#he’d have turned you into ashes for that blatant lie | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mochamamii · 3 years

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yandere!taeyong: no secrets.

▹ a/n : hello loves, I chose a really shitty title for this but whatever loll this is something I wrote in like a day, sometimes I write absolute filth for no reason, this is one of those times.

▹ triggers : yandere!au, detailed smut, unprotected sex + creampie, mirror sex, daddy kink but like not super heavy tho

▹ pairing : lee taeyong x chubbyfem!reader

▹ synopsis : keeping secrets from your yandere boyfriend probably isn’t the best idea...unlesss they’re lee taeyong (even then that’s risky bizness my friend.)

••

Taeyong sighed as he stared down at the text message on his phone, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles turned white. He peered out the window of his car to glance across the street once more, staring at your apartment building.

He was parked across the street, his car parked far enough away that you wouldn’t be able to recognize his car from someone else’s.

Taeyong was immediately reminded of the lit cigarette he had in his other hand when the unflicked ash fell, slightly singeing the patch of skin on his leg where his ripped skinny jeans had left him exposed. He cursed under his breath, rolling the window down just enough to toss the still lit bud on the ground.

He was so distracted by you, more specifically, the blatant lie he had just caught you in that he completely forgot about his surroundings for a moment, causing him to let the cigarette burn almost entirely without ever flicking the ash.

You see, you and Taeyong have been dating for just a few months now. You were in that weird limbo stage where you were transitioning from casual dating to exclusivity. At least for you that’s how it was.

Taeyong had already moved past that stage months ago. He was serious about you, he was just being courteous by allowing you time to feel the same. But he was steadily growing impatient with you and all your sudden antics.

Things were going perfectly fine in the beginning. You were perfect, every bit of innocence and naivety that Taeyong wanted. You checked off all the boxes for him. And he didn’t need you to tell him that you felt the same way. Which is why it was pissing him off that you seemed to suddenly start pulling away from him slowly.

You’d begun acting strange. Avoiding him lately, whereas before you always obediently jumped at the chance to spend time with him. You also had refused to be intimate with him for a few weeks now, which wouldn’t have been a problem on it’s own. Taeyong was patient when it came to things like that and he was willing to go slow.

But in this instance Taeyong felt he had a right to be upset. Even in the few short months you’d been dating, Taeyong had managed to turn you into a full on nympho. Molding you into his perfect little sex kitten, ready to do whatever he wanted and whenever. What changed?

All of these things, amongst others, have led Taeyong to conclude that you obviously must be seeing another man. What else could it be? Things were going so well and then you suddenly changed up without any explanation.

And most recently Taeyong had caught you red handed in a lie.

He texted you earlier in the day to ask if he could come and see you. You replied back saying you had been at work. An obvious lie because Taeyong had been parked outside your house since last night, watching your front door to see if he could catch anyone coming in or out. He felt bad for stalking you, especially since he vowed to himself that he would try to be less invasive this time around.

He really liked you and didn’t want to scare you off.

So he left, giving up after nearly four hours of watching your house and not seeing anything out of the ordinary. He had only come back this afternoon in hopes that he might catch you on your lunch break. You worked nearby and it wasn’t uncommon for you to come home during this time.

He got excited when he pulled up to see your car parked out front already, the need to see you face to face building inside him. He hadn’t seen you in nearly a week, you claimed you were swamped with work and that’s why you didn’t have much time to spend with him like you normally did. Taeyong could tell you were lying to him, he had to stop himself from marching up to your apartment right then and there confronting you about your lies.

But he wanted to be sure. He needed concrete proof that he was right about what had been going on with you.

So he texted you a second time, asking if you had decided to come home for lunch today. He had seen you upstairs in your bedroom window, moving around, he knew you were home. If you texted him back with a different response he could confirm you were lying to him.

Unsurprisingly enough, you replied back, saying you were still at work and would probably be working late tonight.

He scoffed as he reread your message. Rolling his eyes in annoyance as he peered up at your bedroom window, straining his eyes to try and see what you were doing exactly.

Taeyong stayed put in the car for a while, trying to decide what the best course of action would be. He wanted to just march up there to you but he didn’t know what he’d even say.

Quite frankly, Taeyong was a little embarrassed. He wished he didn’t feel so affected by you. If it were any other girl he’d have dropped them a long time ago, deciding they weren’t worth the trouble.

But this was you we were talking about...His precious baby girl, the girl who he was actively trying to change for. He had been pegged as the crazy, overbearing, sometimes even violent boyfriend by nearly all of his ex’s.

They weren’t wrong actually. Taeyong was all of those things. But he was trying to suppress that kind of behavior just for you. He wanted you to want him too, he didn’t want to feel like he was trapping you into a relationship with him. Things were so different with you.

As angry and as hurt Taeyong was because of you lying to him, he still couldn’t bring himself to actually be angry with you. He was upset about the situation, but not at you. Honestly, once he saw you in person he wasn’t sure if he’d want to raise his voice and yell at you, or bury his head between your thick thighs.

God...it had been so long since he was inside you.

Only a week actually, but even that was too long for Taeyong.

Not wanting to sit and wrestle with his thoughts any longer Taeyong climbed out of the car. He jogged up the front steps to your door, trying to measure his breathing as he did so. He almost raised his hand to knock until he remembered you always kept a spare under a nearby potted plant.

He had to check under a few before he picked up the right one.

With your spare key now in hand, Taeyong could slip through the front door quietly. Even though during his stakeouts he never saw anyone go in or out of the house he still wondered if there was a chance you were being unfaithful. If not that, what else could it be?

Whatever it was, he was going to confront you about it today. No longer would he be left in the dark like this.

He unlocked the door, slipping in as quiet as a mouse. He pushed the door closed behind him, gently as not to alert you, wherever you were in the house. He kicked his shoes off at the door, knowing he’d be much quieter with sock clad feet instead of the heavy boots he had on previously.

Taeyong’s ears perked up as he heard you drop something on the floor upstairs. Considering the part of the ceiling he heard the noise from he guessed you were in the bathroom upstairs. Taeyong’s feet carried him up the stairs to your bedroom, the door was left open ajar already.

Carefully, he peeked through the crack to ensure you weren’t in the bedroom, even through the tiny space in the doorway Taeyong could see your figure standing in the bathroom connected to your bedroom. He pushed the door open enough to slip inside.

Taeyong stood under the arch of the doorway to your bathroom, watching you with curious eyes, your back was facing him so you were still unaware of his presence behind you, he could see you were struggling to open something.

Taeyong was about to speak up and announce himself to you until he took quick note of how your frustration turned to panic as you furiously twisted and pulled at the cap of…a pill bottle?

Now Taeyong was really curious.

With one last heave you released a large puff of air as the cap twisted off the bottle, Taeyong quickly sprung into action, taking two long strides across the expanse of the bedroom to get to where you stood in the bathroom.

He was too late though and you had already swallowed one of whatever those pills were.

“Taeyong?” You jumped, startled as Taeyong snatched one of your wrists to spin you around to face him.

Your cheeks turned red as you tried to inconspicuously hide your other hand that still held the bottle of pills behind your back.

“Give it.” Is all Taeyong said, his grip on your wrist tightening.

You shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, whenever Taeyong spoke in that demanding tone of his you’d always instantly obey and comply with whatever it was he wanted, not wanting to piss him off further.

But this time…this time you just couldn’t. You were too embarrassed, your hand felt frozen in place behind your back.

Growling, Taeyong spun you around and pushed you against the bathroom counter, pinning your arm behind your back as he retrieved the bottle of pills for himself.

You nearly toppled over because of his quick movements catching you so off guard. His firm hold on your arm pinned behind your back, catapulted you into the bathroom counter, your breasts plopping against the cool marble countertop.

Taeyong squinted his eyes to read the tiny print on the bottle, “What are these?” He asked, unfamiliar with the name of the pills.

You glanced up at him in the mirror, his jaw clenching as he tried to decipher what the long complicated name printed on the bottle meant.

It was as if you’d forgotten how to speak. Everything had happened so quickly and your mind was still taking a minute to process it all.

You had spent months trying to keep this one secret hidden from Taeyong. You went to any lengths possible if it meant protecting your secret. Even lying to him when necessary, which had become pretty frequent as of late.

All of it was catching up with you now.

Today would probably mark the end of your relationship, you were sure of it, there’s no way Taeyong would even be able to stomach the sight of you once he knows the truth. He’d probably think you were pathetic, too pathetic to be his girlfriend.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye as your tower of lies came crashing down around you.

Your head fell, hanging shamefully as you tried to ignore Taeyong’s burning gaze.

Taeyong was growing impatient with you, wanting answers and wanting them now. His fingers tangled themselves in your hair, gripping your roots not so gently as he pulled your head back to force you to stare straight ahead, so you were looking directly at him in the mirror.

Your back arched instinctively as you stretched your body out to follow his hand, wincing slightly in pain as you did so.

“Tae…what are you doing here?-

You were cut off by Taeyong slamming his hips into your backside, pinning your own hips firmly against the counter as he trapped you under his weight. His hand in your hair moved to wrap around your throat from behind.

“I’m growing impatient with you Y/N. Tell me now and stop avoiding the question.” Taeyong said

“Tell me.”

Your eyes were slightly red, a little teary as you nervously glanced up at him once before parting your lips to speak.

Your eyes searched his black ones for approval, it’s like you were silently asking him without saying it,

Will you still want me after this?

Taeyong only softened temporarily as he took note of your reluctance, he used his free hand to rub small circles on your back to soothe you.

“T-They’re…appetite suppressants.” You answered shamefully.

Taeyong’s grip on you loosened as he listened.

“Appetite Suppressants?” He echoed, glancing down at the bottle and back at you.

Taeyong felt foolish and annoyed. You had been so secretive and sneaky lately, he was sure it was because you had another man in your life, not diet pills?

Taeyong screwed the cap of the bottle off with ease, dumping the rest of the pills down the toilet.

You had to swallow an audible groan. You had paid good money for those pills. They weren’t cheap over the counter pills, you had gone to your doctor to have them prescribe something stronger for you. Watching the pills be carelessly flushed down the toilet made you wince internally.

“You don’t need these. Stop taking them.” Taeyong demanded as he placed the empty bottle down on the counter.

“Understand?” He asked you, displeased with your lack of response.

“But…Taeyong. I need those.” You breathed softly, slowly raising up from the sink to turn around and face him.

“I need them Taeyong. I can’t just give them up, not yet, not till I’m-

“Why not?” He questioned.

Fat, ugly tears started to roll down your cheeks as you swallowed the lump in your throat, “I’m still not perfect enough for you yet.” You whispered softly.

It was hard to say it out loud but it was true. You constantly felt like a tub of lard next to Taeyong. You didn’t want to feel that way anymore. You wanted to walk beside him with pride. You couldn’t do that. Not yet at least. Not with your current body.

Taeyong really didn’t like that you were fighting him on this. You were so naturally submissive, always going out of your way to avoid conflict with people especially Taeyong, he could say almost anything and you would listen and obey to whatever he wanted or expected from you.

Mostly because it was just in your nature to be more on the submissive side, but also because you felt like you were incredibly lucky to have someone like Taeyong, who were you to be making demands?

Even when there were times that you disagreed on something and wanted to vocalize your opinion, Taeyong would whisper in your ear how much he loved you and how you just needed to let go and trust him.

Usually it worked too.

But Taeyong was in no mood to be that gentle with you, not that it would matter anyways. This is the one thing you know that you will always fight him on.

Your body.

Taeyong never entertained any conversations with you when it came to your weight and feeling insecure about your body. He waved them off as you being “silly” or something like that.

It wasn’t that Taeyong didn’t care. It’s just that he’s a yandere and has never known how to process any of his feelings in a relatively healthy way.

It’s easier for him to ignore the issue rather than confront it. He’s afraid he won’t know how to make you feel better. He doesn’t know how he can make you see the beauty that he sees.

“Don’t make me the reason that you’re desecrating your body this way.” Taeyong hissed, landing a harsh slap against your ass cheek for emphasis.

You yelped, already feeling the numb burning sensation spread across your afflicted skin.

Taeyong grabbed hold of your hair again, raising the top half of your body off the counter until your back was pressed flush up against his chest. He snaked one arm around your waist, locking you in place against him whilst the other remained tangled in your hair.

Your head fell back against his shoulder as you followed his hand to escape the painful friction at your roots.

You fell into place so naturally against Taeyong, your bodies molding together so perfectly.

Taeyong loved the way your body was so soft and squishy, he loved your thick full curves, your deliciously plump body is what had initially attracted him to you.

How could you possibly think that something already so perfect needed to be changed?

Taeyong pressed a gentle kiss to your neck, moving to nibble at your sensitive earlobe, “Darling. What’s it gonna take, hm?”

“What’s it gonna take to get you to stop obsessing over this?” Taeyong asked, his free hand beginning to roam your body.

“To stop…saying all these mean things about yourself?” Taeyong’s voice trailed as his hand slid down the length of your abdomen, his long slender fingers gliding across all of your rolls and stretch marks.

All you had on was an oversized t-shirt, Taeyong’s to be exact. One that he’d left over here before.

Seeing you in his clothes sent waves of electricity directly to the head of his cock, making him harden. He wanted you to wear his clothes all of the time, he wanted his smell to linger on your skin, letting everyone know you were his.

As much as he loved seeing you in his shirt he couldn’t wait to rip it off you.

Especially now with the way your hard nipples were poking through the thin cotton material, practically begging him to turn you around and assault them with his teeth and tongue.

He couldn’t wait.

He was going to do every dirty, lewd thing imaginable to you tonight. No part of your body would be left untouched once he was done.

He needed you to know that you’re beautiful. He had to show you just how in love with you and your body that he was. He didn’t know how to translate those feelings into words, just action.

Taeyong released his hold on your hair to be able to use both of his hands as he groped and fondled your body.

His hands moved up to your breasts, cupping them in his warm large hands through your shirt.

He kneaded them, moving to tug at your nipples through the fabric to make you mewl.

“Do you feel that baby?” Taeyong asked as he rolled his hips into your backside, his cock standing at full attention now, allowing you to easily feel his erection through his jeans.

“Do you see how badly I want you? Look at how hard I am and I’ve barely touched you.” Taeyong said , groaning as he rocked his hips against you once more. Loving the feeling of your round backside rubbing up against his cock. You were wet already and growing impatient with Taeyong’s teasing. Your clit throbbed painfully, desperately needing attention. You rutted your backside back against Taeyong, begging him to take you already.

Taeyong raised one of your legs up to rest on top of the counter, giving him perfect access to your pussy.

His shirt on you wasn’t long enough to cover the full expanse of your ass so as your leg raised up on the counter, your glistening folds were revealed to him.

“Do you think you deserve to cum? After all you’ve done, all the sneaking around and the hiding? Do you really think I should give you any relief?” Taeyong teased as he used his fingers to slide up and down your slick slit, collecting your juices on his fingers.

“Please…” You begged with a pout, pushing back against him as you felt his fingers on you.

“Aht. Aht. No moving around or I’ll have to pin you against the counter like before.” He threatened as he stopped you from grinding your hips down against his fingers.

Feeling defeated you sighed, relaxing into his touch as you tried not to think about how badly you wanted to cum.

“Don’t look away from the mirror or I’ll stop.” Taeyong warned.

You nearly turned your head away momentarily to peek at what he was doing but decided against it at the last second.

Taeyong knelt down until he was level with your pussy. His warm breath fanned your skin sending shivers down your spine.

Taeyong’s soft wet tongue licked a single stripe along your slit, stopping at your clit to give it a single kiss before enclosing his soft lips around your bundle of nerves.

Your mouth dropped open as a moan fell past your lips.

Taeyong’s tongue worked quickly, alternating between lapping at your folds and sucking on your engorged clit.

You gripped the edge of the counter for support. You wanted to pull away from him when the pleasure became too intense but he smacked your ass whenever you moved so much as an inch away.

He released your clit from his mouth with an audible popping sound as he did so. Standing back up at his full height Taeyong took pleasure in seeing the way your eyes followed him in the mirror, eagerly waiting for his next move.

Taeyong unbuckled his belt and tugged his jeans down just enough, his cock bouncing up and slapping his abdomen as he released it from the confines of his briefs. A bead of precum was leaking from his head. Taeyong teased you by rubbing the head of his cock against your folds.

“Do you want to come? Wanna come as I pound this perfect pussy of yours with my cock? I don’t think you deserve it. You’ve been a bad kitten lately haven’t you? Sneaking around, hiding things from me, saying awful things about yourself, and making me worry…” Taeyong said, resting his chin against your shoulder as he met your gaze in the mirror.

“I’m sorry…” You whimpered, grinding your ass back against him.

“Are you really though?” Taeyong asked, his eyes narrowing at you.

“Yes. I’m so sorry.” You whined, growing desperate for release.

“Are you ever going to do something like this again, kitten?” He asked, slipping his hands under your shirt to roll your nipples in between his fingers.

“I won’t. I swear.”

Taeyong smirked, loving the sound of desperation in your voice.

“Do you promise? Tell daddy you promise to never do this again and he’ll give you what you want okay?”

He didn’t have to tell you twice before you were repeating over and over like a mantra, “I promise I’ll never do it again, daddy.” You fluttered your lashes at him in the mirror, hoping he’d sense your sincerity.

That was all Taeyong needed to see before backing up and sinking his cock deep into your pussy.

He groaned as your walls hungrily sucked him in, greedily accepting every inch of him.

You arched your back, raising your ass even higher in the air for him.

Taeyong was relentless in how he fucked you. His nails painfully dug into the flesh on your soft hips as he held onto them for support whilst he pounded you from behind.

“Do you hear how wet you are? This pussy is practically milking my cock.” Taeyong moaned, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror.

He was right. You were so wet, the obscene squelching noises your pussy was making around his cock bounced off the four walls of the bathroom.

“Taeyong…” You moaned.

He moved one hand off your hip to rest against your hand that was lying on the counter, he grabbed your hand to lace your fingers together.

“That’s right baby. Look at yourself, look at how well you’re taking my cock…such a good girl for me, my beautiful good girl.”

You could’ve come right then and there just because of how dirty the words coming from Taeyong’s mouth were.

You felt warm and happy as he praised you, calling you a good girl for taking him so well.

Taeyong continued drilling into you, never losing the rhythm he had set or the speed he was going at. He kept repeating in your ear over and over how pretty you looked and how beautiful you were.

Usually compliments like that went in one ear and out the other, you never liked to dwell on them for long because you just didn’t believe them.

But now…right here, right now. Watching yourself in the mirror as Taeyong fucked you, the faces you were making, and the way your body instinctively rolled and grinded back against him.

Even you couldn’t deny the beauty of the scene before you.

You could see him in the mirror, watching as his hands gripped and groped at your flesh, his desire and want for you evident on his face, evident in the manner at which he was thrusting deep inside you as if his life depended on it.

Thrusting with a desperation that matched yours, you needed this, to feel him inside of you, filling and stretching your walls with a subtle sweet pain.

“Taeyong, I’m gonna come.” You warned, feeling yourself clench around him.

The essence of your shared arousal started to drip down your thigh.

“Then come for me.” Taeyong answered, reaching his hand around your waist to rub your clit, propelling you further into your state of euphoria.

You rocked your hips back against him, chasing after your own orgasm.

You moved to throw your head back and rest it on his shoulder but Taeyong was quick to push your head forward, reminding you with a slap on your ass to not look away from the mirror.

“I want you to watch as you come on my cock.” Taeyong growled, determination clear in his voice as he unsheathed his cock completely from your warmth only to slam his hips back into yours.

You squealed as Taeyong angled his thrusts upward to hit your g-spot. Your eyes welled with tears, and your hand gripped the edge of the counter as you braced yourself.

It only took Taeyong a few more strokes before you were clenching around him uncontrollably, your pussy creaming on his cock. You collapsed on the counter, too tired to hold yourself up anymore. You winced a little as Taeyong continued to drill into you, the pleasure turning into a slight burn as he overstimulated you.

You wiggled your hips, trying to bring your hiked up leg down from the counter whilst also inching away from Taeyong’s thrusts.

“Stay still.” Taeyong grunted, pinching your outer thigh.

Taeyong abused your poor cunt until he was ready to fill you with his seed. He made sure he was stuffed deep inside of you when he painted your walls with his cum.

Once the two of you had caught a minute to catch your breath, Taeyong carefully pulled out of you, making a mess between your thighs as he did so. Your empty pussy was now clenching on air, inadvertently pushing Taeyong’s cum out of your hole causing it to run down your inner thighs.

Taeyong leaned down to kiss the back of your neck, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you came down from your high.

Finally, Taeyong pushed himself off of you to allow you to rise up from the counter. He turned you around to face him so he could properly kiss you on the lips.

“Wait, where are you going?” Taeyong asked as you kissed him before untangling your limbs from his.

“To shower?” You answered, one hand already on the nozzle of the tap to turn the shower on.

You were a sweaty, sticky mess, in desperate need of a nice long shower.

Taeyong smirked, pulling you back into his chest, “We’re still not done here.”

Your face must’ve said it all because before you got the chance to whine about being tired Taeyong was already pressing you up against the wall.

“Spread your legs again. Nice and wide for me...Daddy’s going to make sure you get all clean again…”

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creativeashproductions · 3 years

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Elysium // Luke Patterson

Summary: The boys of Julie and the Phantoms need a hail Mary to dethrone Downslide from opening for Panic! At the Disco. While Willie is done to help his blue eyed crush and his friends there’s one issue: Willie can’t drive the bus. Moving a bench is one thing but driving an entire tour bus? There’s only one person who can and Willie’s not sure where she is after year of no communication

Warnings: Swearing, angst, talk of death (it’s a ghost show, why is this a warning??), mention of assault, violence, and fluff.

Words: 11.5k

A/N: This is why I haven’t posted much in the last week. I’ve been writing this massive fic that I refused to turn into a series. My god, 11k words. I don’t think I’ll be doing this again. Enjoy and comment if you figured out who Rudy is!

Masterlist

There wasn’t much in the afterlife that you enjoyed after time spent in the limbo between the living and dead. Listening to songs before they were released lost its appeal just as much as dancing on stage with the ballet companies around the world, of being an unseen extra in shows and films being filmed.

Then you found a purpose a couple, well it could be more than a couple, years ago when you found a lost soul. William Young, Willie to his friends, had been sitting on the curb staring at the pavement entirely still as he had for two days.

The time from the last breath you took to walking the streets of Los Angeles was a blur in all honesty. The years bled together as you stayed stationary in a world that kept on spinning and changing, growing up. You had watched your friends hit new milestones you could only daydream about. Friends that graduated college and built new lives on the ashes of memories that included you.

Today’s walk was an attempt to escape your friends’ greying versions standing in front of a once vibrant sculpture. It happened every single year, but this one hurt the most. Listening to your friends recall stories of all the adventures you did together.

From being drunken idiots jumping off cliffs into that one lake the summer of freshman year. Or making a bonfire on the school’s roof with all the entryways blocked, rather stupid with the exits being blocked as well. Sneaking into concerts and stealing that one car that came close to sending you to boarding school.

The rebellion that still lived in you had mellowed in the five individuals with the adult responsibilities of family and work. Martha had removed all piercings but her lobes while Chase quit dying his hair colour. Jordan now had three children and a bought house.

Seeing the group no longer young had made your feet swiftly move from the memorial for a walk. The only thing that stopped you in your tracks was tripping over something in front of you.

“Ouch.” You hissed rolling onto your back with a moan of pain that faded with the sniffles.

Curled into his knees, sitting on the curb was a teenage boy about your age. Long hair curtaining his profile you found your eyes grasping the cracked helmet that spoke for itself abandoned by his side.

“Your kinda a hazard there.” You simply spoke sitting down next to the distraught teenager, “Heads up, I suck at comforting people.”

At his silence, you spoke once more, “I’m digging the tie-dye. Did you do it yourself?”

“This is some kind of stupid coma dream right?” The boy’s voice was husky from crying and disuse, “I’m probably in some kind of hospital with a tube down my throat.”

“I’d say yes, but it would be a blatant lie.” You spoke twirling a loose thread on your jeans while the stranger gazed at a spot on the street.

His dark brown eyes bloodshot as he remembered the car honking mere seconds before he heard the sound of a thud. He recalled struggling to breathe with his broken ribs and his screams being illustrated with bloodstains.

He remembered thinking how he had just bought that board a week ago with his allowance.

“Am I really dead?”

“Yes. We’re are a couple ghosts in a lively city.” You informed him with one handheld in the space between your ethereal forms. The teen hesitantly placed his hand in yours with a firm shake.

“William but call me Willie.” He softly told you, catching sight of the patch on your jean jacket—one of many from both when your grandma owned it and then when you did.

“I’m Y/N. Let’s blow this disappointment. I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know.” Brushing off the invisible dust on your jeans, you held your hand out to him, “We’re about to make the afterlife our bitch.”

A stark contrast to his former hesitance he immediately grasped your hand to tug himself off the curb. The forlorn skater didn’t question the board in your hand or how he could possibly even touch his own board. He didn’t wonder how it wasn’t in pieces like it had been when he first got hit.

That rebellion that ended your life flared again in the presence of your best friend with crashing Justin Bieber’s house. Of rearranging items in classrooms to freak teachers out and sitting in the cars turning the radio on and off. Haunting the living until the friendship fractured under the influence of a powerful ghost.

Caleb Covington had bewitched the skater with promises and extravagant gifts until Willie had taken the offer.

“He’s not like you said he was! I think you should give him a chance!” Willie cried following you around the place you had taken to be home.

“Willie he’s a bad guy! He butters you up until you give him what you want! That’s when you see his true colours. All he wants is your soul to power his magic and spread his reach!”

“I got to talk to my sister!”

“Your sister is five years old! It’s not Covington that gave you the opportunity. She won’t remember the experience as anything other than an invisible friend!”

“There are so many people at the Club that we can talk to. Aren’t you tired of the same routine and people we see?”

Willie’s pleading brought your full attention to the skater avoiding your gaze, “William Young…you took his offer.”

Willie tore his gaze from the art on the wall to find yours blatantly glaring at him with a bucket of random colour in your hand.

“The Club is going to France to tour around the country for a while. I’m dead, so I might as well make the best of it. Besides who gets to skate through the Louvre!” Willie beamed, watching as a small smile, found its way on your face at his excitement, “I’m sure Caleb would let you come to the Club tonight!”

“Willie, you are my best friend, but I’ve already seen the Club. It’s not my style, and I want nothing to do with it.”

That interaction was one of the very few speckled through the years when Caleb discovered who you were. No matter his offers, you never took the deal and when he saw how close you and Willie where he kept the skater busy. The Club didn’t appear in Los Angeles for a long time until Willie’s distance seemed too great to bridge.

“So, you need a way for the slot to be empty?” Willie asked the trio of ghosts all spread around the area.

Unfortunately for Luke, the only person they could get help from was from the very guy that placed them in a predicament. While Alex was the one spearheading the conversation with the long-haired skater Luke was glowering in his direction.

“The Orpheum was the thing we never got to do. We spent hours practising and performing with one goal-“

“Play the Orpheum and get distance from our parents. Well, at the time that streetdog and becoming legendary was my main focus.” Reggie recounted the feeling of suffocating in a house filled with fighting. A home he wished still stood, now dead all he wanted was to see his parents.

“We almost did it too.” Luke pouted relaxing his glare at the skater who openly sent apologetic gazes at Alex’s bandmates.

“So, we need to get rid of the opening band.” Willie nodded to himself, thinking about ways before he caught sight of the abject horror on the band. The skater’s eyebrows raised, “I know I deeply fractured the trust, but I’m not suggesting murder.”

“Okay. Good.” Reggie whistled relaxing his tense posture while Luke grumbled under his breath an insult that in turn got Alex’s arm into the guitarist’s ribs.

“Your best bet would be getting the bus out of LA. The band will probably celebrate the upcoming gig.”

“Could you make the bus disappear?” Alex hesitantly questioned shifting in his now vintage sneakers. The blonde-haired drummer flushed slightly under the endearing smile from the skater. The feelings create a confliction within Alex under Willie’s issue, leading them straight into a madman’s hands.

“I can move a bench, turn sirens on, but a bus is outside my paygrade.” Willie openly admitted showing his hands deep in his pockets, “The only person other than Caleb that has enough power-“

“-is he just as evil?” Luke demanded crossing his arms to glare at the male that had unfortunately caught the interest of Alex.

However, Luke couldn’t blame Alex for falling for this guy because well, Luke saw the teenage ghost’s appeal. Willie was attractive, but he wasn’t the type of person Luke would fall for. Plus he had initially made Alex incredibly happy, and Luke would never blame Alex for that.

“She is as different from Caleb as one can be. She uh…she taught me everything about being a ghost. Actually, found me where I died.” Willie cleared his throat as the guilt and sadness reared its head from deep within him. The guilt of leaving his little sister to grow up without him and the sorrow of not growing up with the girl.

It wasn’t often Willie allowed himself to remember the little girl, barely five when he died, who was always dancing. His little sister adored the colour purple and anything shiny and more than once Willie had let her dress him up. Willie’s greatest regret is that he’d never have that interaction with her. God, she’d be around his age now and in high school.

“Okay, so where is she?” Reggie clapped his hands, bringing the skater out of his thoughts and back into the present.

Luke saw the hesitation in Willie, “There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“Kinda?” Willie trailed off bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I haven’t seen her in years now. Last time I saw her we fought about the whole joining Caleb thing? I’m not even sure if she’s still in LA.”

“Of fucking course,” Luke grunted shoving both hands in his hair taking a few steps away from the other ghosts.

First, he dies, then he gets caught up in some bullshit revenge plot, then makes a deal with the devil without realizing it, and now their one chance is going up in flames. Luke Patterson was livid with the universe and the shitty hand he had been dealt, but at least he had his friends with him.

“It can’t hurt to look for her?” Reggie innocently offered with a shake of his shoulders, “It’s not like we have any other option.”

“Did we ever even have options?” Luke hissed, causing Willie and Alex each to flinch with the different guilt they carried.

Alex was guilty of going to Willie for help when getting back at Bobby was the biggest thing. Willie was guilty of ignoring his instincts on keeping Alex as far from Caleb as he could be he just wanted to impress the drummer. It’s not like Willie had many options for dating, and well, Alex was the first to get his entire focus.

“Dude. Stop. No one saw it coming.” Reggie bumped his hip against the annoyed guitarist, “Let’s find this ghost and get our shot at playing.”

The quartet of dead guys didn’t have high hopes of finding the girl in question, but it seemed the universe took pity on Luke Patterson. Just two hours into their search on the edges of the city limits an individual was walking.

The person’s stature leaned against a smashed concrete wall of the skeleton of where a building once was. The only thing the group could make out was a faded jean jacket with splotches of colour. Her ankles crossed as her back leaned against the cement, oozed laid back confidence. Coming closer, Luke noticed the sunglasses perched on top of her head and the lips painted dark.

“What do you need Willie? I heard you were looking for me.” The husky voice drew Luke in the most. The lead guitarist of Julie and the Phantoms enamoured with the girl.

“How’d-“Willie’s question was cut off as you simply tapped your right index finger against your temple.

“How do you think you managed to get here?” You inquired pushing off the cement to stride over to the group. To Willie’s surprise, he was tugged into your embrace before swiftly pushed away, “Come on. We should head in before someone catches us.”

In the dark as much as the other three ghosts, Willie dutifully followed you past the pieces of cement littered around the area. Gasps of surprise sounded as the once empty space became filled with buildings. It was not as extravagant as the hotel the Club worked out of, but it was hidden from the living and dead eyes.

“Where did this come from?” Reggie gasped astounded by the people once hidden from his view, moving around the area.

“This is Elysium. Don’t judge the name I lost the right in a poker game with Susie and Rudy. I’m Y/N.” You informed the group leading them to the gate where two people stood stoically guarding it, “Rudy was hellbent on calling it Valhalla.”

“This is Luke, Reggie and Alex.” Willie gestured to the awed trio of musicians only lingering on the blonde. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the attraction between the skater and the blonde; finding a date in the afterlife was a lot harder than the living.

Nodding a greeting to the two ghosts, you lead the group to a building painted a pretty turquoise blue colour. The sign above the double doors a stark white with calligraphy writing simply stating Elysium Management. It was a building set up like an administrative office of three stories, and you led the group right up to the top floor.

“Just a heads up…Rudy is a little suspicious of people.” You admitted standing outside a door with a nameplate the only descriptor, “He’ll come off a little gruff and rude, but when you get passed that he doesn’t shut up.”

“I can hear you through the door dumbass.” The words were called out from the office door opening.

The man standing in the entry wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His honey-brown eyes lit up with a teasing look before it shuttered at the sight of four strangers behind you. Rudy had valid reasons to not fully trust people after the shitshow in his hometown when he was alive.

“And you’ve brought strangers.” Rudy deadpanned with a sigh concluding his sentence as he stepped back into the office. It appeared like the world repositioned itself on the young man’s shoulders once more.

“I should be done within the hour. We can go over everything.” You informed your business partner and friend. Receiving only a nod from Rudy, you closed the door to his office, cutting off the view from your guests.

“He’s..uh.”

“Standoffish? Rudy keeps his past to himself, all he’s ever revealed is that he’s from a town a few hours away.” You spoke, opening the door to your own office decorated differently from Rudy’s more sterile black and white aesthetic.

Your office had splashes of colour with vintage posters of both music and film framed on the walls—a plush couch in the corner with a basket of blankets next to it. Instead of sitting behind the dark desk, you chose the couch instead. As you settled in the corner, you flicked one finger bringing an extra seat over.

The motion shocking the three boys accompanying Willie who had seen the abilities himself.

“Okay so why did you want to search for me?” You questioned the skater leaning back in the seat.

“When did this all happen?” Willie countered gesturing to the office in a building settled in the middle of a ghost town. A literal ghost town.

“There’s an empty lot in LA that used to house an abandoned apartment building that Rudy and I both called home. Of course, it was torn down, and we kinda knew that there’s wasn’t a place that didn’t have the threat of being annihilated at some point.” The memories of those unknown days trickled into your mind among the more positive ones, “We wanted a home. A place to call our own.”

“A week or so later a skittish pixie of a brunette crashed into us full speed. Susie had a certain ability that Caleb desired to have under his thumb. There are so many ghosts he had manipulated into selling him their soul. Rudy and I both wanted to stop Caleb from having that chance for everyone.” You continued, “Can I show you?”

The moon shone through the light clouds as a duo wandered LA’s streets in different mental states. The only home you had known had been unceremoniously ripped down with no future plans in place. Your entire life had been in that apartment in a building you had once thought only you inhabited. You had been unaware that on a separate floor, Rudy had been dwelling.

The two teens in starkly different clothing grew close with each other through the whole being the dead thing they shared. The mission was to find another place too, use but the feeling of home being ripped away tore at their hearts. The apartment was a place Caleb Covington hadn’t been aware of.

Your thoughts threatened to turn darker as a force knocked you onto your bac—aA short brunette groaning in pain to the left of you. The girl was Gwen, who would become very important to both Rudy and you.

I’ve always been a little different than most people. I can move things short distances, but I developed a specific talent. I can get inside people’s minds to plant, remove or alter memories or simply talk and read their thoughts.

The sound of your voice in their heads freaked them out more than they would like to admit. The intrusive tickle of something in their brains unsettling as you made a more present entry so they could feel it.

“What?”

“This is why I can’t be anywhere near Caleb. The whole reason he gives people stamps and takes their souls is because of me.” You fully admitted clasping your fingers in your lap, “He couldn’t cope with the fear of another ghost leaving so added a stipulation to joining his Club.”

“How did you come to create Elysium?” Alex inquired leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. Luke and Reggie followed his posture as the anticipation built.

“Everyone deserves a safe place. A place as far away from Caleb as possible and we do so for free. No fee is required, and ghosts are free to come and go as they please. They are welcome as long as their unfinished business keeps them in this plane.”

It sounded like a sweet deal to the group of teens, but they had other commitments, “You can tell us more, but we need your help.”

The pleading in the messy-haired brunette tore at your heartstrings like the one time Willie brought you to his house. It had been shortly before your friendship fractured, a few years ago. He had brought you to a suburb for low-income families and straight to the backyard where a twelve-year-old year danced.

The dead skater boy and the rebel sat in the patio chair on the tiny porch nestled in the postmark sized backyard. A quintet of pre-pubescent girls danced on the lawn to some bubblegum pop song. The Young girl was submissive to a more confident girl even when the venue was the Young girl’s home.

“The girl to the left is my little sister Kayla. She’s twelve now, it’s been seven years since I died.” Willie’s brown eyes saddened at the dancer who had a spark of maturity in her eyes, “I check in every once in a while. These are Kayla’s friends. The bossy girl is Carrie, and while the band is a group, she is the unofficial leader of the band Carrie’s Constellations.”

“She looks happy.”

“Kayla’s always been bubbly in personality, but she had questionable friends.” Willie outright admitted keeping his eyes pinned to the girl that had grown up in a blink of an eye. Her dark hair concealed by the gaudy purple wig; the colour assigned to the teenager.

“It’s nice that she still enjoys dance.” Willie finished reaching out to grab your hand in his and just like that Willie transitioned back into carefree, “I found this really cool skatepark I think you’d like.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.” Alex winced as the three musicians flinched as a sudden purple spark of colour lit up their midsections.

Like a tentacle, your mind reached into the quiet raven-haired boy with the leather jacket. Beyond the imagery of docile golden retrievers and steaming plates of food, you found the regret and fear in the boy. Stepping into a recent memory, you watched their experience at the Hollywood Ghost Club.

“You’ve met Caleb.” You sighed roughly pushing your index finger between your brows feeling the familiar ache.

“It was a stupid decision,” Luke spoke up, tearing his focus from the mysterious girl that ultimately had the power in her hands. The entire plan was weighing on the decision you would give, “Either we join his house band, or we don’t exist.”

“Hm.” You spoke as the kaleidoscope of colours in Luke’s eyes glittered under the sterile lights of the room. It was difficult to look away from the enthralling teenage ghost, but the emotion wafting off Willie was concerning.

“They died before they could perform at the Orpheum. We’re banking that getting the opening slot with giving them the push into crossing over.” The long-haired skater leaned closer, “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I can’t do much.”

“So, you want to pull ’09 incident again?” You completely ignored the trio on the couch staring directly at the sheepish skater with raised eyebrows, “Only this time without the train?”

“Train?” Alex whispered, looking between the two long-time friends with interest and then next thing he knew Alex was in the backseat of a van crushed between Reggie and Luke equally confused.

Chicago, Illinois 2009

William Young and Y/N Y/L/N were complete hellions in the ghost world, creating havoc that fascinated the living population. The recent event being the highjacking of a van filled with drunk teenage boys. These boys had been the sole reason a young girl was recovering in a hospital with life-threatening injuries. The scene changed to a hospital room with Willie and Y/N watching a girl with massive bruising laid.

It had hit both Willie and Y/N hard catching the tail end of the new report, Willie thinking of how that could have been his sister. Even if Kayla was only five years old, having a sister set things more in perspective. For you it was a flashback to when you were alive and thus led you to the ICU room for the girl.

Slipping into her unconscious mind was easy but while the injured teen appeared peaceful to the hospital staff, she was anything but. The poor girl’s mind replayed the traumatic incident over and over like a movie; keeping in the shadows, you gently repainted the portrait with lighter and brighter images.

For Willie, he watched as you wavered on your ghostly feet and smoothed out the features of the girl. The heart monitor subtly changing as the injured girl relaxed, and suddenly your interference heightened her chances of survival.

“I got it.” You spoke to Willie with a heated glare on your features and when the ghostly musician trio blinked they were back in the van.

Your hands gripped the van’s steering wheel with Willie turned in the passenger seat to watch a group of living boys scream. To the living eyes in the van, no one was in the front seats but whispered words spoke into their minds.

You’re going to go straight to the police and tell them what you did. You’ll hand over the photographic evidence and demand the worst punishment. You’ll leave the girl alone, or we’ll come back to finish our job. You will pay for the hospital bills if the family agrees.

The boys trembled with the putrid scent of urine permeating the enclosed vehicle. The distant sound of a train echoed in the distance as the van stopped on the tracks. No matter how much the living boys moved the doors refused to open, and the windows remained unbreakable.

“WE promise!” The ringleader cried, slamming his shoulder against the door with the train’s bright lights illuminating the van.

“Let us go!” The other screamed, slamming his bruising hands on the window.

Alex was flinching at each slam of fists on the glass, leaving smears of blood. Knuckles broke from the window. At the very last second, your foot slammed the gas pedal taking the van millimetres from the train screeching on the tracks.

You and Willie stared at the stationary train lit up from the van’s headlights with the rhythmic flashes of the red and blue police lights. The van’s seat arrangement was different with the ringleader in the driver’s seat.

The three ghost musicians standing unseen behind the duo but in the real world out of the dreamlike memory you knew.

Elysium, Present Day

“Holy fucking shit.” Alex cussed out of breath, leaning back on the couch with shaking limbs and fear in his bloodless veins.

Luke’s eyes blinked owlishly at the boy that he had once thought could never do something as terrifying and torturous. He was afraid to even ask the outcome of the life-threatening incident you did on the assailants.

“That is the reason for the train.” You barely glanced at the shaken trio to stare at who had once been your partner in crime, “Willie, I have responsibilities here. We just opened a new division for the children we house here.”

“It would take a few hours.” Willie pleaded, positioning his hands into a pleading position turning on his charm. The puppy eyes you had always struggled to say no to as if you weren’t the type of person easily capable of staying strong.

“We’ll do anything.” Luke pleaded just as much recalling the countless times he had charmed himself out of situations, “Please help us.”

“I’ll have to make arrangements with Rudy and Susie, but I might be able to pull some strings. I’m really sorry Willie, but I’m gonna need to erase your knowledge of this place. There are too many people depending on this setup.”

Outside the Orpheum

Outside the legendary venue, three out of four band members for Julie and the Phantoms walked up to the marquee. Hopefully, the letters for Downslide would be changed into their band name just under the main act. Everything was riding on Willie and Y/N’s capabilities. Trusting the skater was challenging to do and more so someone they didn’t fully know.

“Look, don’t worry, guys. Willie said he’d get us on that marquee.” Alex soothed his friends on each side of him. All three wearing concerned expressions at the place that hopefully was their last stop before crossing over.

“This is gonna work, right?” Reggie questioned with his hand confidently sliding into the pockets of his black jeans. The relaxed posture a juxtaposition to the anxiety and nerves on his flushed face.

“It has to.” Luke’s lips pursed into a pout with his words tinged with a dialect different from his best friends. The faint souvenir from the place he spent a few years growing up before moving to LA.

Luke’s words were highlighted by the groans of pain as that flash of purple courtesy of Caleb’s death stamp appeared. All three hunched over clutched their chests breathing through the pain; Luke was the first to unfurl his form.

“Whoa!” You gasped flashing underneath the marquee beside Willie. Rushing to give Luke support without even a second thought.

When the aftershock faded, the guitarist stood straight up with a thankful smile that boarded on adoration.

“Are you guys, okay?” Willie asked, keeping back with the swell of guilt that happened, seeing the familiar symptoms of post-shock. He had felt them a time or two in the time he had sold his soul to his unfortunate boss.

“Yeah, it’s nothing we haven’t felt before,” Alex replied, rubbing his hand over the baby blue shirt he had chosen today. His blue eyes doing their best to avoid looking into the puppy-like ones of the skater, “How’d it go?”

“Well, when that opening band wakes up, they’re gonna find their bus 200 miles outside of Vegas.” Willie proudly announcing turning on his heel to show off the Downslide jacket he took from the lead singer. His fist extending to bump yours instinctively before he did so with Luke.

“With no chance of getting back in time.” You snickered in response living on the adrenaline and nostalgia of the rebellion. With Elysium, you had turned around your life, “Meaning-“

“-there’s probably a promoter upstairs right about now freakin’ out.”

“Nah. This is Hollywood, man.” Willie scoffed with a wave of his hand matching the one you supplied, “I’m sure he’s being very professional.”

As Willie finished his sentence up in the promotor’s office out of earshot of the ghosts stood a very pissed adult. His finger-wagging his finger with teeth clenched, his flushed skin a juxtaposition to the cheery blue Hawaiian style shirt. Frank Wolfe couldn’t believe how stupid his once opening band was.

“What do you mean the bus drove itself into the middle of the desert?” Frank questioned progressively growing more and more frustrated. His assistant Tasha casting concerned looks to her typically collected boss, “BUSES DON’T DRIVE THEMSELVES!”

Tasha flinched at the sudden loud growl of the sentence but more so as Wolfe starting slamming the phone into the cradle. Her fingers halting on her keyboard, going over the list of frequent acts. Unfortunately, the five acts had other commitments causing Tasha to fear tonight. The blonde lady was worried Wolfe could have a breakdown once more.

While Willie snickered to his own words, your eyes, not your mind, could read that Alex wanted to talk to the skater. With only a teasing jab of your elbow in Willie’s ribs you shuffled around the drummer to join Reggie and Luke away from the ‘will they won’t they’ couple.

“So, can you do me a favour?” Luke hesitantly questioned you with his inquisitive eyes a greener colour in the sunlight. His attractive eyes took your full attention with a simple tilt of your head, “Julie’s family means a lot to us, and could you keep an eye on them?”

“And Carlos,” Reggie interjected rocking on his polished pleather boots he had spent ages on finding for his rocker aesthetic back in the ’90s.

“-Julie’s little brother.” Luke supplied at the confusion painted clearly on your pretty features. His green eyes scoured your face as he always did that flushed both his and your faces red.

“Yeah, of course, I can.” You firmly told the two dead boys each standing tense in front of you.

You could easily see the love they held for the living family that had come to mean so much in such a short amount of time. Since first meeting them you had always gotten the feeling that their living years weren’t the best. For Alex, it was living in the ’90s as a young gay teenager during a terrifying time for the LGBTQ+ community. Reggie flinched at the raised voices, and Luke had longingly stared after the happy families milling around the Elysium.

“Did you ever find out what your unfinished business was?” Reggie inquired fixing a strand of his dark hair that had fallen onto his blemish-free skin. Your smile faltered at his question; nonetheless, you answered.

“I did.” The two words carried a sense of pain with them. Your eyes unfocused recalling the euphoric feeling of seeing the breathtaking white light of the peace exuding from the beyond and the agony of denying crossing over.

“How-“

“Hey! Y/N!” Willie called out to the young denim wearing ghost with his beaming grin, “Don’t go stealing buses without me!”

Luke swore he could see your laughter in the air, just as endearing as the smoky quality your voice carried.

“Don’t go glitter bombing criminals.” You returned as your best friend dropped his board to skate off to wherever he was needed. It was bittersweet to reconnect with him knowing that it could be the last time.

When Caleb found out, not an if but a when Willie had a hand in helping his desired band it was high chance Willie would be gone. Caleb was all too powerful, and when he was betrayed, it never ended well.

“I need to get back to Elysium. Susie’s arrival is tonight. Good luck with tonight.” Your words were accompanied by a hug for each of the boys. The one with Luke lingering the most, “I wish you could play for the kids.”

“Yeah. Me too.” The brunette, messy-haired boy’s words carried a hidden desire simply to be in your space more. The teenage ghost helps those in limbo while wearing a jean jacket with patches from many decades. The jacket creating an unknown time you had lived.

“Goodbye, boys.” You told the trio before you poofed away from the busy streets of Hollywood where the band had come full circle in death.

“Are you guys, okay?” Reggie inquired his best friends, forgoing his casual personality for the layers underneath. His blue-green eyes filled with only concern.

Alex and Luke shared a lingering look, “Yeah. We’re okay.”

The dining hall was filled with long tables and chairs populated by the ghostly forms of everyone currently living at Elysium. It was reminiscent of a British book turned film series of youth with magic abilities. The series had been a favourite of a former resident.

“Incredible.” Susie breathed staring at the joyful people having a place to call home. Making the limbo between life and death more bearable.

“We’ve done well. You smiled, wrapping an arm around her waist, “It’s so nice to have you back.”

Elysium was so much more than you could ever hope for. It kept growing and growing with more ghosts. Since the founding of the haven, new developments continuously happened with one resident’s unique ability.

Harvey had joined the haven a year into the founding bringing the ability to gift the residents with the capacity to eat. During his life, Harvey had been a renowned chef and the dream to make food it carried into his death. As long as Harvey cooked the food with his volunteer staff ghosts were able to eat it.

“Harvey has outdone himself again,” Rudy announced his arrival at your side with his arms crossed, displaying his corded muscles. The constellation of moles on his face standing on his pale creamy skin.

“Rudy!” Susie squealed, throwing herself into his arms with the same glee that came each time. Susie and Rudy since their first meeting had a special bond as chosen siblings who bonded over heartache.

Rudy had died, leaving his best friend and his strawberry blonde girlfriend in the living world back in their dark hometown. It was just one tidbit he had revealed throughout your friendship. The only physical connection to his living friends was the three picture on his desk of a group of people.

The first picture had a lean version of Rudy with his arms thrown over a Hispanic boy with a crooked jaw and glimmering brown eyes. The Hispanic boy had his arm around a pretty brunette girl with deep dimples and wavy brown hair. The two boys wore a sports uniform of some kind holding lacrosse sticks.

The second picture had Rudy and the Hispanic teen again but with a beautiful petite strawberry blonde. Along with them was a brunette with blunt chin-length hair and hardened features besides a shorter blonde male with blue eyes.

The last picture was of Rudy with the same Hispanic boy wearing graduation caps and gowns with two beaming adults. The male adult wore a tan shirt adorned with a star on his left pec and dark brown pants. He had to be Rudy’s father with similar features. The woman was of Hispanic descent with laugh lines, and thick dark curly hair pulled into a half do; obviously the Hispanic teen’s mother.

The pain in Rudy’s face each time he saw the pictures closed off a desire to ask him about the people.

“Hello, Susie.” Rudy chuckled, wrapping his arms around her small stature, “How was Europe?”

“Why don’t you ask the five newcomers I found before Caleb?” Susie teased gesturing to the ragtag of new ghosts immersed in conversations.

“Family?”

“A boarding school had a fire. Those five were in the fire when it happened and the only victims out of seven that didn’t cross over.” Susie’s tone faded into a melancholy tone with her small arms wrapping around her middle. Faded brown eyes staring at the younger of the five seeing herself in them.

“That’s terrible.” You whispered, staring at the table with one finger picking the patch of a band from the ’70s, “I can’t imagine how scary that could have been.”

“Yeah.” Susie softly spoke, pushing a strand of her hair off her temple just as equally sad for the way that death had no qualms of how it took.

The youngest ghost in Elysium had been a three-year-old toddler who passed over quickly when he was found by the deceased mother. The two had been separated at death and luckily shared the same unfinished business of finding each other.

“Miss Reynold’s has twelve spirits that finished their business.” Rudy softly informed his two partners. Soft smiles formed on their faces at the happy news of Elysium’s goal being accomplished again.

“May they find everlasting peace and serenity.” Your words intertwined with Susie in perfect sync of the motto coined after the first crossover, “I suppose the Serenity will begin planning?”

“Have the Serenity ever not performed their duty?” Rudy raised one dark eyebrow with a rhetorical question. E/c and faded brown met recalling the countless times Elysium had hosted a celebration for those who found their unfinished business.

“That is-whoa.” You gasped stumbling at the scream echoing in your mind accessorized with the vintage sound of a band.

Calloused hands grasped your shaking form from collapsing onto the ground from a proverbial psionic shove. Agony slammed your brain flickering into an old fashioned club filled with people in both colour or black and white attire. You caught sight of baby pink, deep royal blue and bright red suits. The pained screams of a skater in a dark room overtaking the music in the Club.

“No.” You whispered clenching your hands on your head, feeling the dread building in the pit of your stomach.

The joyful voices in the hall muted while your body flickered with the deep instinct to leave the haven for the one place that utterly terrified you. It was the familiar touch of Susie and Rudy that kept you from finding the one person that meant the world. Willie’s soul was on the cutting board, and Caleb obsession with performing was the only reason Willie still existed.

“Willie.” You whimpered tears rolling down your flushed cheeks, feeling the panic in the skater’s mind.

“Susie help me.” Rudy stonily spoke ushering the distraught girl from the busy hall into an empty room.

Your shaking body finding purchase on the plush sofa with Susie holding one hand in hers and Rudy brushing the sweaty hair from your forehead. It wasn’t often your psionic abilities left you in such a state, but the distance proved difficult.

“Shit.” Rudy grumbled frowning, “This is bad. Y/N, we need to get you to Willie. You’re flickering, and the distance isn’t helping.”

“You want to take one of Elysium’s strongest ghosts straight into Caleb’s domain? You know how much he wants her in his Club.” Susie hissed to the co-founder of the haven they had to take extraordinary measures to protect, “It won’t work! You’re throwing her to the dogs!”

“Susanne I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t necessary. Besides, we always have a plan.” Rudy retorted narrowing his whiskey eyes at the younger girl, “I’ll take her to get Willie, but you need to stay here to make sure everything runs smooth.”

“Are you sure you can-“Susie cut herself off with a nod as Rudy displayed the reason he could do it, “Okay, yep, you can do it.”

Rudy came back into her vision in his signature position with one eyebrow raised, and his arms crossed. The reason why Elysium worked so well was Rudy’s ability to erase an object from the view of anyone. He could make himself invisible to anyone and in practice, developed it to hide items and location. With his ability, Elysium was permanently hidden to anyone outside of his power. Illusions were his unique ability.

“You aren’t the first person to doubt my capability.” Rudy informed the other ghost reaching one hand out. With his fingers caressing your temple, he snapped his fingers, transporting you and him away from Elysium.

The empty room of Elysium’s dining hall was exchanged for the business streets of Los Angeles, bringing an improvement in your body. Pushing away from Rudy, your eyes frantically scoured the unfamiliar area for any hint of Willie.

“He’s close.” You exclaimed closing your e/c eyes to focus solely on your sixth sense kicking in. Rudy’s gasp snapped your eyes open to see his eyes pinned on your feet where a glowing neon purple smoke wisped.

“What is that?” Rudy demanded crouching to touch it, but it was like nothing was there. His whiskey brown eyes meeting your confused gaze.

“I have no clue, but I feel like I have to follow it.” Robotically your feet started walking following the smoke through the streets.

Rudy was silent as you came upon a park swallowed by the darkness of the night with the moon barely showing through the clouds. The odd purple smoke the only offering of light so far from the path with street lights.

“Of course we have to go through a park.” Rudy grumbled, “Nothing good ever happens in wooded areas at night.”

Lifting your eyes from the smoke, you looked at a deeply unsettled Rudy lost in the past only he knew. His mind recalling traipsing through the forest with his asthmatic best friend in the middle of the night. The last night before the unknown took over his life. Oddly enough dying and returning as a ghost was the most normal with everything that happened with his friends alive.

“You can go ba-“

“We’re not splitting up,” Rudy growled plainly scowling at your hesitant features. Rudy’s slammed the door closed on his past life.

Sensing unease Rudy’s calloused hand reached over to slide into yours in platonic support. You continued your mission, unaware that three certain ghosts in breathtaking suits were searching for you.

Alex, Reggie, and Luke, affected by the purple jolts, failed to find the one place where their plan B could work. What Julie hadn’t known was that the guys had a plan just in case the Orpheum wasn’t their unfinished business. The three would go to Elysium to accept their fate and ensure Julie believed they crossed over.

With no Elysium in sight, the boys returned to the Molina garage hoping that one thing would go their way: Julie would go straight to bed.

The glow purple smoke trailed through the city park into an older part of Los Angeles before it stopped. Where the smoke stopped was a vast empty space surrounded by trees.

“Well, that’s a little anticlimactic.” You grumbled crossing your arms, “Willie’s somewhere here. Do you think Caleb has an underground lair?”

Rudy cast an unamused expression at you, “From past experience. No, that’s not likely. He probably has an apartment downtown. An underground network of caves in the woods is more shapeshifter style but still not true.”

“One: You’re rambling. Two: What the hell kind of life did you have?” You questioned furrowing your eyebrows at his rather odd piece of information.

“An old one.” Rudy spoke, staring ahead, “Besides, I think we should check out whatever building is hidden from our sight.”

“Hid-“Your mouth halted when Rudy roughly gripped your shoulders to twist you to face the empty space.

“Close your eyes. Trust your senses.” Rudy spoke softly, “Or pay attention to the slab of concrete in the middle of an empty space with well-kempt grass.”

Your palm slammed your forehead with a resounding thump in the night with distance lights from surrounding buildings. Rudy squeezed your shoulders as he stepped to the side once more in turn, closing his eyes.

“Walk in my mind.” Rudy stated for the first time in your friendship, allowing you to look in his mind. Your hesitance was met with another squeeze of comfort in his calloused grip.

Your tired eyes closed as your mind timidly stepped into the rather breathtaking mind of Rudy, who felt guilt the most. While Susie’s mind was like a summer day spent at a lake with brightness and gorgeous field of flowers, Rudy’s mind was different.

It was dark in Rudy’s mind but not as if evil, but as if he had been touched by the darkness and painted permanently. There’s was the odd whisper of childlike laughter intermingled with the full adult laugh of a woman; the laughter overshadowed with the sound of funeral music. You felt the lose near that memory. Rudy’s mind was painful to be in and drowning in the feelings he had.

Your breath caught seeing a door you assumed was of his childhood room with a name you couldn’t pronounce for the life of you.

“My parents named me after my mom’s dad.” Rudy spoke through his mind with a soft smile on his face, “I couldn’t say it, so I called myself Mischief. I stopped using it when my mom died, and I went by a shortened version of my last name.”

Your eyes watched as the door disappeared, and the reason you were in his mind came back to the forefront. Your eyes watched the image forming of a vintage hotel rippling in the air before it solidified. The size reminded you of a castle, and it felt like you were storming it.

Without any more mental interaction, you stepped out of Rudy’s mind back into the real world. The very same hotel in plain sight to both Rudy and your surprised elation.

“Honestly didn’t think that would work.” Rudy breathlessly laughed, staring at the hotel once hidden to them. A dark comparison to Elysium.

“How do we play this, Rudy?” You inquired looking over at him, “This is very different from stealing cars and scaring teens.”

“Easy. We blend in.” Rudy responded, holding one hand out to grasp yours in which you noticed your attire had changed, “Perks of illusion? I can alter our own perception of ourselves.”

“Oh, wow. That looks expensive.” You replied, staring at the diamond bracelet on your wrist matching the necklace you wore.

Rudy’s attire had changed from his normal button-up with the sleeves rolled to be layered under a charcoal grey vest and jacket. Sleek matching pants to his coat and the dark black-tie matching the elegant black dress you wore. He had taken pity on your footwear to fit your ability to walk and for the fancy place.

He even had diamond cufflinks that matched you, but the wedding rings on your fingers took you aback. Your widened eyes staring at him.

“Tonight we’re Mr and Mrs Martin,” Rudy spoke choking on the last name he gave as it was the upscale name toppled from his lips.

“Okay. This is a test of our abilities.”

“This is if our plan A of being invisible doesn’t work. The one thing we know for sure is that Caleb has never seen either one of us.” Rudy soothed your nerves with a half-smile,” Let’s get Willie out.”

Your arm slipped into the crook of his to walk to the front door, “I feel like a spy. I feel like that Naomi Roma-“

“It’s Natasha Romanoff. Have you ever seen one of the marvel movies?” Rudy demanded walking up the entrance with a pained smile, “You’re like my best friend and when he wouldn’t watch Star Wars! Never caught one of my references!”

“Okay! Sorry, we can watch the movies when this over.” You grumbled as your heels clicked in the foyer of the hotel. The inside made you feel like you were sent back in time to the roaring ’20s.

“Oh damn, this is nice,” Rudy whispered, staring at the chandelier in the extravagant lobby of the last place you wanted to be.

While on the outside the two ghosts appeared cool, calm and collected they were anything but. Both a wreck inside from the perilous errand they had done that could very well be the ending of Elysium. Rudy nudged you to begin finding Willie with your mind, but you didn’t need to.

That same glowing mist was on the ground pulling you in the direction of a dark hall away from the route to the Club. Rudy kept his eye out, a characteristic carried into the afterlife from his time with the FBI, as you followed the mist. The hall continued to get more and more dark as the walk continued.

Finally at the end was a blood-red door.

“I swear to god if he kills his Club members, I’ll lose it.” You hissed to your arm candy, “What if he’s really H. H. Holmes disguised as a former magician? His door is blood red!”

“Have you been using your serial killer colouring book again?” Rudy demanded stuttering his steps to place his whiskey brown eyes on you. The sheepish expression on your face was enough of a response to gain the look of disbelief could have sent you into hysterics had the time not been too serious.

With a grin belying the situation, you twisted your wrist to open the door to hopefully where Willie was being held.

“What a cliché. He’s keeping Willie in the basement?”

“Will you shut up!” Rudy hissed right back with a clenched jaw entering the somewhat unfinished basement. It was cold even to your dead standards where the cold didn’t bother that much.

At the bottom in front of a desk with only a small lamp as illumination sat a vacant-eyed Willie painstakingly detailing a fabric. The lush purple velvet fabric was bougie, to say the least, and rather outlandish for the skater.

“Willie.” You softly coaxed the teen to glance up from the fabric you found to be something Caleb would wear. Willie’s brown eyes barely met yours before they returned to the sewing needle in his hand and the tiny beads in the bowl.

“Caleb is actually forcing him to be his personal seamstress?” Rudy scoffed,d stepping right up by your side to look at the work.

Both trying unsuccessfully to coaxed Willie out of the stupor he was engaged in the sudden poofing wasn’t heard.

“Mrs. Young taught both Willie and Kayla how to sew. She’s quite the seamstress, reminds me of my old one.” Caleb wistfully responded with a smarmy smile on his face, “Well if it isn’t little Y/N and whoever she brought. Nice threads.”

“Let him go.”

Caleb’s index finger caressed the corner of his mouth so gently to ensure the stage makeup didn’t budge. His clear ocean blue eyes turning thunderstorm navy as his lips parted in such a bone-chilling sinister grin.

“Let him go? He tried to take my new house band from me. He thinks that those boys not crossing over is his punishment. I think that adorable but so very wrong.” Caleb shrugged, dragging his finger down the bicep of his puppet.

“What can we do to- “

“You see after he’s done fixing the tuxedo jacket I’m going to tie him up on the table and slowly strip away his soul piece by piece. No, Willie won’t get the quick and easy zap erasing him. I’ll personally see it’s the most painful thing he experiences and I’ll do so happily.”

“Willie! Wake up!” Rudy shouted, shaking the skater’s shoulder frantically with his focus never entirely leaving the mad man. The whiskey brown eyes panicking at the odd displaced feeling of reliving his living life.

“That won’t work.” Caleb chuckled crossing his arms, “It’s rather amusing you think you can beat me. I’m Caleb Covington! I’m persuasive enough for hundred of memberships to financially benefit the Club.”

“And I’m Y/N Y/L/N bitch.” You snarled viciously throwing your mind into the nefarious narcissistic mind of the washed-up magician.

Caleb Convington had started to bore his audience with the same tricks at every previous show. The lack of interest depleting the attendance numbers and severely hurting the financials. So Caleb decided to broaden his talent by copying the likes of Harry Houdini.

He had a knack for both the dramatics and swindling his audience to be tricked by the illusions he created. The heightened popularity increased Caleb’s thirst for status and fame, so he overestimated himself.

Surrounded by adoring fans and journalists, Caleb had his assistant lock him in a safe with no key, to the audience’s knowledge, and push the safe into the river. Unfortunately from the infamous magician and escape artist the safe warped due to the material it as made out of. Caleb Covington died drowning in a safe at the bottom of the river.

You flinched feeling the emotion at the time Caleb had died and the feeling of disappointment at not leaving a legacy. Your continued your trek in the struggling mind of a man who viewed himself as invincible. You caught glimpses of a young Caleb with his family and the moments of tragedy that shaped him.

You saw his first taste of power in death and the content since the first time he erased a ghost from existence. It sickened you more as you reached the point where Willie came into Caleb’s path.

I’m unique, Caleb. Unlike you with the illusions and empty promises, I have real power that you could only dream of. Hearing your thoughts and planting my own words is just the tip of the iceberg.

Caleb screamed in response holding his aching head as you cruelly ripped every memory of Willie from his mind. The screams echoed not only in the basement but through the hotel the Club worked out of.

“Stop!” Caleb pleaded, shaking his head back and forth. The anguish was un-fazing to both the lucid people in the room. Rudy too busy trying to wake your best friend from the trance he had been placed in.

“I can alter memories. Remove them and even plant memories of my own design. You may take from people, but I give to people. I refused to give you anything.” You circled the man seeing double from outside and inside his mind.

I’m everything you wish you could be.

Your last action in his mind was searing a burn that flashed across his entire body from a nerve stroked. With the heat equivalent to magma in his veins, you burrowed to where Caleb controlled the souls. With a smear of your fingers, Willie’s soul was released from Caleb clutches.

“C’mon. Get Willie.” You told Rudy sending Caleb into an empty trance as if he was no more than a wax figure. Rudy eased the skater up from the desk while you exchanged Caleb to sit on the chair holding the needle, “We need to leave. I’ll get rid of any speck of Willie in memories.”

“I didn’t even get to punch the guy.” Rudy pouted, dragging his feet up the stairs away from the magician.

“That’s a good thing. I’m sure Caleb would be more pissed about his nose being damaged than losing Willie.” You scoffed helping the man urge Willie to walk up the stairs and then down the hallway to the entrance.

As you walked you brushed the minds of every individual in the building, all members in attendance, you gently removed all traces of Willie. By the time you reached the edge of the park, you had relaxed.

“We should get him to Alex, they didn’t crossover. I can still feel their imprint.”

“He’d be safer at Elysium to lay low.” Rudy replied, keeping on eye on the skater and on anyone he could see.

With only a nod, you ushered the ghost to teleport both the skater and himself back to the safe walls of Elysium. As he did so, you reached out with your mind to the blonde-haired sweet male in adoration with your best friend.

Clicking his place was easy enough for your draining power after the taxing bond with Willie’s absent presence. Instead of walking as you would generally choose you poofed on the cement pad in the backyard of a home. The surrounding skirt of the backyard encased with plants and flowers.

“Hello?” You called out in the darkness. The soft, mumbled words had your feet moving in the direction.

Standing in a circle mesmerized at the purple tattoos lifting off their skin was the boys of Julie and the Phantoms. The teenage beautiful Puerto Rican girl stood across from Luke with Reggie and Alex on each side.

“Alex?” You called out to the boy wearing a baby pink vintage tuxedo that complimented his skin and hair exquisitely. The outfit definitely screamed that Caleb had something to do with it, especially with the missing fanny pack.

“Y/N?” Luke gasped turning to see you in incredibly fancy attire matching his gorgeous blue suit modified to having no sleeves. The anticipation of eating at you to find Reggie rocking a red suit with butterflies on the fabric.

“I’m sorry you didn’t crossover.” Your words soothed the sad teenagers that had accepted their fate only to have no control again. An introduction was brought between you and Julie when the living girl elbowed Alex.

“Not that we mind but what are you doing here? How did you get here, and why are you dressed up?” Luke inquired, pushing his hands into his suit pockets, engrossed with your gorgeous appearance.

“Well when you crash a fancy Club with a narcissistic founder…any means to blend in is necessary.” You responded, “As for your second question.”

Your finger tapped your temple before continuing to speak, “I’m here because Alex deserves to know. You all do.”

The boy in baby pink frantically stepped forward, “What happened?”

“Maybe it’s best, I just show you?” Your brows furrowed to your own question accompanied by your lower lip being bitten by your teeth. The red lipstick not budging as it was an illusion as well.

“Hu-“Reggie grunted as he spiralled with his two dead bandmates into the scene that had sent you on your determined mission.

The rough action of being drawn into your memories as jarring as the first time and just as scary. The maniacal magician pacing the dark basement simply to heighten his dramatic speech. Alex’s heart clenched at the vacant look in the skater’s eyes with the faintest tinge of purple in the gorgeous brown.

“I feel like I got carsick.” Reggie moaned leaning over to clutch his midsection once you released the ghostly trio. Reggie would often gain a look of disbelief and horror from the blonde drummer, but his entire brain was centred on Willie.

“Rudy took Willie back to Elysium where he’ll be safe. If you want, you can join us.” The words were offered to both the dead and living currently in the room.

Opting out, Julie retired to her bedroom to calm down from the rush of performing at the Orpheum of all places. Besides she felt like going to Elysium was best for the three boys, and maybe they would move there. Julie would miss them, but she knew they’d always come back.

Susie was quick to hug you tightly as you stepped through the gates with the dead members of Julie’s band. The boys changed out of the tuxedos they had dropped off at a donation centre, Reggie had wanted to burn them. After living on the streets for a short while, Luke understood the need for clothing, so the clothing was taken to shelters.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. Rudy told me you overexerted yourself again.” Susie spoke with a deeply furrowed brow oblivious to the puppy dog look from the bassist in red flannel.

“If I didn’t, Willie would be gone.”

“You’re pale yet flushed cheeks. I can see you have a fever. You need to rest.”

“I need to soothe Willie out of the trance that psychotic prick put him in.” You scoffed shaking Susie’s hand off your shoulder to sidestep her, “I’ll rest when he’s fine.”

“I-“

“At least gab something from the cafeteria for energy.” Susie’s brown eyes dimmed at your typical brush off. The same routine of overusing your powers and not recharging correctly, “He’s in Cottage A!”

The boys were on your heels as you power-walked through the streets of the ghost city with one location in mind. The living streets with homes of all style and colours appeared passed the bakery, the school and the clothing stores.

“You can eat?” Reggie whispered as a little ghost girl licked an ice cream cone walked by.

“Harvey adored cooking for people when he living, so he continued in death. Harvey can make food for ghosts, and so can his staff if they work in his kitchen. His pastry chef provides baked goods to Flora’s Bakery and makes the best ice cream.”

“Oh my god.” Reggie practically squealed wholly flabbergasted by the almost perfect place you created, “How do you pay for things?”

“We don’t. What Harvey doesn’t grow in his garden, he can make ingredients out of thin air. We all have some kind of job we do. Everyone has a role in fulfilling to keep Elysium running.” You simply spoke keeping your eyes on the cottage with the robin’s egg blue door.

As if he knew Rudy flung the door open elated to see you standing there. Both of you still wearing the illusioned attire. IN milliseconds he wiped the illusion away, returning you back into your street clothes.

“How is he?”

“No change.” Rudy replied, following your steps in the living room. The skater was staring blankly at the wall.

“Willie!” Alex cried, rushing over to kneel beside the boy that had so swiftly stolen his heart without him realizing. The emotion in his word didn’t get a microscopic flinch from the formerly so-called enemy.

“Everyone be quiet.” You demanded forcibly staring each person in the room down for a mere second. With the desired silence continued, you ignored the headache forming in your head to step into the skater’s mind.

William Young was screaming to be released by the prison of his own mind Caleb had forced him into. He had felt the restriction on his soul lifted and the mist of purple leaving his brain, but he was still stuck.

He could barely breathe with the weight on his chest. Willie didn’t like feeling stuck in one place as he was a wanderer at heart. It was a reason why he had joined the Hollywood Ghost Club with the promise of travel.

Willie come back

In his mind, the sound of your voice firstly grounded the young man as a mirage of your form flickered. Your eyes screamed worry while the smile was one of relief.

Caleb can’t hurt you anymore. Come home.

The spectators watching see your flinching wavering expression and the tensing of Willie’s facial muscles. Everyone sat on the edge of their seat as the two pairs eyes opened in synch of the yells of hurt.

What they didn’t expect was your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and you to collapse onto the floor.

“Y/N!” Willie cried, stumbling off the couch onto the cold floor where your body lay prone, “Wake up!”

It seemed everyone forgot the little detail of being dead.

“She’s fine.” Rudy remarked, shaking your arm with such gentle care matching the four guys’ care in the room.

Your eyelids fluttered open under the bright lights of the unused cottage still waiting for an owner.

“Susie was right.” You grumbled allowing Willie to help you sit up against the blue velvet couch. Your mussed hair adorable in the eyes of the guitarist utterly enamoured with everything about you.

“She usually is.” Rudy mused, thinking of the many times she had proven everyone wrong, “She punched me for not bringing you home.”

“Gotta love her.” You snorted turning to face the four ghosts awkwardly gazing around the room. It was barren of personality with the lack of inhabitants. The yearning quickly found in the boys’ eyes, “You know this isn’t the only cottage in need of people.”

“What do-“

“You’re welcome to live here. I know you three live in that studio, but here you can have a real bed. You can eat and having your own place. You can come and go as you please.” You offered without looking, Rudy.

“I don’-“

“If you don’t want to live here, it’s okay, but the option is always there. Willie, we make plans for a skatepark-“

“Oh, you had me from the start.” Willie beamed tugging you into his arms, “I missed this. I missed you.”

“Me too.” You murmured into his warm embrace equally relaxed at knowing he was safe again. Your eyes clashing with the soft blue had Ideas songwriting already filled with lyrics of a pretty girl wearing a jean jacket with patches.

The lyrics turned into songs both in the studio and the cottage that Luke, Reggie and Alex accepted in Elysium. It had been a spirited discussion with Julie on moving to Elysium, but the boys were always there when she wasn’t in school. Often Elysium hosted a concert for the residents with the visitation of Julie.

Your reciprocated attraction with the messy-haired hazel-eyed guitarist flourished into a serious relationship. Luke took on the role of teaching how to play the guitar and songwriting. Alex took of mediation while Reggie worked with Harvey.

Willie quickly took on designing the skatepark he taught at while also taking a position at the ghost school.

“Morning.” The soft whisper roused your sleep into the golden glow of the morning light and chirping birds.

The growling aspect of his voice coming from only just waking up. The sight of Luke’s bleary eyes was heartwarming.

A year into moving into Elysium, Luke had asked if you’d like to move in as he was the only one in the original house. Alex had moved into the little cottage with Willie three months into the relationship while Reggie was going back and forth between Susie’s room and his own place.

“Morning.” You hummed leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

“You know I thought my life ended when I died. That I could never find someone and have a family. That I couldn’t share my music with the world. I was wrong.” Luke murmured as he cupped your cheek in his hand, “The band is growing more and more each day. I found the love of my life, and we have a family with everyone. I haven’t felt like I had had home for so long, but I get it now. You’re my home. I love you.”

Your cheeks warmed up at the adoration Luke displayed in his expressive hazel green gaze just as it had since day one. The awe fell from his lips before you pressed a kiss to his lips, only one of the many in the eons to come.

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Do Well. Yan Dabi x Reader [COMM]

warnings: dabi is just a huge asshole, emotional manipulation, implied panic attack word count: 2.6k.

“Would you be a dear and wait here for a few? I need to take a call.”

Dabi tilts his head alongside his words, glints of amusement present in his sapphire eyes. You’re certain the bastard picks up on every subconscious movement your body makes at the question, feeling like an open book before him. Despite your valiant efforts, human biology doesn’t operate in your personal interest. The challenging premonition causes your lips to curl down, fingers twitching on the wide straw of your milk tea. Pausing mid sip, you pull back, eyelashes fluttering. It’s the subservient behavior he wants to see, and considering the alternatives, you’re tripping over yourself to give it to him.

“... Of course. I should just stay here, right?” It’s more of a question posed for your sake than his, information vital to keep your head above water. Any movements on your behalf that even hint at disobedience could lead to dire consequences, ranging in severity. The worst of which is being confined back to his dingy apartment, with nothing but your thoughts to entertain yourself. All the faux smiles, carefully timed giggles, and strategic brushes of skin against skin would be for naught. You worked too hard for these trips outside for it to fall through your fingers like sand.

Your captor makes a point of giving you a once over, lackadaisical visage a front for a predator in waiting. Condensation builds up against the plastic container in hand, making it tricky to tell if it’s your hands growing clammy or the drink. Time passes by at a snail’s pace, neither of you making the slightest of movements. People go about their lives in happy-go-lucky bliss, none the wiser to the potential harm that Dabi poses. Feeling finally returns to your body as he stands, seemingly content with the exchange.

He shoots you a coy look over his shoulder, a crooked smile spreading across his face. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Dabi snickers at how your nose scrunches up, waving and slinking off with his phone in hand. You watch his retreating figure, still in disbelief over the unfolding events. This would be the first time since being kidnapped that you’ve been on your own in public. These special little outings were a privilege, one that you had worked diligently for. Consistently being on your best behavior, day after day, in the presence of someone you abhor from the depths of your soul is no easy task. A rush of adrenaline shoots through your body when he’s out of sight, eyes darting around in excitement.

This is a prime location to make an escape, the outdoors of a crowded mall in the afternoon. Everyone ranging from families, to couples, and employees on their lunch break are walking around. Lively chatter fills your ears, and you observe every possibility as if it’s your last. While it’s likely a futile dream, the rush your quickening pulse brings demands attention. Lithe fingers shake by your side, every ounce of your strength devoted to keeping yourself from unraveling at the mere concept of being free. He has to be watching. You know him well enough that he wouldn’t have offered the opportunity to escape on a silver platter, there’s got to be measures in place.

There’s no way he isn’t keeping an eye on you now, making sure that you hold true to your word of behaving.

Your shoulders slump at this cruel reality. The act of looking around excitedly would be too much of a give away, an observation he’d surely bring up later. An eruption of goosebumps dot your skin, even in the sweltering summer heat. Taking another sip of your drink, you abandon hope of escape, certain it’d be a mistake should you try it. Though he’s purposefully kept you in the dark on most of his relationships with the League of Villains, you can safely assume he’s interconnected with enough unsavory figures to locate you should it be necessary. In contrast to the sugary goodness that coats your tongue, a sour taste in your mouth develops at this blatant flaunting of power. What an asshole.

To be so self-assured that even in the event of your escape, hunting you down and bringing you back into his loving arms is still within the realm of possibility. Your eye twitches at this realization, mentally flinging numerous curses towards him. He didn’t have to make it so obvious, rubbing salt on the theoretical wound of your pride. Too preoccupied with festering thoughts of resentment, you fail to notice a figure taking a seat next to you on the bench.

“Is the drink not good or something?” A light, masculine voice asks from your left. Darting around immediately at the interruption of your venomous thoughts, you spot a man around your age. Sporting messy brunette hair and a casual get up of a tee with a pair of jeans, it tugs painfully on your heart to see someone living an uninhibited life as you used to. This envy mutates into horror, as you realize being caught speaking to a stranger is going to land you in boiling water. Dabi’s consciousness is a minefield in waiting, daring to blow at the slightest wrong movement.

What do you do? It might leave a wrong impression should you not say anything. The current times are plagued by high tension. Numerous League of Villain attacks have rendered the surrounding regions on constant alert, news anchors telling folks to be wary of anyone or anything suspicious. Weighing your options, you decide to dismiss the stranger in kind as fast as humanly possible.

Just act natural, act natural… “W-why do you say that?”

Shit. Your first conversation with someone other than Dabi in over half a year has left you thoroughly horrified, pupils no doubt dilated and voice meeker than a mouse squeak. The stutter has you wincing, your naive companion undoubtedly picking up on it. You want nothing more than to shoo him off, but in fear of drawing unwanted attention, attempt to suppress your frayed nerves. You’ve been through worse than a strained conversation and made it out relatively unscatched, but this feels like a different type of battle.

“You just seemed to be making quite the upset face,” he chuckles, reminiscing on the thought. He must’ve been referring to the glowering thinking about Dabi brought out from you. “I swear I’m not a creep or anything. I was just waiting to pick up my little sister, and happened to catch you scowling.”

“The name’s Ryota. And you?”

Suppressing panic that threatens to drown you, you swallow thickly. “I’m uh, Hina. The drink is fine… I just have a lot on my mind.”

The lie is seasoned with enough truths that you hope it isn’t too transparent. Giving away your actual name could hint back to missing person’s cases, the thought of which would greatly displease Dabi. Besides, if it had been as simple as going to the police, you would’ve done it by now. You’ve grown uncomfortably familiar with Dabi’s workings, killing off a few people or bribing them would be one of the least heinous things in his portfolio. You figure the best case scenario here is that this well meaning Ryota character leaves you be, or else dire consequences will come to fruition.

“Good to know, Hina-san. My lil sis talks about boba often, but I’ve never gotten that into it. I figure since the store’s right here, I should surprise her with a drink. What would you recommend?”

You can’t help but greedily soak in the normalcy an interaction like this brings with it. The irritation from being drawn into a conversation is replaced with pity, a stronger resolve to keep this bystander out of harm’s way blooming. There’s no time to be wasted on the warmth erupting in your chest, or on the first genuine smiles in months that’s settled on your lips. To see the best humanity has to offer, after being subjected to the worst, is a much needed breath of fresh air. While it may be greedy to fixate on these aspects, you find yourself wanting to savor the moment of being a regular person.

Surely, Dabi would understand your logic.

“It depends on her tastes. If she likes sweeter drinks, I’d recommend Thai milk tea. If you’re not sure, classic milk tea is always a safe bet.” You’re proud of how you’ve been able to pull yourself together, speaking like you used to. With this, he should be set to leave, or at least you want to believe this. Unfortunately for you, life is never so easy. He doesn’t seem interested in going anywhere anytime soon, crossing his legs and leaning slightly closer to you. Realizing your mistake of radiating friendliness, your muscles go taut.

You need to do something about this before it’s too late.

Ryota scratches his head, mulling over your advice. “I’ll keep all that in mind. I appreciate your insight.”

“It feels nice to be able to chill and talk like this every now and then. If I’m being honest, I was somewhat against my sister coming out to hang with friends,” Ryota’s tone takes a turn for the somber, face looking crestfallen. “With all the chaos that’s been around, y’know. It feels like everyday I wake up to more of those League of Villain stories. It feels like it’ll just be a matter of time until something happens near here.”

“I’m sorry that--”

“Things sure are rough,” A voice that brings out every negative emotion possible speaks up from behind you, Dabi’s familiar figure slithering into sight. He takes a seat on the bench, close to your person, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to borrow her for a bit. You mind?”

Neither of you were expecting the sudden interruption, Ryota trying to piece everything together. “Oh, uh, not at all.’

Everything hits you like a ton of bricks. From Dabi’s rich cologne that mixes in with the smell of ash, his hair brushing against the side of your face, to the possessiveness of his grip. He squeezes your shoulder, looking from Ryota to you. It takes a moment to register what he’s communicating, but you’re able to decipher the gesture. In a last ditch attempt to salvage this situation, you confirm Dabi’s statement before things get ugly. Nodding your head, you watch with bated breath as Ryota looks from Dabi to you. He gets up from his spot on the bench, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets.

“It was nice talking to you.”

Ryota heads off towards the mall doors, leaving you in the clutches of the devil incarnate. You feel how terribly warm Dabi is next to you, words wanting to spill out to justify the actions that led up to this moment. Before you get the opportunity to ramble out your thoughts, Dabi places a finger on your lips, looking at you with the same grin as always.

“Making some new friends, hm?” He inquires, drawing out the syllables. His finger goes south, lifting up your chin, and holding you close to his face. “Awe, babe. You look like you’re aboutta cry. Don’t give me that look.”

You’re not sure if you should feel horrified at his sudden spike in talkativeness, or relieved over not having to speak your piece yet. The words wouldn’t be able to leave your mouth even if you wanted them to, a lump forming in your throat to coincide the dryness of your tongue. Dabi makes a point of emphasizing his engulfing height, having to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. Not wanting to make a scene, you do everything within your power to still the tears that are threatening to spill out. There’s no visible signs of wrath, not that you can pick up on. He watches with great interest as you calm yourself, releasing the grip on your face and leaning back into the bench.

When you appear sufficiently soothed, he speaks up once more, voice grating your ears. ��So tell me, doll. What was all that about? I knew you’d be hurting for company in my absence, but I didn’t think you’d be so bold as to speak to someone else.”

“I… I was approached, and… I swear, nothing happened. He just-- just wanted to know about a drink for his sister, and--”

Dabi gently flicks your forehead, unable to stifle his cackling any longer. “I’m just messin’ with ya. I saw everything.”

It doesn’t settle in immediately, the hypothetical cogs and gears of your head turning in slow motion. Your heart is pounding so violently that you hear it in your ears, your face erupting into a bright red. Humiliation, indignation, and finally, loathing take turns dominating your mind. He’s always had the best of times playing with you at your own expense, poking and prodding to see what reactions he can get. There’s a knee jerk reaction to want to slap him, anything to let out these overflowing feelings. Knowing that getting bothered is what he finds the most pleasure in, you’re further motivated to gain control over yourself.

A deep breath. Inhale, exhale. You continue repeating these steps, biting your tongue to the point it stings. Dabi rests his head on his fist, watching you calm yourself down through lidded eyes. You really do get yourself worked up so easily, it’s endearing. He wants to pinch your cheeks and tease you more, but is feeling generous enough to give you this time to gather yourself. There’ll be plenty of time to play with you later, occupying himself with this cute sight placates him for the time being. When you finally reopen your eyes, you’re met with the deplorable sight of Dabi’s crooked grin.

“Can we just… go home? Please?” You hate how weak your voice sounds. You hate everything about this situation, about the life that you’ve been forced into living. How you have to adapt to unspoken rules, subjected to twists and turns that never let you lower your guard. Most of all, you hate the person who has done this to you. His touch, his scent, his voice, all of it. You want nothing more than to scream at him at the top of your lengths, ripping that satisfied looking off his flesh and ridding yourself of this turmoil once and for all.

“Hm? Already? I thought you were hoping to get some dinner out tonight.” Dabi keeps up an air of nonchalance, likely wanting to hear you repeat yourself. Not willing to give in outright, you instead bunch up the fabric of his jacket with your hand.

“Dabi…”

It’s a low plea. You know you’ve gotten your point across ages ago, but he’s deriving too much pleasure from seeing how you squirm. The painful utterance serves you well, earning the slightest bit of reprieve as he gets up. On shaky legs, you follow after him, head downcast. Fixating on the tops of your shoes, you wonder if distracting yourself might do anything to ease your tormented soul. The events of the day have left you thoroughly exhausting, and nothing sounds better to you than sleeping for as long as he’ll allow you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s head on back,” he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. No longer having strength to muster up in retaliation, you let him do as he pleases, still fighting down sniffles. “Don’t bother your pretty little head about this.”

You don’t bother honoring him with a reaction.

Dabi takes a final glance over his shoulder, spotting the pesky man from before, who is still waiting against a wall. He takes a mental picture of the notable features, lips settling into a deep frown. How troublesome. Before you notice anything, he picks up his pace, continuing the walk back to his apartment. Ideas and resentment swirl within his mind like a tornado, pent up frustration begging to be released.

All in due time, he thinks.

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virgil-writes · 3 years

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 8 - great expectations

SFW, but usual blood/gore warning. around 3.5K words.

He barely remembers getting dressed and returning to his quarters after such a relaxing shower. At some point he had slipped inside his pants and slid an undershirt on, thrown himself at the desk chair and poured over plans and schematics, a mess of paper and far more motor oil than necessary. He had written and read until his eyes had grown tired, like every other night, fighting off sleep to the best of his ability. He could sleep when he was dead, or when she was dead, when he was far away from this hellhole, when nothing awaited him come morning.

Some nights he would skip it altogether, keep his eyes wide open when his mind was too fraught with dreadful thoughts. He knew what would come if he finally closed his eyes, the memories that he worked so hard to put away. A dream, it was only a dream, he would tell himself over and over, but it was hard to believe it when he would wake up drenched in sweat and tears, throat sore from screaming at the top of his lungs, that all too familiar twinge of sadness and terror balling up in his chest. It was hard to believe and hard to forget, because he would see it when he held the wrench, when he brought a cup to his lips, when he pressed the buttons to get the conveyor belt running. His hands shook, his fingers lost their strength, and then we would remember it all. It was not real, but it had been once, and he is unsure whether the knowledge makes things better or worse.

Heisenberg remembers nothing but the familiar tingle on his fingertips, the numbness that overtook him, anxiety and fear washing over him like he had been engulfed in a sea of darkness. The scribbles on the paper would be evidence of how he had lost control the night before, how he had pressed the pencil hard to try and force himself to focus, to keep going. The cut on his forehead would tell him that he exhaustion had taken the reigns and he had fallen face first into the table, head hitting the metal clamp and inadvertently helping lull him to sleep.

Much to his surprise, that night, when Heisenberg closed his eyes, he was greeted with the blissful sight of nothing. Head void of dreams, of nightmares, body protesting with the awkward way he’d scattered over his work station, but nothing else. The cut had stained some papers with blood and drool had ruined some others; his arms felt numb in the morning, as they had been left hanging off the desk with his head and neck as the only support. It took him a good few stretches of his hands to feel his fingers again - all things considered, this had been a much better night than most.

If the night was almost-pleasant, the morning was anything but. A hot gust of air blew in when the factory kicked into gear with full force, like it did every day around this time, the whirring of blades and purring of engines his usual white noise. Only this time there was an intruder, a high pitched, repetitive sound that threatened to pierce his eardrums - he woke up to the incessant sound of his phone ringing. The thing sat just inside his office, an old landline that Miranda had insisted on him keeping in case she needed to speak to him urgently. She would call him every now and again, but more often than not it was his siblings that would bother him. Moreau would call to ask if he had found any old VHS tapes or old fiction books, Donna would ask him for blades and all manner of crazy-looking schematics built. Alcina rarely called, but given her interest in the bloodsucking beast that prowled the woods, he was certain that would change very soon.

Not that he intended to answer any of them, naturally. Nine times out of ten he was nowhere near the dumb phone to answer, which made Mother angry and him even angrier, because the last thing he wanted was to interrupt important research to tend to any of their petty, cruel whims. When she called, invariably he would be thrust into something barbarous and despicable; she wanted someone kidnapped, or killed, or turned into a monstrosity. She wanted him to spy or intimidate, put on his best scary mask and drill the fear of the Black God into someone’s mind. She never once asked if his research went well, if he was doing well, and though it had been years of such abuse, he could not help but feel the sting of it every time he heard her speak. Somewhere deep down, he still held onto a sliver of hope that she cared; and she would always dig deeper and deeper, until she found it and choked his feelings to death.

Heisenberg lazily lifted his head, right arm coming up to wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth, eyes hurting under the bright industrial lights coming in through the window. A strand of hair had sneaked into his eye when he blinked, such a small nuisance upsetting him even further, a simple strand of hair that felt like the devil’s toothpick stabbing his eyeball. The phone had stopped for a few seconds only to resurge like the wailing of a baby, and the ringing prompted him to shoot up and off his armchair in a flash, too disoriented and uncomfortable to fully register what was going on. He almost fell on his way to the phone, tripping over his unbuttoned pants, annoyance levels rising with every step. He rubbed his eyes as he approached the offending object, flicked the room’s light on like it would help him hear better. At least it would keep him awake.

“Heisenberg,” came the voice from the other side, sweet and soft-spoken, domineering and stubborn. “Any news on our quarry?” Our quarry, he mouthed to himself mockingly. As if any of it was a team effort, as if he had anything to gain from this little adventure. Well, as it turns out, he did, but lady super-sized bitch didn’t need to know that. The damn hair was still stuck somewhere between his eyelashes. “A little bird told me you left the forest quite late last night.” A little bird would die a horrible, horrible death as soon as he discovered who it was that had agreed to his sister’s asinine plan of meddling in his business.

“Oh hey, sis. Surprised you get reception all the way up there.” He heard her huff of annoyance, chuckled in response. It bought him enough time to figure out exactly what he would tell her. Hey, yeah, turns out your monster is actually this gorgeous lady with a pair of tits big enough to rival any fertility goddess’? “Slippery little thing, that monster of yours. Found some bodies, some blood,” truth was always easier to tell than lies. “Caught a glimpse of something, too, but it disappeared in the middle of the trees before I could grab it. Little shit gave me the loop, took me quite a while to find the way back.” Heisenberg could practically hear her chest rising and falling as she breathed excitedly, happy to hear something, anything, even if it was a blatant lie. He could hear her nails hitting against wood impatiently, stringing together a tune he did not recognize. “What do you want with this thing anyway, needing a new pet?” Quite the funny thought, really. He was suddenly curious to know if the little witch would put up a fight as a tight collar was snapped around her neck.

“Am I right to assume you will return to the forest soon for another search?” Oh, most definitely, though his intentions were far different from what she expected. She continued without waiting for his answer, clearly aware that he would retort in the crassest manner possible. “I will see you handsomely rewarded once I have it in my possession, brother. House Dimitrescu does not forget such acts of service.” And there it was, brother, the greatest honor she would grant him, a compliment reserved for moments like these, when she desperately needed his help and no one else’s would do.

Blah, blah, blah. What was she going to offer him, a maiden? A scrawny lady with bruises big enough to make one believe her skin was purple, bones showing through her ribs and threatening to poke out at any moment? He had long decided against experimenting on women - they were always so weak and fragile, he would tell himself. Had long left behind his whoring days, too, far too focused on his research to let himself be distracted by a pair of tits. Oh, right; the irony. What else could she give him? A casket of wine made of blood of an innocent, with its thick bouquet of brutality and mercilessness?

She could offer him riches, influence, her undying loyalty. The only reward he wanted was to see her fractured into a thousand tiny pieces, nothing left of her and her daughters but the crystal cores they would dissolve into. The jewelry he would keep, the crystals he would sell to the Duke for a hefty price; the dust he would gather, send to an artist to mix into paint and commission a portrait of himself in his best work attire, his beat up trench coat and ragged hat. To make a statement, his fly would be open and his dick out in the painting, forever immortalizing him as the large, hard Lord of the Castle. With the money he would buy the best brewery he could find and have it make the worst beer, call it Lady D’s Fresh Piss, all in her honor, naturally.

He would bring over his suitcase and set up shop in the castle, tear down every reference to the Dimistrescu family and replace it with cheap replicas of innocent, idyllic landscapes, and dozens of horrible quality photos of his face. The extra large milk pail she called a hat would be used for entertainment when he gathered guests over, shoot the ball into the dead lady’s hat or take another shot. His soldats would clean house, kill every last monster in the basement, replace those god-awful torture tools with something else, anything else - maybe pigs, to pay homage to his dear sister. He would then fire all maids and forbid them from ever setting foot inside the place again, hire an all-male crew to tend to the estate and leave him well enough alone. On a clear day he would grab all of their expensive dresses, the paperwork that dignified her as gentry, her snob literature and photo albums, pile them all into the courtyard and burn it all, the vineyard alongside it, then light his cigar in the blaze and smoke it while facing the inferno, the flames reflecting beautifully on the lenses of his glasses. Once it had all turned to cinders he would strip before going through the front door, waltz around the place while rubbing his dick on all of her favorite spots. He would dump all of her fine wine in the biggest, smelliest cesspool, grab the revenue from the last shipment and throw it from atop the church in the village to watch the peasants fight each other for riches that were supposed to be hers.

Perhaps best of all, he would invite Alcina’s little monster over, encourage her to come in while dragging all the dirt and mud gathered on her bare feet. He would give her a tour of the castle, allow her to decorate every room with a harvest wreath or handmade candle, let her cover the posh couches with handmade quilted throws. Together they would roll up the fancy carpet and throw it in the fireplace, lay down the most unrefined of straw tapestries in its place. The mantle would be a display of their crudeness and peasantry, his schematics and forgotten bits of scrap metal, her incenses and rune-inscribed bones and whatever else her little heart desired. He would allow her to have her pick of his sister’s jewelry, try and convince her to take them all, to wear nothing but her favorite set as she danced under the skylight of the atelier, the flames of all tolling bells and the bright shine of the moon as the only source of light for their unholy, delicious rituals.

When silence settled he would grab her waist and pull her closer, whisper in her ear the most delectable of invitations. Together they would desecrate every last corner of the castle, from the halls to the belfry and the stairwells to the balconies, the cries of agony the place had come to be known for replaced by their sounds of pleasure. When they were far too tired to continue they would work together in the kitchen, he would help her prepare a bloodless meal that they would savor watching the wide open doors to the courtyard. He would sit at Alcina’s spot, ignore every single piece of flatware and eat with his bare hands, audibly chew on every morsel. He would draw every curtain and open every window, let the gelid gale wipe away any trace of her and her daughters. Late at night, he would carry his prized lady up the stairs to her quarters, gently place her on the giant bed and cover her with the decadent expensive sheets. She would ask him to stay, and he would, hold her close as she slumbered and he stared at the top of the canopy and let out a tired sigh almost a hundred years in the making. He would be free, and he would have claimed it all, a fitting end to his sordid tale.

If he wasn’t sure Alcina would rise from the grave and put herself back together out of sheer spite, the whole thing didn’t sound half bad.

Heisenberg barely registered whatever she said after, far too immersed in his little happy place to give a shit. She had talked for what seemed like hours, something about training the beast to present it to Mother Miranda, to allow her to experiment and find out what sort of things they could learn of such a splendorous mutation. Some illusions of grandeur sprinkled here and there, the very obvious wish to become the best, most adored child. He felt like Alcina wished Mother would descend upon her in a ray of light, to lift her up and away towards the heavens to take a place at her side. What a load of crap, though he had to admit it was far more than he would have given her credit for when she came up with this sordid little plan.

At some point, she finally realized she had said too much, exposed too much of her grand plan, had become too excited with the prospect of having that admiration within her reach. That, or she had grown tired of sounding too friendly with the riffraff. She quickly finished saying her piece and hung up without waiting for him to say goodbye, wishing him good luck on the hunt, reminding him she had great expectations. As did he.

He found his mind wandering back to his little witch in the woods as he placed the handle back on its hook. Where did she even come from, anyway? Was she born in that miserable place, brought up among the failed experiments of this village in middle of nowhere, Romania? Did she know how to use money, or were the lei they used foreign to her? He had it in good confidence that she could read, considering all the books he had seen around, but did she know how to write? Had she ever seen electricity at work, or had her life been lived under candlelight? Could she drive a car? Operate a telephone? Did she have toilet paper in her outhouse or did she wipe her ass with ferns or something of the sort? How did she find out about nail polish, of all things?

Had she ever lived outside that lousy shack? Did she ever get a taste of luxury, of fine wine, scrumptious desserts, someone to cook and feed her, maidens to attend to her? Had she always worked the land and tended to livestock, gathered herbs and berries in the forest? Had she cared for her parents or grandparents and learned her trade then, offered her services to lice-ridden villagers when they were no longer in the picture? Had they ever met, some day when he was too busy with his own sorrow to notice her, to take in the beauty that had come to haunt him so? Had she ever shared her body with someone, with a lucky lad or lass that caught her vulnerable and willing on a lonely night? Did she… Did she think of him, as much as he had begun to think of her?

Her shroud of blood and mystery, alongside Alcina’s excitement over the prospect of having her torn apart, had a strange feeling seep within his bones, a pang of anguish tugging at his heartstrings. All the more reason for him to hide the truth for as long as he could - even if the witch turned out to be just really clever with herbs and some hallucinogens, he wouldn’t give dear sister the pleasure of sinking those rusty nails into her flesh. Not when he had so much to discover.

Finally alone with his thoughts and away from his fantasies, he looked down at himself to see his shirt tousled, the fly on his pants undone. He had slept alright, although passed out might be a better description. In his defense, he had tried to fall asleep like a normal human being: sat down and let his mind go blank, eyes firmly shut to try and get some rest. But try as he might, he always startled as he was about to drift off, the sight of the dark horse dissolving into a puddle of blood right before his very eyes, of Sturm’s decapitated arms almost comically flying in his direction. Rage followed soon after - another failure, another waste of time. How would he make that thing rise again? He was then caught in the infinite loop of thinking, and planning, and burning out in frustration, until he could carry on no more.

Of course. He remembered it now, what had finally lulled him to sleep, in the throes of his despair. The way she had distracted him with a well-placed, gentle hand on his face, to work her magic and make his pain disappear, to preserve the secret she worked so hard to maintain. The gash on his hand that had left no trace, the lycans and moroaicas dead but not quite. The way she seemed to have a knack for putting things back together again, to prop them up on strings and have them dance like a puppeteer would. If he brought her here into his den, allowed her a glimpse of his work - would she be able to help him? Would she want to?

At first, he had thought the whole thing was bullshit. So maybe she knew a few plants, knew how to make a mean incense to get him high as a kite and seeing shit. Maybe she had some medical training and could put a nose back in its place, big deal. Maybe she held the world record on fastest, most painless stitching of human flesh, and was in cahoots with the Duke to use whatever seemingly magical substance he put in his antiseptic solution. Whatever she was smoking to say that she could actually heal things, that she might just be able to murder Mother Miranda - he wanted some.

And yet the more he thought of it, the less sense it all made. Her touch was unmistakable when she held his chin up, when the monster’s wispy tendrils had done the same. There was no doubt that she had, indeed, healed his wounds. The decapitated heads were very much alive, the blood pungent, the bite as painful as it should be. If she had killed them, how had she brought them back to life? How had she kept them alive on borrowed time, negated the effects the very creator of the Cadou could not avoid? How far did her powers go? Were they powers, like his and Moreau’s and Donna’s and Alcina’s, or a clever trick of the mind?

Whatever the case, Miranda had spent the better part of a century trying to bring back a dead girl in the body of another, necromancy a far too advanced concept for her young mind back in the late twenties. She had spent countless hours, spilled gallons upon gallons of innocent blood, spread a disease that they no longer had control over in the lycans, all for naught. And suddenly some creepy girl at the ass-end of the woods was the second coming of Jesus? She had knocked him on his ass and somehow morphed into this giant mass of blood that would make the hairiest of grunts shit their pants. If there was any chance that she was for real, then it would change everything. The possibilities were endless. He just needed to tell apart the bullshit from the truth.

#resident evil #resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x reader #virgil writes #a rather chill chapter but next comes soon

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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Definitely do *not* write a drabble about Chris being triggered into thinking Jake is sending him back, with Jake having to comfort him. Do not do it, Ash. I demand it.

While I couldn't quite bring myself to hit the request exactly, I did think of something that might actually give Chris a very similar reaction... sorry I sat on this so long, I couldn’t make the words do for a while, but here they FINALLY are

CW: Referenced beating/injuries, emeto mentions, bruising, pressing on a bruised rib, trauma response, some discussion of PTSD/conditioned responses, discussion of noncon touching, noncon in memories + discussion (warning: Jake speaks very plainly about what it was, so cw for use of the word r*pe, I know that can be difficult), referenced violent reaction to stimming

TIMELINE: Immediately post-Safehouse Raid/Interrogation series

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump

Dr. Masood’s touch is gentle, and light, and Jake can see why the rescues like him so much. The safehouse’s doctor - a man who could lose his license to practice if anyone finds out that he provides healthcare to illegal runaway pets on nights and weekends - hums to himself, cheerfully, as his thumbs and fingers graze along the edge of Jake’s black eye, take in the bruising on his face, the swollen lower lip.

His touch is so deft around the dark purple-black bruise on Jake’s head that he barely winces at the pressure, quick, barely-there and then gone, as Dr. Masood checks the spot where that asshole Everly bashed Jake’s head into the table again and again.

“My apologies,” Dr. Masood says gently, his accent warming his voice, making every word slightly musical. “You have quite a few bruises, some surface lacerations, but I’m not seeing anything that won’t heal with a little rest and regular at-home care. How are you sleeping?”

Jake swallows, feeling himself tense a little. He hasn’t slept, not really, in the three days since he’d come back from the police station. That first day after his return he had passed out, had laid on the bed with Chris beside him, safe in his arms, and slept like a log for nearly twelve hours, woken to eat, and then gone right back to sleep until the next day all over again.

Ever since then... he can’t. He can doze, off and on, as long as Chris is inside the house where he can see him or by him. But he can’t-... he can’t stay asleep, he wakes at every noise, heart pounding, ready to hide Chris again, get Antoni and Leila back down to the basement. Has to be ready to open the front door himself this time, not let Nat take hits herself just to buy them time.

The deep bruising on Nat’s face, the cut across her cheekbone, the way that she moves with care and grits her teeth every time she has to stand up, the way she keeps describing herself as doing fine and powering through and making it through the day, her dry Midwestern drawl when she says she’s livin’ the dream, Jake, that’s all... it’s new wounds, layered under his skin instead of over it. It should have been him to answer the door, put up the fight, make himself the more important target.

Next time, Jake has to be the one to open the door to weapons in his face and spitting hate for his decision to protect the people who need protecting, he has to... he has to be ready.

He can’t be ready if he’s sleeping.

“I’m not,” He answers, finally. “Not much.”

Dr. Masood’s lips thin, just slightly, but he nods, looking over Jake’s torso now. Speckled with bruising, and Jake hisses in a harsh breath when Dr. Masood presses on his bruised rib, only to pull back quickly with a low apology. “I could give you something to help you sleep, Jake.”

“I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t take it,” Jake says. He could lie, but what’s the point?

“I see.” The doctor pauses. “Jake-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake says gruffly. “Every time I sleep, I-”

see myself begging for it to stop saying I’ll do anything give up anyone they want just let me sleep just give me something to eat just one small thing anything I’ll do anything

Jesus, how little it took to get him saying please and thank you - who knew how much it would have taken for him to give away even more?

I wanted to contract you, but I was overruled.

He shudders, then winces as the motion sends pain out in a nauseating wave from his ribcage, lifting a hand to put a bit of pressure there.

How long was Chris held, before he gave them whatever they wanted, gave them whoever he used to be, just to get a little sleep?

“You are having nightmares,” Dr. Masood finishes for him. They’re sitting in the den, a small room behind the living room, where they have their one-on-ones with the therapist, where they have an occasional group meeting. Jake nods, leaning over despite the new throb of pain, and closes his eyes, rubbing his hand over his mouth, over the stubble he hasn’t shaved. Nearly a week of growth, between interrogation and the first few days back home.

“Bet your ass I am,” Jake muttered. The scratch of the hair on his jaw against his thumb and fingers was another reminder of how fucked up the past week of his life had been.

“About being arrested?” Dr. Masood handed Jake his shirt - a button-up, Jake was struggling to pull shirts on over his head when it meant lifting his arms and pulling on bruised muscles and aching bones.

“Not really. That’s I’m not the one who gets hauled off this time.”

“You are seeing Chris in your place.” It’s not a question.

Jake blinks up at the doctor and then just laughs, shaking his head, ignoring the pulse of ache at the motion. It’s not like he doesn’t just hurt all of the time no matter what he does, what’s the point of pretending otherwise? “Yeah. Or... back there in that place.”

Now he’s seen Chris - or who he was before he was Chris or even the rescue wrapped in his blanket in the rain. Now he’s seen the hunched-over shoulders, the attempts to rock and tap and do the things he did to keep himself calm met with implacable, awful violence.

He understands the way Chris never moved at first, would just stay in one spot for hours in perfect silence, so much better now.

He dreams of Chris there again, the dull terror in wide green eyes.

Worse, he dreams he’s the one who put him there. Sees himself in the shitty fucking uniforms those assholes wear, shoving Chris ahead of him down the hallway while he begs and pleads for Jake to remember himself, to save him, but Jake can’t save him from them because Jake is them...

Sees himself making the same sick jokes Everly made to him, touching Chris’s face, treating him like an object, like a fucking toy to be used, to be-

Jake’s stomach heaves and he leans over as saliva floods his mouth, breathing carefully, waiting for the nausea, the need to throw up the bit of tea and toast he had for breakfast, to pass.

Dr. Masood watches him with care in those dark eyes, his hands folded in front of him. “You have undergone a trauma, Jake. It’s common to have nightmares afterward as your mind attempts to process that trauma-”

“I haven’t gone through shit,” Jake spits with sudden anger. “I got roughed up, that’s all. That’s not-... that isn’t shit compared to-”

“How old are you, trainee?” The handler asks the question heavy with loaded double-meanings, obvious enough Jake can read them. Give the right answer or get hurt.

“Eighteen,” Chris whispers, with wide scared eyes. Everyone in the room seems satisfied with the blatant, obvious lie.

“Good. And is that the legal consenting age?”

“… yes.”

“Good boy.” The handler pets heavily through Chris’s hair, and the boy shudders in disgust - Jake has never seen him react to touch like that, not from anyone. Just one more sign of a person that’s been totally erased.

“Pl-please, please don’t, please don’t-don’t, don’t touch me-”

“That’s not an option available to you any longer.”

“-compared to what they’ve all lived through,” Jake finishes, trying to close his eyes against the thoughts but he can see it in his mind, now, the way the person who wasn’t yet Chris had shuddered and tried to turn away from touch only to have it forced on him again and again and again.

He feels the nausea again, and this time it takes everything in him not to throw up all over the floor. They hurt Chris, in that place. The touch he seeks out from Jake comes from being forced to accept touch until he wanted it, until he doesn’t know any other way to be. Doesn’t it?

Doesn’t that make needing to hold Chris in the night to know he’s safe, carrying him around, the hugs he’s offered so freely... doesn’t that make all of that no different than assault?

Jake has always thought he was helping, by giving open and easy affection. But... what if he’s only reinforcing what Chris shouldn’t want? Maybe doesn’t, deep down? Chris is an open book but even open books can have things hidden in the margins.

It’s not like Chris could ever tell him if he didn’t want to be touched, is it? They can’t say no, can’t even begin to process the word without fear of punishment. Jake knows that as well as anyone, it’s why he’s so careful with the rescues, but they need touch so badly. All of them, even Antoni, lean heavily into physical reassurance and affection, seem to recover faster and more easily if they can seek it out when they need it, but...

Jesus, what if Chris is shuddering and shaking and disgusted and only pretending that it feels nice to be hugged? What if-

What if Jake really isn’t any better than Grant Everly, anyway?

Pull yourself together. This doesn’t make sense. But his brain won’t stop spitting the certainty back at him. The image of that asshole - whoever it was, Chris’s fucking actual handler, that stupid fucking word they use instead of abuser, instead of abductor, instead of son of a bitch who deserves to die-

“Jake, trauma doesn’t work that way,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “There is no trauma Olympics. There is no competition to see whose is worse and caused by what. You were subjected to sleep deprivation, purposeful withholding of food and water, physical assault... Natalie tells me you were forced to watch some of the trauma young Chris was put through as well, and understand, what you are feeling is normal and nothing to be ashamed of-”

“It’s not shit, it’s nothing, I’m supposed to be able to take it, it’s not like I haven’t had the shit kicked out of me before and I was a lot younger then,” Jake snaps, pushing himself to his feet. The woozy burst of pain behind his eyes and in his ribs nearly stops him, but not quite. “This isn’t anything. Fucking black eye and a bruised rib and I turn into a little kid scared of the fucking dark.”

“That’s not what this is,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is common even in situations in which outright danger to your physical self is not present. You kept Chris hidden.” He puts his hand on Jake’s shoulder, squeezes lightly, in support. “There is something to have pride in, there. You put your body between Chris and danger, Jake. You are a stalwart certainty in his life, when he very much needs one. I’ve known you since you first came here to work for Natalie, and I am-” Dr. Masood pauses, clears his throat. “I am always amazed by your dedication to doing what is best for them all. And I think Chris would still be... quieter... if it weren’t for you specifically.”

Jake can hear the words but they don’t settle, they don’t mean anything. Just buzzing bees trying to distract him from the realization that he can’t protect Chris, because doing that means protecting Chris from himself.

“I can’t-... I can’t do this.”

“Jake?” Dr. Masood’s voice is quiet. “We can end the appointment now, if you wish, but I hope you will at least take the medication I brought with me to help manage your pain-”

“I can’t do this,” Jake groans, hot angry tears building behind closed eyes. “I can’t be this, I can’t do this, I can’t live like this. I can’t keep being around him if this is what it means, you know? I can’t keep spending time with Chris, or keeping him near me, or-... I can’t touch him. I don’t want to touch him if this is... if this is the result. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, if...”

He trails off, trying to imagine how to say if being near him means i’m only hurting him, slowing his recovery, making him dependent on me where he used to be dependent on that motherfucking pervert son of a bitch who raped him, who paid for him to be trained to be raped and pretend it was something else, if this isn’t helping him I’d rather die than make someone like him hurt any worse...

He can’t figure out how to phrase it, how to even begin. It feels good just to say it, just to let it out, and maybe... maybe it isn’t what he thinks it is, really. Maybe he’s not so bad, though, because the rescues do need solid, positive touch, they do, they just-

But how can you fucking tell? How can he tell if what he provides Chris is helping or hurting him?

“Jake, you need to speak with Dr. Berger. These thoughts suggest to me that your trauma is internalizing because you lack an external outlet. You are not-”

“I don’t want to fucking be around him if this is what happens!”

Jake means if I only hurt him worse, but the sound of sudden footsteps, nearly silent, breaks in before he can clarify, before he even realizes he should have.

Jake’s heart drops to his knees. He knows those footsteps, he knows them deep within himself with perfect muscle-memory born of every night Chris has moved nearly-silent to his bedside and whispered, Jake, Jake, can I-I, can, can I sleep with you?

All at once, Jake knows that what he said out loud and what he thought were two different things, and Chris only heard the one.

“Oh, fuck,” He says out loud.

No, no, no no no-

It hurts but Jake puts the pain aside - he’s done it before, after all, washing dishes after dinner with bruises all over his chest and back where they hide easily under his school clothes and his father’s glare burning holes in his back while his mother puts ice on her own bruises upstairs - and moves, with uncommon speed for a man of his size and his injuries.

It doesn’t matter.

Chris is already gone, the back door in the kitchen smacking shut even as Jake moves through the living room. Antoni, in the middle of chopping vegetables for dinner, has frozen and looked up, his eyes meeting Jake’s. Antoni doesn’t ask - only drops the knife and moves for the door, the two of them calling Chris’s name nearly simultaneously.

He’s not in the backyard, not in the shed or the little planter-garden, not shimmying up a tree, not sitting on the back fence, not here.

There’s no redhead anywhere to be seen. Even when they move to the front yard and look back and forth, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” Antoni asks, softly, as the two of them stare at the space where Chris should be, and isn’t.

“I fucked up,” Jake says, heavily.

What else is fucking new?

“... what do we do?” Antoni rakes a hand back through thick dark hair. “Where did he go?”

Jake closes his eyes, tries to think over the pounding guilt and fury, aimed now entirely at himself.

“I don’t know.”

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sweetteaanddragons · 4 years

Text

Day 2 - Maglor

@feanorianweek Day 2-Maglor >Weapons, Wife, Childhood, Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s Gap, Redemption

. . .

Maglor’s first reaction to hearing his brother’s plans for the defense of Beleriand was, No. Absolutely not.

He didn’t say that, of course. He would have said it without question to Maedhros-his-brother, but Maedhros-heir-of-their-father was another matter entirely.

There was a fell fire in his eyes now that would have rivaled Feanor’s, and it was backed by a will of iron.

Brittle iron, possibly, but iron nonetheless.

That brittleness was exactly why he wanted to put his foot down and say, No. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now.

But he couldn’t find a way to say it that wouldn’t sound like an accusation of weakness, and it terrified him to think what lengths Maedhros might drive himself to in order to prove his strength if he thought it was in any doubt. His brother was already pushing himself too far, too fast, and while Maglor couldn’t argue with the results for their people as a whole, he was deeply concerned about what would happen if it finally proved to be too much.

It was just the seven of them in Maedhros’s command tent right then. If there was going to be an objection raised, this was the time.

But his tongue was failing him.

He shot a desperate glance at Celegorm, but his brother just gave a minute, grim shake of his head.

Yes, Maglor was right to be concerned.

No, Celegorm didn’t have any ideas what to do about it.

“Problem?”

Maedhros’s voice was deceptively mild, but it cut through the stifling air of the tent like a whip crack.

Celegorm jumped guiltily.

Maglor’s tongue finally recovered its wits, and he jumped into the breach. Maedhros was already angry enough at him; there was no need to drag the others into it. “Yes,” he said. “How exactly do you expect me to hold a gap in the mountains of this size without something slipping through?”

It was a reasonable question. Maglor would fight any orcs he could find, but with wide open plains of that size, he would be hard pressed to stretch his forces thin enough to find them in the first place.

“I have every faith in you,” Maedhros said.

And that, as they both knew, was a hideously blatant lie.

. . .

They hadn’t talked about it, was the thing. As far as Maedhros seemed to be concerned, time had stopped when he was captured and restarted when he was free, and everything in between wasn’t worth talking about unless it was militarily relevant.

The reasons he hadn’t been rescued until Fingon showed up were not, apparently, militarily relevant.

We sent war parties after you three times, Maglor wanted to say. We never even got close to Thangorodrim, things were different in the dark, his creatures were stronger. I had to stop them from trying again, or they would have gotten themselves killed trying.

Celegorm had been in every party. The rest of his brothers had each been in at least two.

Maglor had not gone because the others had convinced him that the Noldor could not lose another king. Not so soon.

Or he had allowed them to convince them. Good sense or cowardice or both or neither or -

It didn’t matter. He never said a word of it to Maedhros because it all came down to excuses in the end: This is the arithmetic we used to decide it wasn’t worth it to try again.

Even if they thought he was dead, even if they’d thought it was impossible, even if they’d tried - None of that was worth very much in the end, and he knew it. Maedhros would have done better in his place. Fingon had done better in his place.

So the reasons were there if Maedhros wanted them, but since he didn’t, Maglor had no business spewing them out in a plea for forgiveness. This wasn’t about him and his pathetic need to know just how deep the fury he thought he glimpsed in his brother’s eyes ran. This was about Maedhros and the fact that whether his brother admitted it or not, he needed to heal.

So he kept his mouth shut about that and about most things except in the very dead of night when Maedhros would wake up gasping and stare shuddering up at the roof of the tent until Maglor’s songs managed to soothe him back to sleep.

They never talked about that either, but Maglor managed to get one of his apprentices assigned to Maedhros’s people.

Even if Maedhros was tired of accepting his help, maybe this way he could still get some sleep.

. . .

When Morgoth attacked, he would attack through the Gap. Maglor was as certain of that as he was about anything. He and his people would be on the front lines of it.

So perhaps Maedhros did have some faith in him after all. If not enough to think they could hold the line permanently, at least enough to think that Maglor could hold it together long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

They would get ground to pieces in the meantime, but they could hold the line.

Some nights, he didn’t much care. He was a kinslayer who was only lucky that his brother’s blood wasn’t permanently staining his hands; if this was what Maedhros wanted, if this was what would bring him peace -

Those nights were generally the nights when the wind was blowing down from Angband, and he wasn’t the only one whose thoughts took a fey edge when it did. Song chased the thoughts away like ash before wind, at least for a while. Sense would creep back in; someone had to hold the Gap, Maglor commanded the calvary, there was nothing more or less to Maedhros’s decision than that. Maglor could hold the Gap. Maglor would hold the Gap.

He was all that stood between his brothers and further destruction. He would not fail them again.

But then the song would fade, and the wind would blow, and the shadows crept back into his dreams.

. . .

The wind brought more than ill dreams the night the sky erupted into fire.

The sentries’ warning cries had him out of his tent in a moment, sword in hand. Ash and smoke were heavy in the air, and Maglor pulled his tunic over his mouth to try and filter it out. He could see far too clearly in the night. Liquid fire was spewing across the plains, and the grass near it was catching fire at the sparks.

It hadn’t rained in weeks. It wouldn’t take long to set the whole plain ablaze.

And marching forward with it, undisturbed by the heat, were blazing figures he knew all too well.

Balrogs.

With them was something else, something lizard like and far too large.

It also appeared to be spewing more fire.

Creatures they could fight, but the fire -

“To the river!” he cried.

It would mean leaving far too much of the way open, but maybe, maybe, by the river they would stand a chance.

. .. .

The river was running black from soot, and the water was low after weeks of drought, but it still ran.

The air was heavy with heat. The cloth Maglor had wrapped around his mouth to protect from the ash in the air was drenched with sweat, but it was better than nothing. Those of his men who had lost their own protection or who had never had it were struggling to breathe between hacking coughs.

There were fewer of them than there had been at the start, but they had paid dearly for their losses, and the orcs they had run across were suffering nearly as much from the fires as they were, even if they were less affected by the foul air.

He hoped it was only his imagination that made the hilt of his sword feel warm even through his gloves. The metal of his helmet was nearly unbearable, but he didn’t dare to take it off. Not with the enemy in sight once more and closing fast.

“At my order!” he called, and his voice split the air clearly enough even if it cracked in the middle.

He knew the river behind him well. He knew its rhythms, its current.

He knew it would answer to the right call.

His voice was hoarse, but the power behind it would be no less for that. The water had been heated and fouled, but it was the river still.

His voice grew in force and power, and his men were watching for when his hand struck through the air. Those closest to him peeled away quickly, and the others followed their lead.

The water rose behind him and burst forth in a massive wave, crashing against their foes.

Orcs were swept off their feet. The fires of the Balrogs went out, if only for a moment, and his men were ready to take up the charge. For a moment, one precious moment, the tide turned.

And then more of the endless waves of the enemy swept down across the plain, and they were pushed back, step by step, into what had once been a river and was now just thick, stinking mud.

. . .

His armor had been discarded, piece by piece, lest the metal scald him and he be left trapped inside, baking alive. The air was a near impenetrable haze of smoke and ash that enemies stumbled through as blurred shapes.

His horse had long since succumbed, so he fought on foot, his sword still swinging forward, again and again.

He’d called the retreat - Oh, an eternity ago. The wounded . . . Well, everyone was wounded. The wounded he could spare, he’d sent riding hard for Maedhros. They could tell him what had happened. Reinforce Himring. And they would be -

Not safe. But safer than here.

The small remnant he’d kept with him to guard their retreat. Only half their number remained now, or at least only half were close enough to be in view. Maybe the others were just lost in the burning haze.

Maybe.

Back and back and back. Maedhros’s faith really had been misplaced, but there was no time for that now, only for the scalding air he was pulling into his lungs, the swing of his sword through muscle and bone, and the smell, always the smell, of corpses burning somewhere out of sight.

Or maybe that was the smell of him and his men burning, bit by bit, excruciatingly alive.

But every orc they killed was an orc that would not attack the retreat, that would not besiege Himring, that would not - that would not -

It was hopeless, though, and he knew it. It would be easier to just let his sword fall, to admit that he was as useless to his brother as he had feared to -

There was something foul on the breeze, he realized suddenly. Something new, or rather old. Something that was starting to send shadows scuttling through his brain.

But he could barely breathe now, let alone sing.

He gritted his teeth and fought on.

. . .

There were five men left around him.

Probably five. The whole world wavered, and it was hard to be sure.

Swing. Stab. Back up another painful step.

He had to - He had to -

. . ..

When he woke up, the air was cool and nothing smelled particularly of burning.

Himring, he thought before he even opened his eyes. Only Himring could still make an attempt at being uncomfortably cold even in the middle of an apocalypse of fire.

The bleak grey walls he opened his eyes to confirmed his suspicion.

As did Maedhros’s pale unconscious form slumped in a chair beside his bed.

Oh.

He tried to swallow and failed. A hacking cough forced its way from his chest instead, and he shook with the force of it.

Maedhros was awake in an instant, holding him up and pressing a cup of water to his lips the moment the coughing ceased. “Drink,” he ordered, but Maglor didn’t need to be told. He gulped it down as quickly as he dared.

“My men?” he asked as soon as he thought he could.

“Of the five we found with you, three should make it,” Maedhros said quietly. “Of the others - casualty reports are still coming in. I’ll have the numbers soon.” He rubbed at his eyes, but the shadows under them only seemed to darken. Maglor wondered just how long Maedhros had been awake before collapsing at his beside. His apprentice had apparently failed at her job.

He didn’t miss the evasion on the casualty numbers. Whatever they were, they wouldn’t be good, but at least the fact that they were tallying at all meant that some must have made it through. He hadn’t failed them all.

But he had failed Maedhros. Again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he forced himself not to look away.

“You should be,” Maedhros burst out. “What were you thinking?”

Maglor flinched from the fire in his brother’s eyes. “I thought our chances of holding them were better at the river. In hindsight, perhaps we should have tried to hold them at the first approach - “

“The river was your best chance,” Maedhros said through gritted teeth. “I don’t argue with that. But what were you thinking staying behind when you sent the rest of your forces on?”

“Someone had to guard the retreat,” he protested. “And it wasn’t as if I was trying to do it alone.”

“Oh, because six men is so much better.”

“I didn’t try to hold it with six,” Maglor said through the growing lump in his throat. “There were - more. To start with. But in the smoke - “

Maedhros slumped back against his chair. “Oh.” A bit of color was leeching back into his skin. “I thought - “ He shook his head.

“That I was an idiot?” Maglor suggested with forced lightness.

“That you didn’t care if - “ Maedhros caught himself and changed what he was about to say. “That you were more concerned with continuing the fight than making it out,” he revised. He rubbed his face and looked away. “Himlad’s fallen,” he reported. “It was a massive attack. It seemed like they struck everywhere at once. I haven’t heard from Celegorm and Curufin. I haven’t heard from anyone except your people, and they said you fought like a man who would hold the land or die trying, and we were so hard pressed I couldn’t send anyone out to look even though you might be - “

A cold far worse than Himring’s crept over him. “The last,” he said. “We might be the last of our House.”

“We might be the last elves in Beleriand for all I know,” Maedhros said wearily before looking up sharply. “Not that it’s hopeless.”

“Of course it’s not hopeless,” Maglor said dutifully. Celegorm. Curufin. Little Celebrimbor. Caranthir, Amrod, Amras . . . And their cousins, too.

No word from anyone. Had their uncle held? Had Fingon? Or were they truly alone, one last hill that they would die on, Oath unfulfilled, family unavenged?

But all those bleak doubts were all too evident in his brother’s eyes, so he shoved them aside for himself and took up his role once more.

“Thingol’s probably still standing,” he offered.

“Much good that will do us,” Maedhros grumbled, but he looked a little lighter all the same. The lightness faded in only a moment, and he reached out to grab Maglor’s wrist with his one remaining hand. “I can’t lose you, ‘Laure. When I thought you were gone - “

To be alone, the last of their brothers; Maglor could imagine the horror of that. Better any death than to be the last.

“I’m not,” he reminded him. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Twice now, he had failed his brother, but if he had been wrong before - if his brother truly did not hold it against him that he failed again and again - Well, then perhaps this last request, he could fulfill.

If he could do nothing else, he could be here at his brother’s side until the Enemy’s fire swept them all aside.

However long until then that might be.

#maglor #maedhros #dagor bragollach #silmarillion #fic #feanorianweek #angst #sort of happy ending

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schleierkauz · 4 years

Text

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 5

Because I’m an insomniac fool and because you’re all beautiful and deserve it, here’s chapter 5 featuring the gang and Reckless references so blatant even I caught them. Enjoy the love, everyone!

Chapter 5: An Engagement in Ombra

They had all come. By the time the church bells signaled noon the house that everyone in Ombra knew only as the Bluejay’s workshop was already full. Resa had even opened her chamber of wonders for the special occasion, a little room right behind Mo’s workshop where she displayed truly wonderful things.

Scales of nymphs and water-sprites that she had collected at the nearby riverbank could be found there, two honeycombs made by fire-elves (a gift from Dustfinger) and a strand of hair taken from a glass woman. Bowls of healing herbs and dried flowers, tree bark that could dye clothes, but also the page with Fenoglio’s handwritten words that had brought Cosimo the Fair back from the dead – and the book that had killed the Adderhead, bound by her husband.

Meggie was sure that any guest who wandered into her mother’s treasure chamber would immediately forget that they had actually come to celebrate the engagement of her daughter.

Resa’s chamber of wonders also contained two of the flying machine models that Doria had built. Meggie’s mother treated him like a second son by now, but Mo made no secret of his disapproval of Meggie’s and Doria’s plan to move out into their own quarters.

“Don’t be angry with him. Fathers don’t like anyone who outranks them in their daughter’s favor,” Resa had whispered to Meggie when Mo had asked her just a few days ago if she wasn’t a bit too young to be engaged.

Too young… Meggie didn’t feel young. Sometimes she felt so old as if she had lived a dozen lives already. She remembered so many Meggies… The one who had lived alone with Mo in the old drafty house, the prisoner in Capricorn’s village, or the Meggie who had crossed worlds and who had been in love with Farid.

They all seemed to have lived their very own lives. Sometimes Meggie imagined them as little figurines standing in one of Resa’s treasure chests. She remembered each one of those Meggies fondly, but she wouldn’t have traded any of them for the version of herself who was by Doria’s side.

The love he filled her heart with was like a coat she felt around her shoulders. A warm blanket in a cold winter night. She had always believed that no one would ever know her better than Mo did. But Doria saw so effortlessly into the most hidden corners of her heart as if he had always lived there. Some she hadn’t even known herself until he showed them to her.

It was easy to fight with him, to laugh or to sit in silence, and every day he surprised Meggie with a new outlandish thought or plan and lured her deeper and deeper into this world with his insatiable curiosity. Sometimes they would borrow Fenoglio’s stubborn horse and ride for days into some faraway village because Doria had heard of a blacksmith who created wings of gold or a cobbler who could sew seven-league-boots.

“Nonsense!“ Fenoglio shouted any time Doria spoke of such wonders. “There is no magic in my-, I mean, in this world!” he corrected when Rosenquartz shot him a warning look.

But there was. Doria found it every day. And so Meggie wanted to spend all her days with him, even though they had both only just turned 18. Even Dante loved Doria. Wasn’t that proof enough that she was choosing the right one?

“Do you need proof, Meggie?“ she asked herself while accepting another engagement gift. She knew exactly why she was asking herself this question. Before Dustfinger had disappeared to join Mo in his workshop, he had mentioned that the Strong Man had told Farid about her engagement to his younger brother.

What if he showed up?

Meggie hadn’t seen Farid since he’d left for Lorraine two years ago, after the jugglers of the Prince told him about the pathetic fire-breathers who performed at those distant courts.

Did love ever really disappear? Or did it leave its seeds like a flower which would bloom anew once she saw him again?

Meggie’s heart gave her the answer an hour later when Farid suddenly appeared next to Elinor. He had a beard and she barely recognized him at first, but then he looked over at her and -

No.

Her heart did not beat any faster. It filled up with warmth, familiarity and loving derision when Farid pushed his shoulder-length hair out of his face – shoulder-length like Dustfinger’s hair.

Meggie was sure that despite all those princesses, Farid still loved his teacher more than any other person. And he was still vain and eager to be loved and admired. He needed that admiration like the air he breathed.

As he stepped towards Meggie he wore the half-mocking half-enticing smile on his lips that she remembered so well. A fiery rose grew in the hand he held out to her. It left a heart of ash on his skin when it disappeared.

“Engaged?“ he whispered in her ear as he kissed her on the cheek. “Have you lost your mind? The same meal for the rest of your life?”

“This meal tastes different every single day,“ she whispered back, but of course Farid didn’t believe that. He would never believe her that she loved anyone more than him. But his eyes were already searching for Dustfinger. The one love he would never betray.

“Dustfinger is with Mo in his workshop,“ Meggie said.

“Ah, good. How is he?“ Farid turned to look at a girl who had pushed herself past them. Lucinda, the daughter of the miller who helped Mo make paper.

“A sheep loses all its skin and its life for just six pages!“ her father had said to her and Resa one day. “I’m tired of working with parchment. I’m going to accelerate progress a little bit – after all, it’s said that there are already paper mills in Spain and farther north.”

“He’s doing very well,“ Meggie said. “The whole city loves him and he has two new students.”

Farid frowned.

“They’re probably not half as good as I am, right?“

He was hopeless.

“Come on,“ he said and took Meggie’s hand. “I have to have a serious talk with your fiancé. He should know the risk he’s taking. If he makes you unhappy just once, I will turn him into the finest gray ash that this and any other world has ever seen.”

He probably would.

They couldn’t find Doria anywhere and the house was still so full that they barely made it up the stairs. Meggie and Dante had their chambers on the second floor and there was one bigger room that they all called the “living room”, even though the word came from another world. Mo’s and Resa’s books were kept there, very few compared to their collection in the other world. They cost a fortune in this one, but luckily Mo was able to fill the shelves himself.

Doria stood at the window – with a girl. Farid still knew Meggie well enough that he could feel her antipathy towards this girl. Doria bought the wood for his flying machine models from Filippa’s father and she usually brought it to him. Meggie had walked in on them once, just as Filippa had asked Doria why he hadn’t chosen a girl from Ombra instead of a stranger whose past was unknown.

No, she didn’t like Filippa Bafone. The fact that she was considered the most beautiful girl in Ombra didn’t help matters.

“Ah, the bride!“ she exclaimed when she saw Meggie and Farid standing in the door. “I just showed Doria my gift for you two.”

She shot Farid an appraising look and offered Meggie a bracelet. It was beautiful. Black, painted with tiny flowers. Doria held the matching one in his hand. He smiled at Meggie and pulled her at his side, not without a cautious glance towards Farid.

The glance that Filippa gave Farid was an invitation and Farid was happy to accept. But before he followed Ombra’s most beautiful girl, he whispered something to Meggie.

“You shouldn’t wear those bracelets. Witchcraft,” he added when he saw Meggie’s confused face. Then he and Filippa disappeared in the crowd. Meggie stared after him in disbelief but Doria had already pulled his knife and scratched the paint off of his bracelet.

“He’s right,“ he said. “I’ve heard whispers that Filippa doesn’t just rely on her beauty. I should probably feel flattered.“

He took the other bracelet out of Meggie’s hand and threw them both out of the window.

“Witches?“ Meggie looked down at the street where the bracelets rolled across the pavement.

“Oh yes.“ Doria took her hand and touched the ring he had put on her finger that morning.

“Not here. A few years ago the light witches fought so fiercely with the dark ones that they all disappeared. But farther north there’s still a lot of them, even though the priests of the new religions really hate them. Here in Ombra there are two merchants who sell their items. They say it’s only light magic but everyone knows that’s a lie.”

Witches… Meggie shivered. They were something that belonged only in storybooks. She laughed at herself a moment later – she lived in a book! At least Fenoglio still liked to see it that way. Did he know anything about witches in this world?

“Eastwards there’s said to be a country where princes ride silver dragons,“ Doria whispered to her. “The women in Lorraine turn into foxes. And up in Prussia, an uncle of mine saw people who have skin made of stone. This world is way bigger than just Ombra, Meggie.”

“I know,“ she replied – but what did she know? In all those years during which Fenoglio’s world had become her home (yes, she admitted, she still called it that), she had barely travelled 50 miles from Ombra. Travelling was arduous and she was so happy here in the city! Doria was here, and Dante and Mo and Resa, Elinor and Darius, Dustfinger, Roxane, Brianna and Jehan. What else did she need?

“Do you know what the Black Prince likes to say?“ Doria fed her one of the tiny cakes that Rosenquartz had bought for them from a bakery that specialized in such delicacies made for glass men.

“‘If you try to hide away from the world, it will come to find you one day.‘ I’ve told you so many times: We should travel! Samarkand, Constantinople, Edo – doesn’t that all sound wonderful?”

He started spinning with Meggie. The guests made room and clapped in time with the beat. Two more couples started dancing and Meggie forgot about witches and Filippa’s bracelets. Yes, they would travel! It was time to explore this world outside of books. She twirled in Doria’s arms and couldn’t tell what made her dizzier: Being in love or dancing.

(Next chapter)

#the color of revenge #inkworld #cornelia funke #ly dont look #i have nothing to say for myself #except: THEY KEPT?? THE BOOK???#gross #oh and anon are you seeing this?#cosimo is mentioned!

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crystaljins · 4 years

Text

Good riddance.

Characters: Jimin x Reader

Word count: 2k

Synopsis: Is it too much to ask for a normal rooommate?

Jimin x reader. Roomates-to-lovers

Notes: The first of my requests to celebrate reaching 1000 followers! This is dedicated to my beloved queenie who always leaves the sweetest asks for me! She requested “Jimin + moving in to an apartment/college!au style “ And this mess of a fic is what she got, unfortunately. I’m not too fond of it myself- I’m battling some mean writer’s block! But the concept is cute, at least.

Warnings: None

“Thank goodness.” Taehyung says warmly through a mouthful of freshly baked cookie. Jimin reaches for a cookie too, savouring the soft, dough-y texture and the richness of the slightly-melted chocolate chips. He closes his eyes in contentment for a long moment. “I’m so glad your crazy roommate finally moved out.”

“She wasn’t crazy.” He says with a sigh. The apartment is clean and smells of freshly baked cookies. He can hear his new roommate humming cheerfully in the next room. After baking some cookies, he had decided he’d do some cleaning. Because cleaning is apparently a hobby for Jimin’s new, eerily perfect roommate. Life is good. No, it’s great. He can’t remember the last time he had a peaceful afternoon like this. “She did move out really quickly, though.”

And he’s glad of it. Good riddance. It’s about time fate cut him some slack! He’s had a string of increasingly bad roommates over the past year and his most recent one was the worst of them. It all started a year ago, when he discovered his roommate of three years had been sleeping with his girlfriend for almost the entire time they had lived together. Needless to say, he had required a new roommate as soon as possible. He lived in a nice apartment but it definitely required a two-person income to meet the rent demands and he wasn’t going to live with that lying jerk a moment longer. Only, finding a new roommate was easier said than done.

The first of his bad string of roommates had been Toby. Toby had been nice enough at first. He never left dirty dishes in the sink and he always checked first with Jimin before using the washing machine to make sure Jimin didn’t need to use it too. He had paid his rent on time too, which had been the priority. Post-graduate students don’t make a lot of money and Jimin didn’t have any income to spare if his roommate was late on paying rent.

The problem with Toby was Toby’s girlfriend. She was a nice girl in small doses. She smiled a lot and always made small talk with Jimin on the awkward occasions he was alone in the living room with her. But she and Toby fought a lot. Which isn’t a huge problem- every relationship has their communication bumps and hardships. But their fights weren’t normal fights. They would scream at each other at weird hours of the night and one time Toby’s girlfriend had gotten so mad she had taken a plate and thrown it against the wall. It had shattered to the point that super glue could do nothing for the plate. And it was a nice plate too! It was part of the set Jimin’s mother bought for him when he first moved to the city for his studies. Needless to say, Jimin had requested that Toby find another place to stay the next morning.

Of course, Toby was sorely missed in comparison to his next roommate, Bertha. The problem with Bertha was that she had a cat. As a disclaimer, Jimin loves cats. He thinks they are sweet and he’s always wanted a cat of his own. But Bertha’s cat was no ordinary cat. No, it was a demon, summoned from hell with a fetish for human toes and a propensity for leaving poo nuggets in inconvenient areas. Cats are supposed to naturally use litter trays! Why the demonspawn, or Mittens, as Bertha fondly called him, reviled the litter tray so deeply is a mystery for the ages. Needless to say, Jimin had tolerated that for as long as he could. But then Mittens had decided he would take a nice bite of Jimin’s big toe while he was napping on the couch one day and Jimin had ended up in hospital. Who knew cat bites were so dangerous? Bertha had offered to move out straight away and had also paid for Jimin’s hospital bills as long as he didn’t make her put her beloved demonspawn to sleep. She hasn’t contacted him since.

He wishes he could say that Bertha was the worst of his roommates but she wasn’t. There was Michael, who had a creepy taxidermy obsession. And Angela, who only washed her hair during the full moon. He doesn’t even want to say what Seungmin was like. There had been no end in sight to his string of bad roommates.

Then you came along. You actually hadn’t undergone Jimin’s usual selection process, which was his first mistake. He had developed pretty strict selection criteria after suffering through so many bad roommates. But you had managed to bypass all of that thanks to your older brother Yoongi. Yoongi is a nice, calm guy. He has helped Jimin a lot in the past, especially during the cheating-girlfriend fiasco. So when Yoongi had mentioned that his younger sister was moving to the city after changing degrees, Jimin had been quick to offer up the extra room in his apartment. By that stage, he had seen the worst of the worst when it came to crazy roommates- there was no way someone related to Yoongi could be any worse than the nutcases he had dealt with this far.

He should have been more careful. You really gave all the other roommate’s a run for their money. You would offer to make him dinner and then set the stove top on fire. His favourite shirt had been ruined in the evacuation. You were hopeless at doing the dishes- he’s had to buy at least three new sets of dinner plates since you moved in. You had broken the vacuum cleaner, clogged the shower drain, smashed a window… You were supposed to ease his financial burdens, not create them! And you just kept inserting yourself into his life- inviting yourself to movie nights, charming his friends so they invited you along to parties he attended. At least he could just go for a walk or meet up with friends when his other roommates grew to be too much- there was no escaping you, however.

Which is why he’s glad you moved out so suddenly! As far as roommates go, you were terrible, with all the annoying and frustrating habits to boot and since he didn’t have the heart to kick you out, it’s better that you left on your own. And without any warning so he didn’t have to stress about you moving out or anything horrible like that. Just… bam. He woke up and you were on the doorstep, bidding him an awkward farewell. He’s glad things ended up like this. His new roommate can cook, never sets the apartment on fire and offered to drive Jimin to work since his car broke down.

“I’m highkey glad she’s gone. She kept ruining our movie nights.” Taehyung continues. “If she made me watch Monster’s Inc. one more time…” Taehyung trails off and shudders at the recollection of your weird obsession with the movie. Taehyung whirls on Jimin. “But I did always wonder. Why did you give in to her?”

“What do you mean?” Jimin asks, reaching for another cookie. He’s going to start putting on weight with the way his new roommate feels a compulsion to feed him but honestly it would be worth it. Taehyung frowns and tilts his head at Jimin. It reminds Jimin of the way Taehyung’s dog looks when it comes across something new and puzzling.

“Well, you could have said no to her at any point.” Taehyung points out. “When she asked to tag along to our movie nights or when she insisted on cooking dinner or even when Yoongi first suggested she move in with you. The whole time, you could have refused. But you let her do it. You knew what the outcome would be and yet every time… you kept saying yes.”

Jimin goes silent at Taehyung’s surprisingly astute observation. The warm chocolate chip cookie, previously delightfully warm and delicious, now tastes like ash in his mouth.

“Would you like to know what really happened?” Taehyung asks, leaning forward with a sharpness to his eyes that wasn’t there before. Jimin shrinks slightly beneath the gaze of his oldest friend.

“N-nothing happened. We just decided to go our separate ways.” Jimin points out, internally cursing himself for his stutter. “It’s just cause she’s Yoongi’s sister. I felt obligated to be nice to her.”

“Cute.” Taehyung answers with a smile. “But also a blatant lie. Jimin, I know what you look like when you have a crush.”

Jimin’s not sure why he feels like his heart suddenly freezes in his chest. A… crush? On you?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jimin answers with an uneasy laugh. “I don’t have a crush on her. Taehyung, she turned my uniform shirts pink a few weeks ago because she accidentally left her underwear in the wash.”

“Well, that’s a shame then.” Taehyung says with a dramatic sigh. “I guess her moving out because of her feelings for you was the right move then, huh?”

Jimin blinks a few times and it takes him a second to comprehend what Taehyung is saying.

“Feelings… for me? She moved out like that because… because she had feelings? For me?” Jimin questions and he wishes he didn’t sound so desperate and hopeful but he’s temporarily lost control over the emotions in his voice thanks to Taehyung’s shocking announcement. Taehyung grins widely.

“I thought you didn’t have a crush? Then you shouldn’t care about the real reason she moved out.” Taehyung says smugly and as much as Jimin loves Taehyung, he could honestly strangle him in that moment.

“Taehyung.” Jimin calls warningly and Taehyung actually breaks out in laughter.

“The night before she moved out, she was actually planning to confess to you.” Taehyung explains. Jimin swallows past the dryness in his throat as remembers the night in question.

You had been acting strange all day, a bit antsy, and every time Jimin stepped into the kitchen to make sure you hadn’t set any accidental fires, you had shooed him out.

Of course, true to your nature, the familiar smell of smoke had filled the apartment while Jimin was distracted taking a phone call with his landlord. Jimin, fully prepared for your kitchen mishaps, had rushed in with the fire extinguisher at the ready. Of course, the food you had tried to make had been inedible before it caught fire, but it entered new levels of inedible when covered in flame retardant. You had stared at the food with a weird look in your eyes and Jimin had helpfully suggested you order takeout.

The night had gone smoothly from there and the two of you had watched a movie. You’d bid him goodnight with a smile on your face and the next morning you were packed and ready to move out. Just like that. No warning. You had been smiling and having fun with him with no indication of what you were planning and then suddenly his apartment was empty and dark. And he was forced to admit a horrible truth to himself:

You’re not the worst roommate he’s ever had. No, you’re probably the best one. Not because you’re perfect or because you have no bad habits. But because you’re you. Full of energy and sincerity and affection and the day you moved out you accidentally broke Jimin’s heart. As pathetic and stupid as it is, he had liked you. A lot. And it hurt when you suddenly moved out like that, despite his attempts to pretend otherwise.

“As silly as it is, I think she moved out because you inadvertently rejected her that night.” Taehyung admits, shaking his head. “That’s what Yoongi thinks, at least. It’s the most words I’ve ever heard from him and they were all to insult you.”

Jimin winces, but he has more pressing matter than Yoongi being mad: You have feelings for him. Feelings. For him.

“Did you really say that she’s the biggest pain you’ve ever come across? While she was making you a nice dinner to confess her feelings?” Taehyung asks curiously. Jimin winces when he recalls that yes. He had said something along those lines while in hysterics following yet another fire-related incident. He was going to lose his deposit on the apartment at this rate.

“I… might have… said something along those lines.” Jimin finally admits. His jaw drops as he puts two and two together. Taehyung smiles widely. “Is... is that why she moved out? Because of some stupid panicked words I said while our apartment was on fire?”

“What are you going to do about it if that’s the case?” Taehyung asks. But Jimin is already on his feet and grabbing his coat. He’s out the door before Taehyung even completes his question.

Jimin’s new roommate pokes his head out the door.

“Was Jimin going somewhere?” He asks, glancing around curiously. “Did he not like the cookies?”

Taehyung shrugs and turns to Seokjin.

“He’s just going to have an important talk. Now, about your roommate situation…” He trails away and stares at Seokjin curiously and then warmly at the cookies.

“I have a spare room if, for some mysterious reason, you find yourself homeless in the next few days. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

#btsboulangerie #jimin x reader #park jimin x reader #jimin fluff #park jimin #writing #1000followersdrabble

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inactiive-shit · 4 years

Text

Old Flame

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Warnings: past toxic relationship, talking about some of the unhealthy behaviors, mentions of drug abuse and alcoholism

Pairings: post-romantic Prinxiety, platonic Prinxiety, current Anxceity & Royality

Words: 2,625

Summary: Roman had a high school sweetheart. He hasn't him in over ten years and for all he knows the man could be dead.Then he shows up unexpectedly, and it turns out to be something both of them needed.

Note: Hey everybody! This deals with a dicey topic and I can’t rightfully say how well I managed it, but I wanted to write something about reconciliation and forgiving people who messed up - especially when no party involved was completely blameless. So I gave it a shot, but please be aware that they do reference an unhealthy relationship and some shitty things that happened.

Thanks, and I hope if you read it you enjoy it!

When Remus looked up, stiffened, and growled, “Don’t look now,” Roman assumed he had seen one homophobe or another they had become accustomed to running into in their town. The last thing he expected to see when he turned around was Virgil Eli, a decade and a half older and looking - better.

Roman freezes, staring down someone he had never expected to see again. When Virgil looks up and sees Roman’s eyes on him, he seems just as immobilized as Roman is by what’s occurring.

Then he leans down to say something to the man whose hand he’s holding and jerks his head toward them. The man examines Roman shortly before pecking Virgil’s lips and releasing his hand, saying ‘go’. Roman can see the breath Virgil takes, the way it expands his chest and slowly drains out, and he wonders why it seems so alien on someone he knew so well, once.

Remus snarls when Virgil starts approaching and it snaps Roman out of his daze. He looks between his brother and his ex, looks between the person who had done most of the picking up the pieces and the one who had done most of the breaking, and stands between them. Remus, he knows, is more than willing to have this confrontation on behalf of Roman. But whatever is about to happen is something that Roman needs to face. On his own.

“Roman?” Virgil says. His voice is deeper and rougher than it had been before. It’s still quiet and unsure, too, but for some reason there’s a different ring to it.

“Hey, Virgil,” Roman says. He doesn’t know how to continue this conversation or even if he should. Long time, no see? Where have you been? How’s life been treating you? Where on Earth did you run off to?

“It’s, um, been a while.” Virgil rubs the back of his neck, something he used to do whenever he was feeling overwhelmed or attacked. It was something Roman is intimately familiar with, yet it felt different now, somehow. “Can we talk?”

Roman opens his mouth without a clue as to what he’s going to say when Remus stands up from the table, glaring at Virgil like he’d never seen something so disgusting. “Anything you have to say to my brother can be said right here. Or you can walk the fuck out. Better yet, why don’t you just walk yourself right in front of a car?”

The other members of their group choke, shocked. It occurs to Roman that he had never properly explained the situation with him and Virgil, or how any of it came to pass. Or why Remus would want Virgil to walk into oncoming traffic.

“Hey, dude,” Roman says, holding one hand up to Remus. “It’s okay. Stand down, please.” He redirects his gaze to Virgil, who does not, to his limited credit, seem the least bit surprised or offended by Remus. “Sure. Let’s go outside.”

“We can talk here, if you want,” Virgil says, but there is the slightest tremor in his voice that tells Roman he really does not want that to be the case. “I don’t mind if they hear what I have to say.”

“I think it’s a conversation best had in private.” Roman shrugs on his jacket and leads Virgil out of the coffee shop. There’s a bench conveniently placed right outside the big window, and Roman takes a seat on it, sipping at his coffee.

“What’s up with you?” he asks. It’s not the right question, but it’s not wrong either. It’s hard to say how a conversation as loaded as the one he intends to have should start, but pleasantries could always come first.

“Nothing too much,” Virgil says. He rubs his hands together, causing a chorus of tiny clacks as his rings smacked into each other. “How’s life been treating you?”

“Good,” Roman says, and it’s truer than it’s ever been. “What are you doing back here?” Another not right, not wrong question, but the questions are getting closer to what was really important.

“It’s home.” Virgil crosses his arms tightly over his chest, staring out at the road. “I grew up here, know every one of these roads like a locksmith knows keys. I think I was always going to come back.”

“Where did you go?” Roman asks, and that is the million dollar question. They had been childhood best friends, high school sweethearts, in love into adulthood. But things hadn’t gone well for them, had gone as awfully as Roman could imagine them going, and one day with no warning Virgil had left. Left without a note or a number to call, never picked up the phone when Roman did call him - until one day someone else did and Roman figured Virgil had died.

“I-a lot of places.” Virgil isn’t looking at him, and that too is reminiscent of the Virgil Roman knew but not quite the same. He can’t pinpoint the differences, but there has to be something. Otherwise Roman would probably feel a lot more sure-footed than he currently did. “Not many worth mentioning, though. To be entirely honest, which is the least of the things I owe you, I was so fucked up most of the time I can’t remember most of them.” Virgil shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Roman gets caught on the words, replays them like a broken record. So fucked up, so fucked up, so fucked up.

“Oh,” Roman says.

“I got sober, though,” Virgil continues like Roman hadn’t said a thing, and Roman doesn’t say another word so that he can hear whatever Virgil has to tell him. “And clean. I went to rehab for a while, therapy. Got put on meds that didn’t make me-well, that didn’t make me crazy.” He smiles, and it’s the happiest smile that Roman has seen on his face since they were nine years old.

“That’s good,” Roman says, and it is good. It’s good that Virgil got better than he was when they were together. It wasn’t-it wasn’t a good time for either of them, not something that Roman can usually look back on fondly.

“Yeah, it is.” Then Virgil does look at Roman, and Roman realizes that he has snakebite piercings and an eyebrow ring. The bags under his eyes are all make-up now instead of the ever-present exhaustion they used to be. The beanie on his head and his hair dyed black almost completely obscure his ears, but Roman can make out the telltale glint of quite a few more pieces of metal. Virgil has changed. A lot.

“One thing they teach you in AA, and in therapy, is about making amends. Especially where I went for AA, they were always driving home that you needed to apologize and mean it to the people you fucked over while you were fucked up.” Virgil pauses, releases another breath that Roman can see puff in front of his face. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. At Roman’s look, he twists his mouth into that familiar, cute sneer that he used to pull when they were together, but it seems softer now as he says, “What? You have to have some vices,” and inhales smoke.

“I suppose so,” Roman agrees.

“Anyway. Roman, you are the person I have needed to apologize to the most. While we were together, I was-I was fucking despicable to you. I was hurt and broken, and I expected you to put me back together despite you having to face your own problems and me not putting any effort forth for the same outcome. I thought being in love with you would fix me, and when it didn’t I blamed you. I did-I did a lot of things to you that I regret, enough that I’ll probably never be able to think of them all.” Virgil flicks ash off his cigarette, and Roman realizes that Virgil seems calmer than he used to; less jittery. “I treated you like shit. As much as I loved you, I treated you like you weren’t worth anything. And I’m sorry. Sorry doesn’t really begin to cover it, not with all the ways I messed up with us, but I am sorry. I wish everything that had happened between had been better.”

“It wasn’t entirely your fault,” Roman says, because it’s true. They had fought all the time, for a while. They had blamed each other for everything. The night before Virgil disappeared, Roman had yelled I can do so much better than you in a rage and stormed out the door. When he had come back the next day, Virgil had taken all their loose money and booze and left.

“Yeah,” Virgil agrees and that easy, amicable way is enough to really shock Roman. Virgil had never liked it when Roman contradicted him and was right. “We both contributed. But I caused a lot more of it than you did, and I failed to consider you in what I did. I was a shitty, shitty excuse for a boyfriend, Ro. The things I did and said are-are pretty unforgivable. I’m sorry I put you through it all.”

“It’s,” Roman says and stops. He was going to say it’s okay, but that would be a blatant lie. Nothing about the end of their story was okay. He starts again with, “It was terrible. But I forgive you. I forgave you a long, long time ago.” At Virgil’s surprised look, he elaborates. “I was mad at you for years. Pissed. But it was making me miserable, so I eventually went and saw someone. I, uh, I worked through a lot of the things that you did, and the ways I provoked the situations. Neither of us were at a great place, Virgil. Maybe in a different time, under different circumstances, we could have worked out. But as it was...we weren’t ready yet.”

“Huh,” Virgil says. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Roman says, grinning. Virgil smiles back. It’s nice, Roman thinks, in a way he didn’t think this could ever have been.

“You said they put you on meds,” Roman says after they’ve been sitting for a minute. “Doesn’t that mess with your addiction?”

“They only put me on non-addictive shit,” Virgil says, “and I only ever take what I’m prescribed.”

“How long have you been clean?” Roman asks.

“I stopped using nine years ago. I had my last drink six years ago. Nicotine and caffeine are my last guilty pleasures,” Virgil says, letting out another puff of smoke. Roman snorts.

“I like the piercings,” he says.

“Thanks. I wanted some, Dee convinced me on others.” Virgil smiles, reaching up to touch his eyebrow in a move that seems like he’s unaware of it. He looks dopey and in love and incredibly happy. There’s a part of Roman that wants to be mad, that wants to be pissed off that Virgil could have gone through so much, caused so much and still come out the other side this content and happy with who he is and what he has, but most of Roman is relieved that they both made it out alive. It’s easy to drown out the voice that wants to fall back into old habits after all these years.

“Dee?” Roman asks, because asking Virgil these questions and hearing the answers is simultaneously satiating and feeding every curiosity he’s ever had about what happened to Virgil once he slipped out the door when Roman wasn’t looking.

“My fiance,” Virgil says. He points into the cafe at the man he came in with. The man pulls a smile and waves, and Virgil waves back. They both have a punk style to them, ripped jeans and flannels, old shirts and beanies, piercings and tattoos and fingerless gloves. It’s a good look.

“Getting married,” Roman says, and he gets excited despite himself. He loves weddings. “That’s exciting.”

“Yeah. I love him. I asked him out five years ago and I’ve never been happier.” Another difference between them; Roman had done the asking out when they were young. Virgil was too shy to even say hi. Virgil takes one last puff of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. “Well, what about you? I assume both those men in there aren’t your brother’s.”

“No, no, you’re correct. My adorably freckled beau, the one dressed in light blue. We’ve been dating for two years. He is my everything. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

“I’m glad,” Virgil says. Roman tears his eyes away from Patton to see Virgil, and he notices the tears shining in his eyes. “I am so glad you found him and that you’re happy. I was so scared for years that I had fucked you up so bad that you’d never be okay again. I was terrified that you wouldn’t ever get to be happy. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m grateful. You deserve it so much, Roman. More than anyone else I know.”

“I am happy,” Roman says. “And I do deserve it. But you deserve it too, and I’m glad you’ve found it.” Roman reaches out and squeezes Virgil’s hand. He smiles at Roman, and it is so much happier than Roman can ever remember seeing him it’s overwhelming. “I’m glad you got better, Virge.”

“Me too.” Virgil lets out a watery laugh and wipes his eyes, smearing make-up across his face. “God, I knew I should’ve put on the waterproof eyeliner this morning.” Roman laughs with him, pretending that he isn’t just as affected. Virgil stands up and looks down at Roman. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Princey.”

“It wouldn’t be too terrible if you did,” Roman answers. Virgil walks back into the coffee shop. Roman stays where he is for five, ten, fifteen more seconds before he pitches his cup and goes back to his table.

“That was Virgil?” Patton says, Roman’s world. He looks worried, and Roman knows this will be a lot of explaining later, but he feels lighter.

“Yeah. An-an old ex of mine. We had a rough time.” Roman takes Patton’s hand and kisses his knuckles, relishing the feeling. “But we’re both better now, so I think it’s okay.”

“What did he have to say?” Remus demands, glaring across the cafe. Roman almost asks if he glared at Virgil’s fiance the whole time they talked, but decides he’d rather not know.

“He apologized,” Roman says, and that takes Remus back for a moment.

“He can shove his apology up his ass,” Remus spits, but there’s less bite to the words.

“I believe this one of those ‘all’s well that ends well’ times, Remus,” Logan says. “Perhaps it would be best if we left it as it is.”

“Specs is right,” agrees Roman. “We both did things we shouldn’t have, and we both moved past it. That’s what’s important here.”

As Roman settles back in to his table and lets conversation about other, trivial things go in one ear and out the other. Roman thinks on everything. He spent years of his life with Virgil, years of his life being in love and suffering for it. He spent years in an unhealthy relationship that they both should have gotten out of if they were smarter. But they didn’t, and it changed them. Roman can’t say whether it was for better or worse, but he knows that he would be an entirely different person without the experience in his life.

When Virgil walks by the window outside, leaving and holding his fiance’s hand, he waves at Roman. Some things, he supposes, always stay the same. Others, however, change for the better. He knows this situation is one of the latter.

He smiles as he waves back.

#sanders sides #ts roman sanders #ts virgil sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #ts creativity #ts anxiety #post prinxiety #old flame #fanfic #my fanfiction #ts fanfic #ts fanfiction #my writing

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obsidiancreates · 4 years

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Anon Jim: that poor person, no happy ending there. Going back to the idea of it, mixing it with another what if, what if the person in question was Doc's friend? Like they get caught by Dark but they don't want to see Doc hurt anymore or punished for showing them what Dark was planning so offered to willingly agree if he promised not to hurt Doc anymore for this

Oh shit.

Of course Doc’s friend would be self-sacrificial too, of course.

Maybe in this one, Dark made Doc leave the room instead of keeping him in.

The saw the fear on Doc’s face. They ask Dark what he’s going to do to Doc.

Dark rolls his eyes a little. “Nothing harmful, I assure you. Quite the opposite. I force him to take care of himself, and he sees that as punishment.”

They ask what that means, forcing him to take care of himself.

“He starves himself, the poor thing. I simply take time to make sure that he keeps himself... well-fed.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means in this situation. Dark is going to force Doc to kill people, just because he was trying to save his friend from the same fate.

They can’t let that happen. Doc always looks so... haunted, and there’s so much guilt built up inside of him, he’s miserable as is...

They offer a deal. They’ll willingly turn, they won’t try to run away or stop Dark, only if he lets Doc off the hook.

Dark raises an eyebrow. He would turn them anyway, of course. But this is intriguing.

He smiles. “I’m impressed. You’re quite a good friend, aren’t you?” He steps closer. They’re shaking, but they don’t back up. They stand their ground, the foolishness of bravery having them maintain eye contact. “You won’t run, as long as I let him get away with his blatant disrespect.” He hums. “I don’t know. This was a very serious breach of my trust. That can’t just go unpunished.”

Then name it, they say. Tell them what will help keep Doc out of punishment.

“You won’t just stay. You’ll insist on staying. You won’t tell him that we made a deal. You’ll reject his escape plans should he come up with any. And you’ll have to watch him. Keep him out of trouble for me.” Dark grins. “He’s proven time and time again that he needs a babysitter, unfortunately. And I’m too busy to keep up with him as often as he needs.”

“You’ll keep him in line. Make sure he doesn’t need to be punished. You’ll report to me, and you won’t lie to me, because if you do it’s he who will suffer the consequences.”

He runs a hand through their hair, and they shudder. “You’ll keep him safe, and you’ll keep him here.”

They hesitate. That’s far worse than they thought. They would be betraying Doc, essentially.

“Or, I could turn you anyway.”

Dark’s smile has slipped into a thoughtful frown.

“And I’ll take him out everyday to hunt. I’ll find other old friend, colleagues, people he knows personally. They’re the best prey, easy to make trust you. And I’ll stop letting him get away with the way he treats himself, the starvation and the hiding away. I’ll make him go out into town, during the day, socialize and make friends, pretend he’s still human. And every friend will just be another meal, every close bond just an illusion, and he’ll drain every single one of them.”

“I’ve avoided taking such drastic measures, hoping that he’ll simply grow out of this phase of hate and rebellion, but given his actions today... perhaps it’s time to stop tolerating it. Perhaps I should stop letting time take care of his attitude, and take care of it myself.”

He says it all as though just thinking out loud, not directed towards the person but to himself. He’s not even looking at them, he’s looking at the door that has Doc on the other side.

The person has gone pale, their stomach churning. That would destroy Doc. it would rip out his soul and burn it, leaving nothing but ashes and a shell of a man who they care so deeply about. He’d be gone.

But if they agreed...

It would hurt. Oh, it would hurt to betray him, to be a pawn in Dark’s game, a spy for this monster.

But it would save Doc, wouldn’t it? Keep him from breaking, from becoming like this creature in front of them, or worse.

They take a deep breath.

They agree. In a shaky, small voice, so hushed and strained that it barely escapes from their throat.

They agree.

Dark grins again. “A very good friend indeed,” he says in a reassuring tone.

He puts a hand on their shoulder and uses the other to push their head aside. They shut their eyes, squeeze them closed as tight as they can, try not to flinch from the freeze of his touch.

He bites.

#Vampire AU #markiplier #markiplier egos #darkiplier #manipulation tw #abuse tw #starvation tw #Dr Iplier #Vamp!Dark #Vamp!Dr. Iplier #fanfic #My attempts at fanfic #Didn't mean to make it into a full-on fic lol

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silent--sonata · 5 years

Text

nightingale - ineffable husbands

angst: in which a nightingale sings a lonely song in berkeley square

The single most humbling experience in contemporary society is to walk, alone, in a thick crowd at night, keenly aware of every conversation that passes, every bond strengthened by the festive atmosphere.

Snakeskin boots struck Mayfair’s pavement like the dry cadences of an ancient prophecy, devoid of their usual lilt. Crowley kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, moving against the flow of tourists and Londoners alike, picking up bits of conversation along the way. What if I buy you dinner? We could have crepes for dessert. But these people were pushing to see the winter light show, and he couldn’t get far enough away from it. There is no such thing as darkness in a city that never shuts its eyes in peaceful slumber – there was no place of comfort for Crowley to lurk.

It was blinding. The luminescent installations, yes, but also the smiles around him. And the laughter, the murmur of electric power, even the cheerful pop music that blasted over the speakers, assaulted his ears. The sounds weren’t loud, but they didn’t have to be for Crowley to shut his eyes.

The dark sunglasses he wore religiously did nothing to help block the cruelly happy world out.

The moon lingered over London, a lover casting a final glance before leaving, and Crowley looked up at it, scowling. What right did it have to mimic Aziraphale’s softness with its pale glow, unable to even hold a candle to his gentleness?

How dare it hang there in the sky that Crowley had dotted with constellations, mocking how he would never see Aziraphale again?

Crowley drove his heels deeper into the pavement as he made a left into St James’ Park. The asphalt road glinted under the streetlamps, as if stars had been plucked from the heavens and embedded in the path. He wondered if they were fallen stars. As the ground underfoot changed from cobblestone to dirt, the river of people became a weak trickle, like a tear down London’s cheek.

Aziraphale had turned his whole darn world upside-down. And then he’d rummaged through everything and left with Crowley’s heart. Crowley sat down on a bench, looking out at the lake. Maybe it would have been better if he had never asked for a favour. Maybe it would have turned out pear-shaped either way. Aziraphale liked pears, Crowley remembered as he dug his fingers into the side of his legs. How was he meant to know that it would be the last time they ever talked?

He had never gotten the chance to apologise. Never gotten the chance to hear Aziraphale giggle again, see him smile again, or dine with him again. He’d never forgiven himself for letting the last words Aziraphale heard from him be “I don’t need you” and not “Stay, I love you.” Their relationship had hung in limbo, unfinished like some great symphony abandoned by its creator, and now it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The burden of possibility, of what if, pressed down on Crowley’s chest like an accusing finger. Why didn’t you apologise first? Why did you have to be so selfish, so proud, so arrogant, so everything-a-demon-is-meant-to-be?

Perhaps Aziraphale didn’t need him, but Crowley – Crowley needed Aziraphale. Look at him now, in this pathetic state. Crowley had miracled away the dark circles under his eyes for the first few days, but he’d given up on trying to fool himself long ago.

What if you’d been just a bit earlier? Crowley hissed at the thought like it was a smarting blow. Even after all this time, the wound was raw. He remembered throwing the doors open with a bang – no, it was to a bang – and a thud. He remembered the glance he cast to the altar, the glance that didn’t capture Aziraphale’s silhouette against the candlelight. Desperately, foolishly, he tried to convince himself to have hope that Aziraphale hadn’t even come to the rendezvous, that he hadn’t even been involved in this in the first place, that maybe, maybe he’d just gotten it all wrong this time.

The crushing truth appeared before his eyes too soon. There Aziraphale was, shot, crumpled on the ground like an unfinished love letter. Not even stopping time could keep him alive now. And no matter how powerful Crowley was, no matter how composed he thought he was, there were just some things he couldn’t change. There were some things he couldn’t bear to see. Before he realised it himself, Crowley had brought down not one, not two, but three bombs on the church, snarling.

And as the ceiling collapsed, Crowley cradled Aziraphale in his arms, yellow eyes aflame, wings shrouded around Aziraphale to protect his inanimate corporation from the falling stones in a mournful caricature of the first time they met. This time, Crowley was the one shielding Aziraphale from the hot ash and embers raining down on them.

God had decreed that the world would end in fire and flame. She had never told Crowley that it was also how his world would end.

As Crowley emerged from the dust and smoke amidst the burning church, holding the bag of Aziraphale’s books, he most definitely wasn’t crying. Demons didn’t cry. Not even when the person they loved the most might never return. Crowley wasn’t crying at all. Sure, they had often discorporated each other but this time, Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale would be coming back to meet him. Not after how they had parted. Not this time.

And surely enough, Aziraphale didn’t return. That bag of books sat in Crowley’s apartment for years afterwards, a lost pet waiting for its owner. And now, Crowley was here again, at St James, rubbing salt into his own wound as a few straggling ducks made their ways across the lake. Pathetic, he thought.

Crowley hunched over, and only the keenest observer would have noticed that he was shaking. Demons didn’t cry, he told himself. Then what were these hot tears running down his face? “Aziraphale,” he breathed unsteadily, “Come back.” Walls had ears. Trees had ears. Ducks had ears. But he wanted them all to hear, wanted them to carry the message to wherever Aziraphale was, wanted Aziraphale back, as selfish as that was.

You’re a demon, that’s what you are.

But he knew that not even angels would return after they had been hurt. Not for all the Ritz dinners in the world. Aziraphale would have loved the Ritz, he thought. Not for all the midnight waltzes time could give. Not for all the apologies his lips could form. The soft remnants of a melody bore themselves across the lake to Crowley, accusatory even with its soothing tone.

It reminded Crowley that he could have kissed him at the Ritz and bid him goodnight if he hadn’t been so completely and irrevocably himself. He could have escorted him home, footsteps as light as a gavotte. But he was perfectly willing to swear that he would have given the world to see Aziraphale again, turning, smiling. As the melody drew to a close, Crowley tried to smile, but this blatant lie only made the tears come faster, hotter, stinging more than before. Maybe demons did cry.

And like an echo far away, A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square. I know 'cause I was there, that night in Berkeley Square.

#good omens angst #ineffable husbands #ineffableboyfriends #good omens fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #nightingale #welp i can never listen to the song the same again huh #u guys have no idea the amount of times i almost cried writing this #crowley and aziraphale #bubbles writes #good omens

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Little Tyrants, Chapter One: Hearing Voices

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: When Vanya was four, Reginald Hargreeves visited her cell. But not to take her powers away. Just to let her know he could. Just to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her powers were a privilege he could rescind should she ever choose not to fall in line.

Years later, the old man is dead—and the last sibling Vanya wants to see has reappeared in the Academy courtyard.

This work is also available on AO3.

Author’s Note: If you’d like to read the asks that inspired this story, you can find them here and here. Follow-up asks can be found under the tags “vanya keeps her powers au” and “five returns as a kid au.”

The prologue can be found here.

*******

You are the king of an island of one All alone in a world that lost its only black sun You are the king of an island of one Little tyrant soon to come undone All hail the king. —Anberlin, “Little Tyrants”

His death made the news.

That came as no surprise whatsoever. Sir Reginald Hargreeves was known the world over, though it had never been clear if this was by accident or by design. Perhaps he had chased the spotlight only to spurn its advances and make those behind it all the more curious. Perhaps he had simply used the cover of secrecy to do what he’d always liked and left the world to salivate over every scrap of news that managed to escape that mansion.

Or perhaps he had known from the beginning what the world would think of his methods and had hidden them behind a wrought-iron fence and expertly packaged lies.

“…found dead in his mansion earlier this afternoon.”

Vanya clutched the strap of her violin case. She wasn’t the only one there, not by far. Bars like this tended to be most crowded on the weekends, but that didn’t mean they stood vacant the rest of the week. This seemed to be one of those that attracted a range of people close to her age, provided they liked cigarette smoke and fried food alongside a dizzying array of beverages. Others like her, who had seen Sir Reginald’s face pop up on this screen or that and had needed to hear the report rather than watch it, formed the bulk of the crowd.

“His death appears to have been natural, although authorities will still perform a thorough autopsy to rule out foul play.”

Vanya sniffed. If murder had ended him, the police would have known as much at first glance. She’d lost count of all the criminals she and her siblings had put away over the years, but she’d be damned if Dad hadn’t. Any one of them would have been honored to have finished him off, and any one of them would have left some sort of calling card, be it an artistic fatal wound or a message scratched in blood.

“Although most well-known as the founder of the Umbrella Academy, Sir Reginald Hargreeves will be remembered as a globetrotting man of mystery who appreciated his privacy as much as he appreciated making our world a safer place.”

She could have made the entire bar tremble at that. Shake the plates, rattle the glasses, send bottles crashing against each other as their contents formed a dirt-laced cocktail on the tile. Watch heads swivel this way and that as their search for what caused the tumult became a search for who and—finally, a search for why. Maybe she’d answer. Maybe she’d simply turn on her heel and stride off into the night. Six months ago, her reaction to the chaos would have been her one and only concern.

Six months ago, she didn’t have the courts breathing down her neck.

Vanya elbowed her way through the throng of impromptu mourners. Those that knew her on sight stepped as far aside as the small space would allow; those that didn’t stared transfixed as the reporter repeated the few details he’d been given. No one tried to stop her. No one put a hand on her arm and offered a few canned words of comfort, or asked a question she couldn’t answer. One way or another, they simply moved aside until she’d pushed the door open and stepped out into the chill. She tugged a long breath into her lungs, scarcely noticing the lack of cigarette smoke.

Dad was dead.

It should have been expected; he’d sported white hair and wrinkles for as long as she could remember. But he’d remained spry up to the moment she’d left, and every moment after as far as she could tell. Keen enough to recognize any tune he didn’t like and quash it accordingly. Quick enough to identify everything she’d done wrong on a mission before she’d caught her breath. Strong enough to leave bruises ringing her wrists if her words or deeds failed to please him.

“You know how easily I can bring this to an end, Number Seven.”

Her next breath tore itself from her throat. She grasped instinctively at the noises around her—a group of friends chattering, cars gliding by on the street beside—wanting, needing to throw it toward the brick wall of the bar, watch dust and debris shower to the sidewalk and drive Dad’s voice from her mind.

Prison time.

She held to the sound, but couldn’t bring herself to release it. Not yet. There was power in that noise, and she wasn’t ready to be defenseless. Those words, those two words that had been repeated far too often since the incident—they kept the sound where it was. Like a rock in her hand, it remained motionless, awaiting the transformation she would grant.

Prison time. Prison. You could go to prison.

Vanya let the sound go, feeling it slide from her grasp like a leash towed along by an unruly dog. She sucked in another breath, and another. Her first steps away from the bar staggered a bit, but she steadied herself and walked on. When the nearest bus stop came in sight, she took a turn to the left and set off for the next one.

Dad was dead.

The thought didn’t bring a rush of sorrow or regret or any of the other things therapists said were normal to feel when a loved one passed on. Of course, calling Dad a loved one was less a stretch and more a blatant lie, but that thought roused none of the approved emotions, either. She pictured him lying in a coffin, hands folded over his chest and felt nothing. He was dead. Gone. Beyond even Klaus’ reach, unless his latest stint in rehab had worked a miracle. The fact brought no more sorrow than knowing that Paris was the capital of France.

“Perhaps for our next mission, you can stand beside me and watch as your siblings fight alone.”

Vanya quickened her step, drawing a long breath of the cold air. The bus stop stood just ahead, and it was empty. She sat on the bench so quickly it creaked beneath her weight, her violin case sending out a loud crack as it collided. A quick check revealed no damage to case or instrument, and she snapped the case closed before the temptation to play overwhelmed her better judgment.

“Is this what you would have me do, Number Seven?”

Dad was dead. She’d never hear that voice again. Never be called Number Seven again.

Her grip on the violin case tightened, turning her knuckles white. That voice had fallen silent, the man who owned it gone from the world. It would never find her again.

The street was far from noiseless this time of night. A group of boys—high schoolers, from the look of it—approached from her left, nudging each other and laughing loudly. To her right a car’s engine was shut off and a door slammed. Other vehicles ambled by on the street in front of the bus shelter; footsteps sounded behind it. Sound surrounded her, and each one called for her to take it in her grip and make it live, to tear down the shelter, crack the sidewalk, soothe her fury through the fleeting peace of destruction.

Vanya stood so abruptly her violin case nearly spilled from her lap. Her apartment was a good thirty-minute walk from this stop, but she couldn’t escape that voice if she remained still.

*********

Five should have buried them properly.

He’d covered them with earth, bringing it in by the shovelful when he needed more to cover them completely. He’d patted it down, making each makeshift plot look as even as possible. He’d found enough small shards of rubble to mark where they lay. One for Luther. Two for Diego. Three for Allison. Four for Klaus.

They’d been half-submerged in the rubble of the Academy when he found them, skin and clothes brushed with a layer of dust and pocked with cuts and bruises. He’d tried to move Luther first, taking his twin’s cold hands in his and tugging with all his might, nudging or tossing some of the debris pinning him down out of the way when those efforts failed.

He’d ended with his hands pressed against a wall, trying to gulp enough air to sustain his tears.

The smoke was more or less gone now. Five wasn’t sure if the whiffs he caught now and then were remnants or memory, but he’d come to accept them. Like the ache that always pressed against his head from all sides, or the weariness that clung to every limb, it was just a part of life after the end.

Five set the fourth stone on Klaus’ grave, nudging it until it formed a small circle with the other three. These looked much nicer than the rubble he’d used before, adding a tiny patch of color to the ash. Flowers would have looked even better, but most plants had been hard to come by. This handful of colored rocks would have to do.

He stood, battling a wash of dizziness. Ben wasn’t buried in the Academy, and neither was Vanya. If they had simply been out and about when the Academy fell, chances were they’d been trapped by another fallen building or caught in one of those fires that seemed to have overtaken the entire city. If Dad had sent them on a mission prior to the end, they could quite possibly be alive and well on the other side of the world.

The image of that charred body, lying prone just beyond his field of vision, burst into his thoughts.

Five sucked in a breath, willing it not to shake. Skin burned beyond recognition. Clothes nearly gone, the few tatters remaining stripped of color. He hadn’t looked longer than the few seconds it took to process what he was seeing, but the body was too far gone to make out any distinguishing features or other clues as to its identity. If it belonged to an outsider, he couldn’t say how they had found their way into the Academy before the world burned. And if it belonged to family….

He shook his head slightly, shutting his eyes against the image of Vanya shouting in fury as furniture trembled and walls cracked. She hadn’t been there when the Academy fell. Dad, for whatever reason, had sent her and Ben alone on a mission.

They were still there, those remains. He hadn’t buried them. With no way to know whose they were, he couldn’t say whether they belonged in the Academy with his siblings or if they belonged elsewhere in the city.

A breeze ruffled his hair, stale wind carrying a smell he couldn’t identify and a sound that might have been cracking char, burned limbs twitching, ruined head turning toward him, nonexistent lips parting to say—

Five scrambled for the edge of the rubble and bolted for the gate. There was no reason to take it, the fence surrounding it having long since collapsed, but he dodged a pile of brick and darted through.

“Five….”

The voice was cracked, hoarse as though from a long illness or years of disuse, but he’d recognize it anywhere. He’d heard it often enough, screaming for what he’d done in her room or what he’d said or just for being in the kitchen when she wanted it to herself.

“Don’t you dare run from me…”

Five’s lungs already burned. His legs threatened to buckle. He had to keep running, but he’d collapse before he was far enough for that voice, for its owner, to catch up with him.

He had to jump.

He hadn’t jumped since landing here, in a world reduced to ash and cinders. If a jump through time took him to the end of everything, a spatial jump might take him to the middle of a ravine.

“I know where you….”

Five held the destination in his mind. Not the library, but a street close by, a street ruined by whoever—whatever—had struck the final blow. There was a little house on it, one that hadn’t collapsed entirely. Its front was brick and the rest was white vinyl siding, with a little iron sign by what had been the sidewalk bearing the surname of the home’s former owners. He pictured that house. Thought of it. Imagined standing out front, studying the ash-stained brick and blackened siding, his foot inches from the fallen sign.

And then he jumped.

The darkness cleared and he tumbled to his knees. Breath snagged on his parched throat and he coughed. His knees gave way; he fell forward, supporting his weight on arms that protested the strain. Still the coughs kept coming, tearing at his throat as he dropped to his side, pressing against his chest until he thought the pain alone might send him into blackness.

But he was still conscious when they cleared.

Five kept his eyes closed, hugging his knees against the lingering pain. Nothing seemed to be broken, and the ground he lay on seemed steady enough, lacking any of the sharp rocks or rubble he’d half-expected to find. But he’d see it all the moment he opened his eyes. He’d be inches from the edge of a rooftop, feet from the den of a coyote or some other starving animal.

He opened his eyes.

Asphalt greeted him. Inches from his nose was the edge of an iron sign. He raised his head just enough, only enough, to spy a few concrete steps leading to a brick housefront with a familiar shape. When he sat up a little more, he could just make out the small streak on vinyl siding where he’d wiped away ash to reveal a little strip of white.

Five lay his head on the asphalt and closed his eyes.

******

The first call came while Vanya was fixing breakfast.

She paused, spatula held over her French toast, listening past the music. The High Kings hadn’t been her first choice, but after a few loud knocks against the floor from her downstairs neighbors, she’d been forced to trade the Rumjacks for something that didn’t demand to be played at top volume. Much as she still wanted to stomp downstairs and give them a piece of her mind, she admitted flute and acoustic guitar were easier to tune out than electric guitar and bagpipes.

It could be the Van Burghs, wanting to lay down yet another law for her upcoming visit to their home. She shoved the spatula under the French toast with more force than necessary. One asshole had taken out one restraining order for an incident entirely unrelated to music or teaching, and she suddenly couldn’t be trusted to host students in her apartment.

The phone rang again. If it was the Van Burghs she ought to answer, might be closer to losing Katie as a student if she didn’t, but they’d expect her to speak calmly and agree to each new mandate they’d invented. Between the neighbors and what she’d learned the night before, she—

The night before.

Dad.

Her own voice played, followed by the beep of the answering machine.

“Miss Vanya.”

She froze, eggs sizzling in the pan. She’d dodged that voice for over ten years, but she’d know it anywhere.

“I am not certain if you heard last night’s broadcast. Perhaps you did, in which case I am sorry you didn’t hear of your father’s passing from one who knew him.”

Vanya straightened. There was no one around to toss her in prison for making the pan tremble and the picture frames adorning her walls shake, so she let them shake as she set the spatula aside.

“I know this may be a difficult time for you, Miss Vanya, especially if this is not the first you’re hearing of his death. But—“

She cleared the room in a few quick strides and snatched up the receiver. Pogo’s next words were bright with surprise.

“Miss Vanya! I confess I—“

Vanya slammed the receiver down as hard as she could.

The second came while Vanya was out coaching Katie through the Irish folk tunes she liked, and by the time she returned it was already several hours old. She returned the call, slamming the phone down at the sound of Mom’s voice.

Vanya went from one job to another, stopping back at her apartment when she needed rest or a bite to eat. Sometimes the phone rang while she was there, sometimes it did not. Slamming the phone down lost what little satisfaction it had carried, and she let the calls go. Her answering machine became an oral history of an event that had yet to occur.

“I’ve not had the opportunity to speak with Master Klaus, although I am certain he shall be in attendance.”

Naturally. Dad’s estate would probably lose half its value within the first forty-eight hours of Klaus’ return.

“Hello, Vanya dear. Luther has just returned from the Moon.”

And she knew he couldn’t wait to brag about it.

“Miss Allison has provided me with a few dates that would fit within her schedule. I’ll give them to you now….”

Ah yes, her schedule. At least Vanya wasn’t the only one in the family forced onto a therapist’s couch once a week. Were they on halfway speaking terms, Vanya might have called to say as much.

“Diego told me he’ll be present at the memorial service. I’m certain he’d love to see both his sisters there.”

Vanya nearly chocked on mirthless laughter and fried rice. If Mom had to tell that particular lie about one of her siblings, Diego had to be the worst candidate—and then only by default. The true winner of that dubious honor hadn’t set foot in the Academy in sixteen years. Sixteen blessed years.

She checked her calendar against the dates Allison had given, hoping to find a student on most of them, a therapy session on the rest. Instead, she found gaps that aligned.

Of course, there was no need to call back. No need to let Pogo know she had space in her schedule to attend the funeral. She could simply let the dates come and go, allow her siblings to bury him or scatter his ashes or whatever he’d demanded they do with his body as they exulted in her absence.

He finally caught her while peeling garlic for the pasta she’d just added to the boiling water on the stove. She’d half a mind to ignore it, let him add his latest message to the tape she’d one day smash to dust, but he hadn’t stopped calling yet and showed no signs of slowing.

“Ah, hello, Miss Vanya.” No surprise in his voice this time. Only the same coolness she’d heard when caught in a lie. “I was wondering when I might find you in a free moment.”

“I’m not going, Pogo.”

“It was among your father’s last requests, Miss Vanya. He wished for all his children to lay him to rest.”

“Yeah, well, he’s dead, so I don’t see how he’s gonna make that happen.”

“Through certain…stipulations in his will, of which you will be made aware upon your return to the Academy.”

“I don’t need his money.”

“Money was not the sole focus of his will, Miss Vanya.”

Vanya could have asked what he meant, should have asked what he meant, but the words stuck in her throat. For a moment, she was back at the Academy, sitting down to a bowl of oatmeal that she knew, from that glint in Dad’s eyes, would rob her of her powers for the day. That first bite was always the worst, the second and third no better. All of them threatened a gag. All of them had to be choked down.

“What….” She fought to keep the words as even as possible. “What else did he put in it?”

“You may learn this with your siblings following his memorial service.”

Vanya gritted her teeth, but the sliver of anger she felt hadn’t yet grown enough to overtake the fear coiling in her stomach. She could still refuse to go. Stay home, try her hand at writing music again, bake cookies, maybe even schedule another student if she was lucky. But the question of what would happen if she didn’t—of what that will mandated be done to her if she didn’t—stood like a shadowy figure just beyond her sight. Were she to stay away, she’d find that question answered before she had time to defend herself.

There was only one question to ask now. The only one Pogo would answer.

“When is it?”

*******

Delores was ecstatic.

He’d jumped. Just a small one, just enough to get him from the Academy to the library’s surrounding neighborhood, but he’d done it. He’d jumped, and he’d done it without landing someplace worse than the one he’d escaped. Now he could get from one end of the city to the other. He could zip to the countryside to see if any edible plants had sprung up. He could go home.

“There’s a big difference between a spatial jump and a time jump, Delores.”

She didn’t care. A jump was a jump, and if he could manage one, he could manage the other.

Usually when she spoke, there was a bit of chiding in what she said—drink more water, eat more food, test out that filtration system already, you’ve read the instructions and warnings a hundred times and no, you won’t poison yourself, just give it a try, will you? But this time, her every word was laced with excitement. Joy, even.

“I already tried to go back. I—I don’t think you can go backward. Just forward.”

He knew he ought to be scavenging—no matter how much food he set aside, no matter how carefully he rationed it, the cans always disappeared quicker than he wanted—but when Delores kept on about what might happen and what might be possible, he found himself back among what remained of the library’s stacks. Some books were gone, some left unreadable, but others remained whole. Enough remained whole.

It took some doing to get to the section he needed. The Academy’s library hadn’t used the Dewey Decimal System, and navigating this one was a bit of a challenge without a librarian to guide him through the stew of numbers and letters, to say nothing of the stacks that no longer existed. But he found them. Against the odds, against the voice in the back of his mind telling him he should be doing something more useful, he found them—and sat down to read.

Time travel gave rise to debate. Ignoring those who called it possible only within narrow limitations left Five with an abundance of theories and models, some of which were consistent with one another and some of which were not. Some claimed travel was possible in only one direction; others, which Five liked better, allowed for the intersection between a point in the future and a point in the past. While these didn’t outright say it was possible to jump from the latter to the former, the very act of drawing a line between them provided hope, however scant, that the line could be traversed in either direction.

He found a chalkboard and some chalk and took notes. He looked past the contradictions and found commonalities. Similar notions regarding the shape of time, whether linear or curved or somewhere between the two. Potential mechanics for stepping from one point to the other. Calculations acting as clairvoyance and steering all in one. They were just theories, of course, but theories crafted by brilliant physicists with more time than he to think through the ramifications of what he needed to do. Theories Dad had read. Theories he hadn’t paid much mind.

“I did find a lot of food yesterday,” Five said when Delores remarked on the speed with which he’d filled the chalkboard. “But I need to save it.”

He copied another equation from the journal article he’d found. The scratching chalk blended with Delores’ voice.

“Look, you’re the one who told me I should try to get back. I’m just working out the best way.”

The wind ruffled his pages as Delores spoke again.

“I can eat tomorrow. I’ll be—”

She wasn’t finished. Five bowed his head, sighing, and plucked a can of beans from his collection.

He found a few umbrellas and tarps, set them up around the chalkboard as he continued to read, tossing out aspects that contradicted his own limited experience and seizing on aspects that elaborated on what he knew. A theory of his own took root, burst through the ground, and sprouted leaves. Five watered it and sheltered it from the ash as best he could, but the shape was not one he favored.

There were some theorists who believed location irrelevant to time travel. If one could zip through time, they reasoned, surely one could pop up at any place one desired. But when Five had torn through one season and into another, the area around him hadn’t moved. Stores closed and snow fell, but he’d never left the street he started on. On the surface, it appeared one might always end up back where they began—that a jump from Christmas Eve to Labor Day would never deviate from the city in which the jump was made.

But the longer Five looked, the more evidence he saw for greater depth. He’d jumped without a clear destination in mind, only a desire to prove he could. No location. No specific point. And yet he’d wound up running along the same street. That could be coincidence—but it could suggest symmetry. If past and present could cross at certain points, perhaps that crossing could only occur at a point common to both. He’d seen it drawn as two lines intersecting, all four points extending out into perpetuity from one central hub. That point could simply mark a day and year—or it could mark a city, a street, a building. The closer one remained to the location where one began, the easier it might be to reach the time one wanted.

Unless his math was off, returning to his siblings meant returning to the Academy.

*********

Vanya stepped over the threshold and turned thirteen again.

The Academy had always felt too big for a family of their size. Seven was by no means a small number of children, but it seemed to take more time than necessary to get from the dining area to the courtyard, and late-night trips to the kitchen from her bedroom were often fraught with more danger than any trip to the fridge warranted. She’d considered telling Dad that they could have shaved a few precious minutes off preparation time for missions simply by living in a smaller house, but then she’d decided she didn’t care.

He hadn’t changed a thing since the day she’d left. The tile was still spotless, still shining faintly in what clouded daylight managed to enter the room, amplifying the gentle slap of her sneakers. White pillars supporting mahogany arches lacked any trace of dust. Wood panels gleamed, and she caught a whiff of oil soap. Three steps in and Vanya half-expected Dad to step out from the front room, demanding to know why she’d thought it appropriate to so flagrantly disregard the family’s schedule.

He was dead. Dust and ash. She’d never hear that voice again.

A few steps took her further into the entryway, close to the front room. As a teen, she’d tried to train herself not to look. She’d tried to keep her eyes forward, keep them on a book in her hand, keep them pointed away from the far wall. She’d tried jogging, she’d tried skirting toward the opposite side of the entryway, she’d tried avoiding the front door as much as Dad’s insistence on public appearances would allow. But in the end, she’d always looked—just as she looked now.

Sure enough, Five gazed out from the confines of his portrait, one arm draped over a wooden railing. It was his expression that had always made Vanya want to tear the portrait from the wall—that solemn and thoughtful look, as though he contemplated the secrets of the universe while the photographer snapped his photo. If he had ever once worn that look of his own volition, Vanya hadn’t been there to see it. When he’d gazed at her, he’d always worn at least the ghost of a smile, smug and mischievous all at once. Guess what I did to your clothes? that smile said. Too late, it said.

The others had always laughed at his pranks. Laughed while she screamed. Laughed while Dad did nothing. That dignified frown, that pensive gaze—it belied what Five had truly been, beneath that facade. Dad should have seen it the day he ran, but instead he’d enshrined Five above the mantelpiece, honored his defiance and watched for his return.

“Look who decided to show up.”

Vanya grit her teeth. She would have turned away as Diego descended the stairs, but she’d already been facing his direction and he wouldn’t take it without comment. “Need any help getting down the stairs?”

He smiled and continued at his leisurely pace. Vanya wasn’t sure which angered her more. “Oh, you wouldn’t do that. Not now.”

She’d expected a remark like this. Newspapers and tabloids alike had pounced on the story before she’d even left the police station. Not all of them had considered it front-page news, but even those that had pushed it back to page eight took pains to mention prior warnings, other incidents, turning it all into a saga of near-misses and eventual comeuppance. Diego would have read every single one of those stories, and Vanya had an inkling that if she visited his pitiful excuse for an apartment, she’d find he’d clipped them out and pinned each and every one of them to his fridge. Of course he knew. Of course he’d gloat.

That didn’t stop a jolt of fear.

He’d taunted her when they were younger, daring her to lash out with all the rage she had in hopes of forcing her to cross the arbitrary lines Dad had drawn and watching in glee as she reaped the consequences. But he’d done so from a distance. Left a note on her door. Stolen her favorite cereal. Sent Five into her room with a list. He’d mocked her openly, of course, but only when nothing else he’d tried had delivered the same satisfaction.

“Prison won’t be the walk in the park you think it’ll be.”

The officers who’d responded to past incidents had addressed her with confidence, but never threats. Nothing like what they’d told her at the station. She’d wondered then, and since, if they’d stumbled onto Dad’s secret.

Diego may have been forcibly ejected from the police academy, but he hadn’t let that keep him from inflicting his company on the city’s officers. Between bouts of their ongoing game of catch and release, he’d have had time to drop a hint like that, and it would have been just like Dad to hand over the name of that medication to everyone but her. Vanya could just see him leaning over Patch’s desk, lowering his voice to say that he “might be able to help you solve a problem, if you’ll get me out of this one.”

She watched him cooly trace a finger over the rim of the vase. It was nowhere near deafening, but in the quiet of the Academy, the gentle scrape of his skin against glass was enough to call to her. And in the quiet of the Academy, it would be enough to send him flying backward, enough to make him hit the furthest wall with a crack that was not only splintering wood. Enough to rip that confidence from him and replace it with terror.

“Diego? Di—there you are. Luther wants to—”

Allison halted. Her gaze landed on Diego only briefly, choosing instead to rest on her. The distance was too great for Vanya to read the finer nuances of her sister’s expression, but she’d seen the broad strokes of it before, when Dad walked into a room unexpected and unannounced.

“Luther wants to meet in the common room,” Allison said, shifting her full attention back to Diego—a move that seemed to restore some of her composure.

“He say why?”

“No. Just seemed eager to get started.”

“Fine.” Diego lifted his finger from the vase, but not before turning to Vanya and raising his eyebrows in an expression she couldn’t quite read. Then, with their eyes locked, he gave the glass a flick that sent a pure, hollow note ringing through the entryway. Allison gave her one last glance, and walked with Diego toward the common room.

Not once. Not once had Allison spoken to her. Not once had Diego called attention to her presence. She had stood mere feet from the both of them, and neither had bothered to extend Luther’s invitation to her, preferring instead to walk off and leave her like some stranger, stranded in the entrance.

Vanya waited until they’d disappeared around the corner, then gave them another minute or two. No one peered out and asked her if she was coming in. No one called her name.

Paintings rattled on the walls as she turned on her heel and marched back toward the front door. Maybe Klaus asked if she was coming. Maybe Luther wondered what was taking her so long. Whatever they might have said was cut off by the slam of the door, and drowned out by a crack of thunder from overhead.

*********

Five wasn’t sure where in the Academy he needed to stand, but he couldn’t venture toward the center. Not without that croaking voice calling to him again. He suppressed a shudder, but heard nothing aside from the wind.

He released the handle of Delores’ wagon and read his notes again. He hadn’t spent as much time on them as he would have liked; enthusiasts loved to discuss time travel, and he could have spent years reading their theories and formulating his own. Instead, he’d spent weeks.

“I should read some more,” he told Delores.

He tried to focus his attention entirely on his notes, but her voice cut through his thoughts.

“I don’t know how long we’ve got. Don’t even know if there is a window here.”

His throat closed as she spoke again. If there was indeed a window through which he could step from present to past, it would be easier to slip through alone. Hanging onto the wagon, or even just Delores’ hand, could drag him down and keep him from stepping through the rift before it vanished.

“I’m sorry, Delores.”

Her voice was gentle, with no trace of anger. Sorrow, yes, but lacing encouragement. He was leaving, yes, but leaving for his family. Leaving for something better.

Five embraced her. She couldn’t hug him back, he knew; but as he held her close, he thought she might want to. That if she could have held him as tightly as he held her, she would have done it without hesitation.

He only pulled away at her urging.

Five clenched fists, watched them glow blue, and pushed at the barrier separating past from present. When he’d tried before, it had been like pushing at reinforced concrete with his bare hands. Now, it was like pushing at cloth a foot thick. It didn’t quite yield to his touch, but it moved. He just needed to find a tear, or a gap beneath wide enough for him to shimmy through.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the barrier he couldn’t see. On his siblings. He thought of how he’d known them, and how they’d appeared when he found them, and didn’t much care which he got as long as they were alive. As long as they were breathing and healthy and walking around a world that was still intact under a sky that was still blue. He felt along the barrier, seeking out any weaknesses, any cracks he might turn into a tear.

There.

Five had no time to wonder where it might lead—only to grasp it in both hands and pry it apart. Maybe he’d step through and find himself back at home with Dad tapping his foot. Maybe he’d land three years or five years or ten years after he’d vanished, or twenty years before his birth.

Or maybe his calculations were wrong.

He could just as easily find himself alone in a place without his family. Without Delores. Not a world of burning buildings and falling ash, but a world of nothing. A world so far gone there was nothing left to burn, no plants left to overtake the ruined roads, no air left to breathe. Not merely a dead world, but a world where life was no longer welcome. If that was where he landed….

If that was where he landed, then it would be over.

He gave one more tug, and the barrier gave.

It was like looking through a window shrouded in a haze of fog. There was a large square something that could have been the side of a building, a stretch of green and an expanse of grey. He would have laughed with joy, but the barrier already wanted to snap back into place. Seconds more and his concentration would no longer be enough.

He lunged through.

The headache took him immediately. It had found him during his first excursion through time, but he’d been able to think past it. Able to ignore it long enough to try and get back. Able to do more than sink to his knees as cold drops splashed onto his skin.

A door slammed shut somewhere close by. Four figures appeared in the rain, drew close enough for him to make out shapes he thought he knew. Shapes he’d buried months ago.

He tried to remain upright, just to watch the faces and see if he knew them, but the pain threatened to knock him over. Five curled on his side before it could, feeling the wet grass prickle his cheek and drops of water caress his aching head.

“Oh my god.”

It was a woman’s voice—not the inexplicably clear one of a mannequin that had learned to talk, but a real, human voice, dulled by distance and rain. Wherever he’d landed, whenever that was, both grass and humans had survived.

“Is that—?”

This one was closer than the last, a little clearer. Five knew he should sit up, but pain held him to the ground.

“You…you guys see Number Five too, right?”

Tears sprang to his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t his siblings, maybe it was only a search party Dad had organized in a rare moment of concern, or one that had organized of its own accord—but they knew his name. They’d seen him, they knew him, and they could match his name to his face even when that face was half-hidden by the ground.

Someone knelt beside him; a hand touched his shoulder.

“Five? Five, can you hear me?”

A man’s voice, gruff but not unpleasant, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Five almost didn’t want to look. If he looked, he could see a stranger staring back, a face that hadn’t been burned into his memory since the day he’d buried his siblings.

He opened his eyes, turned his head just enough to see whoever was near. Blond hair cut short. Faint stubble sprinkled over a strong jaw. Shoulders wider than they should have been, hiding beneath an overcoat. Hands cloaked in fingerless gloves. Five had grasped those hands, tried in vain to pull their owner from the rubble. He’d covered that face with blighted earth and marked it with a stone.

“Luther?”

His mouth twitched upward toward a smile, though the corners didn’t quite make it. “Yeah. It—it’s me, Five.”

Five’s throat closed. Tears spilled down his cheeks, washed away by the rain. He raised an arm to wipe them away, useless though it was, and found a hand beneath his shoulder, coaxing him to sit up, helping him rise—but it wasn’t Luther who smiled back at him. Her smile, so full of joy and sorrow all mingled together, sent a fresh round of tears cascading down. Allison pulled him close.

“Shhhh shhhh shhhh.” She rubbed his back the way Mom would when he was sick, and he heard a catch in her voice. “It’s okay. It’s all right. We’ve got you.”

He couldn’t speak. He wanted to, if only to show Allison he was fine and ease the worry in her voice, soothe the tears away, but he could only sob into her shoulder. Other hands patted his shoulders, tousled his hair, said small soothing things.

Four siblings. Four voices. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus. The four he’d found in the Academy. No Ben, but no Vanya. The house was still intact. The rain was natural.

After a moment, Allison lifted her head. “Diego?”

Diego stood. “I’ll get Mom.”

Five raised his head, hoping to watch Diego as he disappeared into the Academy, but a flash of movement beside the door caught his eye. He followed it, and his breath caught in his throat.

She’d stopped to grab an umbrella. Her dark hair was still dry, falling in pin-straight locks about her shoulders. A deep purple jacket was layered over a dark grey shirt, and she’d paired it with jeans and Converse shoes nearly soaked through. Five tensed, waiting for her to approach and stand beside, but she halted a yard or so away. Rain hammered a staccato beat against her umbrella.

“Vanya.” Luther had gotten to his feet—though for what, Five couldn’t say. “Thought you’d left.”

“Yeah,” she said, but her gaze didn’t land on Luther. Five felt it rest on him, and the weight of it made him shrink further into Allison’s arms. “Me too.”

*********

Chapter Two

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angelofrainfrogs · 5 years

Text

Serendipity (Part 2/3)

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (but not the main focus)

Other Characters: Warlock Dowling

Description: Seven years after Armageddidn’t, a boy wanders into A.Z. Fell and Co. and finds something more priceless than a first-edition novel- a reunion he (and his childhood caretakers) never thought possible.

Rating: G

Genre: General/Family/Mild Hurt/Comfort

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432192/chapters/48866999#workskin

Part 2

Aziraphale watched the scene in front of him with a look of adoration so blatant it made Crowley scrunch up his face in disgust and stick out his tongue when he noticed. The demon did not, however, loosen his grip on Warlock in the slightest.

The boy really was crying now- silently, but the tears staining Crowley’s jacket caused the demon to pat Warlock’s back and whisper words of reassurance until he quieted down. Eventually, Warlock stood back and fervently swiped at his eyes with the collar of his t-shirt, trying to clear the emotion from his face. Crowley took this moment of distraction to raise an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

What the hell is going on? Crowley's thoughts rang loud and clear; Aziraphale didn’t need to be a mind-reader to understand what his companion of 6,000 years was wondering.

I’ve got absolutely no idea, the angel’s shake of the head answered.

“Okay… okay, so,” Warlock began, fixing his gaze on Crowley, then on Aziraphale. A frown creased his face and he pursed his lips, putting one hand in his hip and using the other to point an accusatory finger at the angel. “So… you’re Brother Francis, but you’re really Mr. Fell.” He shifted to point at the demon. “And you’re Nanny Ashtoreth, but you’re really…?”

“Er… Crowley. The name’s Crowley,” the demon said. Warlock considered this for a moment, then shrugged.

“Weird name, but okay.”

“Hey, you're one to talk-"

“This is not our main concern!” Aziraphale interjected loudly, taking a few steps forward to grasp Crowley’s arm. The demon looked at him, eyes so wide they could almost be seen over his glasses. “Warlock is here, and we haven’t seen the dear boy in nearly a decade, and I think he would like some things explained.”

“Oh… right.” Crowley grimaced, coming to the same realization as Aziraphale: they hadn’t planned for this situation and therefore had no idea how to handle it.

“I have so much to ask you,” Warlock said, taking this as a cue to continue. Any trace of his previous burst of emotion had been replaced with a look of unbridled excitement. “So, where… I mean, how… God, there’s so much stuff! Um… okay.” The boy took a deep breath and Aziraphale and Crowley spared a glance at each other, wondering what in the world the boy was going to ask. “Okay, first question: are you two a thing?”

“…What?” the pair asked in unison. Warlock gestured to Aziraphale’s firm grip on Crowley’s forearm.

“Like, are you two together? There were always rumors- still are, actually, since some of the housekeepers remember you. But… is it true?”

Aziraphale merely blinked, not knowing what to say. Crowley, on the other hand, scoffed and gently removed his arm from the angel’s grip.

“That’s the first thing you’re worried about?!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air exasperatedly. “Really?! Seven years apart and all you want to know is whether your old gardener and nanny are an item?!”

“That’s not all I want to know,” Warlock replied testily. He could throw his former nanny’s attitude right back, as Crowley recalled a bit too late. “I really want to know why you sang me lullabies about taking over the world and crushing people under my heel. I want to know why Brother Francis told me to do the exact opposite and insisted I call animals ‘Brother’ and ‘Sister,’ which, by the way, is very weird to other people.” He gave Aziraphale a pointed look, to which the angel could only smile apologetically. “I also want to know why my scrapes always healed faster than other kids’- what, you think I didn’t notice that?”

Aziraphale had let out a small gasp, shooting another look at Crowley, but the demon was transfixed by the ranting boy in front of them. Warlock continued with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I didn’t notice the weird stuff at first, since I was so little. But when I started hanging out with other kids, I realized how things just seemed to… happen to me. If I fell and got a bruise on my leg, I’d show it to Nanny and it’d be gone in a day. If another kid had the same bruise, it took a week to disappear. I found four leaf clovers anytime I was looking for them with Brother Francis, even though they’re supposed to be super rare. When I went to the bakery with Nanny, they always found one of my favorite cookies in the back, even if they said they’d sold the last one for the day. Little things like that- they didn’t seem crazy at the time, but after you both left, they just… stopped.”

Warlock’s emotions were reemerging, and he clenched his fists by his side to try and control himself. Aziraphale touched Crowley’s arm again but the demon shook his head, knowing that the boy had to get this out of his system before they had even a vague chance of talking to him.

“I… I thought I was special,” Warlock said, more quietly. “I didn’t know if it was because I was supposed to bring about the end of the world or save it, like you both kept telling me-” His eyes flashed dangerously, as if this was a pinpoint of great strain on his mind. “-but I thought that’s why things happened to me like they did. That I was the one in control, unintentionally making my life better where I could. But, really, it was you two.” He crossed his arms pointedly. “Am I right?”

Crowley and Aziraphale said nothing for a long, long time. Just when Warlock began to grow frustrated, the demon took a step towards him.

“Yes,” he admitted, holding a hand out as if to grasp the boy’s shoulder. He paused before making contact, arm hanging awkwardly in the air. “Yes, hellspawn, you’re right.”

“Am I really a hellspawn?” Warlock asked. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

“…No,” Crowley said with a grimace.

“That’s part of why we had to leave,” Aziraphale added, moving next to Crowley. One more step, and they would both be close enough to pull Warlock into another embrace… but they didn’t dare. Not when the boy was in such as volatile state. “Actually, I suppose that is reason why we had to leave.”

“Because I’m not… what?” Confusion washed over Warlock’s face again. “A demon?”

Crowley let out a snort. “No. Because you’re not the antichrist.”

Warlock blinked at him.

“Really, Crowley, you just had to say it outright? You couldn’t have used a little more tact?” Aziraphale said testily, and Crowley gestured to the boy in front of them.

“He blatantly asked! What are we supposed to say? Come on, Angel, we can’t lie to him anymore; he doesn’t deserve it.”

“’Angel?’” Warlock repeated softly, forehead creased in utter bewilderment. Aziraphale sighed.

“Yes, alright, fine,” he said, voice full of resignation. “The angel would be… me.”

“…You’re an angel,” Warlock repeated. It was not a question, but a statement. Aziraphale nodded and the boy turned his gaze on Crowley. “I’m guessing you’re… not an angel, then.”

Crowley let out a mirthless laugh. “Haven’t been for over 6,000 years, kid. You’re looking at a genuine demon.”

Warlock could only stare, disbelief and acceptance fighting for control over his face. Eventually, the boy sunk onto the couch behind him, curling towards his knees and wrapping his hands around his head.

“That… makes so much sense, if it’s true,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He glanced up at Crowley. “You’d better not be lying to me, Nanny Ash, or else I’ll-” The boy paused, then shook his head, as if correcting himself. “Er, I mean, I guess I should call you Crowley now?”

“I’ve been called too many names over the years to count; you can stick with what you know or try something new.” Crowley flashed what he hoped to be a reassuring grin. “Also, good job with the empty threat- though sitting up a bit straighter and not mumbling to the floor would give it more oomph.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, so stressed that he actually stomped his foot. Crowley and Warlock both raised their eyebrows, surprised at the outburst. Aziraphale lowered his voice, an obvious strain in his normally calm tone. “This is not the time for that sort of…” He grabbed at the air, reaching for the word. “That sort of… lesson, if you can call it that.”

Crowley sighed. “Point taken. Warlock, we are telling you the truth. We didn’t when you were a kid because we were trying to… you know…”

Aziraphale knew what the demon struggled to say and jumped in. “We were trying to protect you, dear boy.”

“…That’s cool and all,” Warlock said slowly, trying to piece his scrambled thoughts into something that made a slight bit of sense. “But you still haven’t proven anything. About demons and angels and stuff, I mean.”

“You want proof?” Crowley asked, raising a hand to his sunglasses. “There’s a reason I never took these off.” He slid the glasses off his face, golden eyes blinking in the dim light of the bookshop, and Warlock gasped.

“Whoa,” the boy breathed, standing up to get a better look. Crowley cringed a bit at the scrutiny- not because he wasn’t used to people judging his eyes, but because this was Warlock. He’d made a point not to let the child see his true face for fear of what he might think.

After staring for an uncomfortable few more seconds, Warlock grinned, excitement finally creeping back into his expression. “Nanny Ash, those are awesome.”

Crowley chucked, hesitant to admit that he felt a bit relieved, and slipped his glasses back on. “Can’t say they’ve been described that way before, but I’ll take it.”

“You don’t secretly have weird eyes, do you, Brother Francis?” Warlock asked, turning his attention on Aziraphale. He scrunched up his nose questioningly. “Wait, your name’s really Mr. Fell, right? What’s your first name?”

“Actually, my true name is Aziraphale,” the angel replied with a smile, and Warlock silently repeated the name, testing how it sounded. “And no, my eyes are as they always have been. My angelic nature isn’t as obvious; I can manifest a halo, if I so choose.” He held up a hand as Warlock began to request to see this phenomenon. “But that’s for another time. Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go put the kettle on, and then we can have a proper discussion about everything.”

Aziraphale gazed at Warlock expectantly, his request not up for debate. Warlock, whose current thoughts were a jumble of eyes, Nanny, demon, angel, antichrist, sat back against the plush cushions without question. Crowley automatically sprawled out next to him, as if he'd been itching for a chance to get off his feet, taking up the remaining two-thirds of the couch. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a well-worn reading chair appeared perfectly centered on the other side of the coffee table. Warlock jumped, his mouth falling open.

“How’d you do that?!” he eventually managed to say, and Aziraphale smiled back at him.

“Just a little miracle, my dear,” the angel replied. Before Warlock could question him further, Aziraphale walked back towards the kitchen, brushing his hand fondly over the boy’s hair as he passed. Warlock watched him until he disappeared from sight, then turned to the demon dramatically splayed out next to him.

“Can you do that, too?” Warlock asked, sitting up a little straighter. It felt strange to see his former caretaker like this, so loose and (sort of) relaxed, laying on the couch as if the demon hadn’t a care in the world.

“Miracles? ‘Course I can,” Crowley responded. He waved a hand lazily. “Mine would technically be considered demonic, but they’d turn out the same. It’s all about thinking how you want things to happen- if you believe something will turn out a certain way, then it will.”

“Huh,” was all Warlock could think to say, and the pair lapsed into silence. Eventually, Crowley sat up and put a tentative hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Listen, Warlock, I…” The demon faltered, words never coming that easily to him. His grip on Warlock's shoulder tightened, wishing he could transfer his thoughts through touch and avoid the whole talking about emotions thing. "I never wanted... We didn't want to leave you, especially in that empty house with your shitty parents-" Crowley cut himself off with a wince. All the feelings about leaving the kid behind that he’d made a point not to acknowledge were bubbling at the surface of his mind; it was hard to sort out what he should and shouldn't say.

"No, you're right; they're really shitty," Warlock agreed. "They've gotten a little nicer, I guess, but we hardly see each other anymore so... I dunno." He shrugged, then glanced at his shoulder, where the demon's hand still rested. Crowley moved to take it away, but Warlock slapped his own hand on top of it, startling them both. "Sorry! Sorry, I just..."

"There's no need to apologize," Crowley said, voice automatically slipping into a soothing tone that brought Warlock right back to his childhood. Regardless of how the demon looked now, he'd still been Warlock's caretaker for eleven years, and that had quite the lasting effect. To Warlock's dismay, he felt his eyes beginning to water again.

"Oh, for Satan's sake- come here," Crowley responded instantly, using the hand on Warlock's shoulder to pull the boy into another hug. To Warlock's credit, he kept his tears at bay this time, though his grip around the demon was even tighter than before. Crowley returned the pressure, silently resting his chin atop Warlock's head as the boy buried his face in his shirt again.

Crowley was, by nature, not the biggest fan of physical affection. But in the Dowling household, the fact Nanny Ashtoreth filled a much bigger parental role than initially intended had a permanent effect on both Crowley and Warlock: the boy felt safest in his caretaker's arms, and Crowley secretly relished this fact. Usually, Warlock would come running for comfort when his parents had no time for the inquisitive questions of a child and shooed him away, and Crowley would be there to answer everything he could and encourage him to never stop asking about things. And, sometimes, Warlock simply needed to be held in silence- a strange thing for the demon to get used to at first, but over time it simply felt right.

And so it felt now, in the back of Aziraphale's bookshop, seven years after Armageddidn't. Crowley held Warlock close, not needing words to reassure the boy that, as he'd always said to soothe the boy's trembling nerves, everything would be alright. Aziraphale poked his head out from the back room, checking on the pair, and when Crowley met his partner's gaze, he was overcome with the sensation that yes, things really would be okay after all.

Aziraphale smiled and then ducked back into the kitchenette area to grab the tea. Soon after the angel disappeared, Warlock slowly unlocked his arms from their fierce grip around Crowley's waist and sat up straight.

"Feel better, hellspawn?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow and cracking a grin. Though his eyes were obscured by sunglasses, Warlock could feel the fondness from the demon's gaze.

"Yeah," the boy responded with a slightly embarrassed laugh. At that moment, Aziraphale reemerged carrying an ornate tray upon which rested three cups of tea and a plate full of assorted biscuits.

"You really shouldn't have, Angel," Crowley said, eyeing the teacup closest to him.

"Oh hush, dear; a hot cup of tea is good for the nerves," Aziraphale responded, demurely settling into the comfy armchair across from the couch. Warlock took a sip of tea and his face lit up.

"This is really good!" he exclaimed, reaching for a biscuit to nibble on. The angel was right- the warm cup in hands was grounding him firmly in the present and doing wonders for settling the remaining agitation in his mind.

"I'm so glad you enjoy it." Aziraphale beamed. "Now, I suppose we should start from the beginning... Many years ago-"

"Oh no, we're not starting from the beginning beginning!" Crowley interjected. "The kid doesn't have fifty years of his life to waste listening to a story."

"It does not take me fifty years to tell our history!" Aziraphale huffed. Crowley snickered, pleased with himself for ruffling some feathers, but quickly shrunk under the angel's glare.

"Anyway-" Aziraphale turned back to Warlock, his smile returning instantly. "I was going to start eighteen years ago, when the antichrist was born."

"Maybe I should take that part?" Crowley offered. "Seeing as I was the one who delivered him to the hospital and all?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose..."

"Right. So, eighteen years ago, the antichrist arrived on Earth, and-"

A high-pitched series of beeps interrupted Crowley's tale. The demon tilted his head questioningly as Warlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone- the newest and greatest model a rich politician could buy, of course.

"Ah, crap, sorry," he apologized, unlocking the phone and furiously beginning to type on the digital keypad. "My roommate's texting me, and I've gotta reply or he’ll just keep messaging me until I do; give me a sec."

"Roommate?" Aziraphale questioned, and Warlock nodded, still focused on the device in his hands.

"Yeah, my college roommate. I texted him when I got here and I guess he just got the message.” The phone’s keypad clicked a few more times and then Warlock locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket, returning his attention to the supernatural beings in front of him. “Okay, sorry, keep going.”

“So, there’s this Great Plan, right?” Crowley said, making an all-encompassing gesture with his hands. “And as part of this Great Plan, there’s supposed to be a big war between Heaven and Hell, but that can’t happen unless Armageddon wipes out humanity, so-”

Warlock’s phone chimed again. The boy pulled it out of his pocket and automatically started typing. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in annoyance.

“Warlock, dear, this is very important, and I think you ought to pay attention,” the angel suggested firmly.

“Sorry, I’m really interested, I promise!” Warlock replied, still typing. “I just promised my roommate I’d fill him in on the bookshop once I got here- he's actually the one that helped me figure out how to find it." Warlock glanced up for a moment to flash a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'm not saying anything about you two, even though he'd would believe it. He's into all that supernatural, witchy stuff."

Aziraphale frowned. "I thought you said you found the shop through the internet."

"Well yeah," Warlock replied, refocusing on the phone to finish his message. "I found all the info and stuff online, but Adam gave me more detailed directions than Google Maps; he said he'd been here before, which is how he knew I'd like it. Obviously, he didn't know that my old gardener owned it, right?" Warlock snorted at the impossible coincidence, finally sending the reply and locking his phone again. He looked back up to find Aziraphale and Crowley staring at him with slack-jawed expressions of utter shock. Aziraphale's teacup was tilted at an obscure angle, though the liquid miraculously remained inside.

"Your roommate's name is Adam?" Aziraphale asked quietly. Warlock nodded, eyebrows creased in concern.

"Yeah; do you actually remember him?! Oh my god, he'd probably freak out if I told him; he seemed really into this place."

"What's his last name?" Crowley questioned, although it sounded as if he already knew the answer. Warlock tilted his head, even more confused, and responded:

"Young. His name’s Adam Young. Why?"

***

Read Part 1.

Read Part 2. (You are here.)

Read Part 3.

#good omens #fanfic #fanfiction #warlock dowling #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #found family #reunion #serendipity #ao3 #phantomhivemast3r #midna3452

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lovesick-dick · 4 years

Text

happy BIRTHDAAAAY MY DARLIIIIING

So you’ve made a mistake. So what! Mistakes happen to everyone! And yeah, some are worse than others, you muse to yourself as you dash along the rotted, dust-filled aisles of the old pizzeria– you do think this one might be at the top of your personal list, although you can hardly spare the brainpower to consider it in-depth right now, considering the catastrophic crashing sounds that are echoing behind you from a rapidly-shortening distance. “God– fuck, shit–” you wheeze, taking a hard corner around an arcade machine and towards a long stretch of hallway, your muscles aching and your lungs burning. You still can’t quite believe what’s chasing you, but you can definitely hear it, calling out after you in a deceptively smooth voice that doesn’t sound so much as lightly winded. “Come on now, don’t be like that!” you hear out of the darkness behind you, “Can’t a guy just get a look at you?” And, no, you think to yourself, he may not. “Stop it!” you bark back over your shoulder, your senseless panic leaving you with few options– you only glance back for just a second, but that second of faltered concentration is all the thing turns out to need. You hear the horrible squeaking, creaking sound of old mechanical parts being forced to move at speed; and then you’re rugby-tackled to the floor by 200 pounds of velvet-covered steel and you slam into the carpet so hard it knocks the breath completely out of you. You gasp, a weak, painful sound, and as a heavy padded paw comes down on the side of your head, pinning you to the floor, you note distractedly that the carpet is damp and slightly sticky underneath your cheek. Gross. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” the thing breathes above the nape of your neck, “That’d be an awful waste. Do you even know– do you have any idea how long I have been alone in here? Wasting away?” You don’t, naturally, but you’re much too scared to say so. You lie there in silence instead, quivering with fear, your heart thundering in your ears, and wait for your attacker to finish the job it started. Not the way you’d ever wanted to go; mauled to death by a goddamn possessed Chuck E. Cheese mascot. You wait. And wait. And the pain doesn’t come. Death doesn’t come. You can hear the massive rabbit shifting above you, hear the alarming strain of whatever rusted metal parts make up its internal mechanisms, but it doesn’t bite you, or break your neck, or whatever you’d been expecting…and eventually, in fact, that paw on the side of your face pulls back a little. “If you run again,” the rabbit warns you, in a low, cool voice that is almost posh, “Then I really will kill you. I don’t want that. You don’t want that. So let’s make the right choice here, and make nice like civilized folks. So hi! I’m– Springtrap.” “Hi,” you reply breathlessly on autopilot. That seems to please the creature somewhat, as that paw on your head finally withdraws all the way, but that great weight still hovers over you like the specter of Death, and you’re not nearly dumb enough to disregard its very blatant warning. Or, his warning. It sounds like a he, anyway, and thinking of him as such helps to humanize him just a little, so you can cling to the hope that he might still be reasoned with. “What’s your name?” “Ben…” “Lovely. Great! Sit up, Ben, I want to see you.” It’s not as if you have a choice. You push yourself up on shaking arms, moving slowly so you don’t spook– what was his name? Springtrap?– and he helpfully eases off of you enough to give you room to sit up. You rub your stinging cheek and look back at your captor as bravely as you can muster. He’s huge. He was big the first time you’d glimpsed him, and he was big when he’d been chasing you, but now, up close, he seems enormous. He’s more than twice your weight in rusted old metal and broken wires, and although his fur seems to have started out as velvet, some time way back in the past, it has since grown threadbare, matted, and gone somewhat to rot. His steel teeth are huge and blunt in his mouth, and the eyes of his…costume burn hollowly with an empty white light. He’s falling apart. There are gaps and chunks missing out of him, exposed wires that seem thankfully dead, half of one ear gone completely– and underneath the prevailing smell of dust and mildew that pervades this place, you can catch from him the lingering scent of old decay. Suitably Halloween-y, your traumatized brain decides. “Hello there.” he says softly. You don’t know if he even has eyelids, but you wish he would blink. “Hi,” you repeat, meekly. …You don’t know what to say. What can you say, in a situation like this? “–Please don’t hurt me,” you eventually blurt out, holding your hands out to him palms-forward, in a gesture of supplication, “I didn’t know anyone was in here, I’m so sorry, I never would have bothered you if I’d known–” Springtrap rocks forward on his haunches like a kangaroo, and your words turn to ash in your mouth. You cut yourself off and flinch away. “I already said I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and this time he sounds exasperated, a little miffed. His voice gets rougher and more gravelly as he continues on, and you realize that he had been slinging his voice low and soft on purpose, likely to disarm you. Now he’s sounding more like he looks, “I’m glad you came in! I’ve been so alone…so lonely. Come here– don’t run,” he says, and you flinch again as those massive padded paws come forward to cup your face. He’s surprisingly gentle, for how big he is. Each paw seems big enough to crush your head, but all he does is hold you there, your chin in his hands as he leans forward and wedges his big worn-down snout into the join of your neck and shoulder. You jolt and nearly yelp, but you don’t pull away, and so he doesn’t bite you. Instead, he pushes his button nose against your skin, almost hard enough to be uncomfortable, and…sniffs you. Great, gusty, whuffling sniffs, like a big dog, right at your pulse point. It makes all the hair on your body stand on end, even as it makes your cheeks burn strangely. “What are you– doing?” you whisper, wanting to wriggle away but knowing better than to try. You can feel his plastic whiskers bristling underneath your chin. He doesn’t answer. At least, not with words. Another few snuffles against your skin, his paws squeezing your face, your eyes half-closed in fear; and then he goes and moans, and your eyes snap open in shock as you finally wrench your head away to look at him. You cover your neck where he’d been nuzzling in mortification. He looks back at you with those big dead white eyes and you know you’re in trouble. “What–” He pounces. He snaps into motion so fast it’s frightening, going from a complete standstill to a lion-like lunge– his bulk slams into your chest and sends you sprawling again, skidding out onto your back on the carpet, and then his paws come down on your legs with a steely power behind them where they clutch onto you just above your knees, and he yanks your legs open wide. You don’t have the time for more than an offended yipe before he raises your lower half up completely off the floor and shoves his snout right down between your legs, his nose against the zipper of your jeans. “Get– stop– no! Get off!” you exclaim, writhing and kicking and trying to find a way to get purchase enough to shove his head away, but he ignores you like he’s suddenly gone deaf to the world and takes a few more deep breaths of your scent, his mouth hanging open and those blunt, crushing teeth scarcely an inch from a place you do not want them to be. Your face burns, and you can tell you’re flushing all the way from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Springtrap nudges his muzzle in against you, rubbing, almost nuzzling with a worrying force, and although it certainly doesn’t hurt, his intentions are still very, very clear. “I need this,” you hear– feel– him mutter. You make a little moaning sound in fright (not all fright, shamefully, but with all the adrenaline pumping through your body, what could you really do?), but you can feel his nose grinding along the clothed length of your slit, bumping against your dick, and a tingle starts to build at the base of your spine until he releases you suddenly and yanks you upright by the collar of your shirt. You spend one dizzy moment just trying to get your balance back, and then his paws come down on the backs of your shoulders and push you down so fast you nearly sprawl again. You catch yourself on your hands and knees, and realize his intentions as soon as something smooth and rubbery brushes against the tip of your nose. He’s got a fucking dick. Or, well, of sorts; you’ve owned enough sex toys to recognize a dildo when you see one, and although it’s attached to his pelvis, jutting out of a little fabric slit in his costume, it’s still definitely silicone, and it’s cool and springy when he nudges it against your lip. “Help me out here, help a fella out,” he urges you, and one of his hands slides over to the back of your head before he starts to push again, the lack of room for argument making something shameful and sticky-hot curl low in your belly. “I need this. Open up.” You open your mouth. Again, it’s not like you have a choice. And yes, while you’re not exactly leaping at the chance to suck this monster off, you’re hardly fighting him as hard as you could be either. …It’s not like anyone has to know. You let him slide his silicone dick past your lips and into your mouth, and then immediately have to fight not to choke as his hips buck on what seems to be reflex and a gusty moan drags itself up out of his throat. You swallow around him and try to pull back a little. “Good boy,” he sighs, his awful eyes rolling in his head as he gives you absolutely no time to adjust before starting to rock his hips, “Good boy, good boy. It’s been so LONG– I’m usually more, mmh, of a gentleman,” he continues, and you get the distinct feeling that that is a lie. It’s not important, anyway, when you’re bracing your hands on his hips and trying to push him back to give you a little room to breathe. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t back off. He moves relatively slowly, grinding his dick back and forth along your tongue, but for what he lacks in pace he makes up for in sheer size, and with each roll of his hips he pushes himself a little farther down into your throat, an insistent nudging that makes your eyes begin to water. It’s only taken seconds, and you’re already in way over your head. You hate that you like it. You like it kind of an awful lot. Inch after inch of silicone presses down your throat, his body creaking as he rocks against you, your heart pounding as you try to steal breaths when you can, and Springtrap musses your hair and tries to pull with big clumsy paws while he pants like he’s running a marathon. Evidently, he wasn’t lying about how long it’s been. It takes some time, and it takes some doing, but eventually he manages to manhandle you all the way down to length of his cock, eight or so inches of him rutting into your throat, and he only stops pushing once your lips are brushing the swell of what can only be some kind of knot. You choke a little and drool down the length of him, tears burning your eyes, and Springtrap makes a satisfied sound in his chest and then lets you slide back a little, giving you a chance to catch a few breaths before he starts to move your head up and down on him again. If you had the breath to manage a moan, you probably would have– it’s mortifying, it’s probably sickening, but the way this creature is treating you like some kind of helpless toy is making you wet in a way that you’re sure is going to soak through your boxers, and you can’t help but wiggle your hips to try and alleviate that pressure a little bit. Springtrap huffs and puffs and picks up speed until he’s finally fucking your throat full-out, and all you can do is make broken little sounds and hope he doesn’t try to wedge that fist-sized knot of his into your mouth too. You’re not sure how long he keeps you like that. There’s no clock, there’s no way to tell the time, and you can’t even look up; all you have is his whining and grunting and the endless thrusting that makes your jaw ache from being held open so wide. Your drool dampens the fur at his crotch, and your own arousal makes your boxers stick to you uncomfortably. When he eventually, finally releases you, he does so with as little warning as he had started with, and all but pulls you off of him to push you back to the floor, leaving you to cough and wipe the tears from your face while he lifts your legs into the air again. “Enough foreplay,” he growls, and this time his voice is scary, a hollow metal roar that makes you want to cover your ears. His expression is an ever-static smile, and you can’t tell how roughly he intends to treat you. You don’t even spare the time to worry or care. Your hands fly down again, but this time, instead of pushing against him to get away, you fumble for your button and zipper and tug your jeans open for him, much to what appears to be his surprise. “Oh, fuck me,” you whine through gritted teeth as you try to kick your pants off, and you watch his one good ear perk straight up into the air like an exclamation point while the ragged half of the other can only wobble to the side. Big, soft paws help to pull your pants away, and Springtrap leers down at you like he’s seeing you in a brand-new light. He looks almost wondering. “Really?” he asks, cocking his enormous head to the side. He sounds like he’s smiling, and as you tug your boxers down and throw the sticky fabric to the side, his pleasure only seems to grow. “Well, Benny boy! I gotta say, you’re not what I expected! Am I not the only one who’s been so lonely? –Oh, look at you. You’re soaked!” he praises you. You’re too wound-up to actively take the time to bask in that praise, but you do mentally file it away for future use. A lot of future use. “Springs– uh, Springtrap,” you mutter, your head feeling a bit fuzzy as you wiggle free of his paws just long enough to shuffle over to him, “Please– fuck, I’m so–” “Needy? Slutty? Desperate?” he teases you, but eagerly helps you along as you clamber up onto him and push him into a sitting position against the wall. You only moan an affirmative, and that makes him laugh, a charmless sound like an old swing set creaking. His paws slide down to cup your ass and dig into your cheeks. “I like you, Ben,” he says roughly, “I like you very much.” To be honest, you think the sentiment might be kind of returned. “Please,” you say again, positioned splay-legged on his lap with his cock jutting up between the two of you, strangely warm and still slick with your drool, “Give it to me hard.” And that’s playing with fire, you think, as he lifts you up like you weigh absolutely nothing and positions you to nudge the head of his cock against your soaking wet pussy– but then he slides his tip along you, finds your entrance and dips in, and then, oh, then all thoughts fly out of your head as his paws shudder where they hold you and he drops you down with a grunt. You distantly hear someone making a sound, a pitiful, broken keening sound, and only realize it’s you once it gets loud enough to make an echo in the empty hall. Just like before, he didn’t waste time or ease into it. He’d literally dropped you down onto him, letting gravity do his work, and so his entire length forces itself into you and stretches you achingly wide all at once as you come down on him with a wet smack against the bulge of his knot (that, at least, remains outside you for now). “Aahh! Ahh, aahh, gghh– fuck!” you gasp, your eyes screwing shut tight and your mouth falling open as you’re forced down on him, your fingers digging into his matted fur and your pussy squeezing down on him as you attempt to adjust to his size. It almost hurts, so suddenly, almost but not quite, and the ache of the stretch is heavenly, makes you arch your back and drop your head against his chest as he moans long and loud in your ear. “Fucking– shit, shit you’re tight!” he exclaims, that posh accent all but lost under the heat in his voice. He bounces you a little, getting used to the feeling of you taking his length like a perfect little sleeve, and each tiny jolt makes you squeak and squeal into his fur with the sensation. “Springtrap!” “Ohh, say it again!” he breathes against your temple, his head craned low. He starts to lift and rock you, careful enough, at least, to work you open a little before he starts to really move, but you can feel the way his cock throbs inside you like he’s something actually alive, and it makes you squirm in his grasp with the need to get railed. There is no breath in his chest, but he makes sounds like he’s panting. “Springtrap, Springtrap,” you repeat, no longer as scared of him as you probably should be as you roll your hips and feel his girth stretch you out in all the right ways, “Don’t tease, I need– please–” Pitiful? Yes, absolutely? Slutty? Indubitably. You’re begging the monster that accosted you to fuck you within an inch of your life, and you don’t feel the least bit sorry about it, not when he bounces you again and his knot pushes smack up against your dick in a way that makes your toes curl. He’s already bigger than any of your toys, and the practical promise of that extra bulge stretching you open even further destroys what little patience you had for adjusting in the first place. “Say it,” you hear him grunt, his legs shifting so he can brace his feet flat against the floor. He trembles slightly with the effort of keeping still, his paws kneading at your ass, but he holds out for the allure of making you beg for it– which, to be honest, you probably would have done anyway. So you beg. You beg him to fuck you, to fuck you hard, to use you like a toy and knot your tight cunt and make you cry from it– and if the ragged, needless inhale he gives in response is any indication, he’s exactly as incensed about it as you are. There’s just no time to gloat before his self-control snaps like a frayed thread and he moves to wrap his arms around you in a crushing hug as he finally starts to thrust up into you, at an instant feverish pace that makes your whole body jolt in his lap. And yes, yes, god, that’s what you’d wanted. That’s what you needed; the furious whack of his hips against yours, rutting his fat cock into you over and over again with zero regard for pacing or care. He treats you like some kind of fucktoy, exactly as you’d asked, and his snarl is a strange, tinny animal sound as he fucks you open on him, your cunt squeezing hard on him in a way that would betray your pleasure even if your bouncing voice didn’t. “You’re such a slut, Benny boy,” you hear him mutter, with transparent glee, “A dripping, needy slut! Do you let– rrrghn– all the monsters fuck you this way? You take it like you do!” And that should mortify you, that should make you angry, but all those crude words actually do is make you whimper into his shoulder and try to push your hips down to meet him, thrust for thrust. That in no way escapes his notice. “Holy shit,” he chuckles, his voice rising up high and giddy, “You like that? Huh? You like it when I’m mean?” He throbs hard inside you, evidently as much into teasing you as you are into taking it, and he slows down to swivel his hips in a circle until he finds a spot that makes you cry out loud, your breath hitching as heat coils tight in your belly. “Go on, say it. Admit that you’re a cockslut,” he demands, grinding hard against that sweet spot until you claw and writhe, and you break down with something like a sob as you obediently beg into his fur. “I’m– I’m a cockslut! I’m a needy cockslut– Springtrap! I need– hah, fuck, fuckfuck please I need your– knot–” “Beautiful,” he moans, low and slow beneath your begging. “Gooood boy, Benny. You’re so– tight– here, take it, take it,” he grunts, releasing you from his crushing embrace to grab your thighs and spread you wider, his eyes heavily lidded as he lifts you up again and drops you hard onto him. He keeps you held open like that as he ruts up into you, his knot an insistent pressure that pushes against your tight pussy, and you squirm, whimpering, as each rough slap of his hips opens you up just a little more, closer and closer to taking it. You’re nearly drooling at this point from the hard, thumping rhythm, fitfully grinding yourself down in an attempt to help him along, and your neglected dick aches to be touched, if you could muster the brainpower to remember how to move your arms. Springtrap keeps up the pace, the mechanisms that make up his body creaking alarmingly, and then he slams you down one final time and holds you there, splayed out on him, as he humps and grinds in harsh little movements, until, with a slow, aaaching stretch– The swell of his knot finally slides into you with a squelch and a pop, and the fat bulge of it forces your cunt open wider than you’ve ever felt in your life, every single inch of you stuffed full of throbbing cock and locked into place around it. Springtrap makes a single, harsh bark of sound, and you wrap your arms around his neck and cling on for dear life as your orgasm hangs on that very edge of breaking. It’s so big, your legs are shaking, tears brimming in your eyes for the second time that night, and you bounce mindlessly against him to no avail, desperately trying to push yourself over. You’re not sure he’s budging so much as an inch. “Springs, Springs, Springs, Springtrap!” you babble, pleading for him to help you cum, and you’re not sure if it’s just reflex or something else that drives him to actually take in your cries and fumble to assist you. One of his paws slides down to your lower back, holding you steady, and the other wedges itself between the two of you to feel for where you’re locked together with clumsy digits, wet velvet prodding your dripping pussy. He manages to find your dick by the way you whimper when he slides over it, and then he makes a sound that’s so satisfied it’s almost a purr as he takes mercy on you and grinds down on it hard, in quick little circles. “Cum on it,” he orders you breathlessly, moving his hips like he wants to thrust even though he can’t– and the addition of his soft paw pad on your dick is all it takes to send you over the edge, with a fire-light building of tension that tenses every muscle in your body as it breaks. You wail when you cum around his knot, so stretched out that your cunt can do little more than twitch around its girth as he pulses inside of you. The silky-soft clench of you around his cock must feel just as good for Springtrap, too, because his foot thumps twice, hard, as you squeeze down on him, yanking at his short fur with your pleasure– and then his cock throbs, once, twice, and he’s chasing you off that edge with a surprisingly weak moan of his own. His cum is cool when it splashes into you, deep into your stuffed pussy with nowhere else to go, and distantly you can feel your body twitching as he spurts into you, your orgasm kindled and further drawn out by the pulsing sensation. You keep on cumming, and cumming, whimpering pathetically with each fitful clench around him… And by the time you’ve continued on over to the edge of overstimulated, by the time he finally stops, you can look down at yourself through teary eyes and see the slight bulge in your belly made by the creampie he’s just given you. Holy…fucking…shit. Buzzing with the pleasure and bone-deep exhaustion of afterglow, you stay slumped against Springtrap for indeterminate minutes, shivering, and listen to him mutter nonsense against the crook of your neck while his knot slowly goes down. It’s only when he finally shifts enough to pull himself out of you that you finally stir again, whimpering as he pops out of you with a wet squelch and a flood of cum gushes out of your over-sensitive pussy. It’s a bizarre, glowing green where it drools out of you and onto Springtrap’s lap and the carpet below, and you blink blearily at it for a few moments before collapsing back against him again, too satisfied and sleepy to bother with anything else. You don’t know if you’d even be able to walk after that. You definitely don’t have the energy to find out. You feel like you’ve actually been fucked stupid. “I…needed that,” you hear Springtrap breathe, his paws rubbing down your back, brushing through your hair, and you muster the energy to sleepily nod and smile against his chest in agreement, dozily petting his fur. This turned out as an excellent Halloween after all.

#BABE HOLY *SHIT*#**JESUS CHRIST HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME**#AAAAAAAAAAAAH THIS IS SO GOOD #WORDS CANNOT EXPLAIN HOW FUCKING FFLUSTERED I AM RIGHT NOW AAAAAAH #submission

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