harry will be a fan of the skin you’re showing, you can’t wait to see his face when he finally spots you.

You quickly pack your essentials into a black Chanel purse along with stuff you need for a possible sleepover if things might take a pleasant turn, and you finish with everything just when the doorman calls up through the intercom that Lawrence has arrived.

“So, what’s the deal with you and him, if I may ask?” Syd questions in the car, not in a nosy way, more like a curious, friendly way.

“We are… getting close,” you say, tasting the word on your tongue. You haven’t labeled whatever you have going on with Harry, nor do you really know what it should be called. You’ve been trying hard to make time for each other as much as possible, making small lunch and coffee dates a regular thing. He came over to your place one evening for a movie and that’s the only time you were able to be alone with him, though nothing sexual happened. Yet. The real deal is yet to happen and if you are being honest you are running short on patience. It’s getting harder to hold yourself back and keep your hands to yourself as well when you are out with him, but you agreed to keep it lowkey out in the public.

Tonight, however, you have a feeling what you’ve been waiting for so long might actually happen and you can only hope Harry is planning the same thing. You are absolutely ready to bluntly ask if he wants to spend the night at your place.

“But you’re heading… somewhere, right?”

“I hope so,” you smile shyly.

“That’s amazing. I think you two are a match,” Syd smirks at you.

By the time you arrive to the venue the gates have been opened so people are busy getting inside, giving you the chance to walk inside through the backdoors without any fuss.

“Miss, Harry requested me to usher you to his dressing room when you arrive,” the girl at the door smiles at you with a clipboard in her hands and a headset covering her ears.

“Oh, alright,” you nod, turning to Syd. “You go ahead and get us a good place,” you tell her and she nods walking away with a wave as she heads up to the second floor that’s fully reserved for friends and family.

Following the girl down the hallway you are led to a room that has Harry’s name on it. She gently knocks on the door and a few moments later it flies open, revealing Harry in a colorful suit and a simple white button-down shirt. He looks breathtaking, hair fixed perfectly and the wide grin stretching across his lips when he sees you standing there.

“You’re here!” he breathes out, grabbing your hand and pulling inside, snatching you away from the preying eyes. Once the door clicks closed behind you, he is quick to press his lips to yours in a sweet welcoming kiss. Ever since your first official date he hasn’t passed on any chance to kiss you whenever you had the luxury of privacy to yourselves, which hasn’t happened too much, leaving you both with a growing hunger for each other every time you meet.

“Mm of course I am,” you smile against his lips before pecking them one last time and leaning back. “Looking great, Mr. Styles,” you grin, taking your time to wander your eyes down on him.

“Yeah? Like the suit?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I love your outfit as well. M’gonna have a hard time not thinking about you on the stage.”

“Please think about me,” you breathe out with a coy smile.

“Don’t fucking say that to me, you are giving me a hard time,” he groans and you just chuckle at the tortured look on his face.

“Sorry,” you mumble, but your face doesn’t meet your words. He squeezes your waist gently, pecking your lips in a rush before he lets go of you.

“I need to go over a few things before we start, so just go ahead and join Syd. Meet me here after the show?”

“Yeah, perfect,” you nod smiling. “Good luck out there,” you wink and he grins at you with bright eyes. His hands grab onto yours before you head out, pulling you in for one last kiss before you leave.

You feel flustered and you take a few deep breaths on your way up to the gallery to find Syd who managed to get an amazing spot at the front on the left side.

They offer everyone up on the gallery some champagne before the show starts and looking around you see a few familiar faces, but no one you specifically know. You stick with Sydney who is over the moon about the show and you are kind of sharing her excitement.

When the lights go down and the music finally starts, you can’t help but join in with the screams that fill the theater.

You’ve seen videos of him performing, in One Direction and solo as well. You’ve seen pictures and you’ve heard the words about how amazing he is on stage, but none of those live up to the actual experience. The sensation that takes over you just by seeing him appear on the stage as the whole theater chants his name as one, it completely sweeps you off your feet and for a second you wonder how you could live a life without this experience.

When his voice starts to flow through the massive speakers you need to take a deep breath, a shiver runs down your spine and you chug down the rest of your champagne so you could get rid of the glass and hold onto the railing with both hands because you feel like you need to ground yourself before you shoot into the sky.

Song after song, he performs perfectly, bringing every single person in the audience to that euphoric state they’ve been probably seeking their whole life. The experience is surely one of a kind, something you’ll definitely be thinking about for a long time.

Time seems to stop, though it cruelly carries on even when you forget about it completely. The concert is nearing its end and Harry takes a breather as he places his guitar to the stand behind him. You watch his every move as he walks back to the microphone, his gaze moving up to the gallery, roaming through the people until they find you.

“This last song is dedicated… to my Only Angel,” he murmurs into the microphone as the audience erupts, blows up at once and your heart skips a beat when his eyes linger over you for a little longer before the music starts to play.

You faintly hear Syd screaming next to you, probably aware that the dedication was addressed to you, but you can’t tear your eyes off of the man on the stage.

He nails it perfectly, looking like an absolute rockstar that he truly is and for a moment you can’t believe you have his attention and interest. How can such a precious and unbelievably talented man be in your reach?

Because I deserve great things in life, you tell yourself, a little mantra you’ve gotten around to repeat every time you found yourself doubting your success and happiness.

The concert eventually ends and though no one in the room desires the end of it, Harry leaves and you are abruptly brought back to reality.

“That was… something else truly,” Syd breathes out as the two of you linger around a little longer, trying to come down from the high you just experienced.

“Yeah. He is so fucking talented it’s almost unfair,” you chuckle running a hand through your hair.

“This tour will kill thousands of people all around the world,” she muses and for a moment, reality sets in and you realize that Harry will leave for his worldwide tour very soon, leaving you behind.

You get rid of the thought, not wanting to stress over something that’s not relevant just yet and you don’t want to ruin the evening either. Fears and stress can wait a little longer.

The two of you make your way backstage, walking into a bit of a chaos as all close friends and family want to congratulate to Harry and the band as well. Standing at the side you let everyone have their time, barely even seeing Harry in the sea of people in the spacious green room. Syd keeps you company as you wait and about thirty minutes later it seems like the crowd is starting to loosen up.

Harry spots you and excuses himself immediately from his conversation with a couple, heading in your direction with the widest grin you’ve ever seen on his pretty face.

“Congrats, that was mind-blowing,” you smirk as he reaches you, a hand curling around your waist as he leans down and places a kiss to your cheek, keeping it as moderate as possible, though you both just want to jump at each other.

“Thank you, Love,” he nods, a blush tinting his cheeks from your words. “Hello Sydney, so great to see you again,” he greets the girl next to you and they share a short hug.

“Hi! Loved the show so much!” she giggles in excitement.

“Thank you for coming.”

The three of you chat for a while before Sydney says she is gonna call herself an Uber, so after saying her goodbye she leaves you alone with Harry, as much as you can be alone with a bunch of other people around.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he clears his throat as his hand finds its way back to the small of your back.

“Go for it.”

“We are gonna grab a drink at some bar, but nothing over the top and I wanted to ask if you would want to join.”

“Sounds good,” you smile, feeling a little disappointed. This is not exactly what you wanted him to ask. Luckily, he is not done with his questions.

“Also… I-If it’s cool by you, I thought that… maybe you could come over?”

“Mmm, go over and do what?” you tease him, your smile stretching wider with each passing moment.

“I have plenty of ideas, Love,” he breathes out, making you laugh. “We could drop by your place if you need anything to stay over.”

“No need. Packed a bag,” you slyly grin at him, taking him by surprise clearly, but it’s surely a pleasant one.

“Always a step ahead of me, huh?” he smirks, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

It takes some time to actually leave the venue and head off to the bar with a close group of friends of him and the band. A secluded area was already reserved for you that has its own bar, so you could enjoy the evening without worrying about preying eyes of strangers or fans. You really weren’t in the mood to keep your distance from Harry, this way at least you were able to touch each other in a more intimate way without speculations swirling up immediately.

You get to know his band and some of his friends, they are all genuinely amazing people, but you weren’t expecting anything else. You figured he only surrounds himself with people like him. His hands often find your waist and he doesn’t shy away from kissing your cheek or giving your hips a gentle squeeze, just letting you know you have his attention and he appreciates that you’re there.

It’s nearing one am when the guests start leaving and soon enough you find yourself in the back of your car with Harry, heading to his place, while you try your best to keep your hands away from him. You wouldn’t put Lawrence through the trauma of having to see or hear something he shouldn’t.

But that doesn’t stop you from kissing, something you’ve been dying to do all night. Your hand rests on his thigh while he has an arm curled around your shoulders, keeping you tight by his side, delicately brushing his nose against your hair every time your lips are not connected.

“Thank you, Lawrence. I’ll call myself a taxi in the morning, have the day off,” you tell your driver who smiles in your way thankfully while Harry grabs your and his bags from the back of the car.

“Thank you, Miss. Enjoy your night,” he nods in your way as you shut the door closed.

You try to take your duffel bag from Harry, but he insists to carry it as the two of you walk inside his house.

“Want something to drink? Water, tea or something?” he asks, setting the bags down near his giant, comfortable looking couch. Your thoughts immediately wander to a dirty field, picturing him sitting on that very couch as you kneel in front of him, pleasuring him so good that his eyes roll back…

“Yeah, water please,” you say clearing your throat. Some hydration will come handy after the drinks you chugged down at the bar.

You follow him as he shuffles into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and a bottled water from the fridge for you, pouring some into the glass before handing it to you.

“Thank you. You have a nice place for yourself,” you tell him, looking around in his home.

“Thanks. Been working on it for a while,” he chuckles softly. “Feels a bit too big for just myself though.”

You finish the water and set your eyes at him, feeling your hunger for him grow with each passing moment. Placing the empty glass to the marble counter you take a step closer to him.

“You feel lonely often?” you question in a low voice. His eyes return to you and you are happy to see the same lust in them.

“Would say so, yes,” he nods, running his tongue over his pink lips before he reaches out and grabbing you by your hips, he draws you close to him. Leaning down his lips brush against the shell of your ear, a shiver runs down your spine when you hear his whisper in it. “Hope it’ll change soon.”

At a loss of patience, you grab his face and angle it perfectly so you can kiss him hard. And by hard, you mean real hard. He stumbles back from the force, but manages to keep his balance, returning the kiss just as vehemently as he receives it, a tug of war starting between the two of you.

His hands work fast on the sheer fabric of your shirt, pulling it out from the waistband of your pants, getting rid of it eagerly as his lips wander down on your neck, collarbones and chest. He easily turns the two of you around so you are pushed against the edge of the countertop, his hips pushed against you and it’s clearer that daylight just how excited he is to have you here tonight. Your eyes flicker over to the couch again and the desire to please him with your mouth just bursts, you can’t hold yourself back anymore.

So you push him away from you, grabbing his wrist and yanking him after you, heading towards the couch. You push him down and his lustful eyes follow every move of yours as you kneel in front of him and he realizes what you are about to do. He doesn’t stop you when you work to unbutton his pants, but his hand finds your chin and he pulls you up for a swift, but passionate kiss.

Once you successfully undid his pants he lifts his hips and you spare some time and energy, pulling them down along with his underwear, leaving him only in his vintage printed t-shirt as his cock springs free. You push your thighs together just at the sight of him, the way his eyes burn down on you, how his lips part when your gazes meet and the way he sucks on his breath when your fingers dig into his thighs near his crotch as you situate yourself closer.

“I believe I owe you an orgasm, don’t I?” you ask with a cheeky smirk before wrapping your left hand around the base of his shaft, giving it a gentle squeeze, just enough to get him even more excited. A whimpered moan slips from his lips and you lean closer, giving his cock a lick from bottom to top, wrapping your lips around the head as you swirl your tongue around it.

“Fuck hell!” he breathes out, clearly enjoying himself, hands fisting the cushion next to him, but you bet they’ll be buried in your hair soon.

You’re not an expert in the field of blowjobs, but it’s been your thing to come barging right through the door and jump the easy teasing whenever you were on your knees for a man. So with your hands fixed on his beautiful face, you sink down on him, his cock gliding into your mouth right until the tip reaches the back of your throat, earning the loudest moan you’ve heard from him. Shutting your eyes closed you keep him like that for a second until the urge to gag starts to set in, so you slide him out, your saliva dripping down his erection as your eyes meet his and you can tell you shocked him with your bold first move.

“Do that one more time and I won’t last for a minute,” he warns breathing heavily and you just smirk up at him before going into action again, this time only taking a smaller portion of him, pumping the base to make up for the lack of deep throating, but it appears that he enjoys just the simple part of it equally. As you keep bobbing your head, taking as much of him as you can without gagging, his right hand flies to your hair, taking a handful of it as he gently guides your head, keeping it in the rhythm that works the best for him and you happily let him do whatever makes him feel good.

When your free hand goes to gently massage his balls your name erupts from him in the most voluptuous way you’ve heard him call out for you. As if he just cried out for God himself.

“Y/N, fuck, I won’t last long,” he warns you, but that’s all you want. You need to see him come undone under your touch, you want to be the reason his breath hitches. Picking up your pace you see him whimper some more, head falling backwards to the back of the couch. It’s a heavenly view and you wish you could take a picture of his beauty as he enjoys himself on this intimate level. You’ve never wanted to please a man more than him and just seeing him in this blissful state makes you wet through your underwear.

When his breathing starts to get uneven, chest heaving wildly, you take all of him again, his head poking the back of your throat and you push your tongue against his length as you slide him out, picking up the same pace that you kept before, both hands working hard on him.

“Fuck! I-I’m gonna cum!” he warns again and just a few seconds later, you feel the evidence of his satisfaction spurt into the back of your throat, eyes falling on you as you give him one last lick before swallowing everything that’s in your mouth.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out pulling you up, eagerly kissing you without a second thought, his hands cupping your cheeks to keep you in place. “You surely know how to kill a man, yea?” he huffs making you chuckle.

“Think you can go for a second one?” you sheepishly ask, blinking up at him from under your long lashes.

“I’ll have enough time to recover while I eat you out like you’re my last meal,” he bluntly replies, and a moan almost slips from your lips.

“Show me what you got, Styles,” you challenge him and he doesn’t need more, he easily picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he heads straight to the bedroom.

“As you wish, Angel,” he mumbles against your skin, peppering your neck and shoulder with featherlike kisses along his way until he throws you to his bed, ruthlessly tearing the remaining of your clothes off your body.

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sp00kworm · 4 years

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Kinetic Siphon

Ollmoch

Demon x Reader

~~~

A whole week free from work. You smiled as you gazed up at the old battlements of the castle. It was built during the Orc revolt and held many of the old designs of the time. Reinforced stone and steel hidden within the heavy stone bricks. Mortar had been used in recent years to try and keep the original structure together and preserve the natural history of the land. The revolt was a trying time, that resulted in many deaths on both sides. It was firmly engrained in history, but now the Orcs had come to be far more beneficial allies. Modern medicines for bacterial infections were based on many old Orcish root remedies where they’d worked to isolate the key components. Now the world was a much more accepting place. You looked at the old stone as you stepped through the portcullis. There was no longer a drawbridge, but rather a new heavy stone bridge, but the old metal gates were still in place, restored and painted to protect it against the elements. Still, it looked like something you saw in fairy tales. Gazing up at the stone, you tried to keep your mouth shut as you entered through the battlements and gazed at the inner building. It was made from the same stone with several French influences for the pointed tower tops around a central cuboidal shaped tower. The old windows were still intact from the modern occupation and you looked on in awe at the giant structure.

A winding staircase led you up to the castle doors and you waited in the small line before being allowed in to see the beautiful rooms, decorated to resemble the time period and filled with relics from many years gone by. The hunting room was grand, around a large, old desk, used by the head of the family for many years. It was sad to see blank spots where the barbaric practice of hunting other races had once decorated the room. You looked at the information board. Once an Orcish clan leader’s head had sat on one wall and various Fae and Goblins alongside them. Magic, species and race were all greatly misunderstood back then. You offered a solemn look to the missing heads and hoped they had been returned to their families, where they rightfully belonged. Still, the dragon teeth on the desk apparently didn’t count as the same thing. You left the hunting room and continued towards the dining room, then through to the drawing room, where guests were hosted. It was full of overstuffed chairs and fainting couches. You marvelled at the tapestries on one wall and the depictions of a battle with the Orcs. It was history, however sad it was. The castle was large, and you spent a few hours looking at the information and the history inside before you took to wandering the enormous, well looked after gardens.

The stairs out the back of the main castle lead into a well-designed garden, full of the area’s flora and flowers from abroad, of which were not common. The greenhouse was the far side of the castle, and you wrapped your scarf tighter as you headed towards it. It was particularly windy as you headed towards the large greenhouse. The signposts pointed towards the battlements and the internal corridors that ran beneath them. You looked at the wall and frowned at the sign. It pointed into an unusual door. It was heavy and wooden with a thick metal latch. You opened the handle and peered inside. It was lit up well with new electrical lighting, and you shrugged, entering the hallway before making sure to close the old door firmly behind you. The hallway lights dimmed and flickered as you stepped inside fully, and you scowled up at the ceiling as they started to blink, the bulbs making a soft ticking noise as they snapped on and off. After a minute, the blinking stopped, and you continued down the corridor.

“I’m pretty sure this is the wrong way.” You hummed to yourself as you followed the long pathway to the end. A set of stairs sat before you, “This is definitely not where the greenhouse is.” But still, there was no key card access and no locks. Curiosity got the better of you and you walked down the stairs, spiralling lower into another dim room, closing another heavy oaken door behind you as you entered.

The room was huge and filled to the brim with works that were in the process of being restored for the castle. Vanities and huge dressers were positioned in places of high airflow and covered with sheets and wraps. It was amazing to see even suits of rusted armour placed around the room, their hinges and metal plating underway to being shiny and brilliant once more. You tried not to gape at the room of antiques as you moved past the furniture and into the carefully lined up and ticketed pieces of history. There was a statue of a female goddess, her sword raised to the sky, and you smiled as you squeezed between it and the wall in your attempts to really gaze at the riches of the rest of the collection. The vast expanse of antiques was arranged around a great rack of catalogued swords. You eased your way towards them and avoided knocking over giant vases as you weaselled towards the more interesting antiques. It was glorious. Long swords, sabres and broadswords were positioned with knives and daggers, some handles made to be in matching sets to the swords. You looked at a small tomahawk before you looked at the end of the rack and to a cloth wrapped scabbard that was discarded on the floor.

The cloth wrapping was rotten and musty. You carefully picked up the scabbard and eyed the jewelled hilt with a sceptical eye. The ruby set in the end was dull. You wiped the jewel with your coat and coughed at the dust as you unwrapped the sword. It was intricately patterned, a form of tanned black leather pressed with runes and swirling lines. You ran your fingers over the pattern and unclipped the wrap from around the hilt, gazing at the tarnished metal before you sucked in a breath and slid the great sword free from its scabbard. There was nothing. You gazed at the blade and huffed a bit under the weight, but held it out from your body, looking down the length before you turned it flat. It was then that a great rumble sounded, shaking the ground beneath your feet. The shaking started in the walls before soon the whole room was moving back and forth. Vases and pottery clinked and shuddered in place as you grabbed for the sword rack and peered up. A great, high pitched whining noise made you flinch as something tore open a hole above your head. You gazed up as a black slit opened in the space above you and two clawed hands pierced the space. The red hands wriggled before clutching either side of the hole and clicking. The space opened wider and you watched two arms slide through before you were faced with the face of a monster.

There, staring at you from the space, slowly sliding free of the hole, was a creature with six, rolling viper eyes. The golden orbs investigated your face as a jaw opened along its cheeks, just beneath its slitted nose. Great pointed teeth dripped with saliva as it unhinged its jaw and stretched its arms further. The great horns caressed the sides of the hole before it twisted it’s neck and slid free. Three pairs of horns curled from its head, the front most pair, and the tallest, forms a chitinous plate over its nose, framing its sideways blinking eyes. With a growl, it tore the hole wider with another click and tear of his claws and placed its giant talons on the floor, sliding the rest of its body free in a smooth ripple of muscle down its back and legs. It perched itself on the floor for a moment, looking around, chitinous back plates facing any danger as a pointed tail swung left and right. The beast was covered in more spines and spikes, hardened and sharp to the touch. Your gaze peered downwards, and you tried to hide the fact you had gazed at his crotch, where he was hidden with a simple covering of hanging cloth. The face looked at you again, eyes open wide before a tongue dipped out to lick at your face, tasting the skin before he flicked it, tasting the air, mouth and nose open wide. The monster stood to his full height and you gazed at his back where the plates formed a neat, intricate row down his spine. He curled his feet and you looked at him as he curled the talons into the stone. Two great plates curled over his shoulders and you swallowed at the sight of more great spikes lining them.

“For what have I been summoned?” His voice was like thunder, vibrating the very air around you with power as he stretched his body and turned, his tail snatching you from the ground, dragging you closer to his six eyes. They moved independently for a moment before they all fixed on your terrified face, the lids sliding over them in pairs, down his face in turn.

“I…” He leaned closer to your face, his hands gripping you as he crouched near to the floor, his eight-foot frame ducking down, “I didn’t mean to summon you.” You confessed quietly, but the demon heard you, his pointed ears flicking. You watched the bone that pierced through them shake as he drew back and laughed, his tongue out and teeth exposed.

“Such jokes with your family.” He gripped you tighter, “Come now, I have no patience for your games anymore. Your ancestors may have bound me, but I could still tear you open and die with you.” He threatened, looming over you with unblinking eyes, his hands constraining your waist tight making you wheeze softly, “It would only take a moment.” He purred in delight, “Now, tell me your desires, little one.” His talons grazed your hair, “I grow bored.”

You took another breath and dropped the sword, gazing up at the creature with tears in your eyes, “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what you’re talking about but please, please let me go.”

The demon scowled, as well as he could with no real eyebrows and only plates covering his brow bone. He licked at you again and hummed, “I cannot taste a lie…” He mused as he stood up, his horns scrapping the ceiling before he properly situated himself, “Then…” Confusion clouded his face, “Where am I, human?” He asked as he crouched down with you in his grasp, “Why have the possessions been discarded here?”

“I… It’s the two thousands. This castle is owned by the last remaining members of the Hollack family but its open to the public.” You dared to look at his eyes, “When were you last, um, summoned?”

The demon tilted his head and licked at his lips, “Sixteen fifty-four.” He nodded and then took note of your clothes, “It…has been so long?” He questioned the air as he placed you on his plated thigh, “You are not of the Hollack family, are you?”

“No…I got lost. I’m visiting and I ended up here. I guess…I bit off a little more than I could chew?” You offered lamely as the demon anchored himself up with his tail, you perched on his leg as he idly set his claws over your legs, trapping you in place.

The demon threw his head back and gave another round of thunderous laughter as his eyes blinked and closed in their downwards pattern, “Perhaps you have.” He confirmed before stretching up to his giant height. Carefully, he placed you back down on your feet and peered up at the cold rift.

“Where…where do you come from?” You asked quietly as you listened to the silence.

The demon ducked his red head and let out a rumble, “A pocket dimension…It is my cage, so to speak. I sleep until I am summoned…I feed only when I’m allowed out.” He offered quietly before his sharp teeth snapped together, “It has been so long. Even speaking is making me tired and ravenous.”

“You just sleep?” You offered before awkwardly shuffling, “Can you not break the contract?” You asked, feeling silly in the face of a creature so old.

He laughed again and you watched his tongue roll against his teeth before he reached to his chest and pressed one taloned hand against the skin. The red skin parted and revealed a great glowing eye. The golden eye blinked awake and starred deep into your own eyes before it began to glow. The demon snapped his fingers and wiped his hand over his chest again and the eye disappeared.

You suddenly felt tired, “What was that?”

“That was my power. It is weak. I consume energy, change it, or siphon it. My ability to control it is now tied to that…relic.” He hissed as you took hold of the sword again and peered at the metal.

The length of the blade glowed with burning gold runes. It was a sight and the demon hissed at the word written down the length. You couldn’t read the runes and you frowned up at the demon.

“What are those?” You asked, “I can’t read them…”

The demon’s mouth unhinged in a maniacal smile, teasing you, “My name, written in the ancient mage tongue.” He hissed through his teeth again as he looked down at it, “The language is lost, little one.” He lamented, “No one has been able to read it since the dark ages.” He offered as he sat down on the floor and clicked his fingers again, the portal closing with a swirl and a great pop.

“If I could read it, what would that do?” You asked as you took the scabbard in hand and stood by his knee, “Would it release you?”

The demon laughed again, “It would transfer my contract to you. My bindings would be shifted from the Hollack family to you, but I have never met someone capable of bearing my burden. I am old, it would take a great deal of power to break such a curse.” He grazed his talons over the stone in a great raking motion, “I am... ravenous.” He purred before you, his golden eyes squinted with glee at his mischief.

“You need a lot of energy then?” You asked.

“Mmm.” He purred, “I used to rip open rifts and portals and consume leaks of energy within the continuum, but that was how I was trapped. They created such a great energy rift that I was attracted, such was the greed of my youth, and trapped with that cursed thing.” The demon stretched his plates again and snapped his fingers out, snatching the blade from your grasp, “If I could tear apart the very molecules of this sword and be free, I would.” He snarled in anger.

You reached towards his hands and held out your hand for the blade, “Where would your name be?” You asked, “Is the blade named after you?” You asked and he held the hilt out towards you.

He scowled, “I do not remember…” But his eyes widened as you rushed back towards the door with the sword in tow. With a howl he was after you, disappearing before he reappeared in front of the door to the way out. His talons snatched you from the floor again as he opened his mouth threateningly, “You will not have that sword!” He hissed.

“I…” You wheezed, “The catalogue book.” You pointed and wheezed again.

The demon looked at the desk behind him and plucked the big logbook from the table.

Suddenly, he was very sheepish, his ears back and his lips pouted as he sat down with a thump again and placed you on his lap. He handed you the book, “Ah, yes. I apologise, little one.” His shoulders twitched as you smiled up at him, rubbing your ribs as you opened the cover and peered at the numbers. Everything was catalogued by value and item description with a numerical identity code attached to the item type name. Sword. You looked for the code, SW and flicked through the book quickly to the section. There wasn’t that many, most of them on the rack behind you and the demon. You tried not to scare as the demon wrapped his tail over you, his eyes peering at the pages as you ran your finger down them.

“Here. Look.” You held the book to his face, “There’s only three with names attached, all of them have been translated too.” With a cheer you watched him hold the book in his hands.

He frowned at the words, “I do not remember.” He lamented as defeat flashed over his features. The demon gave you the book back, “Perhaps if you read them?” Lamely he turned his hand and with a scared nod you climbed from his lap and watched him dip to his knees and stretch his back straight, so his horns sat like a crown.

“Do I need to do anything?” You asked meekly.

The demon nodded and placed one of your hands against his head, right on the hot skin between his curved, three pairs of horns, “We must be bound for this to work.”

“Wait…I can’t be a vessel for you!” You flinched away but the demon held your hand firm.

Golden eyes looked at you with sadness, “Please.” He whispered before growling, “I have spent seven centuries in agony!” He caught himself before his fury could truly boil over, “You don’t have to see me again…I will disappear and feed and never bother you, so, please, just release me.” His other hand clutched your own on top of his head, “I do not beg mortals lightly, little one, but please help me.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me after this?” You whispered back.

“I will be bound to your soul. It would be impossible.” He placed a hand over his chest, “If I did, I too would suffer the same death.”

You took a deep breath and looked at the three names before you in the book. You curled your fingers against the chitinous base of his horns and spoke.

“Maelstrom.”

The air was silent, and the demon continued to breathe quietly underneath your hand, radiating heat and anxiety as he clenched his chest and waited. After a moment you continued down the list.

“Azar.”

Silence again. You looked at the stones, expecting a rumble from them, but they remained still. You took a final breath and looked at the final name. It was old, and you didn’t understand the meaning as you whispered the name and then repeated it into the open air.

“Ollmoch.”

With bated breath, you waited. Like a crack of thunder, you heard the demon’s claws slam into the floor as the sword next to you vibrated violently. With an echo of metal, it slid free of the scabbard again and burned gold with power, the runes searing from the metal as the demon gave a grunt and slammed at the floor again, his teeth exposed in a pained snarl. His chest heaved as the great golden eye opened between his pectorals. The viper pupil burned with light as it bled from black to a bright red. The light grew brighter and brighter, until you were forced to close your eyes. There was a violent flash behind your eyelids before you felt your hand fall from the demon’s head.

“Little one.” You heard him whisper next to you, “You can open your eyes.” A hand brushed your cheek and with a gasp you opened your eyes to gaze into his golden irises. They burned with pulsing red veins and you looked at his skin as it gave off wave after wave of burning heat.

“What happened?” You asked him, “Wait, you’re called Ollmoch?” You felt the floor swim in your vision as you looked down, and you gagged as your swung back and forth on your own feet. Ollmoch was quick to catch you in his giant hands, holding you before he tucked you carefully in one of his arms, holding you gently.

“Quiet now, little one. You are exhausted.” Ollmoch rumbled to you as his fingers snapped and his tail swung behind him. The ceiling swam and you closed your eyes to try and get rid of the feeling of nausea, panting heavily as you felt the blood rush around you. There was a crackle of energy around you, and your hair stood on end as you planted your face against Ollmoch’s pectoral, your eyes rolling open and closed before you passed out completely to the delighted howl of the demon as he leaped for the portal swirling overhead.

Sunlight burned your eyelids as you slowly felt feeling return to your fingers and back. With a small gasp, you bolted upright in bed and clutched at the sheets as you rubbed your tired eyes and looked around the room blearily. It was still daylight. You looked closer and did a double take. It was morning. The sunlight peaked over the horizon weakly, bathing your room in a barely-there warm glow. It was early but the winter mornings had been getting darker and darker recently. You slapped at your table for your phone before realising you were still in your jeans and you reached into the pocket to take out your phone and gaze at the time. It was barely eight o’clock and you sighed as you tried to remember how you had gotten home. It was then, as you yawned, that a hand slid under your covers. With a squeal, you jumped away and watched as horns rose over the side of your bed and a great, red skinned demon hauled himself out of a chugging, black portal in your carpet. Six golden eyes appeared next as the demon’s hands curled into your sheets, tugging them away from you as he rose up and stood over your bed.

“Are you well, little one?” Ollmoch rumbled as he curled his talons into the cotton and carefully eased his hands up towards your legs.

“What happened?” You asked as you crossed your legs under you, looking up at the half nude demon as he dragged his hands back and caressed his own horns, stretching with a hum.

Ollmoch tapped the middle of your forehead, “Your brain gave in. I believe you fainted.” He offered before he opened his mouth and sniffed, pulling air into his mouth, over his tongue and into his nose, “You were drained. It is good energy has returned to you.” He raised his hand and licked at his palm which had grazed your skin, “You are very lively. Full of energy. Untapped potential.” The energy demon smacked his lips before he licked at his fingers again and hummed, “Not enough to truly command me.”

“Why would I want that?” You asked with a scowl, “You wanted to be free, so you can do that now, right?”

Ollmoch nodded his great head as he hissed and touched his chest, “Yes. It is a good thing because I am starving.” He offered before he raised your hand to his face, licking the back of it before he kissed the palm softly, “Thank you, mortal.” He blew a hot breath over the skin, “I am in your debt, and I am at your call, as is the rules of such a bargain.”

Your mouth went dry before you carefully scratched between his horns. Ollmoch’s bone jewellery jingled and clinked as he accepted the touch before he pulled away and tucked your hand back against your side. His chest eye opened with a growl and you watched as your wall distorted. A sharp click snapped open a hole which the demon stretched with another movement of his hands. Ollmoch gazed into the abyss before he held up one talon.

“If you need me…Say my name, little one. I will be here.” He promised gently before grinning his sharp, shark-like teeth. You smiled back at him.

“Good luck, Ollmoch.” You offered as your cheeks felt hot, “I hope you fair better than in that pocket dimension.” Lamely, you let your hands fall to your side. Ollmoch looked at you, one pair of golden eyes focused on your face. Sadness.

He flicked his tongue and tasted the emotion on the air before he grabbed at your hand again, pressing it to the hot skin beneath the bright, burning eye in his chest, “I will come back, little one. I must feed, but I will be here.” He promised as he grazed his talons over the back of your neck, “What you feel, I will feel.” He whispered as he scratched the back of your neck and flinched himself, “We are linked. Nothing can take my binding from your very soul.” Ollmoch grinned as his talons gazed their way over your face, “Call, little one. Call and I will come.” He promised before he melted back into the wall, his talons and plating disappearing into the void of the in-between.

Your cheeks burned as you flopped back against the bed, looking at the ceiling as you felt the ghostly touches of talons over your skin.

#demon x reader #monster x reader #ollmoch x reader #demon boyfriend #monster boyfriend #original work #gender neutral reader

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astouract · 3 years

Text

The Smell of Soil — Chapter 2 (Y/N)

Synopsis: (Y/N) almost burns her house down, and of course Loki shows up to help

Words: 1901

Warnings: None yet 😈

—

You practically slammed the door behind you, leaving the god-turned-gardener on your front step. Something wasn't right. You weren’t supposed to be stationed at the house right next to his, why would they put you there?

Watch him from afar, they had told you, don't get too close. He's still dangerous. Unpredictable.

Your heart felt as if it would beat right out of your chest, you noticed, as you placed a hand on your chest and let the door support you. After taking a moment, you pushed yourself off of the door and wandered into the cottage. It definitely wasn't anything like the Asgardian architecture you were used to, floral patterns and natural wood instead of stark white marble and expensive accents. There was no television, which was almost a relief as you had absolutely no idea how to use one. There was, however, a little pink radio on a shabby looking green end table.

A floral sofa was the centerpiece of the room, placed in front of a small fireplace. Small tables held little knickknacks and tiny vases that could only hold one or two flowers. And, actually, it seemed like plants were taking over the house. They were everywhere, you realized with a groan. You’d have to water them every day, and they’d still end up dead.

You moved on and into the kitchen, where there was not nearly as much counter space as you were used to. The room was a cacophony of different patterns and colors, but somehow it all came together to form one cohesive style. A little round table sat in the corner, with two mismatched chairs and, of course, a potted plant. Everything looked like someone else had used it for twenty years and then dumped it on the side of the road somewhere. Even the gas stove could've used a cleaning. Cooking--yet another thing you would have to learn how to do. Fresh herbs hung from the wall above the large window, making the room smell faintly of rosemary and basil.

To the left of the kitchen was a small flight of stairs that led to the second floor, which you soon discovered was more of an attic with a bed and some windows. You let your hand trail along the puffy duvet, feeling its softness under your fingers. It wasn't an Asgard duvet, that's for sure, but you had a sneaking suspicion that you may like it more. It was plush and inviting, and you resisted the urge to sink into the mattress.

A little dresser held flowing skirts and dresses, and a few pairs of jeans. You looked down at your current outfit, your last work of magic before hopping through the portal, and the first assignment of your mission: a loose T-shirt, paired with blue jeans that had to be the tightest pants you had ever worn. Not your usual clothing choices, but you were to play the part and do it well. So, flowing dresses and flower crowns it was.

Your feet carried you to the window, where you brushed the curtains aside. You had a clear view down the street, and your eyes landed on Loki's house, where he was on his hands and knees in his garden.

It was so odd, seeing him like this. Loki, God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, was on his hands and knees digging through dirt to care for fruits and vegetables. Loki, who a week ago would have killed anyone who even looked at him wrong, came over just to help you with a yard sign. His hair had been thrown haphazardly into a top knot, and he'd had dirt smeared on his cheeks. He wasn't in Asgardian robes, trading his armor out for cotton button-ups and flannel pants. What had become of the prince you’d known your whole life?

Shaking your head, you stepped away from the window and retreated back to the first floor. The rest of the downstairs consisted of a small bathroom and an equally small study, where picture frames hung on the wall presented pressed flowers of all kinds and random journal entries. A wooden desk sat against a big window, and a small bookshelf was tucked into the corner.

You made your way back into the kitchen and through the back door, where nature had reclaimed the property. It was immensely overgrown, with so many clusters of weeds and flowers that your eyes couldn't find a place to settle. There was a rotting shed, and a greenhouse hidden behind greenery. Various gardening tools were scattered around the area, and you couldn't even imagine what else might be hiding in the bushes.

"It's. . . Charming." Loki's words echoed in your mind, and you rolled your eyes.

You liked a good project.

"Shit shit shit shit!"

You clamped your hands down over your ears, rushing into the kitchen and throwing the oven door open. You reached through the billowing smoke and grabbed the pan, crying out and dropping it immediately as burning pain overwhelmed your senses.

"Fuck!" You switched the oven off and held your hands helplessly in front of you, coughing.

You didn't know what to do. Your hands were an angry shade of red, an alarm was blaring from somewhere in the kitchen, and the smoke wouldn't stop billowing out of the oven. Somehow, above all of the noise you were able to hear a series of knocks at your front door. You crossed the distance from the kitchen into the living room, and carefully pulled the door open, hissing sharply at the pain rolling over your hands.

Shit.

There, standing on your doorstep for the second time that day, was Loki. Of course it was, because what else could happen when you were supposed to be watching him from afar?

He looked into the house behind you, and back at you with wide eyes. "Is everything okay? I heard the alarms and some loud crashes, and. . . Your house is full of smoke." His gaze asked what he wouldn't say out loud--asked if you needed help. Norns, he was practically begging you to let him help.

Who even was he?

You sighed, and then did the unthinkable: you stepped aside to let him in. He followed you into the kitchen, and you realized just how much of a mess you’d made. The oven door was hanging open, with smoke still billowing out relentlessly, and there were charred cookies all over the floor. The baking pan was upside down in the middle of the room, but Loki didn't seem to notice as he rushed around the room trying to reconcile the smoke issue.

"What happened?" He asked breathlessly, propping the back door open and sliding every window open that he could.

"I made cookies. I think."

Loki reached up above the door frame, and pressed a button on a white box that stopped the screeching alarm. He started opening every drawer in the kitchen, until he found what he was looking for. He offered you a tea towel, but you just stared at it.

"I can't," you murmured, looking down at your hands. Loki's gaze followed.

"Oh my God." He sucked in a breath, "You need to take care of that."

I would, if I could use my magic, your subconscious snapped.

He turned on the sink, and gently guided your hands into the cool water. "I think maybe you should go to Urgent Care."

"Urgent Care?"

Loki didn't seem to hear you, lost in thought as he looked around the room. He pulled over the chairs from the kitchen table, offering one to you at the sink before leaning against the counter while you soaked your palms.

"Did all of this furniture come with the house?"

You nodded. "It was mostly furnished when I got here, I just had to add a few small things. I only brought one suitcase with me."

"I see. Where did you move from?"

Shit. Why was he interrogating you? Did he know something?

You removed a hand from the water to gesture vaguely. "Just some run down old town about a day's trip north of here." The lie came effortlessly, and Loki accepted it with a nod.

"Where's your bathroom? Though I really think you should see a doctor for your hands."

"To the left of the entry, and there’s no need for medical treatment. I’m a fast healer." You grimaced, not daring to move your fingers.

Loki disappeared into the next room, and returned a moment later with gauze bandage. "It's going to hurt, but you have to wash your hands with soap before I can wrap them."

"What?" You asked stupidly.

Loki took the old soap from beside your sink and squirted a bit into your open hands. "Just wash them real quick. The internet said so."

Gods, being mortal sucked.

You did as told, and Loki turned off the tap before grabbing the gauze. "I'm going to wrap them now, okay?"

You offered him a hand, and he began to unwind the bandage with extreme delicacy onto your skin. It was mesmerizing, watching someone who you knew to be an actual war criminal act so selflessly. Gone was the dark, brooding prince, and standing in his place was a mortal, kind and simple. And concentrating.

Loki released one hand and moved onto the next, and suddenly, those green eyes were staring right back at you. Your breath caught, and for one, fleeting moment, you were swept up. The atmosphere felt different, like a static kind of electricity clung to the air.

War criminal. He shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here, with your hands gently in his.

The things those hands had done, the lives they’ve ended. The cities destroyed, each one’s story carved into the lines on his palm. Those hands were unpredictable. Dangerous.

War criminal.

"That should do it," Loki said softly, "and look, the smoke has cleared!"

You grimaced as he collected the charred cookies from the floor. "You don’t have to do that. ."

Loki only grinned, putting the now dented pan in the sink. "I'm more than happy to help."

You walked together back through the house, and ended up back on the front steps for the third time that day. The sun was setting behind the trees, the sky a breathtaking canvas of oranges, yellows, and pinks. The world outside was quiet, peaceful.

"Seriously," Loki emphasized, turning to face you. "If you need anything. You know where to find me." He offered a sympathetic smile.

And, unfortunately, he knew where to find you.

Loki pointed to your hands. "You should take the bandages off in the morning and see what the burns look like; your hands will likely get worse over the next twenty-four hours or so. Whatever you do, don't apply ice. And, don't apply any ointment until the burns have cooled. Make sure you keep them clean and wrapped."

You cocked your head slightly to the side, regarding him curiously. Suspiciously. “How do you know all of this?"

Loki smiled all the way to his eyes. "Internet."

"Oh. Right.”

Loki rubbed his hands together--something that you wouldn't be doing for a couple days, by the sound of it. "Well, you seem to have had a rather. . . eventful. . . day so I'll leave you to it. Have a good evening, (Y/N)."

"Loki," you called out, stopping him on his way down the steps, "Thank you."

He smiled.

#loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #cottagecore #original post #avengers #loki #marvel

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shirtlesssammy · 4 years

Text

6x17: My Heart Will Go On

Then:

You never really die on Supernatural

Now:

Chester, Pennsylvania

In a Rube Goldberg-esque bit of murder mastery, a man fumbles his way around his garage, nearly dying several times, only to finally get taken out by his falling garage door. What a ride.

Meanwhile, in Bobby’s neater than normal home, Sam and Dean watch him open another bottle of booze. They silently egg each other on to talk and finally decide on Rock-Paper-Scissors. Oop, it looks like you’re going to have to do the talking, Dean.

Only, wait, Dean won! They think he should take some time and sleep, and process losing Rufus. Bobby’s DOING FINE. He just needs some Irish coffee. Sam suggests taking him on a hunt. Seems like different family members are dying in Chester, Pennsylvania. Bobby kicks them out of the house, so they decide to head out alone.

They get in their trusty Mustang, and hit the road.

...

Bobby keeps drinking until Ellen (!) shows up.

…

She consoles him about Rufus and tells him to get ready for dinner.

And she’s his wife.

…

At the garage of horror, Sam finds a thread of gold.

They split up. Dean interviews next of kin. He first meets with a Saul Goodman wannabe Shawn Russo. The guy isn’t too upset by his family members dying --he wasn’t too close with them. He also doesn’t have a lot of time for Dean’s genealogy questions.

Dean tries sussing out any past family curse --poorly. Shawn wants Dean to go, so Dean just comes out and tells him, “Your life is in danger.” Shawn thinks Dean’s threatening him.

He connects with Sam who can’t find a single thing wrong with the family.

At a travel agency, we watch Anne Witting chat on the phone, and time suddenly stops. Another woman, looking like Sam’s kind of librarian, takes Anne’s keys from her purse and throws them on the floor next to the copier. She leaves and time starts again.

The woman gets off the phone and notices her keys are on the floor. Grabbing for them knocks a vase of flowers onto the copiers, which creates an electrical nightmare, which causes her to start slapping at it and finally reaching behind it to turn it off, which then causes her scarf to get stuck in the autofeeder, which the copier then tries to make a copy of, which strangles her. (Note to self: BE NICER TO THE COPY MACHINE.)

The blonde woman comes back and marks a name off in a book, and drops a gold thread.

The brothers check out the travel agency that night. It turns out that Anne isn’t part of the Russo family --so they’re not dealing with a family curse. Dean wonders what then. He then finds another gold thread.

He calls Ellen, who reports there’s been about 75 deaths associated with this across the nation. The only thing Ellen has that connects the people is that their ancestors all immigrated to the US in the same year, on the same boat: The Titanic. Neither Dean nor Ellen had ever heard of it.

…

Sam either. (And that’s when I call bull --unless this Sam isn’t a history nerd-- because the Titanic was a BIG deal before it became a BIGGER deal. It was the largest ship of its time. But as I typed this out, I feel like I should eat my words because there was another sister boat built with the Titanic, and I can’t for the life of me remember its name, so, yeah, chances are good it would have been lost to history for most people.)

During their research, Sam notes that the ship almost hit an iceberg, but the First Mate, I.P. Freely saw it in time.

Balthazar!

They summon Balthazar for answers about the boat. “It was meant to sink, and I saved it.” He hated the movie. (Boris is still one of the few and proud that’s never seen it --I cheered SO hard for Balthazar here.) He hated the Celine Dion song. Sam doesn’t even know who that is (HIS FAVORITE SINGER!) Sam points out that he thought that history can’t be changed. Balthazar points out that there’s no more rules. Anyway, only minor details have been changed --like no Impala.

More importantly, Ellen and Jo are alive. They are supposed to be dead.

Dean and Sam focus on the here and now and point out that something is killing the descendants of the Titanic travelers. They need to find out who. Balthazar drops a truth bomb out of nowhere --pointing out that Cas is in love with Dean. Sigh. Also, he doesn’t care, and flaps away.

They talk with Bobby on the phone and he thinks they’re dealing with Fate. How do they stop fate? Bobby suggests that they get Balthazar to re-sink the boat, but Dean nixes that idea instantly. Bobby wants to know what set him off --Dean tells him that if the boat sinks, Ellen and Jo die. Yeah, no way is that boat sinking.

The boys lurk in their iconic, uh, Mustang to follow Russo.

They follow Russo in an attempt to keep him safe from Fate’s machinations. They manage to save him from one deadly accident, only for the guy to die under the wheels of a bus seconds later. Sam notices a woman watching over the accident. She looked kind of like a librarian. “Your kind of librarian or my kind of librarian?” Dean asks. Oh, Dean, why does it have to be a binary choice? Eyebrow waggle. Dean decides to head over and confront Fate in a shadowy building.

Fate, meanwhile, is up to nefarious deeds. She turns burner knobs, releasing gas into the building as time stops around the Winchesters. When time starts up again, Dean’s flashlight flickers out in the dark. Sam suggests using a lighter and....

Just as the room starts to ignite, the Winchesters get yanked out of there! Cas saved them! He’s pulled them to Belarus. I will never not be able to watch this scene without thinking of the gag reel and Misha stag leaping around the woods.

“[Fate] harbors a certain degree of rage towards you,” Castiel explains. Since the Winchesters foiled their apocalyptic fate, they’ve made it into Fate’s bad books. Cas suggests the best solution is for the Winchesters to kill fate. And they can use themselves as bait!

For CAAAAAAAS! Science:

Ellen tries to talk through the case with Bobby after Jo reports more and more dead on the West coast. Ellen suggests that the best solution would be to re-sink the Titanic, a suggestion towards which Bobby reacts...poorly. Bobby’s horrified at her casual suggestion. Ellen senses something is off with Bobby. Over drinks, Bobby spills everything to Ellen. He tells her that he needs her.

After that solemn, emotional scene, we cut to Dean and Sam experiencing wacky near-misses. A skateboarder almost takes them out. Then a jumping BMX rider. Now a pair of aggressive dogs on leashes. (Extreme close of up Dean for extra sad jokes.)

They walk past a pair of jugglers tossing HATCHETS and KNIVES who proceed to LIGHT THEM ON FIRE - and I do love it when this show gets ridiculous. After several near-misses, a falling air conditioner finally plummets towards them. This looks like the end for our heroes!

For Looney Tunes Quality Science:

Time freezes the Winchesters under the air conditioner, and Castiel approaches. He greets Atropos, the Fate who’s after the Winchesters. She complains about the fallout of the recently averted apocalypse.

Cas tries to argue for freedom. It’s a bold new world! But Atropos isn’t buying what he’s selling. The last straw for her was the unsinking of the Titanic. Cas tries to shift the blame to Balthazar, but Atropos calls him on that too. That wasn’t Balthazar following a whim. Cas needed more souls for his war machine, and sent Balthazar back to unsink the ship. She’ll make Cas a bargain: if the boat stays unsunk, then she’ll kill his “two favorite pets.” She may not be strong enough to escape Cas’s retribution, but her sisters will take the Winchesters down after she dies. Cas contemplates Sam and Dean.

Balthazar shows up, ready to kill Atropos, when Cas stops him. Cas is ready to take the deal. Balthazar gets Cas’s new order: it’s time to save Sam and Dean! I mean, it’s time to sink the Titanic.

Sam and Dean wake up to Sam’s favorite singer belting “My heart will go on” on the radio. They talk about their weird, shared dream. Cas flaps in to greet them. He tells them that he had Balthazar re-sink the ship to ensure Sam and Dean’s safety.

Sam and Dean try to process the balancing equation Cas dealt with, where their lives were more important than 50,000 people (who were never born, Cas hastily points out). Dean asks about Ellen and Jo, and the answer is NOT GOOD. What could have been!

Dean asks if that whole alternate timeline was erased when the boat sank again. “More or less,” Cas says. EYEBALLS EMOJI. Cas wants the Winchesters to remember the alternate timeline. “You can make your own destiny. You don’t have to be ruled by fate. I still believe that’s something worth fighting for,” Cas tells them. Can I get a HELL YEAH?

While it seems for a short while like Cas is edging towards telling them the truth of his war, he ultimately plays off the Titanic as only stemming from Balthazar’s hatred of the movie. “Titanic didn’t suck THAT bad,” Dean says. There’s my soft boy. Cas flaps out, and the Winchesters head inside to check on Bobby. His house is back to cluttered, gloomy chaos. Bobby’s asleep on the couch. Sam and Dean vow never to tell Bobby what he could have had.

It is Your Quotedany:

Accidents don't just happen accidentally

"What's an Impala?" Trust me, it's not important

You have me confused with the other angel. You know, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who's in love with you

Can’t avoid fate

Who do we gotta kill to get killed around here?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 6x17 #my heart will go on #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #ellen harvelle #castiel #cas #balthazar #supernatural season 6

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violetsmoak · 4 years

Text

no safety or surprise [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035168/chapters/42616919

( See First Chapter for full Disclaimers & Warnings)

Summary: A haunting broadcast reveals the Joker’s final act and sets off a chain of events that will destroy the world. Terry finds himself collaborating once more with the estranged members of Bruce’s former team. As the end nears, however, he and the other Bats are faced with hard choices about survival—and forgiveness.

Rating: T (may change depending on the amount of graphic/details I decide on)

________________________________________________________________

chapter two: laughter is the best medicine

Neo-Gotham, Friday, June 13 2042 9:10 AM

GRAYSON

The laughter hasn’t stopped.

Even as the television whites out, it continues to vibrate through him. Pain slashes across Dick’s hand, hot coffee, and blood from the crushed ug in his hand. The pieces fall to lie, forgotten, on the counter and floor.

Dimly, he shakes the injured appendage, not judging it worth immediate treatment, and creeps closer to the windows of his apartment. The laughter continues to get louder, echoing up from the streets, bouncing off the glass and bricks of the skyscrapers, and mixing with the sound of explosions and people screaming.

From his vantage point, he watches cars veer off-course and masses of pedestrians on the street altering their everyday routes to suddenly teem in every other direction. They crowd together in a frenzy of indescribable movement; there are explosions and more screams, but somehow, it’s all muted by the persistent presence of the laughter, which isn’t just inside anymore.

Whirling around, Dick recoils as Black appears in the hallway, completely nude. She lurches forward, the movement a parody of her usual slinking gait, but Dick’s attention is on her face. It’s pulled into a grin that causes obvious pain, judging by the tears dripping trails of smoky mascara down her cheeks. Her pupils are wide and sightless, and the disturbing giggles rasp like they are being torn from her throat.

“Well, this isn’t good,” he mutters, edging away from the window and automatically looking for a spot in his apartment that has the most maneuvering space.

The minute he moves, Black lunges forward, splitting herself into nine cackling doppelgangers that consume the remaining space of his apartment.

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:15 AM

Tim rocks back and forth, stomach clenched with dread and nausea that threatens to send bile spilling up his throat.

‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.’

He stumbles from the kitchen, needing air, needing to escape—

His laptop lies on the floor, a mass of smoking screen and wire, while outside the television is blaring again.

Except no one’s talking.

It’s just the laughter; the blue, humanoid shape has morphed, the identity filter warbled and stretched over a grin that isn’t human.

‘And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.’

His knees buckle, hands clapped to his ears to drown out the echoing memory of Harley Quinn’s mocking singsong. He’s already folding forward in a reflexive fetal position, waiting for the crackle of electricity or the shock of cold water in his face.

He needs to get out, he needs distance, needs a shield—

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement?

Tim startles, hearing a sneer in his mind just as loud—louder than—the other voice. He can almost imagine him standing in front of him—the ancient Robin suit torn and bloody, morphing into the Kevlar armor, red helmet beneath his arm.

The image of white-streaked hair and challenging smirk is the bastion against the monsters in his head.

Tim has never questioned why his mind’s defenses against the pull of insanity took the form of Jason Todd. It makes a certain, lopsided amount of sense—they were both victims of the Joker, both ruined by him,

The Robin who died, and the Robin that went insane.

To this day, Tim couldn’t say which was which.

Are you seriously going to let him get to you again ? The fucker’s dead.

“No,” Tim says out loud, taking a trembling breath and forcing himself to stand straight. He has to keep his head, has to get his wife to safety, has to figure out how all this happened—

“Arlie,” he remembers, though it comes out more like a croak. “Arlie, we have to—”

As he turns, he catches a flash of movement in his periphery, and his long-buried reflexes kick in, allowing him to narrowly dodge the butchers' knife being lobbed at his head. It shatters a red vase of flowers in the living room.

His wife stumbles toward him from the kitchen—when did she come downstairs? —her face twisted into a replica of the one that has haunted Tim’s dreams for decades.

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9: 15 AM

It’s not just her work computer, but the screen of her cell and tablet as well.

Every screen that she can see—each one she can hear from beyond the thin walls of her office—has been commandeered by the Joker’s likeness.

The video might have paralyzed others with inactivity, but Barbara immediately throws herself into action. Puzzling this out means ignoring that horrible voice, not getting sucked down into a morass of memory and pain.

“Williams! Fillmore! You’d better be ready to trace this thing!” she snaps over the intercom and starts typing commands into her computer, trying to wrest back control of it from whatever has taken over her system.

She might not have been Oracle for decades now, but it’s like riding a bike.

“And get a quad out on the street, now! I don’t want chaos in the streets!”

Especially not after the last Joker-related attack.

She regains control of her system halfway through the video and has started tracking IP addresses even as the clown’s hair-raising cackle and tinny music fade away. On another screen, she pulls up every file that exists on the Joker, his pretenders, the gangs, known snitches—

She will not allow this city to fall into chaos because of a damn video.

Except, maybe she won’t have time to worry about the chaos outside, because it hits her suddenly that the laughing hasn’t stopped. Only now, it’s coming from right outside her office and not from her devices.

Narrowing her eyes, Barbara has her service weapon in hand and the other hovering over her belt where she secretly keeps a Batarang (just in case). She’s barely n her feet when the door to her office opens and there’s one of her lieutenants, shoulders shaking and teeth bared in a pained grin.

She can’t fight the momentary sliver of terror that ripples up her back—

Gunshot. Spilled tea. Falling, falling back. Glass table shattering. Dad crying out—pain. So much pain.

—before returning to herself.

The man in front of her now, his eyes are vacant but there’s enough intelligence remaining that he’s able to raise his own gun at her and disengage the safety.

“Davis,” she says slowly, a warning and a plea despite knowing it’s futile at this point. She doesn’t want to have to shoot him. He has a wife and three kids. They attended his commendation ceremony, the youngest daughter wants to be a cop— “Davis, put the gun dow—!”

BANG!

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:15 AM

There will always be a part of Bruce Wayne that freezes to the core when he hears that voice.

Instantaneous reactions have always been a trademark of Batman, drilled into him by years of training at the hands of assassins and thieves alike. But when it comes to the Joker, there is always that fraction of a second that gives way to hesitation—something born of fear or disbelief, he doesn’t know—before he throws himself into action. Before his brain registers the immediacy of a threat.

Maybe that’s why the maniac got away. Maybe that half-second was all he needed to dictate the entire course of their encounters; his defeats included. The clown always had the same ability to predict several moves ahead, more so than Bruce; sometimes he wondered if the Joker wasn’t a little bit precognitive.

That won’t happen now—that shouldn’t happen now—because the Joker is dead.

Batman buried him.

He destroyed the chip linking him to Tim, he ensured that no one would ever hear that high-pitched, pitiless cackle ever again.

And yet, here it is, filling the underground caverns and startling the roosted bats into a shrieking frenzy as the video feed goes blank.

Bruce starts toward the computer, half-a-dozen plans of action coming together in his head, to trace and deal with whatever this threat is—whoever this pretender is. Before he can reach the command station, however, his field of vision goes brown.

Hundreds of the tiny, flying creatures surround him, screaming; their tiny claws slicing the exposed skin of his hands and face.

He stumbles, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow, while his hand digs into his pocket; it’s difficult with the tiny creatures clinging to him, clinging to wrist and fingers and sinking their teeth into him in distinctly non-bat behavior.

Fingers catching on his prize, he takes a deep breath and then depresses the button on the quarter-sized device.

The nerve agent is meant to disorient an opponent or, depending on body weight, knock them out for the few seconds needed to subdue them. For the tiny creatures attacking him, it will render them unconscious for a lot longer.

They drop and tumble around him in a circle, and when he can’t feel anymore slashing at him, he carefully navigates through the tiny bodies and out of the area affected by the nerve agent. Only then does he allow himself to take a breath, considering the strewn bodies around him in concern; they are still alive, but he doesn’t know exactly how the chemicals will affect them.

It makes no sense. The bats in here never attack, not unless he engages the subsonic alarms, which he hasn’t had to do in decades.

Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences and knows that somehow, there’s a connection between the video and the bats. He just doesn’t know—

There’s a gasping, snorting sound behind him.

He realizes it was hidden by the shrieking of the bats before, but now it’s clearly discernible.

Turning around, he stares in horror as Ace, staggers forward on shaking legs, mouth-frothing and ears pulled back against his head. The dog’s lips are pulled up high over sharp canines in a grin that should not be possible on an animal.

“Ace,” Bruce croaks.

The beast huffs, the sound a painful, morbid facsimile of a human laugh, and then snarls, throwing itself bodily at Bruce.

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:15 AM

It’s not the Joker, Terry tells himself, teeth clenched and hand already fumbling around his phone to call Bruce. It can’t be him. It’s just a copy-cat.

But the laugh…he will never forget that sound in his whole life. And that’s real.

“Mom, I have to—” he begins, only to choke when he watches his mother collapse. “Mom!”

He hurries to her side just as seems to go into some kind of seizure.

“Matt, call an ambulance!” Terry snaps, tossing his phone in the vicinity of his brother’s blanket-wrapped body. He is on his knees then, carefully turning his mother onto her side while she shakes and curls into herself.

There’s a gasping, wheezing sound from behind him, but he can’t pay attention to it, too busy trying to keep his mother from clawing at her face. Her skin begins to drain of color as if all the blood in her body has disappeared, and he finds himself seeking some kind of wound that might explain it.

Then his eyes land on her face, and his stomach clenches.

Mom’s eyes have gone blank, her face twitching violently as if there’s an electric current running through it. Her lips part over her teeth, mouth lifting at the corners until the muscles strain to an unnatural degree. Her lips have gone violently red, and her breathing changes from gasping to a stunted, wheezing rattle.

And then there’s laughter.

It echoes behind him and Terry jerks his head to one side, watching in horror as his little brother shuffles from the couch, giggling madly with an identical smile on his face.

Joker toxin, he realizes before something smacks into his face and he tumbles back on his heels.

Mom’s hand trembles—broken thumb, she hit with a closed fist—but she still crawls toward him with an insane gleam in her eye.

She is laughing, and Matt is laughing and—

Then Terry feels hands around his throat, as tiny but strong fingers curl into his throat, cutting off his air supply.

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:17 AM

Bruce has a fleeting impression of teeth and bared claws before the giant body comes down hard on his. It’s only the reflex of a lifetime of brawls with larger, stronger opponents that saves him. He jabs outward with knees as he falls, curving to hit against the backside and shoulders while kicking up into the ribs of the animal. Bruce then thrusts the triangle between his thumb and forefinger into the dog’s throat as he boosts Ace over his head.

There’s a pained whine as the dog hits the ground, but he’s not unconscious, already struggling to his paws with the grace of a sleepwalker and determination of a piranha.

He’s just going to keep coming.

Bruce’s body screams in protest—muscles he hasn’t used in far too long, the incision from the transplant stretching—and he feels dizzy. But he forces himself to focus.

First the bats. Then Ace. Something that just affects animals?

It would certainly cause chaos, which the Joker was always trying for. But this particular trick has been done before.

The clown never revisited his jokes.

And the way Ace’s features are twisted, eyes white and sightless. When Bruce squints at the downed bats, sees that they seem paler, their faces also bent against their natural shape.

Joker toxin. It has to be.

Except, there was no delivery method and it’s not affecting Bruce. Maybe it is just animals.

He hurries toward the lab as quick as his body allows, depressing the panel in the cabinet that keeps his stock of antitoxin safe. Thumbs past vials until he has the right one, and fits it into the modified tranquilizer gun,

By the harsh panting behind him, he knows the dog is bearing down on him once again,

Calculations tear through his sluggish brain, dosages and body weight and differences between human and canine anatomy—

Ace leaps again, snapping at Bruce’s neck, and he fires, aiming for the cluster of muscles closest to the dog’s heart. He doesn’t see if it connects, forced to throw up a fist to protect his throat.

Teeth shred his hand, sending sharp lances of pain through him, but he keeps his arm up, aiming a nerve strike near the solar plexus and kidneys.

The dog continues snorting and snapping at him for longer than he’d like, before going limp.

Bruce struggles out from beneath Ace’s weight, sparing a moment to check breathing and pulse rate and then arrange the dog into a recovery position on its right side. Then he staggers to the comms, grabbing a roll of bandages on his way.

“Terry!” he barks as he wraps his shredded hand to staunch the bleeding; he’ll need to stitch it, and soon—the blood thinners he takes won’t allow it to stop on its own.

Once at the computer, he brings up CCTV footage and any voice recordings from the last ten minutes; at the same time, he repeats, “Terry!”

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:17 AM

Terry hears the comms in the cowl go off, but it’s too far away, stuffed into his schoolbag. That, and he’s a little busy dodging his mother’s wild attempts to claw his eyes out while shaking his brother off without harming him.

Their laughter is loud and pained in his ears.

Straining, he finally manages to flip Matt onto the couch while dodging his mother’s grasping hand. He vaults across the room to his bag, digging desperately through it until his fingers close on the utility belt.

He has more than enough sedatives there to put them down. At the last second, however, he pauses, because they aren’t infected with just anything—it’s Joker toxin. Who knows what complications adding unknown sedatives could have on that.

So instead, he gabs the tiny vials he’s been carrying with him since the encounter with Tim Drake’s insane alter ego.

It’s a careful dance of evasion and trying not to break bones, avoiding his mother—and Matt, who even as some kind of mindless Joker automaton has an innate ability to evade Terry’s grasp. Eventually, he manages it and then he’s panting on the floor, mother and brother unconscious heaps beside him.

Heart still beating anxiously, he watches as their faces ease back to normal, free of the sinister rictus.

He’s already shrugging out of his coat as he reaches for the costume.

Looks like test or not, school’s not happening today.

The cowl is on now and his comm frizzes to life.

“—rry?”

“Bruce, what’s going on?” he demands. “Mom and Matt just went nuts. And their faces—it looks and acts like Joker toxin, but—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupts. “There’s no origin, no delivery system.”

“Exactly.”

Terry uses the magnification option in his mask to check his family. “If it’s not airborne, there should be injection points, but I don’t see any.” He does a sweep of the room. “There’s no vents or grates where it could have come in. Air filter's not picking up anything, either.”

“As near as I can tell, there won’t be. This is something new.”

“The word ‘new’ should never be used with the Joker.”

“Hm.”

“So why aren’t I affected?”

“I guess the dermal implant is doing its job.”

“Good thing,” Terry says, swallowing at the idea of what he might have done if hopped up on that chemical. “So, where’s it coming from?”

He grabs a pen and paper from his mother’s desk and jots down a note.

“That’s what we have to figure out. In the meantime, the goods news is the usual anti-venom appears to be working. It’s just a matter of mass-producing and getting out there.”

You guys fainted from the bug going around. Got a medical alert from Mr. Wayne, had to go check on him. Don’t leave the house!

He underlines that last bit and circles it several times before signing his name.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he tells them, and heads for the window, tapping his comm again. “So, what’s the ‘but’? Because with you there’s always a ‘but’.”

“But it’s not just Gotham,” Bruce says, grim. “I’m looking at CCTV feeds from Tokyo, London, New York—it’s everywhere. Satellite imaging’s showing even more conclusive data: the entire planet’s been exposed to this.”

Terry doesn’t even get a chance to swear when a new voice interjects, “And the longer you’re exposed to it, the longer it takes to recover.”

________________________________________________________________

GRAYSON

9:17 AM

Dick grunts as he evades and dances out of the way of Catwoman’s doppelgangers.

“If you even do,” he adds on an exhale as one of them lands a hard blow to his chest.

There are twin intakes of breath across the line.

“Mr. Grayson?” the McGinnis kid asks, sounding choked. Dick doubts it’s about him. He caught the bit about being attacked by his family, and he knows from experience what it is to have to subdue loved ones.

“You’d think after all this time you’d eventually switch frequencies, B.”

“Nightwing,” the old man grunts, voice as inexpressive as ever. “Seems like you used the tech I sent you after all.”

“Only after I made sure you didn’t include any nano-surveillance devices.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Well, it’s working for me, but not for—” Something sharp slices across his chest, sending him flying backward. One of the doppelgänger’s grab hold of him and flips him over with the intention of sending him through the window and a fall several stories down. He recovers in midair, lands on his hands and tosses himself away from the bodies. “Hold that thought.”

He tries to find the original Black, the one who laughs and gasps for breath a millisecond before her doppelgängers. The sound is grating in his ear, echoed everywhere and drifting up from the city center below, in the apartments around him—

“Is there someone there with you?” Bruce wants to know.

“No, I’m alone in my apartment beating myself up,” Dick snaps.

“Who am I to judge what you do for fun?”

“Regular anti-toxin works on whatever this is,” McGinnis repeats like he’s trying to be helpful.

“Well, I don’t exactly carry that around,” Dick mutters, though he knows it’s in the background. Getting there will be a pain in the ass, and fighting in such close quarters with so many opponents, even if it’s technically only one…

It takes several unsuccessful feints and a few sucker-punches before he can grab hold of the original Black, holding her throat in the crook of his elbow while enduring her clones’ attempts to take chunks out of his kin.

Bruce and McGinnis are saying something—to him, to each other, he’s not sure. He blocks them out for now.

Walking backward, he keeps close to the walls of the hallway leading to the bathroom, ignoring the way Black struggles and claws against him before finally going limp.

Immediately, the doppelgängers vanish, but he knows he doesn’t have long. He practically smashes the bathroom mirror going for the anti-toxin, fits it into an injector and jams it into her thigh.

He lets her fall to the floor in an ungraceful heap, panting as he examines the bloody welts on his chest and arms.

“Wrestling with you was a lot more fun last time,” he informs the unconscious woman, before returning to his bedroom and opening the secret space in the closet behind his clothing.

His spare suit is there, and he scowls at it.

“You said this was all over the planet,” he says into the comm as he reaches for the material. “If that’s the case, we’re going to have every living thing ripping itself to pieces within the next few hours.”

“Frag,” McGinnis mutters. “I need to find Dana and Max before something happens to them.”

Predictably, Bruce says, “They’re not priority right now.”

“They’re priority for me, alright?”

“Flexible as ever, aren’t you old man?” Dick mocks.

“We have to focus our energy on reversing whatever happened,” Bruce retorts, unapologetic.

“Yeah, well, we look to our own first, Bats, or there’s no hope of fixing anything.” His tone turns sharp. “And you’d better hope Tim’s okay.”

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:17 AM

Tim is not okay.

He is so far from okay, he thinks he might have lost feeling in his extremities. Which is problematic, since he’s trying to fight off both a panic attack and the wild swings of his wife.

She staring down at him with that horrid grin, gripping another huge kitchen knife in hand.

Tim’s chest feels close, and he wants to throw up, but he also knows he has to help Arlene. And to do that, he needs to calm down and think logically.

There was no gas anywhere, no traps. Joker liked the kind of traps that were showy and made noise.

But there’s no weapon, no delivery system, no broken windows the toxin could have come from. It couldn’t have been the coffee, otherwise, he’d be affected as well.

Why haven’t I? Out of anyone, it should be me.

But no—the dermal implant he helped Bruce design. Apparently, it works, filtering out the toxin before it even enters the bloodstream. It had been a wing and a prayer that it would work, a failsafe only, and now that it has, he wishes he’d thought to make more than the prototypes.

One for Arlene.

“Hon, I’m real sorry about this,” he apologizes, knowing she can’t hear him now. And then he surges forward, swooping beneath the arc of the knife coming toward him, gets behind her and uses a nerve pinch to knock her to the ground.

Outside, he hears cars colliding and frantic cries, turning to laughter and then agonized shrieking.

What the hell is going on?

He carries Arlene to the couch and hurries to his study to locate this last batch of anti-toxin. When the Joker returned, he’d spent hours every day mixing it up, and though he sent most of it back to Bruce and Barbara for their stocks, he kept enough.

It’s quick work to inject his wife; it will take a little longer before she wakes up again.

That done, his brief burst of battle-calm vanishes and the spirit of Robin that prompted him to action begins to fade. He begins to shiver, swallows back a hysterical sob or giggle.

The noises from outside get louder and he sits on the couch, hauling his knees up to his chest and leaning into his wife’s shoulders. He almost relishes the pain of his joints in the unfamiliar movements, trying to counteract the legitimate terror trying to creep upon him.

His eyes catch on the red vase, broken, its rounded bottom lying among the shards. It’s the same shade as a familiar helmet.

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement? Jason’s voice is back, angry and frustrated. Going to curl up and cry? The bastard wasn’t supposed to beat both of us.

Tim swallows and closes his eyes, taking a further moment to ground himself, and then goes looking for his cellphone. He’s not far gone enough to reach out to Bruce—yet—but he’s not the only one who can help.

The speed-dial to Barbara’s personal line rings out.

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9:17 AM

The gunshot echoes, but it isn’t from the lieutenant’s gun. Instead, a stray shot from behind them both barrels through Davis’ body and into the wall. He crumples, and Barbra whirls around, taking in the sight of the entire police force in the pit, dissolving into madness.

They’re all crazed grins and mad giggling, grabbling with each other and shooting their service weapons with wild abandon.

They’ve all been infected.

Her phone is ringing—not the office, but her cellphone. She spares a moment to see that it’s from Tim, but she can’t answer him right now. Not with the chaos threatening to destroy her building.

Hurrying around the pit, dodging grabbing arms and bodies being thrown in her path, she makes a beeline for the master computer responsible for all automated functions of the department. Fingers flying, she enacts the protocol for emergency safety.

It was original installed to stop another massacre from having in the middle of the police stronghold, and as far as she’s concerned, that’s exactly what’s about to happen if she doesn’t act fast.

“Sorry, boys,” she mutters, opening the panel hiding the lever, and yanks it down.

Instantly blue sparks explode all around the pit, creating a facsimile of a faraday cage. The charge isn’t enough to kill, just to incapacitate; every man and woman in uniform drops to the ground, stunned.

The sudden silence in the wake of the laughter is chilling, but not complete; in the offices and on the floors above she still hears signs of struggle, meaning all she’s managed is a brief reprieve.

Her cellphone is ringing again; this time she takes the call.

“Barbara, it’s not me!” he gasps right away, voice tight with fear. “It has to be a copycat, I swear it’s not met!”

“Never even thought it was,” she informs him honestly.

“What’s going on?!”

“I don’t know. Going to find out.”

“All I can think is that whatever this is has to be airborne.”

“Like a neurochemical attack?”

“Actually, I think it might be more like a virus. Some bacterial strains are still able to evade air filtration technology,” Tim says, taking measured breaths. Having to solve a problem has always been the best way to keep him calm. “Otherwise the city sensors would have detected it.”

“Unless it was a toxin designed specifically to evade those sensors.”

“It’s possible…”

But he still sounds preoccupied.

“Well, it’s a starting point,” she says. “Thanks, Tim. Is Arlene alright?”

“Knocked out on the couch,” he sighs. “I’ve dosed her. The usual strain against Joker toxin seems to be effective, at least.”

“Good to know.” Something outside explodes on the street, and she winces. “Listen, Tim, we’re going to handle it. Just stay put and take care of yourself and Arlene. Call me if there’s anything, but otherwise, keep the line clear.”

“I know. It’s everywhere, isn’t it?”

“It looks like it.” She hangs up, dials Nissa first, but the heir to her cowl doesn’t pick up.

Crown Point’s probably a war zone. Can’t think about that right now.

Next, the Cave. Just as predictably, he picks up on the first ring.

“What the hell is going on, Bruce?”

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:20 AM

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine,” he replies, forwarding the call to the Bat-Computer.

Barbara’s voice is tense. “Is it really him again?”

“I don’t know.”

He navigates through multiple windows on the computer, examining the security footage of the chaos erupting around the globe. Through the comm in his ear, he hears Dick muttering something about his suit, while Terry keeps him updated on his flyover of the city.

Apparently, there are a lot of people falling or jumping off high-rises.

Bruce has a blood sample from Ace in the corner of the screen, running a diagnostic to find any clue how the toxin was spread.

There are differences in composition, which accounts for it working on the animals.

“I’ve got a program tracing the origin, but that’s taking a backseat to deploying an antidote,” he informs her. “I’m synthesizing it using Tim’s program from the last time.”

“Is it just me, or are there too many ‘last times’?” Terry wants to know, sounding winded.

Bruce ignores that, addresses Barbara, “I’ll send the first wave of Bat-drones to emergency service hubs.”

“That’s appreciated since I’ve got a precinct full of unconscious cops right now.”

“Emergency protocol worked, then?”

“Don’t be smug. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Once we’ve restored emergency services, I’ll send a second contingent to help the rest of Gotham.”

And then, somehow, the entire planet.

“But is it him?” Barbara asks.

“No. He’s dead.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Terry says. “Did the Joker really set all this up? Before he died?”

Bruce glances at another small window on-screen, where he captured a recording of the video that started all of this. “Judging by the resolution, the video footage is archival. That’s definitely him. I’d say it’s from forty years ago. Someone’s remastered it, but there are tells.”

“So why’s it being released now? He couldn’t have known exactly when he was going to die.”

“I suspect something specific happened to trigger its release. Some criterion was met.”

“So the Joker is definitely not back, but this is definitely his work,” Barbara concludes with a sigh. “Any idea on how to stop it?”

“Still looking.”

“Tim thinks it’s airborne. Like a virus.”

Bruce’s fingers pause in their typing, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. “Is he—?”

“He’s okay,” Barbara says. “Shaken, but he’ll hold up.”

Bruce nods to himself, tabling his relief to concentrate on the current conundrum.

“Batman, while I’m perfecting and sending out the antidote, patrolling. Help where you can.” To Barbara, “He’ll need backup.”

“That’s going to be hard since I just had to tase everyone here. I don’t want to know what’s going on with the officers that were patrolling outside.”

Law enforcement is trigger-happy on a normal day; we both know that means there’s going to be a lot of police-related deaths at the end of this thing.

“How much anti-toxin do you keep at the precinct? Didn’t Tim send you a batch recently?”

“Still probably not enough for everyone on the force.”

“Doesn’t matter. Inoculate everyone you can; once I get more of it spread around the city, there’s going to be even greater chaos. Right now, the population is mindlessly violent—once their wits come back, that’s when the real violence starts.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t argue; she knows it’s true.

“This is going to take as many people as we have to pitch in. Keep a comm on you—I know you have one on you. If some poor Jokerized fool takes out the power grid, you’ll lose access to all conventional communication.”

“We have back-ups, you know,” Barbara says dryly, but he hears her shifting around and then the squeaking feedback as she puts a comm in her ear and hangs up the phone.

“Not as good as mine.”

“So what exactly are you expecting I do in the meantime?” Terry wants to know. “Patrol is kind of a broad term.”

“Try to keep the peace as well as possible.”

“…I’d think you were joking, except you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, he does, kid,” Dick remarks. “But if you haven’t found it yet, better pray you don’t.”

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:25 AM

Terry dodges what feels like the hundredth car that’s flipped over an overpass, only just managing to get the passengers out and back on the ground. They immediately start grabbing at his throat and trying to gouge his eyes and he’s forced to take off again.

So far, the short trip between his apartment and the school has taken three times as long as it should have.

And every second means Dana and Max could be…

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Down below, people are actually tearing each other to pieces, scratching and biting and using everyday detritus to whale on each other. There are two many for him to stop them all, and the fact he’s all-but useless until Bruce manages to deploy the antidote doesn’t make him feel any better.

“This is insane.”

“I believe that was the point," Bruce grunts.

“Even if I had enough anti-toxin for the entire city, this isn’t exactly a one-man job,” Terry complains.

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the only one still cognisant.”

“Yeah, but that’s still just a handful of us. And if this stuff is in the air, even any anti-toxin we have is only going to be temporary.”

“Once we figure out what’s delivering this toxin or virus, it’s just a matter of tweaking it to deploy the antidote instead. Until then, be grateful your device is working properly.”

“Is there anyone else out there with one of these, except your chosen?”

“Anyone who had access to the anti-toxin and was able to dose themselves before it took over.”

Terry snorts. “So, maybe three people? Great. I feel so comforted.”

“You shouldn’t. They’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“You’re such an optimist. What about Su—”

“He’s compromised.”

“Compromised like…?”

“Trust me when I say it’s not something you ever want to encounter.”

Terry shivers at the idea of a Jokerized Superman. “I can’t even picture that. I wouldn’t even think it was possible. How did you—?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Frag.”

“Just don’t attract his attention and hope you don’t need to use the last resort.”

Meaning Kryptonite.

“And how do you propose that?”

“Don’t call for help.”

“Of course,” Terry sighs, and then grumbles, “This is not my best day ever.”

It’s another ten minutes of fighting through the smoke of several wrecked cars, stopping a bunch of thugs from beating on a frazzled, confounded kid crying despite her Glasgow smile, before he makes it to Hamilton Hill High.

Probably going to need some help, he decides, remotely activating the Batmobile’s onboard computer to track his location.

It might as well be a warzone, the way the staff and students—kids he’s been in school with for years—are attacking each other. Everyone’s bleeding in some way, a number of bodies litter the ground, some still twitching, some not. Terry tries not to think too closely about it as he speeds through the hallways to his second-period classroom.

Inside, the light panels have been destroyed, creating a strobe light effect that Terry winces at. He adjusts the screen in his mask to account for the light, and looks desperately around.

The teacher’s dead, bleeding from what looks like a shard of someone’s tablet shoved through his throat. His classmates are grouped off in individual melees, all of them laughing hysterically as they beat on each other or take blows.

Chelsea Cunningham straddles Nelson Nash and repeatedly strikes his head against the ground, giggling shrilly as his blood spatters her once crisp white shirt. Nelson’s not quite laughing anymore, making choked-off noises like he’s trying to breathe.

Terry doesn’t think twice about using two of his anti-toxins on both of them—it’s about all he can do—before moving on.

Dana and Max are near the back, seemingly in the midst of trying to choke the life out of one another. Dana has several patches of hair torn out, and Max has an ugly gash down her cheeks from Dana’s nails.

“Okay, time to break up this girl fight,” he declares, materializing behind them and knocking them both out before inoculating them.

The other students have taken notice of him by now, and begin to close in.

“And that’s my exit,” he murmurs, hoisting a girl over each shoulder.

There’s an explosion beside him, as a blast of concentrated fire opens a hole in the ceiling. A cord extends downward and he steps into the foothold, holding tight to his best friend and his girlfriend as the Batmobile yanks them upward and away from the high school.

“Oof,” he mutters once inside the cockpit, laying the girls gently in the passenger seat.

“Everyone alright?” Bruce asks.

“They’ll live.”

“Good. Time to get back to work.”

“On it.” Terry jumps out of the car and hovers beside it for a moment, keying in commands to take it back to the Batcave. “Special delivery. Maybe you can figure out how this thing is spreading to human victims and keep them safe.”

“We’re not a relief center,” Bruce grumps.

“Tough. I’m not leaving them to get ripped apart or rip each other apart here, or in their homes.”

“Then drop them off with your mother and brother.”

“No time to double back,” Terry replies. “And the Cave’s the safest place within two hundred miles. They know about you anyway, so deal with it.”

He considers the school beneath him and dives back in, trying to see how many he can incapacitate before they all kill each other.

________________________________________________________________

GRAYSON

9:30 AM

“Think I’m really starting to like this kid,” Dick tells Bruce as he digs through his medicine cabinet again. A medicine cabinet that’s more of a fully stocked home hospital.

Old habits die hard.

“Where the hell are the reinforcements?” he demands. “You know, the ones hanging out on high?”

“Watchtower’s dark.”

Dick pauses; that actually startles him. “Even for you? How’s that possible? You put so many backdoors into that system.”

“Hence my concern.”

Dick finds the tube he’s looking for, good for a concentrated shot of adrenaline and makes his way back to Black and doses her.

There’s a beat, and then she gasps awake, shooting into a sitting position.

“Sorry,” he says, “but the city’s going to hell. There’s no time to play Sleeping Beauty. Suit up.”

“Sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she groans, accepting his outstretched hand.

"What can I say, I'm the life of the party." While she shimmies into her clothes and checks her gear, Dick asks Bruce, “Speaking of your ‘chosen’, who else have you immunized, besides you, me, the kid and Babs?”

“Who are you calling a kid?” McGinnis demands.

Bruce ignores him. “In an ideal world? The Family.”

“You mean the Family you’ve pissed off and distanced yourself from for the past forty years? That Family? Hell of a time to reach out.” Dick grunts. “What about—”

“Red Robin is fine.”

Dick huffs out a bitter chuckle. “Now there’s a handle I haven’t heard in a while.”

“No real names on the comms.”

“I’m pretty sure anyone we’d have to worry about names with is roaming the streets laughing their heads off right now,” McGinnis says. "Maybe literally."

“Kid’s got a point,” Dick says. “Speaking of people roaming. Who else do we have in our corner? And by that I mean, who’s not dead, geriatric, off-world or part of the Jokerized masses?”

“Anyone with a superior metabolism or who can burn off the toxin before it takes hold. Flash is working Central City right now, but she’s got her hands full. Same for Static out in Dakota City.”

“That's it? What about everyone else?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“And the Justice League still isn’t answering.”

“No.”

Which is…not good.

Black reappears from the bedroom, mask on and hands on her hips. “You ready to roll, soldier?”

“Make sure you take some anti-toxin with you. What I dosed you with will eventually run out, and I’d rather not have to worry about you going after me when you’re supposed to be watching my back.

“I’d love to know how I went from a thief to saving the city on a regular basis,” she quips.

“The first Catwoman used to ask that all that time."

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9:30 AM

“Whoever’s doing this was thinking ahead,” Barbara says as she goes from officer to officer and injects them with the anti-toxin. “Way ahead.”

She wasn’t kidding when she said there wasn’t enough for the entire force; as it is she’ll be lucky if it’s enough for the ones in the bullpen. The rest are going to have to be put in cells until help arrives.

“Hm.”

“But it also…” she trails off.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel like the Joker. Besides the video and the toxin, I mean. Other than that…”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Bruce agrees. “The theatricality is him, but the rest…I’m still analyzing the video clip for clues.”

Barbara purses her lips. It should be a relief to hear that it’s not him, but it’s not. The legend of the Joker makes even his imitators a force to be reckoned with.

Just as the first of her officers begin to stir, she pulls out her cellphone and runs an encryption program to secure the line. It’s a program Maxine Gibson set her up with when she expressed a need to get in touch during emergency situations...especially when the new Batgirl doesn’t want her to.

This time, the line connects to the biometric communicator Nissa always carries on her. Barbara waits until her protégé’s blasé voicemail starts playing and listens through the recording.

“I know you’ve probably been hit by the toxin,” she says after the shrill beep, “but that’s going to be dealt with soon. The minute you’re conscious, get your gear on and get your butt into that city. Even if this all gets fixed in the next ten minutes, Gotham’s going to be pulling herself apart for days. We need all hands. Consider this your debutante ball.”

She disconnects and then reaches for her service weapon, checking her ammo, and mentally decides what orders she’s going to give the men and women getting back on their feet. None of them know what’s going on, and it’s not going to be an easy explanation.

Her eyes fall upon the photo of Sam on her desk, and she swallows. There are still two more calls she needs to make before she goes out on the street.

“Sam? When you get this…Just know that everything’s going to be alright. I’ll see you at dinner, hon…”

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:35 AM

When the phone rings again, Tim jumps, having forgotten it was in his hand. He’s been trying not to twitch at every sound from outside when he’s not checking his wife to make sure she’s still breathing.

He knows she is—he’s watching her chest rise and fall—but he keeps having visions of her seizing and dying on his watch.

“Babs?” he chokes.

“It’s me,” she confirms. “The Bats are working on a toxin and doing crowd control. You should have drones incoming within the half-hour.”

Tim exhales. “That’s a relief at least.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m managing,” he replies. “Arlie should be waking up soon. Then we’re getting the hell out of Gotham supposing I have to hitchhike.”

“It won’t help,” Barbara replies grimly. “From what Bruce says, this is happening all over. There’s nowhere to escape to.” Tim’s heart sinks. “Believe it or not, Gotham’s going to be one of the safe zones for a while.”

“Gotham is never safe,” he deadpans.

“I know. Tim…I’m sorry you have to go through this, with everything you’ve been through. The best thing for you to do is batten down the hatches. Stay put and stay safe—or as safe as you can manage. I’ve got some of my force up and about again. As soon as I can spare the manpower, I’ll send someone over to protect you.”

“Yeah…”

Tim stays still for a while after she hangs up, staring down at the phone in deep thought.

Something about that bothers him, niggling at some long-buried part of him.

Didn’t you used to make a big deal about people trying to protect you? Jason’s voice wonders. When did you become such a burden, Timbers?

“About the time a lunatic crown tried to lobotomize me,” he mutters to no one.

Maybe. But just because you’re out of the game, doesn’t mean you’re completely useless. You’re not Bruce…but you’ve still got contingencies on contingencies.

He wants to argue that—ignoring the fact he’d be arguing with himself because Jason’s not here—but then he really thinks about it.

He knows his house isn’t fortified, isn’t defensively in any way against his Jokerized neighbors or whatever other chaotic groups will emerge as the Bats try to spread the anti-toxin.

But…I still know where all the safehouses are.

The ones that were built to stand the test of time and outlived the breaking of team bonds. He’s thinking of one in particular—his old haunt beneath his former apartment in the old theater district. The apartment was demolished ages ago, bought up with the rest of the block and replaced with a high-rise parking garage.

But the Nest beneath it was never found, and there are still one or two secret entrances to get in. If there’s nowhere safe in the world to flee, then he must look for safety in the city he knows.

Maybe…I can be Red Robin one last time.

He gets up, plans coalescing in his mind.

As soon as Arlene wakes, they’re leaving.

⁂

________________________________________________________________

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philipronans · 5 years

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go where you breathe free [1/7]

this was meant to be a oneshot for @gxldentrio‘s birthday but as per usual things ran away from me and now i’m in hell. this also isn’t what i originally intended, hence why it’s late so for that i’m sorry! sirius is pretty depressed in this, just in case anyone needs to take care of themselves - i don’t think trigger warnings are needed, he’s just very in his own head about it

the first week

Sirius wakes up to the smell of something floral wafting through the open crack of his bedroom door. He battles, briefly, with the exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, and kicks his legs free of the duvet, pushing it towards the bottom of his bed. It’s hot, even for late May, and although his curtains are drawn tightly across his window he can already feel sweat starting to prickle against the backs of his knees. Sitting up is a task in and of itself; there’s a lethargy settled in the very marrow of him that means it takes him a few attempts before he succeeds.

Finding clean clothes quickly becomes another adventure, hidden amongst everything else on his floor as they are, like flakes of gold buried in the sand. Not that he even needs to get dressed, really - it’s not like James, or Lily for that matter, have never seen him in his underwear before - but there’s a voice in the back of his head whispering with the volume of an earthquake to do it. So, he roots around for a pair of jeans that aren’t obviously stained with anything, and then has to sift through several t-shirts before managing to find one that doesn’t smell like three day old Chinese.

Sirius kicks wearily at the pile - more like mountain, if he’s being honest - closest to him, and sighs. He doesn’t bother promising himself to clean it up later, just turns around so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore, and picks his way over to the mirror in the corner. The Sirius in the reflection is wan, dark circles taking up residence under his eyes, and he prods at them with the pads of his fingers. He flicks idly at the sleep gathered on his eyelashes and then scrapes a hand through his hair to pull it into something resembling a ponytail. It’s been a few days since he last ran a hairbrush through it, and it shows. Pursing his lips, Sirius rolls the hairband from his wrist and double ties it.

Lily is already in the kitchen by the time he wanders in, scratching at the stubble lining his cheek and trying to ignore the way it catches on his fingertips. A huge bouquet of flowers - that he won’t even begin to pretend he knows the names of - lays on the counter separating the kitchen from the dining room. A vase stands at her elbow, filled halfway with water, and she’s got the sachet of flower food in one hand, a pair of extremely large scissors in the other. She doesn’t look at him until the last drop of food lands in the water, but when she does, her smile is brilliant.

“Good morning!” She says, stepping away from the counter so she can drop the packet and the cellophane wrap in the bin.

Sirius watches her for a few moments before the smell of whatever the flowers are gets him to edge a little closer. “Mornin’. Where’s James?”

“Nipped over to Tescos.” She says, letting the lid of the bin clang shut again. Then she shifts a little so she can quickly wash her hands. Lily’s eyes are kind when she glances over her shoulder at him. “You sleep okay? James said you might have trouble because of how sodding hot it is.”

There’s a warmth in his chest that Sirius doesn’t have the words to explain, so he shrugs. He shuffles over to the fridge and doesn’t even bother getting out a glass before taking several long pulls from the carton of orange juice (without pulp, he’s not an animal). “It was… okay.” He says eventually, ignoring the face Lily pulls when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s been worse.”

There are parts of him that Lily’s missing, that he refuses to let her see no matter how much he trusts her, but just this once she seems to hear what he’s omitting because she’s smiling again. “That’s good.”

It doesn’t take long for Sirius to grow itchy with the way she’s looking at him, so he quickly sets about getting himself breakfast instead. He has no idea what the time actually is, but in his humble opinion, there is no wrong time for a bowl of coco pops. No matter how many times James tries to convince him they’re rank. Sadly, there’s only one box left - the variety pack he’d bought slowly dwindling until all he’s left with a rice krispies. He pulls a face, even as he resigns himself to the fact he’s going to have to get more at some point.

Lily waits until he’s got his head buried in the fridge again, with his bowl tucked against his chest, before saying, “There’s no milk left.” The smile she gives him is mischievous, and he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed about it.

Sirius would be lying if he said he doesn’t briefly consider using the orange juice instead. Briefly. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Instead he lets the door fall shut with a thud and stares forlornly down at his cereal.

“James should be back soon, I think. He wasn’t going out for much.” Lily offers, and when he lifts his head long enough to look at her, she’s leaning against the edge of the sink with her arms crossed loosely under her chest. Her smile is kind. He tries not to see the pity in it, and ducks his head back down.

Instead of answering her, he moves over to the dining table, footsteps inneringly soft against the floorboards even now. He slumps into the nearest chair, bowl sat in front of him, taunting, and he reaches out to grab a handful. Popping a few into his mouth, Sirius starts chewing hard enough to feel it in his jaw. His eyes are unfocussed, staring aimlessly at the photograph hanging on the opposite wall. None of it gets processed, it’s all just one swirl of colour bleeding into another.

An undetermined amount of time later - although it’s probably only a few minutes, given the meagre dent he’s made in his coco pops - Lily places a tall glass of orange juice at his elbow.

Sirius manages to drag his attention from the wall long enough to meet her eye. “Thanks.” He mutters, voice barely more than a croak.

Lily hovers for a moment, clearly unsure of whether to sit down with him or not. It doesn’t take her long to make her mind up, though, because she leaves him alone - he’s grateful for that, too.

The quiet isn’t… nice, exactly. But it’s peaceful; gives him time to come back to himself. It happens slowly, as it so often does; colours bleeding into each other until they become tangible - things he can reach out and touch if he wants to. For the moment he just focuses on the table, the wood worn smooth from countless days spent just like this one.

The universe is a metronome and Sirius the pendulum, tick tick ticking through his own existence without hope of ever slowing down or stopping. Sometimes he falls out of rhythm, whenever life decides to knock him off kilter, but he always manages to find his way back eventually. Today is no exception, and once he feels present enough in his own head to actually do something, he fiddles with the glass of orange juice for a brief moment before downing half of it in one go.

He takes it with him, dangingling it loosely from his fingertips, when he finally gets up. The bowl gets left behind, but he makes a silent vow to actually eat as soon as James gets home. Their flat isn’t exactly small, especially given they’re in London and the rent is cheap, but there aren’t all that many places he can go other than his room. So when he ends up in the living room, Lily doesn’t so much as blink as she puts her book down and reach for the remote. She doesn’t even seem to notice the magazine that goes careening off the coffee table onto the floor.

Instead she raises an eyebrow at him and gestures with the remote. Her nail varnish is chipped around the edges, jagged electric blue in stark contrast with how pale she is. “Wanna watch something?” One of the wonderful things about Lily, and there are several even if Sirius is loathe to admit it, is that there is never any expectation. He’s free to do, or not, whatever he pleases whenever he wants - it can be overwhelming sometimes, just how free she lets him feel.

For the first time this week he doesn’t feel like he has to escape back to the safety of his bed, so he sets his glass down on one of the free coasters and picks the magazine up as he sinks into the sofa cushions. It’s not a big sofa, by any means, but sometimes it feels like they’re on opposite sides of a very large chasm. Sirius meets her excited little grin with the smallest twitch of his own mouth. Maybe not quite a chasm.

“What did you have in mind?”

-----

They’re only half an hour into their chosen movie when James gets home, but Sirius is barely paying attention anyway. There had been a brief, albeit passionate, debate on the merits of shitty horror versus shitty sci-fi, before they’d settled on a low budget, straight-to-DVD slasher.

The only noise James makes for a few minutes is the rustling of plastic shopping bags - more Bags For Life, from the sounds of it. Just their luck. Sirius finds himself glancing over at Lily when cupboard doors start banging, and he isn’t entirely sure why, even as she sinks further into the cushions.

“I’m too lazy to move.” She says by way of explanation, and it’s enough to get a laugh out of him. It’s rusty, catching in his throat in its desperate bid for freedom, but it makes Lily’s eyes soften. Sirius pretends he doesn’t notice, even if there is a heat in his cheeks he can’t quite ignore.

Thankfully Lily turns back to face the screen, leaving him time to try and make his body do what it’s told. The murderer lumbers out of the woods just as Sirius manages to push himself to his feet, hatchet swinging from their hand as they hunt down one of the incredibly dumb teenagers that somehow always seem to be the protagonists.

“Want anything?” He asks, because despite everything else that might be said about him, he still has manners.

Lily watches him for several seconds, but just as it starts bordering on too long she shakes her head. “No, thanks.”

Nodding, Sirius snags his glass and then quietly pads out of the room, followed by the sound of the first kid being hacked to death.

There are a lot of things Sirius is ready and willing to brag about being good at, but one of the few things he truly prides himself on is his ability to be very quiet when needed. The noise in his head is so loud, all the time, that he’s always used his own silence as a weapon. Even now, it’s no different, and the way James smacks his head on the open cupboard door is both validating and hilarious. Sirius doesn’t do anything more than snigger as he pads over to the sink so he can rinse his glass out - experience has taught him more than once just how disgusting dried juice is to clean.

“You have got to stop doing that.” James grumbles, rubbing at the vaguely pink mark on his forehead. Sirius has to fight down the urge to wrap his fingers around James’ narrow wrist, something strange coiling in his belly.

He tries not to think about it too hard. “You’re gonna make it worse.” He says instead, rocking back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I thought being blind meant everything else was enhanced, anyway?”

“That only works if you abide by regular human physics.” James says, voice nearing on a whine. There’s a glint in his eye that suggests mischief, though, and Sirius feels something in him settle. James shakes his head, roots around in the nearest bag for a moment, and before Sirius gets a chance to see what he’s doing, something sharp hits him in the chest. He has to scrabble to catch it, but when he looks down it’s to see a new variety pack of cereal against his chest. “You’re almost out, right?”

Sirius eyes him curiously for a moment, that same strange feeling settling heavy in his lungs and making his breath painful. It eases as Sirius smiles. “Cheers, mate.”

#jilypad #jily #prongsfoot #hp fic #hanahaki au #vic writes #i didn't wanna say in the description just so i wasn't dragging things out but this is indeed a hanahaki au #which means things are gonna get real angsty #like this au isn't bad enough on its own you've got me: the queen of angst #long post #sorry if you're on mobile and this doesn't show up under a read more

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7deadlycinderellas · 7 years

Text

There Once was a Town in Maine, ch12

Ao3 link

Lacey sits cross legged on the floor, facing the open elevator.

The camera on her old phone had been easy enough to rig. She’s still not sure what’s below her, but she wants proof whatever it is. The electric lantern too, was easy enough.

She places them in the elevator, sets the trigger to start recording, and slowly pulls the cord to close the doors and start its descent.

She counts carefully. And five minutes later, she pulls it back up.

The lantern has been knocked over, but thankfully her camera is fine. She picks it up, and slowly rewinds, not sure what she expects to see.

The light is barely a speck in the darkness, until the darkness moves, and an eye the size of a hubcap appeared, surrounded by dark purple scales.

Lacey puts the phone down, and buries her face in her hands. If she can make even herself believe what she’s saw, she’ll find them tomorrow.

Emma stays over that night. Mary Margaret is borderline inconsolable, and while Emma promises that she’ll help in any way she can, her knowledge of medical law is very small.

She drags over her laptop and sleeps fitfully on the couch, doing what research she can. Nothing she can find says anything about how anyone could possibly take power of attorney from a legally competent spouse.

The file she has on Lily’s kidnapping is sitting on her desk back at the apartment. Emma feels like she should have pulled the trigger on it a long time ago. But here, alone, she admits to herself that she was scared. Nothing in this town followed the laws or logic she knew. None of it played by the rules.

Well now, may she shouldn’t either.

She wakes up early to leave, but not before checking on Mary Margaret. The apartment bedroom is small, but despite the delicate and attractive furnishings, it bears the fruit of the loneliness she must have felt since her husband’s illness. His things still sit in the bathroom untouched, his shoes sit by the coat rack, and when Emma peeks in on her, she can’t help but notice one side of the bed is almost pristine.

She makes a pot of tea and leaves it on the counter with a note.

“If what I want to do works, Regina won’t be a problem anymore”.

She returns home quickly, needing to catch Neal and Henry before they leave for the school.

“Henry, I need a favor today”.

“What?”

“At lunch today, use your phone to get a video of Lily. Have her say her name, her birthday, and her parents names. Then send it to me, and come straight home after school.”

“Okay,” he replies, and goes down to get in the car.

Emma turns to Neal. “I’m going to go see your father again.”

When he sighs, she puts both hands on his shoulders,

“I might need his help, and he knows the people in this town better than anyone.”

After a long moment, Neal says,

“I can’t help remembering what he told you before. That we’re going about this the wrong way. Going after Regina about Lily feels...real world”.

“I know,” Emma responds, eyes downcast, “But it’s all I know to do, and I feel like if I can’t fix this than someone’s going to get really hurt because of my actions.”

Neal takes both her hands in his and pulls her close.

Once Emma’s calmed down a bit, she says.

“I couldn’t even hug her. The book says she’s my mother, and I couldn’t even bring myself to hug her. It’s like something inside of me is broken.”

“Whether she is or not- and let’s be real, put on wigs and you two could pass for sisters- there’s nothing wrong with you. She may be your mother, but you didn’t grow up with her. Just because she gave birth to you doesn't mean you're going to have this amazing relationship overnight. You’re friends, good friends, and that’s what you should concentrate on being for her”.

Emma lets her muscles go slack, and allows Neal to hold her upright for just a moment.

***

Lacey stares at the video on the phone again. She thought maybe that if she slept on it, it would have changed somehow, or that she would have a better idea of what to do.

But there’s a dragon living underneath her library. And she can’t just send someone that video and expect anything good to come of it.

She’ll show them in person, as soon as she can get up the courage to leave the front door of the library.

Emma enters the shop without really any idea what’s going to come of it.

Mr. Gold is behind his counter again, examining something. Emma sees what he is- a small town shopkeeper with a very odd set of skills and more influence than he ought be able to have. His other identities- a man of dark magic, friggin Rumpelstiltskin, her own father in law….they all flit around in the background.

He looks up, and Emma’s not quite sure if he was expecting her or not.

“I’ve been told you do a bit of law work, Mr Gold,” she starts off, straight to the point.

“Find yourself in a bit of a pickle, Miss Swan?”

“Please cut the crap Mr. Gold. What I’m saying is, if I made certain accusations against Mayor Mills, would you be able to back me up?”

He sits on his stool, resting his hands on the counter in front of him.

“What might I ask, are you accusing her of?”

“You’ve met Lily right? The girl she adopted, well she didn’t. I knew her when we were younger, and her parents still have her reported missing. There’s nothing legal about Mayor Mills keeping her here.”

Mr. Gold sighs a bit.

“When we first came to this town, Regina asked me to find her a child. She had some kind of maternal urge that this place wasn’t satisfying. I never directly refused her of course, but even I had my doubts about the possibility of her caring for a child. “

“So it’s not just me who thinks she treats the girl badly?”

“Dig into her past, and you might find out dear mayor a bit deficient in role models. But nonetheless, I have no reason to impede your charges. I could even be convinced to testify that she didn’t seek out any proper legal channels for her adoption if you do me a favor today”.

“I thought I already owed you a favor?”

“Might be better to call this more of a solid. I have a few things which I didn’t feel comfortable storing in the shop. I gave them to one of my tenants a long time ago- they should still be somewhere in the basement of the Storybrooke library.”

“Really all you want me to do is go the library and get something?”

“It’s a small bottle, labelled with parchment, ‘essence of true love’”

“I’m not even going to ask what that means”.

He chuckles. “It may be more necessary than you could understand in the coming days.”

“Why did you keep it there? Is the librarian that trustworthy?”

“More than you could understand,” he replied solemnly.

He then reaches under the counter and hands Emma a sword.

“You may find this necessary.”

Emma looks the old man up and down.

“Uhh, thanks?”

And she leaves the store for the library, entirely unsure of what she’s getting herself into.

The librarian, as it was, had just managed to take her first steps outside the street for the first time in twenty-eight years.

Neal hated hospitals. Modern medicine was entirely alien to him when he came to this world, and his experiences since had not improved his first impression. The cold, sterile air, the clean, bleached and starched linens and uniforms made his skin crawl.

But still, he pushed himself through the green and white painted hallways, bouquet in hand,

He finds Mary-Margaret in the bedside chair, head in her hands.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “Henry told me you didn’t make it to school today, I thought you might not want to be alone”.

He places the flowers in their plastic vase on the side table.

“Thank you,” she manages to sniff. “The doctors have already been by. They’re all so damn sorry,” the curse sounds foreign in Mary-Margaret’s mouth, but she owns it. “Emma’s right, there’s no reason the mayor should be able to do this. Everyone in this whole damn town is so scared of her, and no one seems willing to do anything about it.”

“Hopefully, Emma’s plans will distract her long enough that she’ll forget what she planned to do.”

“Is that where she is right now?”

Neal nods.

“Good- I know it’s not fair, we haven’t been neighbors that long but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Emma was avoiding me after last night”.

“Don’t take any offense at it. Emma’s not really good with feelings. She prefers try to make the problem go away to dealing with the emotions they cause. Plus, you’ve always been really motherly to all of us, and I don’t think she really knows how to deal with that.”

“Oh,” Mary-Margaret says quietly. “I know she’s mentioned that she had a really tough childhood, but I never would have thought-”

“It’s not your fault. Neither of us had good childhoods. It’s part of the reason I think why we worked so well together- we both wanted to give the other something they didn’t have. It’s why we’re both so intent on being good to Henry. But I think Emma sort of resents people caring about her sometimes, because she never had it growing up and part of her still doesn’t think she deserves it.”

Neal isn’t quite sure why he’s telling her all of this. He’s avoided speaking about his own childhood for so long that he barely recognizes the words coming out of his mouth. And the thing about Emma- he’s never told her that he recognized what she did. Why she sometimes tried to push people away. But talking to Mary-Margaret is easy to talk to, comforting and understanding. She seems like she would have been a great mom, and it sucks to know that Emma’s never going to get to have that.

Mary-Margaret gazes down at the prone figure on the bed, machines beeping steadily for the moment.

“I wish every day that he will just wake up, like nothing ever happened, and this will all go away. It all came on so suddenly, it almost feels like it’s possible”.

“I guess there’s always hope,” Neal tells her.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a message from Ruby, which reads ‘Lacey left the library, she’s at the diner now and wants to show you something.”

Confused, Neal puts it back in his pocket. It’s about time to pick up Henry from school anyway.

“I’ve gotta go,” Neal says, standing up, “We’ll come back to check on you later if you don’t come home.”

“Thank you, “ she says, wiping her nose again, “But I think I’ll come home for dinner and try and get some more sleep.”

Neal reaches out and puts one hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

When he reaches the car, Neal’s phone buzzes again. It’s from Emma, this time a single line.

“Yeah, there’s a fucking dragon under the library.”

Neal sighs. This is the beginning of the end, he can tell. Nothing in their lives is going to be normal for a long time.

#once upon a time #swanfire #swanfirealways #fic

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astouract · 4 years

Text

cottagecore (a loki fic)

two - being a mortal sucks

Wattpad | ao3

A/N: Told you the next chapter would be longer.

Cas practically slammed the door behind her, leaving the god-turned-gardener on her front step. Something wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be stationed at the house right next to his, why would they put her there?

Watch him from afar, they had told her, don't get too close. He's still dangerous.

Her heart felt as if it would beat right out of her chest, she noticed, as she placed a hand on her chest and let the door support her. After taking a moment, Cas pushed herself off of the door and wandered into the cottage. It definitely wasn't anything like the Asgardian architecture she was used to, floral patterns and natural wood instead of stark white marble and expensive accents. There was no television, which was almost a relief as she had no idea how to use one. There was, however, a little pink radio on a shabby looking green end table.

A floral sofa was the centerpiece of the room, placed in front of a small fireplace. Small tables held little knickknacks and tiny vases that could only hold one or two flowers. And, actually, it seemed like plants were taking over the house. They were everywhere, Cas realized with a groan. She'd have to water them every day.

She moved on and into the kitchen, where there was not nearly as much counter space as she was used to. The room was a cacophony of different patterns and colors, but somehow it all came together to form one cohesive style. A little round table sat in the corner, with two mismatched chairs and, of course, a potted plant. Everything looked like someone else had used it for twenty years and then dumped it on the side of the road somewhere. Even the gas stove could've used a cleaning. Cooking--yet another thing Cas would have to learn how to do. Fresh herbs hung from the wall above the large window, making the room smell faintly of rosemary and basil.

To the left of the kitchen was a small flight of stairs that led to the second floor, which Cas soon discovered was more of an attic with a bed and some windows. She let her hand trail along the white duvet, feeling its softness under her fingers. It wasn't an Asgard duvet, that's for sure, but Cas had a sneaking suspicion that she may like it more. It was plush and inviting, and she resisted the urge to fall onto the mattress.

A little dresser held flowing skirts and dresses, and a few pairs of jeans. She looked down at her current outfit, her last work of magic before hopping through the portal: a loose yellow shirt with--surprise surprise--white flowers on it, paired with blue jeans that had to be the tightest pants she had ever worn. Not her usual clothing choices, but she was to play the part and do it well. So, flowing dresses and flower crowns it was.

Her feet carried her to the window, where she brushed the curtains aside. She had a clear view down the street, and her eyes landed on Loki's house, where he was on his hands and knees in his garden.

It was so odd, seeing him like this. Loki, God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, was on his hands and knees digging through dirt to care for fruits and vegetables. Loki, who a week ago would have killed anyone who even looked at him wrong, came over just to help her with a yard sign. His hair had been thrown haphazardly into a top knot, and he'd had dirt smeared on his cheeks. He wasn't in Asgardian robes, trading his armor out for cotton button-ups and flannel pants.

Shaking her head, Cas stepped away from the window and retreated back to the first floor. The rest of the downstairs consisted of a small bathroom and an equally small study, where picture frames hung on the wall presented pressed flowers of all kinds and random journal entries. A wooden desk sat against a big window, and a small bookshelf was tucked into the corner.

Cas made her way back into the kitchen and through the back door, where nature had reclaimed the property. It was immensely overgrown, with so many clusters of weeds and flowers that her eyes couldn't find a place to settle. There was a rotting shed, and a greenhouse hidden behind greenery. Various gardening tools were scattered around the area, and she couldn't even imagine what else might be hiding in the bushes.

"It's. . . Charming." Loki's words echoed in her mind, and Cas rolled her eyes.

She liked a good project.

"Shit shit shit shit!"

Cas clamped her hands down over her ears, rushing into the kitchen and throwing the oven door open. She reached through the billowing smoke and grabbed the pan, crying out and dropping it immediately as burning pain overwhelmed her senses.

"Fuck!" She switched the oven off and held her hands helplessly in front of her, coughing.

She didn't know what to do. Her hands were an angry shade of red, an alarm was blaring from somewhere in the kitchen, and the smoke wouldn't stop billowing out of the oven. Somehow, above all of the noise she was able to hear a series of knocks at her front door. Cas crossed the distance from the kitchen into the living room, and carefully pulled the door open, hissing sharply at the pain rolling through her hands.

Shit.

There, standing on her doorstep for the second time that day, was Loki. Of course it was, because what else could happen when she was supposed to be watching him from afar?

He looked into the house behind her, and back at her with wide eyes. "Is everything okay? I heard the alarms and some loud crashes, and. . . Your house is full of smoke." His gaze asked what he wouldn't say out loud--asked if she needed help. Norns, he was practically begging her to let him help.

Who even was he?

Cas sighed, and then she did the unthinkable: she stepped aside to let him in. He followed her into the kitchen, and she realized just how much of a mess she'd made. The oven door was hanging open, with smoke still billowing out relentlessly, and there were charred cookies all over the floor. The baking pan was upside down in the middle of the room, but Loki didn't seem to notice as he rushed around the room trying to reconcile the smoke issue.

"What happened?" He asked breathlessly, propping the back door open and sliding every window open that he could.

"I made cookies."

"I can't," she murmured, looking down at her hands. Loki's gaze followed.

"Fuck." He sucked in a breath, "You need to take care of that."

I would, if I could use my magic, her subconscious snapped.

He turned on the sink, and gently guided her hands into the cool water. "I think you have second degree burns. You should keep your hands in the water for ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?"

Loki didn't seem to hear her, lost in thought as he looked around the room. He pulled over the chairs from her table, offering one to Cas before sitting on the other.

"How did you get settled in so quickly?"

Cas shrugged. "It was mostly furnished when I got here, I just had to add a few small things. I only brought one suitcase with me."

"I see. Where did you move from?"

Shit. Why was he interrogating her? Did he know something?

If Cas had a hand available, she would've waved it dismissively. "Just some run down old town about a day's trip north of here." The lie came effortlessly, and Loki accepted it with a nod.

"Where's your bathroom?"

"To the left of the entry." Cas grimaced, not daring to move her fingers.

Loki disappeared into the next room, and returned a moment later with gauze bandage. "It's going to hurt, but you have to wash your hands with soap before I can wrap them."

"What?" Cas asked stupidly.

Loki took the soap from beside her sink and squirted a bit into her open hands. "Just wash them real quick. Please."

God, being mortal sucked.

She did as told, and Loki turned off the tap before grabbing the gauze. "I'm going to wrap them now, okay?"

Cas nodded. She offered him a hand, and he began to unwind the bandage with extreme delicacy onto her skin. It was mesmerizing, watching someone who she knew to be an actual war criminal act so selflessly. Gone was the dark, brooding prince, and standing in his place was a mortal, kind and simple. And concentrating.

Cas' gaze wandered up to his furrowed brow, to his tousled raven hair. To his eyes, deep green and focused, and she realized that there were actually mesmerizing specks of gold in them. If she didn't know better, she never would have guessed that the man in front of her had been through a lifetime of heartbreak and resentment. His eyes held countless stories, but they weren't those of the God of Mischief. They belonged to Loki Prim, the gardener and friendly neighbor.

Loki released one hand and moved onto the next, and suddenly, those green eyes were staring right back at her. Her breath hitched, and for one, fleeting moment, she was swept up. The atmosphere felt different, like a static electricity clung to the air surrounding them.

Snap out of it, she scolded herself, he's a prisoner. This isn't really him.

Thrown back into reality, her cheeks flushed pink as she tore her gaze back to her bandaged hands.

You're a powerful sorceress. Get a grip.

"That should do it," Loki said softly, blinking a few times as if he too was just returning from the clouds. "And look, the smoke has cleared!"

Cas grimaced as he collected the charred cookies from the floor. "Sorry about all this."

Loki only grinned, putting the dented pan in the sink. "I'm more than happy to help."

They walked together back through the house, and ended up back on her front steps for the third time that day. The sun was setting behind the trees, the sky a breathtaking canvas of oranges, yellows, and pinks. The world outside was quiet, peaceful.

"Seriously," Loki emphasized, turning to face her. "If you need anything. You know where to find me." He offered a sympathetic smile.

And, unfortunately, you know where to find me.

Loki pointed to her hands. "You should take the bandages off in the morning and see what the burns look like; your hands will get progressively worse over the next twenty-four hours or so. Whatever you do, don't apply ice. And, don't apply any ointment until the burns have cooled. Make sure you keep them clean and wrapped."

Cas cocked her head slightly to the side, regarding him curiously. "How do you know all of this?"

Loki smiled to his eyes, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "I was a boy scout."

"Oh." Cas had absolutely no idea what a boy scout was, but based on his reaction, it was embarrassing.

Loki rubbed his hands together--something that Cas wouldn't be doing for a couple days, by the sound of it. "Well, you seem to have had a rather. . . eventful. . . day so I'll leave you to it. Have a good evening, Cas."

"Loki," she called out, stopping him on his way down the steps, "Thank you."

He smiled.

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