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nurseofren · 4 years

Text

Office Hours

Relationship: Charlie Barber x Student!Reader

Words: 3.3k

Summary: You decided to challenge Professor Barber’s new project in front of the entire class and he’s asked you to stay after class. What could go wrong, right?

Tags: Belting, spanking, bondage, naked female/clothed male, professor kink, left it open if the people want more.

ST Rambles: So uh, here’s this. I started it last week with the plot being completely different but knowing I wanted to dabble with impact play. I’m also thoroughly obsessed with the idea of fucking a professor, so it being Charlie is just. A dream, honestly. Enjoy this smutty smut. Tell me if you want more.

You’d never been asked to stay after class, your record completely clear and your GPA way too impressive to ever land you in any sort of hot water. But, as you sat in the overstuffed Chesterfield armchair, fingers toying with the swirl detail on its front, you couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming dread for what was about to happen.

Charlie Barber wasn’t necessarily intimidating, no, but you’d never been alone with him. And just during debrief you’d challenged the themes he presented on his latest project. His project. You know? The project he knows everything about? The one you have no business questioning because you have no part in its development? Yeah, that one. That was the only thing this impromptu meeting could be about.

Professor Barber had instructed you to wait for him, telling you he’d only be a moment as he dealt with the other students who stayed back willingly. Lifting a hand from the armrest you noticed the fine tremors, your heart pounding as you listened to the muffled voices just beyond the door. Another student was talking about their own project and how inspired they were during lecture. Why couldn’t I have praised him like that? you thought. Why did I make the choice of reprimanding his own work?

Charlie sent the students off with a bellowing laugh, informing them about the drafts due next week. His voice, so low and so stern, carried closer to the door, his footsteps steady as they led him nearer. There was no knock, but when the knob jangled at his grip you stopped breathing for a moment. There wasn’t a muscle left untensed as he closed the door, staying out of view for a moment while he settled his belongings on a credenza of sorts.

“I appreciate your patience.” Professor Barber’s voice was distracted, his long legs bringing him into view as he tugged off his suit jacket and folded it over the back of his chair. He didn’t sit immediately, though. A moment was spent first observing you, eyes flicking over your face, and the next he started on the cuffs of his shirt.

The silence he was allowing was palpable, catching in your throat and inspiring sweat at the backs of your thighs. “Oh, yeah. Yeah! Of course, mister – um, Professor Barber.”

He rolled the first sleeve up to his elbow and began on the second. “No need for overexuberance,” he finished the statement with your first name. Warmth flared in your face; you weren’t aware he knew your name, let alone your first.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to offend. I really just didn’t mind the wait. You didn’t take long at all. It’s fine, really.”

“You were waiting for twenty minutes.”

Professor Barber looked down at you with a hitched brow, a mocking challenge heavy in his features. He finally took a seat, your top teeth catching your lower lip for a second. He sat so his forearms were flat on his desk, fingers together and knuckles white.

“I mean. Yes. It was twenty minutes. But I… This is my last class of the week, so it’s alright, really.”

“Have any plans for the weekend?”

“Oh. Um… I guess not. Just studying. Like always, you know.” He let your mouth run and the quiet eat away at you once again. He only stared, nose twitching when your hands tightened over the armrests. “But, um, what is… what is this… Earlier in class when I-,”

“I asked your plans, not for an apology.” There was a tinge of urgency in the way he spat the words, his mouth a hard line as the room settled around them.

Averting your eyes, you now focused on a stitch fraying past the hem of your skirt. You swallowed, throat too dry for any good to come of it. “I’m sorry, I just feel the need to make it clear that I didn’t mean to-,”

“Let me make something clear,” he said, his clothes sounding while his left hand toyed with the tie around his neck, loosening it you assumed. “The next time you want to mouth off and talk down to me – the one producing this project—” his pause brought your eyes back to his, which he used to flay your nerves “—don’t.”

A bead of sweat slid from your neck to your tailbone, shivers making your lungs shudder. It was difficult to stay in place on the leather, thighs slipping while fear slicked them with sweat.

You swallowed, uncertain what he wanted if not an apology. “Professor, what can I do to settle this before any more parties have to get involved?”

A hum – no, a growl – left parted lips, his back coming up from the chair before he stood completely. He was looking down at you again, fingers tracing the edge of his desk before a palm spread flat over the surface’s center. His opposite hand lifted, sleeve sliding back down to his elbow when he bent it, two fingers crooking towards him.

“Come here.”

Pupils crowded his already dark irises, shadows pouring from his brow and down over his cheekbones. The sight of him, predatory and commanding, skipped your heart. Hitched your breath. Heated your ears.

“What do you mean? Like, bring you…something? I don’t, I don’t know what you want me to do.” You had a small inkling as to what he wanted, though you rejected the thought, marking it preposterous as soon as it formed.

Professor Barber’s shoulders tided once, high and harsh, another low growl rumbling through grit teeth. “Come. Here—” the hand over the desk flexed into a blood-starved fist “—Now.”

“Are you asking me to…t-to bend over your desk?” You whispered the second half, nails biting crescents into the thick leather.

“No,” he said. “I’m telling you.”

A spark lit between your legs, lips parting with a pant when you accidentally pressed your thighs together. Charlie’s gaze raced toward your accidental action, his throat bobbing before he stepped back from the desk and shook his tie looser.

“I think you’re playing a bit too innocent.” Without looking away, his hands undid the buckle of his belt, his jaw flexing while he observed you from his distance. “This is how you settle this, little girl.”

A whimper left you, more accidental insight into what he was making you feel. You considered it for a moment, thinking about the repercussions should anyone find out, regarding the consequences should you fail this class. Mostly, though, you found yourself giving into the way you were completely throbbing for him, how your heart was in your ears and your breath was hot against your agape mouth.

Standing, dropping your eyes to watch your feet carry you toward him, you stopped once the tips of his shoes lined up with yours. A hand trailed up the buttons of your shirt, fingertips catching on each before long fingers gripped the entirety of your throat. There was no constriction, only encouragement to look at him when they tugged up.

He was looking over your features, finding your fear and feeling your pulse beneath his grip. The tip of his tongue glinted behind his teeth before his eyes settled on yours, your breath stopping immediately.

“Take my belt off.” It was a breathy drawl, heat rolling off of him both in body and breath.

Not looking down, not that you could, you trailed the tips of your fingers along his torso before you caught the smooth leather, you right hand grasping the buckle and leading it to freedom until it dropped to hang limp in your hold. A light squeeze around your throat made your heart race, a whine leaving before he lifted the pressure.

Before you could realize, he spun you so your back was to his chest, his belt hitting the floor with a sharp thwack. The professor’s hands worked in urgency to undo your shirt, sliding up your abdomen when it was completely undone; warmth pooled in your belly, his heated palms exploring over your bra until they wandered to your back. Quick thumbs unhooked the garment, leading the shirt off your shoulders and past your wrists before guiding your bra in the same path.

“Did you lock the door? What if someone comes in?” You trembled against him when his head hooked into your shoulder, nose brushing against your lobe.

A low grumble stifled your neck. “Did I say you could speak?” Charlie bucked his hips into your ass, his erection obvious even through clothing. The force of his thrust stumbled your forward, aiding him when he flattened his hand between your shoulders and pushed your front onto the desk.

The frozen wood lit your bare skin with shock, the contrast sticking your lungs and igniting goosebumps to envelope the entirety of your body. He kept his hand steady in its pressure for a moment, considering how obedient you’d be before he lifted it.

A thwip sounded behind you. “Wrists together.”

“Professor, what-,” a yelp replaced your inquiry, a stark hand meeting your ass over the fabric of your skirt.

“Wrists.”

Pain stung in fine pinpricks over the flesh he’d acquainted his hand with, your arms straining to meet at the base of your spine. The rough threading of his tie found its way knotted over your skin, your hands locked in place even when he left them. Completely at his will now, he led a large hand up your back.

“Mm, being a good slut now, are we?” Another hand slipped under your skirt and flipped it over your bound hands. The professor smoothed over the earlier affected skin, feeling the warmth his exertion had inspired.

That same hand led down your leg, a rush of air telling you he’d knelt behind you. Metal scraped against the floor before you were distracted by the feel of his lips pressing behind your knee. A hand followed the lead of his face, nose trailing up your thigh and eventually pressing into the apex of your thighs. The accompanying hand went further, cupping your ass so his thumb could dip into your slit. Your hips bucked into him, mouth falling open with a curse.

The professor swirled his thumb in your slick, the noise lewd yet heady in the otherwise silent room. He paused to press his lips to you, kissing into the flesh before biting at it. Another curse from you, this time trailing with a whimper. A chuckle stuttered into your leg, his thumb pressing into your entrance. A choked moan fogged the desk beneath you; he felt good. And it was his thumb for fuck’s sake.

“You’re tight,” he pushed his thumb deeper, pressing it into your walls and rocking it back and forth, your eyes rolling back while your fingers tightened into fists. He turned his hand so his fingers could reach down to your clit; your foot kicked forward, wrists straining for freedom as his touch lit your nerves. “And so, so reactive.” Professor Barber pushed into you once more and pulled away completely.

The hollowness he left made you ache for more, but a foreign texture leading up the inside of your leg distracted you from this need. It was cool, not the heat of his hands, and smooth in how it glided with ease over your skin. He stood completely, the mystery object stopping at your apex for a moment, pushing into your folds, and then cracking against your slit with a lightning-fast flick.

“Fuck!” Your hips bucked away from it, shaking the contents of the desk just enough for a pencil to rattle free from the edge.

His hand gripped over the cross-section of your restraint, pulling back so your shoulder blades grew closer. “Tell me how that felt.” His words were dripping with breath, twisted with a latent need.

Having taken a moment to absorb the sensation, you couldn’t deny the way your cunt was throbbing for it, begging for more of whatever it was. You swallowed, sucking your teeth and closing your eyes. He didn’t deserve an answer, but you didn’t want him to stop.

“Good.”

More friction from the object, a loop of sorts catching your clit and rubbing it just right, a whine pushing through locked teeth before he stopped his machinations. “I want to teach you a lesson, understood?”

Words were unnecessary, a nod of your head against the sweat-slick desk conveying your answer just fine. He shuttered at your permission, a grunt sticking low in his chest when his hand left you. Metal jangled and you were quick to realize exactly the kind of lesson you were to receive. Realization flooded your skin with heat, your breath coming fast when panic set in.

“Professor Barber, there’s no need,” you worried out. “I really understand, I don’t-,”

The speed of the belt whistled against the air before you felt its force meet your left cheek, your weight shifting up to your toes when your body couldn’t escape its punishing bite. A thread of agony grated against your throat, but as the pain set in and it nestled into your muscles you couldn’t help but want more. It wasn’t agony that had come from your lips, but brutalized pleasure, so refined and concentrated it overwhelmed you with want.

“Understand all you want—” a second hit, this to your opposite cheek, lit a fire in your chest, slick wetting your inner thighs when you clenched “—that little stunt earlier isn’t going unpunished.”

Your chin started to tremble, teeth chattering as every nerve ending split open with pain-laced pleasure. Drool pooled at the side of your face, mingling with the sweat that fell willfully from your neck. He’d stopped, a new sound coming from behind when the smooth band came to brush over the raging skin; the touch was gentle, even so making you wince as the belt’s edge caught on the edges of your new raised marks.

“This is what I want from you,” that earlier sound came now with a heavy sigh, a breath of satisfaction. “Compliance. Submission. Understanding.” It was a wet, repetitious noise, a pattern of first quick patterns, but they would slow every now and then; when they did, it was always combined with the sound of hitching breath or an urgent exhale.

The time he was taking was driving you crazy, knowing he was watching your injuries come to fruition while he was stroking himself at the sight. “This is torture, you know?” It was a growl more so than a whine.

A third strike came perpendicular to the first, an “X” undoubtedly welting on the surface. Your teeth grit together, spit spraying across the finish before your nostrils flared fog beneath it. A heat sank over your entire back, warm breath and heated lips falling over your ear.

“Punishment, little girl. Not torture.” He pressed his lips to your neck. “Not yet.” That sound slowed again, a growl vibrating from his chest into yours. “Not here.”

The cold returned when he fixed his posture. Not completely, though; a hand flattened itself over your midback, a scalding, heavy pressure meeting your entrance. It made your moan, just the thought of his inside you, feeling how big he was when remembering the fullness only his thumb had incited. Professor Barber pressed his hand down with each nudge of his hips, inching into you with every lung-stalling, thick, throbbing inch of his cock.

“Oh, Professor,” you whined, eyes rolling back at the feeling of being filled by him. You swore you could feel him in your throat the more he pushed in. When you thought there was no more, he kept inching in, his own breath catching when he growled as he neared bottoming out.

“Fucking tight. I knew you would be. And so wet.” His hand inched up once he buried himself completely in your pussy, fingers coiling around a swirl of your hair. “A little masochist, hm? Like the pain, little girl?”

“If I say yes will you hurry up?”

A quick, deep laugh prefaced the heavy hand that smacked over your left cheek, pussy clenching onto his cock and making you see white for a second. Barber coughed, hair-wrapped hand pulling back and straining your neck toward him.

“That mouth,” he tsked, pulling out at leisure and feeling your walls desperately attempt at pulling him back in, “I’ll remember to gag you in the future.”

With that he finally, finally slammed into you, your hips bruising against his desk with each new plunge. The belt unfolded in your periphery when he let it go, his hand instead gripping into your hip and pulling you onto him and keeping your steady. He once more took hold over your wrists and your shoulders left and met the desk in pace with his thrusts. His breath came faster, every inch of him fucking into you with ease. He was hitting you perfectly, branches of impending release spreading over your skin and tightening in your belly.

“Shit, your close.” He kept steady, his pace and position the perfect catalyst of pleasure. “You think you deserve to cum?” Unsure if he wanted your words, you kept your mouth shut and instead frantically nodded, whimpers and whine leaving with every intoxicating crash of his pelvis. A seethed, another growl leaving him when you met him with silence. “Speak, you little slut. Settle this. Tell me!”

“God fucking dammit! You! I want you to make me fucking cum, Barber! Jesus fucking Christ!”

One last smack lit over your right cheek and your hips stalled, legs stiffened, and breath caught. A collection of moans, praises, curses, and cries left you, incoherent to you as you drowned in the alight pleasure that came from cumming on his massive cock.

Soon after, several deep, erratic thrusts carrying him towards his own climax, Barber’s hips stalled and he filled you further with hot, thick streams of spend. The sensation of his cum coating your walls shivered through you, your shoulders now strained as you listened to him come down.

He pulled out, fixed his pants, restrung his belt and untied your wrists. His casualness was so attractive, so routine even as you remained skirt-up and shirtless on his desk. It wasn’t processing that that had just happened; that Professor Barber had just fucked you – belted you – and you remained panting, feeling his cum linger out of you, all while he collected his bearings.

“My office hours end soon.” It wasn’t serious, his voice teasing yet stern. “You’ve learned your lesson, I trust?”

The smile you bit back was painful. He was funny, too, apparently. Finally opening your eyes, you stood from his desk and turned to face him, fixing your posture so your tits were on full display. Tracing your tongue over your bottom lip, you looked up at him and dragged a single hand up his chest. His jaw twitched, cheeks pink with sated pleasure, face framed with sweat-damp hair. He’d enjoyed himself just as much as you.

“I don’t know. I’m obviously not the best student. Maybe I need more teaching.”

Professor Barber’s face tightened as he tried to hide a smirk. He caught your wrist and dragged his thumb over the palm of your hand. “Oh, I know you will.”

“Was this my last class of the week, Professor?”

He couldn’t hide it any longer, eyes narrowing as his mouth quirked. He leaned in close, gripping tighter onto your arm. “So eager. Young. A little naïve, I think.” Your other hand went to dip into his pants, but he caught this one as well. “Definitely naïve.” He stood upright again, looking down at you through the intense dark crowding his eyes.

“Don’t schedule anything after my class on Monday. You’ll be… tied up.”

#charlie barber #charlie barber x reader #charlie barber x you #smut #no fluff for once #adam driver #charlie barber fic #office hours

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darks-ink · 3 years

Text

Darkness - Ectoberweek 2020

Yes I wrote this one because I just really wanted to write Vlad and Danny meeting in Antonym-verse, shh. Don’t say anything.

[first part]

Rating: Gen Warnings: - Genre: Supernatural Words: 2,147 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Sequel

[AO3] [FFN]

---

“Well,” Danny said, humming thoughtfully.

“Well,” the other person agreed, his bright red eyes absurdly visible in the dark room they were in.

Since the man didn’t seem inclined to talk, Danny didn’t bother to, either. Instead he started peering around, blinking his own vivid green eyes. Even though his retained night vision usually did him little good, he was glad to have it, now. He highly doubted ordinary humans would’ve been able to see in the pitch black they were in.

Unfortunately, the room did not include any hints as to where he was, nor why he was here.

“You’re Danny, aren’t you?” the man suddenly asked, his red eyes narrowed. “The Fenton’s adopted son?”

Danny hummed. He wasn’t sure if he was legally adopted, the human world had so much complicated paperwork, but they certainly seemed intent on counting him as their son. “Yeah,” he finally agreed, figuring he should vocalize. “But I don’t think I know you. Do I?”

The man visibly considered that, weighing options against each other. Finally he offered a hand to Danny. “Vlad.”

“Well, you already know my name, obviously.” Danny shot him a grin as he took the hand and shook it. “But I’m Danny.”

“And you’re half-ghost,” Vlad said, a strange emphasis on the ‘half-ghost’. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, so are you,” Danny pointed out with a shrug. “I think that the more pressing questions are “where are we?” and “how did we get here?”, don’t you?”

Vlad hummed at that, expression somewhere between pleased and aggravated. Someone was digging for information, huh? “Yes, I suppose you’re right. You don’t know either, then?”

“Nope,” he agreed easily, taking his eyes off of Vlad to look around again. The room was empty and featureless, absolutely non-distinct in how bland it was. “But! I don’t think we’re in the Ghost Zone.”

“How can you tell?”

“Not nearly enough ectoplasm in the atmosphere.” Danny leaned over to knock on the wall. “And these are solid. Humans can go through walls in the Ghost Zone.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Ghost Zone.” Vlad’s eyes narrowed once more.

“Yeah, well.” Danny paused, reconsidered. Vlad didn’t seem like a ghost, not like him. Vlad seemed like a human. If Danny could become part human as a ghost, why couldn’t a human become part ghost? “I guess I spent a good bit of time there.”

“And your parents?” Vlad pressed, cold disinterest in his voice.

Danny snorted, dismissive. “You mean my biological parents? Dunno. Can’t remember them. That’s why the Fentons took me in, y’know? Now can we please focus on getting out of wherever this is before we continue the interrogation?”

“Yes, of course,” Vlad said, graciously. Like this was anything to be gracious about. Danny bet that if he’d been in full control of his powers he could’ve beaten the other half-ghost easy. But, alas. He was still fighting to control his core, never mind use his powers properly. He would have to settle for civilized human behavior.

“Good.” Danny turned away from Vlad, walking along the wall, one hand trailing over it. The whole thing felt solid in a uniquely human way. Definitely no ghosts involved here.

The door, when Danny reached it, was no less solid. He grabbed onto the rounded doorknob and jangled it, but there was no give. Definitely locked. “Yeah, we’re not getting out this way.”

Vlad, who still hadn’t moved, the ass, hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose we will have to use our powers to leave, then. I see no cameras of any sort, do you?”

“No,” Danny admitted, releasing the door and looking around just to be sure. “I suppose you’re right. Some intangibility and invisibility should get us out.”

“Yes, indeed.” Vlad crossed his arms, waiting for a moment before arching his brow at Danny. “Well, go on then.”

“Me?” He scoffed. “It was your idea. You go first.”

The man stared at him for a moment longer, his red eyes boring straight into Danny’s, before he sighed. “Fine, then. But only because I suspect I cannot hope to out-stubborn a teenager, let alone one raised by Jack Fenton.”

Danny quirked an eyebrow at that unexpected hostility. Sure, he’d only known Jack for a month or two, but still. He seemed like a good man.

Vlad’s transformation was similar to Danny’s own. A spark of light from the chest, from the core, forming into rings which passed over the body, and shifted it from one state to the other. Admittedly Vlad’s were bizarrely black, while still giving off light, but it didn’t really matter. Not now, at least.

No, Danny was far more interested in Vlad’s ghost form. He looked rather like a typical ghost, up to and including a thematic appearance. And what an appearance. Vlad had gone full vampire on his looks, with pale blue skin, empty red eyes, pointed ears and sharp fangs. His hair, black in ghost form, was swept up into gravity-defying points, and his clothing did not match the suit he’d been wearing at all.

Hell, the guy even wore a cape. What kinda person did that?

But… Vlad had gone and shifted to his ghost form, so Danny supposed he’d better follow suit. Mentally crossing his fingers that his powers would hold—his core was still settling back into proper stability after his accident—he called his core to the forefront of his existence. Light flashed as he, too, transformed into a ghost.

Vlad quirked an eyebrow at him, judgment heavy in the air. “A jumpsuit, boy, really? You are certainly a Fenton, aren’t you?”

“It’s Phantom, actually,” Danny correctly idly. “The jumpsuit is just a coincidence.” He lifted up from the floor, trying to judge how well his core was doing that day. “Now come on, I don’t have all day.”

“And you think I do?” Vlad scoffed, but started floating as well. “I will go first. I expect I will be more likely to recognize where we are than you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t have to be so haughty about it. “Sure, knock yourself out.” Danny swept out an arm in a wide arc to underline the statement, throwing in a sarcastic bow as well.

The gesture clearly wasn’t lost on Vlad, but he apparently made the choice to ignore it, flying towards one of the walls and flickering invisible before he hit it. With a roll of his eyes, Danny followed, focusing his senses on the feel of Vlad’s core so he could track the man while invisible.

Outside it was… also dark, admittedly, but not as hopelessly pitch-black as inside. A glance upwards confirmed that it was a regular dark—stars barely visible due to a nearby city, and the new moon that was supposed to come that night.

Vlad was still nearby, although invisible, so Danny let himself drift over. “Well,” he said when he was close enough, keeping his voice low since they were still invisible. “I don’t think we missed much time. The moon phase is correct.”

“Hm. And what do you know of where we are?” Vlad asked, a tone of curiosity layered under the smarminess of his voice. “Or have you spent all your time looking up?”

“I thought you were going to focus on our location?” Danny shook his head, realized Vlad couldn’t see, then decided to look around anyway.

And, huh.

“Well, at least we’re not far from home,” he said, feebly.

They were on the outskirts of Amity Park.

“You aren’t, no.” Vlad huffed, a sound of displeasure. “Unlike you, however, I live in Wisconsin.”

Cool. That meant very little to Danny. He was pretty sure that it was a state in the country he was living in, but where, or how far away it was? Absolutely meaningless.

“Okay, well… If you know the Fentons you can probably stay over?” He let his invisibility drop, since the strain on his core was rather unnecessary. The people of Amity Park didn’t look up enough to care about ghosts in the sky. “And if you didn’t… Well, they probably would let you stay over anyway. They’d love to talk more about your half-ghost-ness.”

“Joy,” Vlad muttered, and he could not possibly have put more distaste in the word. “And you do not care to stay invisible, then?”

“I can’t keep it up forever, dude.” Danny shrugged, letting his legs blend away into a tail as he drifted in the direction towards home. “Besides, I know Amity Park. It’s a safe place to fly without invisibility, trust me.”

Vlad scoffed, but dropped his invisibility as well. “Very well, then. Lead on.”

Danny nodded back, then shifted into proper flight, making sure to keep his speed fairly low. As annoying as it was to have to hold back, he knew he couldn’t make full use of his powers, not while his core was still recovering from the transition. One day, hopefully, he’d get back to his prior strength.

Still, that did make him wonder. It definitely seemed like Vlad was a human who’d become half-ghost. How did that work, compared to Danny himself? How strong was Vlad? Did he need to wait for his core to mature the usual way? That almost seemed easier to Danny than what he was going through. A slow progressive growth, rather than having all these powers and not having the power to use them.

And Vlad had conveniently skipped around explaining how he knew the Fentons, too. Honestly, he was kind of giving Danny the creeps. Something about his behavior was just… off. Weird.

Or maybe that was just how slimy he was, how haughty, how superior. Yugh.

Vlad didn’t try talking to him while they were flying to FentonWorks, although he did raise a questioning eyebrow at the neon sign when they landed behind it.

“The glow of the sign will hide our light,” Danny explained with a shrug. He’d been told by Jazz that the sign was an oddity among humans, but he didn’t think it was that weird. “We can enter the house through the door up here.”

“Why not phase inside?” Vlad asked, crossing his arms. “That way no one will see us.”

“True. But it’s also rude to go inside without announcing yourself.” Danny grinned at Vlad, displaying his own sharp teeth, before releasing his core to shift back to human form. The flashing light was barely visible beyond the glow of the sign. “Coming, Vlad?”

The other half-ghost sighed, making a motion like rolling his eyes—despite the fact that they were empty in his ghost form—but transformed back into human form as well. “I would’ve thought that using ghost powers meant we were no longer following human sensibilities, but it’s your house.”

Human sensibilities? What, has no one ever told this guy the rules of lairs in the Ghost Zone? Yikes. “You do realize that it’s a thing in the Ghost Zone too, right? Not randomly wandering into people’s lairs?”

“And how would you know?” Vlad sneered back, his eyes dark for the first time since Danny had met him. “You’re what, fourteen? And clearly new to being half-ghost, too.”

“Yeah!” Danny snapped, feeling his core kick up a notch. He was so tired of this asshole. “Yeah, I’m new to being half-ghost! Because I was a full ghost before this!”

He leaned in closer to Vlad, seeing the reflection of his glowing eyes in Vlad’s. “Just because you think you’re a big deal doesn’t mean you are. You don’t know shit, Vlad.”

Satisfied that he’d gotten his point across, Danny whirled around, pulling open the door and climbing down the stairs. After a moment, he heard Vlad follow.

“You are… a ghost turned half-human?” Vlad asked, quietly. “Not the reverse?”

“Not like you, no,” Danny confirmed, opening the door to the upper floor hallway. “But the Fentons will still want to talk to you.”

“No.” Vlad stopped before crossing the door. Danny, too, stopped, turning around to face Vlad again. “No, I don’t think that that’s going to happen.”

“What?”

“I thought I had found someone like me. For that, I was willing to put up with Jack Fenton, at least for the moment. But now?” Vlad scoffed, a derisive sound. “For a poor ghostly imitation? No, certainly not. Goodbye, Phantom.”

With that, Vlad whirled around, vanishing from sight. Danny could still track his core—apparently Vlad had shifted forms almost immediately—but he was, in fact, leaving.

“Well. That just happened,” Danny muttered to himself as Vlad left the premises entirely. “Wonder what the chances are that the Fentons know more than one guy named Vlad.”

He shrugged to himself, continuing down to the living room, where his family waited. Guess he had some more mysteries to solve now.

Like that room. What the fuck was up with that?

#danny phantom #ectoberweek2020 #ectoberweek 2020 #dp fanfic #phanfic #danny fenton #vlad masters #whoo i finished 6 out of 7 fics for this event!#they're all kinda short but hush that's good #i wanted to stop writing monstrous one-shots that never ended #dark writes

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

The Only Thing My Brain Wants to Write Today

CW: Consensual spice but Kauri is super angsty about it

“This can’t possibly be what you had in mind,” The guy says, looking around them, and Kauri wants to tell him to shut up and keep his eyes where it matters but he never knows how to say things like that, all he can do is tilt his head and smile and hope for the best.

“I’ve slept in worse places than this,” Kauri breathes, as though saying that is sexy somehow even though it’s not, it’s sad, his whole life is pathetic and fucking sad, right?

The park around them is dark, and the park bench is hard and uncomfortable against his back, the wooden slats cold where his shirt has ridden up and pressed the soft skin around his spine against it. Kauri’s hands work at the man’s belt buckle with experienced speed, he doesn’t even have to look, he never has to look, all he has to do is turn his fingers and pull and there it goes, the clink of metal on metal, the button to his pant suddenly a textured metal circle against Kauri’s thumb.

“You don’t waste time, huh?” The guy laughs and Kauri can’t remember his name, it’s Stan or something, it doesn’t matter, he never calls their names because he’s never thinking about them.

“Life is short,” Kauri says, nuzzling into his neck, wishing he’d just shut the fuck up and get this done so Kauri could get the itch out from under his skin, the drumbeat of need that he felt whenever no one was touching him for too long. Rolling his hips up to meet the man’s, Kauri slides an arm around him to pull him down while his fingers make quick work of the button and zipper, sliding fingers under the waistband to the boxers he feels, threadbare, paper-thin fabric.

He should buy new boxers, Kauri thinks idly, even as he simultaneously thinks about tearing them off with his teeth.

I don’t care about you. He has the words on his tongue, resting just behind his lips. He could say them now, as his hand moves, his mouth against the man’s next, coaxing sound from the man that the trees around them swallow whole, the park eating their desire like Owen would have eaten Kauri’s pain and tears and fear and told him this was just what it meant to love.

There’s only one other person he knows how to feel things for, real things that aren’t just the itch under his skin and the way it feels nice to wake up in someone’s bed without a new bruise or burn or cut or without electricity crackling in your nerves and he can’t be still long enough. He’ll never be still long enough.

The man groans, murmurs something loving and soft and sweet in Kauri’s ear, and Kauri chuckles and says something stupid and pointless in return, kisses him until they’re both breathless and dizzy from it, shifting the man’s pants down his hips, and he feels clumsy fingers working at his jeans, tipping his head back for a moment, giving himself the half-second of fantasy of different eyes, different hands, different hair different voice and different words better words the words he wants-

The man asks him a question and Kauri doesn’t really hear it but the sound of the voice breaks his fantasy apart and he wants to scream and be drunk and be done here and go.

I don’t give a fuck about you.

This is just getting something out from under my skin that Owen paid them to put there and I don’t trust anyone and nobody can trust me because I’m just a fucking slut and everyone knows it they know it he knows it even if he pretends I’m not who the fuck am I kidding who the fuck am I kidding who the fuck am I-

“How far d’you wanna go tonight?” The man asks, his voice caught and strained, and he closes his fingers around Kauri and watches with intensity as Kauri bites back a moan and bucks his hips up into the warmth and sensation. Around them, the park is empty, deserted, this late at night or early in the morning, whichever it is.

As far away from here as I can get, Kauri thinks, but he gives the man his soft, fogged-over smile, full of desire and sweetness.

The bench is hard against his back, the night is cold around him.

You’re so good at this, the last guy said, you should charge for it.

Seventeen ways to spread your legs, the rescue that kicked him out of his first shelter whispers into the back of his mind. That’s all you know how to do.

“I want to get you off,” Kauri says, because it’s sort of true, he does, if it gets him off, too. “How do you want me?”

“Jesus Christ,” The guy says, sounding shocked. Looking it, too, and Kauri smiles a real, true smile at the comical expression on his face. “Why haven’t I ever met you before?”

“Don’t know,” Kauri says, softly. The man’s hand twists, just as he strokes upward, and Kauri’s eyes flutter as his vision shatters into sparks of pleasure. Mindless pleasure he can chase, to soothe the jangled nerves that grow and grow each day he goes without touch, that demand he be soothed and reassured and told he is good for someone, anyone, ever, at all. “Ah, ah, keep doing th-that, maybe because... because I’m n-never in the same place twice,” Kauri whispered, moaning into the guy’s ear when he does the twisted-wrist trick again.

“Come back to my place,” The guy offers, lips moving against his ear and down to his neck. Kauri’s back arches, presses him up into the man, and he is falling apart at his touch, at the soft hint of vulnerability in the man’s voice. “You’re beautiful. I want to wake up with you.”

You’ll never see me again.

“Sure,” Kauri says, and gives him a dazzling smile, practice-makes-perfect, thinks about learning to smile at the end of a baton, at the other end of electricity, taught to smile through pain until the action is entirely divorced from his emotions. “I’d love to go home with you. Make me breakfast?”

“Mmmmmn, rail you into the fucking ground, wake up with you, make you breakfast?” The guy laughs, and Kauri thinks he’s probably a nice guy, like some of them are. Some people just want someone who wants them back, and they don’t know any better with Kauri.

Kauri doesn’t know any better about himself.

“Sounds like a date,” The man says. “You gonna need a ride home tomorrow?”

Home is just a Facility where you can turn the lights off.

Home is a place where they don’t have to let you leave.

“Nah, I can take care of myself,” Kauri says, flashes that smile again. HIs phone rings, muffled inside his backpack, and for a second Kauri stiffens, but then he just ignores it. He can call back later.

There’s only one person who calls at one in the morning, or whatever fucking time it is right now. And it’s one person Kauri doesn’t want to talk to right now, not feeling like this, not electrified with want that he can’t get unless he goes to someone for it.

“You need to answer that?” The guy asks, playfully, stroking Kauri as he tilts his head, and Kauri can’t help the little bubble of laughter that finds its way out.

“Not tonight,” Kauri whispers, slides his arms up around the guys neck, pulls him down for a kiss.

Not until I get this out of me

Not until I get him inside me

Not until I feel good enough

Not until I feel like a person

Not until I’m good enough for someone

Not until I stop thinking about how I’m not good enough for you

Tonight I’m not answering my phone at all.

#future kauri #erase to control #original fiction #Kauri Makes Poor Life Choices #consensual spice tw #angst #trauma recovery #sometimes it do be like that #conditioned whumpee #conditioning #box boy #box boy universe

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moonstone-blues · 3 years

Text

A Spark By The River - Chapter 9: Red And Blue

“Jesus, Blue. You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

River chuckled as she sniffled. She had dark bags under her eyes, her skin was pale, hair dishevelled and a red nose.

River and Piper had met up a few streets away from Diamond City. After a rough night, River and Nick decided to split up to try and find a fusion core. Nick would look in the more irradiated places and River would go with Piper to try and find one amongst the ruins of the city. Nick still wasn’t comfortable letting River go alone and while he didn’t exactly trust Piper with the details of the case, Codsworth was busy helping make Sanctuary more comfortable for the settlers there and Preston was busy trying to set up some sort of line of communication.

Once Piper heard that there was a chance she could get herself in the story, she didn’t hesitate to grab her bag. River was concerned about Nat but Piper assured her she would be fine on her own for a bit. And if she needed anything, Arturo was only around the corner. He didn’t always agree with Piper but he couldn’t say no to helping a kid.

Piper nudged River with her elbow as the two began to walk.

“I didn’t get much sleep.” River admitted with a shrug. She had tried but it just felt… Wrong. Knowing she would wake up and Jack wouldn’t be beside her… She couldn’t. Not yet.

“Nick keeping you up with all his nagging?” Piper joked, using her hand as a puppet and pretending to talk.

River giggled, shaking her head. “He’s been nagging me to get some sleep."

"I remember when he used to do that with me.” Piper thought back.

As they navigated through the streets, River noticed that Piper was less careful than Nick, only occasionally ducking behind something when a noise was heard. Whether that was because of River or just their normal strategies, River didn’t know.

Footsteps sounded. They were slow. River quickly ducked into an alleyway, pulling Piper beside her. The footsteps became quicker. River could guess it was an animal by the sound of two feet hitting the ground at once. A blur of green whizzed past. Piper recoiled.

“Mutants.” Piper whispered to herself.

“Those big green men?” River questioned.

“If they have a hound out, there’s probably one close by.” She explained.

“They have dogs?!” River exclaimed in a quiet voice. More things she didn’t know about them, great!

“You can get a zoology lesson later, we need to go.” Piper turned around. Upon looking down the alleyway, it branching off at the bottom, she groaned.

“I should really scout out this area more.”

“Is there anywhere specifically we need to go?” River questioned walking down the alleyway.

Piper followed her, trying to come up with a solution in her head. “West would probably be best but I don’t know which path-”

“That one.” River said, pointing to the one on the right.

“But won’t that take us back the way we came?” Piper asked, looking down it.

“For a bit.” River nodded. “But it will make a ‘U’ shape taking us back up. The alley ahead leads to a dead end and the one on the left goes back to the same road.”

Piper blinked in astonishment.

River smiled sheepishly as she began to walk down the alley.

“Hey, you spend hours navigating alleys with Nick.” River chuckled.

“Okay, maybe a little nagging from Nick is okay.” Piper admitted with a defeated shrug. “But don’t tell sixteen year old me that.”

It was River’s turn to be astonished. “You knew Nick at sixteen?"

Piper raised an eyebrow. "How long do you think Nick’s been in Diamond City?"

River shrugged as she carefully stepped over a fallen trash can. Piper and her had to hold their noses at the putrid stench of it’s rotten contents. When they were a good enough distance away, River responded.

"I don’t know.” River shrugged. “I know he was there when the Mayor’s daughter went missing…”

Piper’s face lit up. “He told you the 'beep’ story?"

River laughed, nodding. "Can you imagine it?"

"Oh I would give anything to have been there at the time.” Piper grinned. “That was about two mayors ago.”

“Oh wow. A long time then.” River stated.

The two made their way around a corner, spotting a small playground just ahead. The two looked at each other before walking ahead.

“Ugh I hate these places.” Piper shivered as she opened the, surprisingly still working, gate and walked into the park. “How did kids used to play here?"

"Believe it or not, not everywhere used to be an apocalyptic Wasteland full of raiders and green feral dogs.” River joked, walking up to a climbing frame that looked like a spaceship. She poked her head inside.

“Well it was also full of weird space monkeys.” Piper shrugged.

River tried to pull her head out of the spaceship but she accidently hit it on the top, not realising how small the entrance actually was. She let out a pained yelp as she held her head, carefully pulling it away. She rubbed her head as she turned to Piper who was stifling a laugh.

“Space monkey?” River said through her winces. She then realised what Piper meant. “Oh! Jangles the moon monkey!” She exclaimed. She double checked her hand to see if there was any blood. Couldn’t be too careful.

Piper snickered as she raised an eyebrow. “Jangles? Moon Monkey?"

"Yeah, he was a TV show character, I think. There’s toys of him, too. I was thinking of getting Shaun one but their faces are just…” River cringed. “Besides, they cost thirty dollars."

"So… He wasn’t an actual space monkey?” Piper questioned, leaning against an old slide, hearing sticks and leaves crunch under her feet.

“Moon monkey.” River reminded. “And no. He’s just a character.”

“And I thought I had pre war times all figured out…” Piper shook her head with a sigh. A thought suddenly hit her as she looked back up at River.

“You know a lot about pre war times, right?” Piper asked, a grin beginning to form on her face.

“I did live there all my life.” River said plainly. This wasn’t new information to Piper. Seeing Piper’s full grin was a big give away of what was going through her mind.

“Another paper?” River chuckled.

“Perhaps…” Piper said suspiciously. “The ghouls I manage to talk to don’t really go into detail. Besides… you’re relatively fresh.”

River smiled, giving Piper a side glance, seeing the reporter smirk.

“If you’ve seen any old posters, probably like that.” River simply told her.

“So… Space monkeys?” Piper teased with a laugh.

River gently pushed Piper, not helping herself as she giggled along. Once Piper reegainedd her composure, she took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. But seriously, what was it like?” Piper genuinely asked.

“Well… ever hear of the ‘American Dream’?” River began walking towards the swings.

“Kinda. I’ve seen a few pictures with that on. But I don’t get it. They’re all just families having dinner.“

“That’s kind of the point.” River examined the swing, checking if it could take her weight. She continued.

“Families being happy, just living their life. No worries, no stress. Everyone has equal opportunities and has the same value of life.”

“Sure sounds like a dream.” Piper rolled her eyes, sitting on the swing, not checking if it was safe herself. “How did people possibly believe that could happen?”

River shrugged, carefully sitting on the swing. She gently began to swing back and forth. “It was a way to distract people from the war. So much was going on. Everyone was clinging to what was left of our country. And that was the American Dream.” River sighed. “Maybe if we all weren’t so focused on a pretend picture perfect life, we could’ve been more prepared…” River clenched her fists. She quickly relaxed, softening her facial expression.

“Sorry… I guess my husband’s feelings on this rubbed off on me…” River chuckled. “He was a military man.”

“Like the Brotherhood?” Piper asked.

River hesitated. “Kind of…”

“But without the super mutant and ghoul bloodlust.” Piper added. “Oh, and don’t forget the ‘will literally kill people for technology’ mentality.” She shook her head. “Anyway, got any specific details? Like your life?” Piper asked.

“My life?” River raised an eyebrow as she stopped swinging.

“Well, yeah. We still don’t know each other that well.” Piper explained. "Promise this one’s not going in the paper.”

“Well I was kinda middle to high class, I would say.” River thought back to her childhood. “Had a loving dad, a money obsessed mom and a boy crazy little sister.”

“You had a little sister?” Piper questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. The age gap wasn’t as big as you and Nat though. We only had four years between us.” River began to gently swing once more.

“Were you close?”

River chuckled. “Sometimes. One minute we would be laughing and close as ever then the next we would be at each other’s throats.” She then sighed, a look of shock suddenly appearing on her face. “God… the last thing we did before the bombs was fight…” She stopped on the swing, it now fully sinking in. “Shit…”

“You didn’t know.” Piper leaned over and put her hand on River’s shoulder.

“I just hope that she got to her vault in time…” River leaned back.

Though, that may have been worse for her, considering what the Vault had done to River. Maybe Jane’s vault was better…

She looked back to Piper who looked back, expectantly. River continued. “Anyway, yeah. Born and raised in Boston. Went to D.B Technical High School where I met my husband, went to college, university and eventually married. I had just given birth to Shaun a few months before the war. He kind of occupied most of my time.” She explained.

“I’ll bet.” Piper chuckled. “Harder than growing up with a little sister.”

“But before Shaun, I practised law.” River smiled, thinking back to her law degree that had managed to survive the nuclear war.

She wanted to wait until she had time to examine and fix her house but as her foot nudged the cracked glass encasing the degree, she couldn’t help but proudly place it back on display.

“A lawyer, huh?” Piper thought. “And… what was justice like back then?” She hoped it was even a slither better than what McDonough was 'enforcing’.

“It was a bunch of power hungry bastards locking up anyone they didn’t like or who got in their way.” River replied with an annoyed huff.

“Shit.” Piper chuckled. She knew it would be too good to be true. “So, not much has changed then.”

River defended herself. “I made sure everyone got a fair trial. They didn’t get rolled over by the system.”

Piper smirked. “Guardian of the downtrodden, huh?”

“That sounds like a new title for a paper.”

“Maybe.”

River laughed, getting up from the swing. She pretended to swing a sword.

“Trial by combat. I rocked up thirty kills in my day.” She grinned. Of course, she had done many more court cases but who was counting?

“Huh. Always wondered why pre-war courthouses had all that gladiator equipment just lying around.” Piper stood up herself.

“It doesn’t matter now, though. The American penal code burned up along with most of Boston…” River tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I have an idea.” Piper said, beginning to walk.

River followed, not knowing what to expect.“Oh God, what?”

“You know all about law.” Piper began.

“Where is this going?” River cautiously questioned.

“Diamond City is pretty bad when it comes to managing the law. Maybe next election you could… you know…”

River shot her a look.

“Y’know… after you find your son, of course.” Piper haphazardly added.

River carefully stepped around the fallen pieces of gate on the opposite side of the miniature park. “Where will you get your source of satire without McDonough then?”

“I’ll probably find some scandalous secret you want to keep buried.” Piper shrugged, moving on ahead. “Maybe you’re hiding some dirty little dungeon.”

“Ha ha.” River rolled her eyes. “So, any idea where we can find a fusion core?” She asked, looking around. The tall, decrepit apartments toward over the two as they gazed up.

Piper had a thought. “Fusion cores are pretty rare… we can either spend days searching every single building which are probably full of ghouls or we look in the only place that you can be certain to find them…” She groaned at her conclusion. “The Brotherhood. Well, we can’t exactly waltz onto their ship and politely ask for one of their precious fusion cores like squatters.”

River sighed, walking on. Everything was quiet. Eerily quiet.

“You okay if I put some music on? Shouldn’t be too loud.” River asked, holding up her pip boy.

Piper nodded.

River was about to select the Diamond City Radio but she noticed a new radio channel present on her pip boy.

“Military Frequency AF95.”

Piper walked behind River and peeked over her shoulder, her curiosity evident.

“-s Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius to any unit in transmission range. Authorization Arx. Ferrum. Nine. Five. Our unit has sustained casualties and we’re running low on supplies. We’re requesting support or evac from our position at Cambridge Police Station.”

“That sounds bad.” River said, tuning out the channel.

Piper nodded her head, agreeing. “Speak of the devil.” River raised her eyebrow in confusion. “She said she was… Scribe? Yeah. That’s a rank in the Brotherhood. Just leave it. They’ll be fine on their own.”

River rolled her eyes, checking her map. They weren’t that far away…

“Brotherhood or not, they need help.”

Piper watched as River continued to walk well into the city.

“Blue! You can’t just- They- Ugh!” Piper finally gave in, reluctantly chasing after River.

River navigated the streets of Boston carefully. Piper groaned as she squeezed herself in between a truck and a brick wall, sucking in her stomach as she tried to keep up with River.

“Nick warned me you were a runaway, but I didn’t think you were-” She took a deep breath as she moved away from the truck, following River up the main road which happened to lead into a large, open area. “-This bad.”

River chuckled, turned around. She rested a hand on her hip with a smirk. “What can I say? I’m-”

Piper glanced to the side as she heard growling. “Feral!” She pounced forward, pushing River down as a ghoul flew past them.

River yelled in pain as her head hit concrete. She looked ahead and saw Piper over her, smiling nervously.

“Sorry.”

River opened her mouth to respond but quickly stopped, pushing Piper away, raising her pistol and shooting a ghoul looming over her.

“Apologize later!”

Piper quickly stood up, while River scrambled to her feet, readying themselves. A few more ghouls were beginning to surround them as they had decided to check out where the loud noises were coming from.

“So much for being careful…” River muttered to herself. It was still going to take her a while to get used to safely navigating the city, no matter how much she had already learned.

The ghouls began to run. River and Piper backed up quickly. River looked around, spotting a nearby diner.

“Up there!”

River climbed onto a rusted old car, making sure Piper was following. She carefully balanced herself as she walked across a fallen lamppost. From the way they pounced carelessly and stumbled round, River could guess that they wouldn’t be elegant or coordinated enough to follow them. She managed to hop on top of the diner, thankful that it had managed to hold her weight. Piper was close behind, but so were the ghouls. She was only a couple feet away from the diner when a feral ghoul from below had jumped up, clawing at Piper. It caught her foot, causing her to lose her balance and fall off.

“Blue!”

River lunged forward and grabbed Piper’s arm, using all of her strength to try and pull her up. The ghoul was strong, however, it’s claw saught on Piper’s coat. Piper swung her foot, trying to shake or kick the ghoul off of her. River reached for her gun only to realise she forgot to holster it. She glanced behind her and saw it a few feet away, just out of reach.

“Dammit.”

She turned back to Piper, thoughts and decisions flying through her head.

“Piper, do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Why?”

“Sorry!”

River quickly let go of Piper, letting the woman fall with a short scream. She dived for her pistol, quickly grabbing it. She scrambled to the edge of the diner roof, spotting Piper trying to fight off a snarling, snapping ghoul. She winced, holding out what looked like the bumper of the car they had climbed on top of. She pressed it against the ghouls chest, keeping it in place, futilely swinging at her. River readied her weapon, took aim and then fired, piercing the ghoul’s head.

The gunshot alerted the couple other ghouls who were still trying to figure out how to reach their dinner on the rooftop. Not only that, but even more ghouls had started to emerge from the different buildings surrounding them. Piper chuckled nervously as she watched the dead eyes glare at her. She waved.

“Nice fer-”

River grabbed Piper’s raised arm, trying her best to hoist Piper up. Piper climbed onto the lamp post once she was high enough, letting River relax. Piper cautiously joined her. There was a moment of brief peace for the two before Piper reeled back, punching River in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“I could’ve died!” Piper growled.

There was a pause. “But you… didn’t?” she shrugged. River had to admit her plan was absurd. Guess she was starting to get used to wastelander ways.

Piper opened her mouth to argue back but stopped herself, folding her arms.

“God, I see why Nick wanted to split for a bit.”

River let out a breathless chuckle, still panting. Piper raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

River took deep breaths. Piper gasped.

“I’m not that heavy!”

River finally gained her breath back and laughed. “Come on, let’s check our bullets and see if we can pick the rest of them off…”

After the two killed the rest of the ghouls, they carefully climbed down from the diner. They both cringed at the smell. Seemed like even people who were used to this could never get over the smell.

Piper covered her nose as she carefully made her way around the ghoul corpses. She took in her surroundings. “College Square. Explains why it stinks this much.”

River tilted her head slightly, confused. “Because of all the teenagers?” She chuckled to herself before realising Piper might not get the joke.

Piper raised her eyebrow at her before pointing away from them, her expression now serious. “No, because of that.”

River turned to where Piper was pointing and gasped.

During their fight, she didn’t notice… The dozens of decaying human corpses strewn about. A lot had been half eaten. And they had clearly been dead for a while.

River took a few steps back, feeling sick to her stomach. This was a massacre. Piper continued on her way, face screwing up as the smell became too much.

River quickly followed her. “All those people…” She mumbled.

“Raiders.” Piper stated. “You can tell by the gear.”

“Those ferals couldn’t have killed that many people.” River only counted about ten feral ghouls. She understood they could be vicious but no way they could cause that much carnage.

“The rest must’ve gone into the city.” Piper said in agreement. “I know they’re evil people who did horrible things but being eaten alive by ferals?” A shiver ran down her spine. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

River nodded. “Yeah.”

As they neared the exit of College Square, they could hear gunshots. They carefully approached, seeing more ferals rushing towards a barricaded police station.

“That must be it.” River pointed out.

“Yeah, the Brotherhood look like they’ve got it all under co- Blue?” Piper looked beside her to see River gone. She turned back to see River had moved ahead, hiding behind a wall before taking shots at the ghouls.

Piper groaned. “Nick, you owe me big time for this…”

It seemed like the majority of ghouls were dead. A few bodies were around the station with the others obviously back in College Square. That explained why there weren’t that many the two had to deal with.

Piper ran forward but nearly tripped up when something grabbed her leg. She whipped her head around and yelped, seeing a legless ghoul clinging onto her. It wasn’t long before a bullet pierced it’s skull. Piper shook the arm off and ran towards River who was being surrounded by a small group of three ghouls. She stood there, watching them. And just before they were about the pounce, she quickly moved out of the way, letting the three ghouls attack each other. However, she wasn’t aware of her surroundings and ended up tripping over some debris from a nearby building. She fell to the ground only to be rushed at by another feral ghoul. She stuck her leg out, letting the ghoul run into it. She kept the ghoul at bay as it swung for her. She tried reaching for her pistol-

It was gone.

River groaned as she spotted it practically right underneath the tangle of ghouls just ahead of her. She really needed a bigger gun she wouldn’t lose.

She could hear Piper dealing with her own set of ghouls and it didn’t seem like the Brotherhood were going to leave their fortress.

The feral attacked whatever it could, scratching and sinking its nails into River’s leg. She bit back a scream as she desperately felt around for something- anything!

She didn’t take her eyes off the ghoul. Her leg made sure it’s head couldn’t reach down to bite her but that didn’t make her any less terrified.

She wasn’t going to end up like those raiders.

River eventually felt something sharp stab her hand. She gripped it tightly and let her leg drop for one second as she plunged the sharp thing into the ghoul’s head. It struggled for a moment more before falling limp. River took a deep and shaky breath, looking at the small, jagged pipe she had used as her weapon, sticking out of the now dead ghoul’s head. She stood up only to wince in pain as she put weight on her left leg. The battle seemed to be dying down but it wasn’t over. Luckily, the trio of ghouls she had previously escaped from seemed to be dead so River could quickly snatch her pistol back up. It took a few shots but eventually it seemed like the ghouls were all down.

River panted, her leg feeling weak. Piper jogged over.

“Blue!”

“Please tell me a scratch isn’t going to turn me into one.” River said, slightly limping as she approached Piper.

Piper shook her head. “No, but you should definitely get that looked at.”

“First, let’s make sure the Brotherhood people are okay.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure they’re all struggling in their impenetrable tin can suits and their fortified base.” Piper said with an eye roll. River shot her a displeased look. The two then made their way into the barricade.

There were three people outside the police station. A man wearing power armor covered in grime, a woman who was giving medical attention and the man she was giving it to.

“Are you guys okay?” River asked.

The man in the power armor turned to her. She would never get used to the height and sheer power that radiated from the suit alone, let alone the hardened soldiers that wore it. He reloaded his weapon.

“We appreciate the assistance, civilians. But what’s your business here?"

"We heard your distress signal.” River explained with a small smile. “We were close by so we thought we should help.”

“Don’t drag me into this.” Piper whispered under her breath.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Close by? You’re not from a settlement, are you?”

“Don’t answer that.” Piper quickly spoke to River.

River looked back at the woman then to the soldier. She wanted to help but she also had to be cautious. “Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t answer.

“We’ve done our good deed, let’s go.” Piper whispered, trying to rush River.

River sighed. “I’m from up north west. I… came out of a vault. Vault 111.”

“A vault Dweller? Most people wouldn’t admit that.” He finally spoke.

“Now can you tell me what you’re doing in the area? Not everyday you see someone wearing mint condition t-60 power armor.” River looked the man up and down. Even her suit wasn’t as clean. The Brotherhood didn’t seem like any other group in the Commonwealth.

“You know about power armor?” The man said, shocked. Most wastelanders had never even heard of power armor, let alone pick out a specific model.

River hesitated for a moment. “My husband was around power armor a lot while he was in the line of duty.”

The man smiled for the first time. “Ah, it’s good to know we have the assistance from an ally of the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Well, not-” River tried to explain.

“If I appear suspicious it’s because our mission here has been difficult. Since the moment we arrived in the Commonwealth, we’ve been constantly under fire.” He looked to River, smiling. “If you want to continue pitching in, we could use an extra gun on our side.”

Piper was slowly shaking her head, eyes narrowed. River sighed, trying to ignore her objections.

“I want to help but I don’t like the secrecy. Who are you?"

"Very well.” The man stood, proud. “I’m paladin danse.” He gestured to the two other people behind him. “Over there is Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys. We’re on recon duty, but I’m down a man and our supplies are running low. I’ve been trying to send a distress call to my superiors, but the signal’s too weak to reach them.”

“The distress call we found.”

“Correct.”

An unsure voice made River turn her attention to the woman, Scribe Haylen. “Sir, if I may?"

"Proceed, Haylen.”

“I’ve modified the radio tower on the roof of the police station, but I’m afraid it just isn’t enough. What we need is something that will boost the signal.” She explained. Her eyes then fixated on River’s leg. “You’ve been injured!"

River looked down at her leg before looking up at Scribe Haylen. "Just feral ghoul scratches, it only really hurts when I walk.”

“Despicable creatures.” Danse spat. “Haylen, take her inside. See what you can do.”

“Yes sir.”

“What about me?” The other man who hadn’t yet spoke loud enough for River to hear cried.

“I’ve done all I can, now you need to rest.” Haylen told him. “Come on.” She gestured for River to follow her.

“We’ll tell you about our mission once we’re inside.” Danse explained, walking to the entrance of the police station. He helped Rhys up before taking him inside.

Before River could move, Piper grabbed her shoulder and whispered.

“Blue, this is crazy!”

“I know, what I’ve heard of the Brotherhood isn’t good but this is my chance to get a fusion core.” River explained. “You said it yourself: we either spend what could be days going through every ghoul filled apartment or we can get one straight from the Brotherhood.”

“What do you even need this core for?!” Piper questioned.

River paused, confused. “Nick didn’t tell you?"

Piper threw her hands up in the air with a groan. "No! Do you think he tells me anything about his cases?!”

River sighed. She thought for a moment. She didn’t want the Institute to get a whiff of their plan…

But she did kind of owe Piper for dropping her in front of a feral ghoul.

“I need to use power armor to go into the Glowing Sea.” River began.

“The Glow- Why?!"

"There’s an Institute scientist who went rogue. He can help me find a way in.”

Piper’s confusion and annoyance turned into a child-like glee as her mouth stretched into a grin.

“You’re going to talk to. An Institute. Scientist?” She asked slowly.

“You can’t tell anyone.” River warned. “I can’t let the Institute get to him first.”

“My lips are sealed.” Piper 'zipped’ her lips shut to emphasise her point.

“Also I’m kind of bleeding out a little so I need them to patch me up.” River pointed out with a shrug.

“Come on.” Piper pulled River’s arm over her shoulder and started to walk, making sure she didn’t put much weight on her leg. “Let’s get you a fusion core.”

#fallout #fallout 4 #sole survivor x nick valentine #nick valentine x sole survivor #sole survivor #nick valentine #Piper Wright #paladin danse #scribe haylen #knight rhys #a spark by the river #asbtr #Sorry no Nick in this one!#Wanted to establish some of River's other friendships #Nick will have his own chapter in the future #also #This is my longest chapter!

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cayenne-twilight · 4 years

Note

A fic about Uncle Randall interacting with Flora and/or Kat and Alfendi?

Flora peered dreamily out the car window, as she usually did when she could actually convince the Professor to take her places. Three days ago she organized a persuasive presentation proving that she was responsible and capable enough to accompany him on his trip to the city of Monte D’Or. It took informative posters on an easel and ten minutes worth of speaking, but soon enough Flora was packing her bags. Of course, by the Professor’s earnest recommendation, she regretfully pruned her luggage down to one suitcase and one duffel bag. Packing lightly may be befitting of a gentleman, Professor, but not a lady. Am I supposed to wear the same outfit in the morning AND the evening?

She watched the view transition from the metropolis near the airport to rusty desert. Apparently one of the Professor’s secondary school friends built the city, and the rest of their clique lived there as well. He always associated with the most curious people. Flora couldn’t help but imagine what the Professor must have been like as a teenager. Was he already obsessed with being the perfect gentleman, or did he act a tad immature at times like Luke did? Was he in the robotics club like she was now? And what sort of friends did he spend time with? She heard him mention some names over the phone with Emmy, but what were they like? She imagined a bunch of history nerds discussing the Azran over tea. Did they all wear top hats as well? Flora suppressed a giggle at the mental image.

“This is no Laytonmobile, but it has been keeping up just fine,” Layton said. The rental car was a much more modern model than his beloved little Citroen. With its neutral paint job and contemporary luxury features, the Professor almost seemed out of his element driving it. Flora would never say it out loud, but she preferred this car to his usual rickety ride, although she could admit it had its own brand of charm.

“So you’re visiting your old friend to share your findings on the Azran?” Flora asked, hoping to get more out of him than the last two times she asked this question.

“In part. Ever since- well. For the past few years my good friend Randall has had an aversion to the Azran despite his interest in the civilization in our youth. Recently, though, the spark seems to have reignited. I’m bringing over the thesis I published as well as Desmond’s, who turned down the invitation to come here seeing as his relationship with Randall is rocky. (I believe I will force them to reconcile one of these days.) The timing of it all is really quite queer now that neither Desmond nor I want anything to do with Azran research.”

“Wow. It took you two whole years to get your paper published and you aren’t even interested in the topic anymore?” Flora couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be so spontaneous. If she were to write an entire academic thesis, it would be on a topic she would never get tired of learning more about.

The Professor said nothing. He just drove on along the dusty road until Monte D’Or was visible in the distance like an island surrounded by all this empty sand. As they pulled closer Flora marveled at the flamboyant hotels and casinos. Up until recently she felt like a tourist in her own city, but this was the real deal.

Flora sat on a couch in the Reunion Inn lobby while the Professor checked in and arranged for their luggage to be brought up. She could hardly call this an inn. The establishment Beatrice ran was an inn. This place was massive enough to house all the residents of her little village.

“Now that that’s settled, my dear, let’s head down to the Ledore mansion to say hello. I’ll introduce you to my old friends.”

Flora nearly fell over because of the way she was trying to absorb every detail of her surroundings. She heard there was supposed to be an absolutely darling parade on this street at night, and she asked if they planned on watching it.

“Ah, I remember the parade from the last time I visited. They run it once a week, but it feels awfully special when you’re a tourist. Of course we’ll see it,” Layton said.

He rang the doorbell to the mansion, and a woman with blonde hair done up in curls answered, “Hershel!”

“It’s good to see you, Angela. Have you three been well?”

“Yes, of course. And you must be Miss Flora,” she said, extending a hand. Flora shook it. “I’ll call Randall and get Henry to set the kettle for tea. Make yourselves at home.”

The Professor took a seat on the expansive couch, sorting through the folder he brought along, while Flora examined a curio cabinet set into the wall. Randall must collect these pieces of archeological memorabilia, all sorts of carved pots and ancient coins and whatnot. She remembered talking to Luke’s father about how there was more of this stuff out there than one might think, hence how much of the museum’s collection was archived.

“HERSHEL!” a man with slicked back red hair and glasses entered with his arms outstretched. The Professor turned his hug into a handshake.

“I must admit, I missed this Randall,” the Professor said.

“And which one might that be?”

“The one that would rather excavate cities than bury them-“

“Oh bug off, Hersh.” Randall turned to Flora. “You must be the girl from the robot town.”

“Um. Yes I suppose that is me.”

“I’d love to visit one day. How do they work? I hear they’re indistinguishable from humans! Are they modeled after the ancient golems?”

“Leave her be, Randall. So what have you been up to these days? Not farming, I presume.”

“No, not quite,” he laughed. “That’s just the thing. Angela and Henry have the mayoral duties covered, and I don’t think they would want me to intervene anyways. And I’d make an awful stay at home husband.”

“He would,” Angela and Henry said in unison. Henry carried a platter with tea to the coffee table and poured five cups.

“You haven’t done the one thing I asked you to do today,” Henry said.

Randall stared blankly. “And what might that have been?” He smiled like a child caught in a lie.

Angela facepalmed. “Do you even enter the kitchen? The sink is piled up with dishes. I hate to grill you in front of guests, but if you won’t help out around the house in the slightest, you better get a full time job.”

“Yes, about that. I was thinking of curating the Monte D’Or museum. We have an impressive painting gallery, but I think it could do with a more historical exhibit. The city itself is quite new, but the area is rich in Azran history.”

“Well I think that’s a splendid idea,” Layton said. I do hope my research will be of help to you.”

Layton left with Angela and Henry to their office where they showed him the building plans for a new designer brand shopping mall. Randall remained on the couch, essays in hand, until his attention span promptly gave out ten seconds later. He looked to Flora, who was inspecting a still life on the wall.

“You haven’t even touched your tea yet,” He said.

“Ah. I didn’t realize Henry brought some for me too.”

“How’s Hersh been as a dad?”

Flora looked a bit startled. “A dad? Gee, I don’t know if that’s quite right. He’s more like a foster parent, really. I’m not sure how much you heard about his trip to my village, but when he arrived to solve a treasure hunt he wasn’t expecting to bring me home instead.”

“I did hear about the hunt your father arranged. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”

“It's been sort of a long time, but thank you.”

Randall’s eyebrows arched since Layton told him the Baron was recently departed. He didn’t pry in fear of touching on a sore subject. “Have you been liking the city life more so than the village?”

“I’m glad the Professor lives on a relatively quiet street, and I do like secondary school more than reading textbooks on my own. Quite frankly, it’s been hard for me to adjust to social situations, but I like working with my classmates more than studying alone.”

“And I gather you’ll be going to college not too far from now. Do you know what you’re going to take in uni? Not to alarm you, I’m sure you get asked that a lot these days.”

“That’s tricky. I was thinking maybe software engineering? Or robotics. Or perhaps criminology as well? I’d like to take some sort of design course if there’s room in my schedule, but at this rate there might not be.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough. You know, I don’t believe I actually ever finished my compulsory education because I fell into that chasm. No matter, trade skills served me well enough.”

“You what?”

“Look, it’s already gotten dark out. We should leave right about now if you want to catch the parade.”

Flora, Randall, Layton, Angela, and Henry left the mansion and made their way to the crowded sidewalk of the boulevard where many visitors awaited the procession. The sound of brass instruments pealed from the distance, followed by the drumming and jangling of marching band music. Flora clasped her hands and leaned forward, trying to gauge where the start of the parade was.

Squadrons of dancers and acrobats dressed up as suits of cards waltzed around the pavement, doing flips and spinning batons. The crowd cheered as they quickly assembled into a human pyramid and gracefully collapsed like dominoes. The marching band followed, and Flora had to cover her ears when they were right in front of them. Four floats rode by, driven by characters resembling the jacks, queens, and kings of each suit. They waved and popped confetti at the viewers. Finally, the giant clown balloon glided forward, attached to an equally large float. It looked like a tiered cake, with dancers standing on each level moving in perfect unison.

“You know, the performers on the clown float are all animatronics,” Randall yelled over the blaring band.

“For real?” Flora responded. “But they’re moving so naturally! It’s hard to believe they’re not human!”

“You’re one to doubt it, having grown up with robots. The float is actually an optical illusion in a sense. In reality, dancers on the top are a lot larger than the ones on the bottom, and same with the height of the platforms, but because of our perspective they look the same.”

“Really?” Flora shouted. “That’s so cool! Can I get a closer look at them another time?”

“Of course!” Randall yelled back. “I can take you to the garage tomorrow.”

The eardrum-shattering upbeat music faded, and the crowd began to disperse.

“Did the parade meet your expectations, my dear? Layton asked.

“I believe it surpassed them!” Flora responded.

They parted ways with Randall, Angela, and Henry and headed back to the Reunion Inn for the night.

“You told me you and Randall used to be best friends, but you drifted apart.”

“Yes, that is true. Why do you bring that up?”

“Well I think you should mend that friendship. He seems like a swell guy after all.”

Layton smiled. “Is that so? In any case, you are correct. I should make an effort to reconnect with him. Maybe I should challenge him to a sparring match like those from our youth. He was awfully quick, but now that he’s rusty I bet I stand a good chance.”

“Randall fences?”

“Yes. In fact he’s the one who got me interested in the sport myself. He also sparked my interest in archeology.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize the impression he made on you was so big.”

“That’s not all, he also introduced me to the world of puzzles.”

“RANDALL is the one who got you hooked on puzzles?!” Flora exclaimed. She should be trying to make friends like these in secondary school herself. Even if it’s just through impact on one’s character, friends really had the potential to last forever, huh.

@101flavoursofweird

#randall ascot #flora reinhold #hershel layton #angela ledore #henry ledore #professor layton #professor layton fanfiction #CT writes #professor layton fanfic #layton fic #long post #omg this is so much longer than advertised #sorry to everyone who sees this and is too lazy to read it lol #it’s dumb that you cant put a read more on mobile #anyways sorry this took so long #I wrote it in like three sittings wheras the previous fic only took one #sorry for no kat/al ‘cause I wanted to write Flora’s first time meeting these three #this fic is blatant dalston erasure and thus sucks #thank you for requesting!

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thecosmicsen · 3 years

Text

✮ ┆ D-? COUNTDOWN TO INÉS’ BIRTHDAY WITH @shesin

there is something quintessential about Inés’ presence as a mother bringing a certain type of solace adorning their home. whether it is the way how her overpowering hypnotic presence exudes the sheer larger than life force of her charisma that fills up the high ceilings of the apartment or the way how her eyes uplift in a smile each time she is engaged with a family-related task, it strikes a bow to the heart when she leaves. as the primary breadwinner for the family, she does need to go out every now and then to overview her assets and do whatever “ business-y ” tasks that need to be tended to. ultimately, her lack of presence is immediately noticed by her twin baby boys who take it as personally as a fatal stab to the heart. Jaewoo couldn’t help but feel a little left out when Inés confirmed that their boys do indeed possess her aura sense detection which enables them to seek out their mother’s presence by attuning themselves. at the same time, his chest tightens to think about how terrifying it must be for the boys to suddenly notice that their mother’s spectacular energy is nowhere to be found within their close proximity anymore after waking up from their routine nap.

which is exactly why Jaewoo wastes no time with the distractions as soon as he wakes them up from their designated nap. his heart still flutters each time the twin boys stir and grunt idly as they slowly arise from their groggy state, their bambi eyes still heavy with sleep as they drowsily rub at their eyes.

“ daddy . . . where is mama ? ” Incheol is the first to gain some comprehension as he slowly sits himself up on his bed, still tightly clutching at his stuffed green bear with his eyes struggling to stay open. apparently his mother is the first thing that comes to mind upon awakening.

“ she is out for work but she will be back soon. did you sleep well ? any nice dreams ? ” Jaewoo hastily switches the subject after pressing multiple smacking kisses to his reddened cheeks before moving over to Iseul who is still slumped but still receives an onslaught of peppered cheek kisses from Jaewoo. “ Iseul, the faster you wake up the sooner we can start our Friday movie night ! ” in attempt to limit screen time without going overboard, he decided to have a family movie night every Friday so at least there would be coordinated time spent with the family whilst watching something.

“ movie ?! ” is all that it takes for the other twin to instantly bolt upwards, his drowsy-weighted features perking up straight away. “ where is mama ? ”

“ she is out for work but she will be back soon anyway should we get started with making the popcorn. sweet or salty today or do you have any new ideas ?! ” Jaewoo enthuses as he curls an arm around Incheol to lift him up before grabbing Iseul with his other arm. now with both sleepy boys perfectly perched on either hip, he kisses the top of their little heads in turn before sorting out basic needs before they can start preparing for the movie.

once the twins are refreshed and their once heavy-lidded eyes are rounded open with infectious sparkling delight, Jaewoo perches them carefully on the kitchen counter so they can aid the simple popcorn making process and watch the tiny acorns burst open into something heavenly. the initial first boisterous pop jump alarms Incheol who jolts in shock whose eyes immediately well with tears but when Jaewoo and Iseul laugh it off and attack him with tickles instead, he is grinning from ear to ear in the next moment.

“ pop pop pop ! ” Incheol happily sings along and taps a random wooden spoon that Jaewoo handed over to him on the lid of the pan, still visibly flinching each time a particularly rowdy popcorn pops aggressively against the closed lid. Iseul finds this exceptionally funny so he begins to to tap on Incheol at the same rhythm Incheol lightly taps the spoon on the pan. grabbing one of Iseul’s hand and Incheol’s free hand, Jaewoo starts playing with their arms about in the arm to make them wiggle about. as if all three know what is going through each other’s mind, they all begin to start wiggling and chanting in unison at the exact same time. “ POP. POP. POP !! ”

they get so caught up in their fevered mantra for the popcorn to pop faster that they don’t realise that the bursting noises stop until Jaewoo stops to realise that the popcorn is almost burning. swiftly flicking the fire shut, he plunks Incheol on the other side of the counter so Iseul and sidle up to eagerly drizzle the tufts of white with honey. since they all have a sweet tooth and Jaewoo knows Inés isn’t keen on the twins having too much sugar overload in their diet, he shuffles out the popcorn for wobbly honey drizzle before transferring it for all one bowl to share.

“ so, what movie shall we watch today ? ” Jaewoo enthusiastically claps his hands together after setting the little boy’s feet back on the solid ground again. the baby duo immediately look up at him with cheeks flushed with excitement and duplicate doe-eyes glimmering with zeal as they begin babbling at the same time as each other yet again.

“ the good dinosaur !! ”

“ finding nemo !! ”

“ —— no, dinosaurs !! ”

“ —— no !! fish, fish !! ”

before the twins can get into a deeper ardent argument, Jaewoo cuts them off with a laugh as he holds up a palm. “ whoa whoa, wait. didn’t you you guys get to choose before ? mama had her turn to choose too but I still need to have my turn too !! let’s watch the new Shaun the Sheep movie !! ” to incentivise them, he jangles the popcorn in the bowl for emphasis and the twin’s eyes shift to his hands straight away.

“ okay let’s watch sheeps !! ” they simultaneously chirp in agreement before padding to the living room for the movie night set up. plunking the popcorn on the couch set’s designated popcorn holder that Inés specifically purchased for this routine, he sits down on the couch first before holding his arms open out wide for the babies. usually one twin goes with a parent but since Inés isn’t home yet, the twins will probably want to sit on his lap at the same time since they usually intensely dislike not having a hand or foot if not sitting on their parents lap whilst doing anything together at the same time. first, Incheol climbs up with panting cooing noises of excitement to get the movie night started and he comfortably settles himself on one of Jaewoo’s thighs before leaning back against him all nice and snug.

upon seeing this, Iseul is sparked up with defiance as his cheeks blush a deeper shade of red of annoyance although he channels out his irritation by hurriedly climbing onto Jaewoo as well. since he is perched on Jaewoo’s left leg, he has access to the popcorn bowl which he instantly shoves his hand into to start munching on the treat. Incheol does not like this at all, as evident by how he arches his back off Jaewoo in protest accompanied with a huffy whine. “ give me some pleeeaase !! ”

initially Iseul either pretends like he cannot hear his twin brother or he simply doesn’t care when his mouth is relishing the taste of freshly sweetened popcorn so Jaewoo has to gently nudge his side. “ your brother politely asked for some popcorn. please share it with him too. we made this together so we can all have it together ! ”

nonchalantly, Iseul shoves five more bits of popcorn in his mouth and holds out only two for Incheol who makes another high-pitched complaint. when he finally realises this, he carefully brings the whole bowl in front and starts munching at a faster pace as Jaewoo starts the movie. but now the twins seem to be more engrossed with finishing the popcorn within the first five minutes of the movie starting as they quibble slightly each time their little hands knock against each other. when Jaewoo imperceptibly shifts to get into a more slack and relaxed position, the twins are reminded of their father whom they begin to eagerly feed the popcorn too. humming in delight to have two little hands feeding him, Jaewoo gives their fingertips a quick kiss of gratitude to be fed before heaving out an exaggerated, “ this tastes too delicious ! who made this ? I need to hire them as the new cook for the house ! ”

his words are highly appreciated by the twins which elicits amused giggling and happy wiggling as they both happily share the credit don’t be silly daddy you helped us too but we made it !

at one point, Iseul grasps at Jaewoo’s cheeks with his slightly sticky fingers for his attention as he hushes out during the scene of Shaun the sheep trying to get familiarised with the control of the alien’s UFO, “ daddy, I want my elephant and blankie. can you come with me to get it ? ”

Incheol’s ears perk up and he casually grabs hold of the remote so he can hand it over to Jaewoo to pause. “ me too me too don’t leave me alone !! ”

“ let’s take a quick break ! ” Jaewoo sets aside the bowl before gingerly interlocking fingers with either twin who grip his hand with an almost crushing force. giving them both gentle squeezes, picking up on their slight insecurity to not have their mother around, he jauntily hums as the twins direct him back to their room so they can gather their cuddle materials. once satisfied, they hand over their blankets and stuffed toy of choice so that they can go back to clinging to Jaewoo as they walk down the hallway to flop back on the couch. only this time, Jaewoo sets out a mini blanket fort with extra blankets and cushions so they can all lay down together to watch the rest of the movie in utmost comfort and bliss. once everything is smoothened out, fairy lights decked and twinkling, lights dim, remaining popcorn on the side, unobstructed view of the massive projector set, Jaewoo props himself up on lots of pillows so the twins can huddle up on either side of him.

everything is snuggly since the twins spend five minutes finding the optimum cuddle spot up against their father and their stuffed toy blanket combination until the movie draws towards its final conclusions. Shaun the sheep and the gang has to help reunite the baby alien with its family and as they successfully guide the alien’s worried parents back to planet earth, Jaewoo feels stinging tears prick at his eyes upon the emotional sight of the lost alien baby finding its way back to its fretting loving family.

however, his valiant efforts to suppress his tears are in vain when they easily trickle out in incessant streams of heated emotions. with his lips pressed tightly shut, he forces himself to hold it in as he attempts to discreetly rub at the corner of his eyes with the ends of his sweater. a few sniffles cause his chest to heave more than slightly which catches the attention of the twins. Incheol flops back with a hum to watch the rest of the movie but Iseul notices the faint dampness on Jaewoo’s cheeks. perhaps the pooling of the tears in his eyes is what gives him away since Iseul’s expression instantly transforms into a contorted face of wailing helplessly misery as he starts beginning to hysterically cry at top volume. this significantly alarms Incheol, who in turn, begins to panic and also breaks out into heartrending sobs of distress.

shit.

“ I am fine, I am fine ! nothing is wrong, everything is okay. ” Jaewoo tries consoling his inconsolable babies through his tears that only seem to intensify to hear his children crying because they saw his tears first which were provoked by the movie scene that yanked him into a nostalgic place he is too afraid to delve into. “ my cute boys, I got a little . . . these are happy tears !! look at how the alien found its mama and daddy again !! hurrayy !! ”

apparently these are the wrong words to say since the word mama ignites Iseul’s innate mama’s boy in him which escalates his crying to a high pitched sobbing cry as he starts whimpering out, “ where is my mama ?! ”

as if on cue, Inés herself, the mother of his crying adorable children, walks through the front door and makes her way towards the centre of hubbub and emotional outcry with a bemused look of astonishment to see all three of her boys sniffling and crying with the sounds of animated sheep bleating in the background. to add to the scenery of chaos, Incheol is clinging onto Jaewoo’s hair whilst rubbing his teary face against his cheeks whilst Iseul is writhing about in Jaewoo’s lap as he tries to get some sort of weird hug dance from Jaewoo’s arm who is trying his best to calm down his babies with soothing back pats and combing his fingers through their hair.

“ what is going on here ? why are all three of my babies crying ? ” she inquires with concern, her brows only creasing the slightest bit as she basks in the details of the sight unfolding in front of her.

“ mama !! ” the twins are overjoyed to hear the sound of their mother’s mellifluous husky voice as they immediately bounce towards her with renewed vigour and zest. they both raise their tiny little arms up for her, their tiny rolls of tears still mattifying on their chubby rounded faces and she swoops them up to kiss away their dying tears. making her way over to rest besides the makeshift cuddle fort, she rests besides Jaewoo as she assuages the slight trembling of her baby’s bodies with her emanating heat. with his ever euphoric grin to see the love of his life again, he dives in to press a hearty but gentle welcome back home kiss to her lips before aiding her with her doting reassurances to the twins who also demand for similar kisses. mama, kiss kiss !!

" so does daddy want to tell me what was going on before I came home ? ” Inés now eyes him with amusement, making sure to rub down the backs of her babies and kissing the tufts of their hair adoringly.

“ Shaun the sheep helped his little alien friend reunite with his family since he got lost from another planet and ended up on Earth so we uh . . . got a little emotional seeing that happen. but it’s a cute happy movie ending, did you kids enjoy it ? ” a sheepish smile takes over his features bashfully as a hand makes way to rub the back of his head before he flops down properly to cuddle up with his very own reunited family. Inés kisses the hands of her baby’s sticky hands and they giggle mischievously as they try pressing their fists to her face but only switching tactic last moment like their father to steal a quick kiss from their mother. just like the on-screen family reunited in high spirits and overflowing love and joy, the same reflection is mirrored to the family on the heaped up blankets on the floor where they will no doubt cuddle for the next few hours for their next movie with mama.

life is good.

#THIS TOOK ME FOREVER GOD #pls forgive #but anyway #I may or may not be crying #I'm...#yeah #this is just some wholesome content #the cutest .#what can I say .#shesin #* : ✮ ┆ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦 (𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠).

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years

Text

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 2: Should I Stay Or Should I Go]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap

Hey y’all, I’m also going to tag some of my usual readers so you know this exists but I WON’T TAG YOU AGAIN UNLESS YOU ASK ME TO, so don’t worry I won’t bother you! :) @the-borhap-boys @killer-queen-xo @sincereleygmg @calspixie @queen-crue @inthegardensofourminds @jennyggggrrr @stormtrprinstilettos @bramblesforbreakfast @brainflakes @coffeexcigarette @ezmina98 @danamaleksworld @littlespoiltthing

You guide your forest green, decade-old, positively no-frills Hyundai Elantra onto the shoulder of the narrow, winding road. There are trees and boulders and steep rock faces peppering the landscape; even before you open the car door, you can hear birds and rustling leaves overhead. You climb out and inspect the rear tires with your hands on your hips. As you suspected, the driver’s side one is flattening before your eyes. There’s a daggerish white rock jutting out of the deflating rubber, the source of your trouble on this otherwise unencumbered Saturday.

“Dammit,” you moan, peering up and down the road. It’s not a great place to break down: it’s fairly isolated, there are blind curves, the shoulder isn’t very wide. The sun is hot and glaring in a cloudless sky.

You slip back into your car and click on the hazard lights. Your iPhone is laying on the dashboard. Fortunately, you already have your usual mechanic’s contact information saved.

“Siri, call Benji’s.”

“Calling: Ben Hardy.”

“What?! No!” You paw for your phone and in the process knock it off the dashboard and onto the floor of the passenger’s side. “No no no no no, bad Siri, no—!”

“Hello?” a reverberating British voice pours through the speakers.

You chuckle awkwardly, contorted between the front seats, your left arm painfully extended towards the phone. “Uh, hi, yeah, good afternoon, Mr. Hardy. This is Miss Y/L/N, Eli’s teacher.”

“...Okay?”

“Uh...” Your fingertips brush the phone, flail around unproductively, then finally scoop it into your palm. You sigh as you straighten up in the driver’s seat, treasuring your freshly unimpeded breathing. “Look, I’m going to be honest, Mr. Hardy. I was trying to call my mechanic and accidentally dialed you. So I’m very sorry for the intrusion and won’t interrupt your weekend any further.”

There’s a lull before he replies. “Having car trouble?”

“No. Well, yeah. It’s a flat tire, nothing serious. I’m just woefully incompetent with car stuff.”

He sounds amused now, as if all his assumptions about what it means to grow up in the United States have been shattered. “Your dad never taught you how to change a flat?”

“Not exactly.” The thought is legitimately preposterous. Your mom and dad own an organic goat farm in Northern California, and as skilled as they are in animal husbandry, quilting, soapmaking, and horticulture, neither know the first thing about the stereotypically heteronormative male, unapologetically red-blooded American realm of vehicle maintenance. “My parents are...unconventional.”

“Gotcha. You know a mechanic is going to charge you an arm and a leg to drive out and fix it.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I knew you were evil.

Mr. Hardy is backpedaling, almost nervous. “What I mean is that I can change a flat in five minutes and you shouldn’t be out a hundred bucks for something like that.”

“...Okay...?”

“Where are you?”

You recoil, shaking your head, your earrings jangling. “Are you...offering to come fix my car...?

“Is that against the rules or something?”

“I mean, no, I guess not.” You’re struggling to process his words; he wants to help you? He’s taking time out of his Saturday to save you, a systemically underappreciated public school teacher, from financial distress? Mr. Archetypal Uppity British Gentleman knows how to change a tire?!

“Good. Where are you exactly?”

“Angeles Crest Highway. I’m about halfway up Mt. Wilson.”

“Yikes,” Mr. Hardy notes. “Not a good spot.”

“Not at all.”

“Right. I’ll be quick. See you soon.” And then he’s gone.

You set the phone back up on the dashboard and crinkle your brow at it in suspicious bewilderment. “What the fuck, Siri?” you murmur.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Forget it, Siri.”

This is weird. This is really weird. But the part that’s gnawing at you the hardest is this: now that you’re alone again, now that there’s no husky voice echoing around the Elantra, now that there’s nothing between vulnerable stranded you and the Southern California wilderness...you sort of miss him. You miss Mr. Hardy. He’s odd and intense and intimidating and seemingly always vaguely pissed off, but there’s something else underneath that as well. There’s something strong and protective, something comforting.

“No,” you say firmly, glaring at yourself in the rearview mirror. “We cannot get crushes on students’ parents. Especially not potential demons.”

Suddenly, you wonder if maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You’re completely on your own out here on this wooded, snaking road. And you don’t actually know Mr. Hardy at all, that abrupt irrational fondness notwithstanding.

You text your best friend Sasha, who teaches third grade. If I go missing or end up sacrificed to pagan deities or something, it was Benjamin Whitaker Hardy. Avenge me.

Sasha replies thirty seconds later. ???

And then: Demon kid’s dad?????

Finally: Daddy demon?????????

Daddy demon sounds way too sexual for your liking. Yeah, you reply practically. Then you wait.

He rolls up behind your car in his black Lexus, and before he kills the engine you can hear AC/DC booming through the open windows. You’re perched on the hood of your Elantra, your feet swinging. When Mr. Hardy steps out of the Lexus, he’s wearing slim-fitted light jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt, the kind sold at Target and sported by teenagers who couldn’t pick Kurt Cobain out of a lineup if their life depended on it. Instinctively, you smirk and roll your eyes.

“That’s no way to greet your rescuer. What’s funny?”

You point to his shirt. “Can you name a single Nirvana song or is that strictly for the aesthetic?”

“All Apologies. Stay Away. Smells Like Teen Spirit...Teen Spirit is a type of deodorant, by the way. Come As You Are. Heart-Shaped Box. In Bloom. Lithium. About A Girl.” He flashes a grin. “Want more?”

“No, that’s okay. You pass.” You’re a little sad about this; it would be so much easier to loathe him if he was a poser.

Mr. Hardy pops open his trunk and digs around. “Do you have a spare tire and a jack?”

“I think I have a spare, but...uh...what’s a jack...?”

He bursts out laughing. “You really are hopeless! Not to worry, I’ve got one.” He pulls an x-shaped wrench and a twist of black metal—what must be a jack—out of his trunk and strolls towards you, surveying the damage to your flat tire, nodding as he rubs his cleanshaven chin. You slip off the hood and approach him, your arms crossed over your chest so he can’t see your hands trembling.

“Mr. Hardy...”

“I’m not going to fix that unless you start calling me Ben.”

“Ben,” you manage with difficulty. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs. You don’t feel like he’s ogling you up and down, you don’t feel objectified; that’s a pitifully rare occurrence around unfamiliar men. His gaze is on your face and nowhere else. It’s hard to meet his eyes; there’s that daunting aura he never quite shakes. But once you do, you’re trapped there in a sea of sparking green like malachite. Oh no. I like this guy. “I feel like I was rude the other day,” he says finally. “I wanted to apologize. And if my kid’s been giving you hell for the past month, I should probably apologize for that too.”

“Oh,” you respond softly. “Well...that’s really appreciated, Mr. Hardy. Ben. But of course I’m going to pay you—”

“You definitely are not.” He slides the jack beneath the Elantra and pumps it up as you dig the spare tire out of your trunk and bring it to him.

“Can I help?”

“Here’s what you can do.” Ben gestures to the pavement next to where he’s kneeling. “Watch me. Then you’ll know how to do it yourself next time you get attacked by a rock.”

“Okay.” You sit beside him, trying not to stare at his glistening biceps, the beads of sweat gathering at his temples and dampening his golden hair, his sturdy dexterous fingers as he unscrews the lug nuts one after the other, rolls the flat away, and secures the spare tire. Five minutes was about right. “I’m gonna keep it real with you. I feel ridiculous.”

He glances over at you as he throws the flat tire into the trunk of his Lexus. “Why’s that?” he asks, oddly concerned.

“Because you made that look so easy and I’m a helpless moron.”

Ben chuckles. “You’re not a moron. We just have different skillsets. I’d be pretty lost in a classroom of twenty-five six-year-olds, that’s for sure.” He points at your earrings. “You like dinosaurs?”

“What?” Your hands come up to feel them: oh right, the green stegosaurus pair. “Yeah, I do, actually. And the kids like them too, so everyone wins.”

“How do you feel about Jurassic Park?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “This is a bizarre conversation, Mr. Hardy.”

“Ben,” he corrects good-naturedly.

“Ben,” you agree.

“The question still stands.”

“Jurassic Park is one of my all-time favorite movies, I harbor a humiliating yet undying passion for Jeff Goldblum, there, have I passed?”

Ben smiles at you playfully, almost trickily, like there’s some hilarious joke you aren’t in on. “You passed.”

“Awesome. I guess I should let you go enjoy the rest of your weekend now.”

Instead he says: “Do you want to get coffee or something?”

“What?” you sputter, gawking. “With...you...?”

Ben rubs the back of his head and glimpses around at the trees, the sky, nothing in particular. Oh my god, he’s nervous. “Well I’ve been meaning to find time to talk with you about Eli, and my schedule is usually a nightmare, but Eli had a friend’s birthday party to go to today and my meetings fell through so I find myself suddenly available.”

“Oh,” you reply, blinking.

“Unless of course you have plans, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume—”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” you say. “I have no life whatsoever outside of school. So, yeah, we can totally talk now. About Eli.”

“Okay.” Ben seems pleased. “Are you especially attached to the prospect of coffee?”

“I am not. Why?”

He buries his hands in his pockets and tilts his head at you. Why does this feel like a test? “I really like pie.”

“I freaking love pie. Let’s go.”

Ben’s Lexus follows you to your favorite—if decidedly unglamorous—little diner about twenty minutes outside the city. The decor is straight out of the 1950s: slick black-and-white checkered floors, mint green counters and appliances, Elvis and Marilyn posters, a full-sized jukebox. You ask the waitress for your usual spot, a cozy booth next to the rotating dessert display. Then you place your orders: a root beer float and coconut cream pie for Ben, hot chocolate and crumb-top apple pie for you.

“So you’re into national parks,” Ben ventures as he scoots into the bright red booth, as if he’s trying to make conversation, as if this is some stilted blind date. “Or just...driving through them?”

“I’m super into them. Sometimes I do my grading out there.” You lace your hands on top of the table, clicking seamlessly into business mode. “Now, about Eli...”

“Yes,” Ben complies, fidgeting, drumming his knuckles on the table. What is up with this guy?

“What I usually do in situations like this is come up with a collaborative, two-pronged plan. I’ll make classroom accommodations to help Eli succeed, and you as the parents...parent...will implement steps at home to model better choices and reinforce the lessons learned at school.”

“Okay.” He’s attentive, he’s nodding, he’s making this way too easy. Your order arrives and Ben beams at his root beer float like it’s a winning lottery ticket. “Oh my god, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted one of these,” he sighs, slurping through the metal straw.

“Are root beer floats...a rarity where you come from...?”

“Well I’m usually on a strict diet. For my job. But I’m between projects so I can afford the calories.” Ben devours his slice of pie in three bites. “Oh yeahhhhh.”

You laugh at him, sipping your hot chocolate. “So you’re an actor? Or a model or something?” Holy hell, he really does work for J.Crew.

Ben clams up instantly. “Or something.”

Fine, be cryptic then. “Anyway, here’s my plan for Eli. Your son is extremely bright—he couldn’t possibly come up with some of those shenanigans if he wasn’t—so I’m thinking part of the problem is that he’s bored with the lessons, that the rest of the class moves a bit to slow for him. I think he needs extra attention, extra motivation. I’d like to ask him to be my helper, to write examples out on the board, to take care of the class hamster Creampuff, maybe even do some grading. Try to find something that interests him, and get him to realize that teachers can be friends. But I need to be able to trust him not to abuse that added responsibility.”

“Yeah,” Ben replies thoughtfully. “That sounds great. He’s definitely a smart kid, he’s just...he’s got a lot of energy, you know, he’s...he’s spirited. I’ve talked to Eli and he says he doesn’t mean any harm, that he’s just trying to have fun. But of course I explained to him that throwing frogs at people is at best a very loose interpretation of fun.”

Here comes the sensitive part. “How are things at home, Mr. Hardy?”

“Ben.”

“Ben. Sorry.”

“Things are...good!” he answers, but he’s avoiding your eyeline. “I mean...things aren’t perfect. I wish I could be home more. I work a lot. But I try to spend as much time with Eli as I can, and my mum relocated to L.A. so she’s always available to watch him...he adores her. He’s definitely better behaved at home than at school. But I believe you about the trouble he’s been causing. And I do think stress at home is at least partially to blame.”

“Is his mother...” How can you put this delicately? “Did Eli...lose her?”

Ben nods, glancing out the window, refracted sunlight spilling over his pale face, still not looking at you. “Yeah, she’s not in the picture.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say gently. “For both of you.”

He clears his throat, then drains the rest of his float. “Right. I think we have a plan.”

“We do,” you agree. “And I think we should have meetings every so often to assess Eli’s progress. Maybe once a week to start? I can just call if that’s easiest. It doesn’t have to be in person.”

“No, in person works.” Now Ben’s eyes are fixed on you, large like a doe’s and arresting. You remember thinking they were like malachite before; but maybe emerald is closer, or olive, or hunter or peridot or jade.

Okay, time to stop obsessing over daddy demon’s infuriatingly nice irises.

Except all at once you can’t imagine thinking Benjamin Whitaker Hardy is anything like a demon. Maybe something else, something related but reversed, something light and benevolent and peaceful.

He asks: “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”

There’s no way I heard that right. “I’m sorry, I was chewing pie obnoxiously loudly, did you say...?

“Dinner. Sometime. With me.”

You swim through the words like coming up from a dream, clawing through haze and into daylight. “We’re not...dating or anything, are we?”

Are you allowed to date students’ parents? Is it possible that outrageously dashing, British, J.Crew model Ben could be interested in you? Did you get hit by a truck while trying to change your flat tire and all of this is some elaborate unconscious fantasy? Are you in a coma?

Ben chuckles, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful sound. “No, we are definitely...” He makes air quotes. “...Not dating.”

And you realize that whether you actually want to date Ben wasn’t on your list of questions, probably because it’s not much of a question at all.

“Okay,” you reply quietly, your lips curving up at the edges into a shy smile. “Dinner sometime.”

“Cool. It’s a not-date.” Ben winks at you.

If the fiery afterlife is filled with demons like him, sign me the fuck up.

#ben hardy #ben hardy fic #ben hardy x reader #borhap fanfic #borhap fic #borhap #borhap cast

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starryjealousy · 4 years

Text

May I Have This Dance

Title: May I Have This Dance Fandom: Devil May Cry Pairing: Dante/female reader insert Rating: G Warnings: None Summary: You can’t dance. Dante doesn’t mind.

(Request fic for @dragonesszena.)

"What," you say with a soft laugh as you step into Dante's office, putting your hands on your hips and eyeing him with amusement, "are you doing?"

"Mm?" Dante turns his head to look over from where he's stood on a chair, a hammer in one hand and a few nails in the other, and a grin comes to his face when he sees you. "Ah, you know, little bit of this, little bit of that--" he shrugs, turns back to the wall, squinting critically as if he's trying to visualise the best way to finish his task before just shrugging again and setting another nail against the splintered paneling, driving it in with a few firm blows. "And a little bit of moving things around so demon carcasses aren't almost falling on my head every time someone slams the door, you know how it goes. Wasn't expecting you this early, though. Something up?"

"No, I just had some unexpected free time." You shrug a little yourself, taking a seat on the couch to watch him, your head tilting briefly as you realise the old jukebox is clicking and whirring in the corner, crackly notes floating through the air. (It's been a while since you've come in to music playing; it's proof that Dante must really be in a good mood, and that's something you're delighted to see.) "Which one is it this time? The Empusa? You really need to quit throwing darts at it, you're destroying its integrity. No wonder it keeps falling on you."

Dante feigns a pouty look, turns his head to pout at you like he can't believe you'd say such a thing to him, never mind the fact that his expression is full of clear amusement. "You wound me, ____. I am highly offended by your implications--" but he's laughing now, boots thumping noisily on the floor as he hops down off the chair, setting the hammer and nails aside on his desk for the moment. "Nah, you're right, makes a terrible dartboard. Too old and dried out. It's only fun when you can pop ‘em - vicious cleanup, though." Turning to eye the jukebox, he folds his arms, hums a thoughtful sound and moves to prod at it, cutting off the current song in mid-note and changing it to something more bouncy, full of jazzy strains that lilt through the air. "In any case, I'm about ready for a break - been putting new holes in the walls all morning. So," apparently satisfied with the song, he turns his attention back to you, "tell me something. How do you feel about dancing?"

"That's an awfully open-ended question," you say dryly, leaning back and letting your arms drape over the back of the couch, eyeing him with mock suspicion. "I don't care if other people do it around me, I have no weird religious hangups about it, and I swear I have two left feet so I don't do it, but if none of that is the answer you expected, you're gonna have to stop being cryptic and just tell me what you're getting at. I'm not a mind reader - and let's be honest, you probably wouldn't want me reading yours even if I was."

A snort of a laugh escapes Dante, never mind he's pretending to look offended again, taking a few steps closer and planting his hands on his hips. "Probably not," he says, and he looks pleased when you bite back a snorted laugh of your own, holding eye contact with you for just a moment longer than is strictly necessary, faintly smirking when you narrow your eyes just noticeably and let yourself settle into a purposely over-comfortable sprawl that is absolutely not one single bit intimidated. "Alright, lemme rephrase that. You ever danced with the devil? And if not," now it's definitely a smirk, and he sketches a bow, offering you his hand with a great sweeping flourish. "You want to?"

"I just told you I can't dance." You narrow your eyes more, stare at his hand like you're considering biting it, but he looks so unconsciously eager when you lift your head to make eye contact again that you can't keep up the aloof act, shaking your head and letting a small smile come to your lips, lifting your hand to place it delicately in his. "But I guess I can't refuse such a generous offer, can I?"

"Nope," he agrees, grinning now as he tugs you to your feet, pulling you close to him and settling his other hand on your waist, as easily and confidently as if it belongs there. "Don't you worry about a thing, babe. Just follow my lead, and you'll be fine."

"You and 'fine' are on entirely opposite ends of the dictionary--" you cut off with a squeak of indignant surprise when he's suddenly urging you into motion, never mind your clumsy stumbles and faltering feet, only his supportive hands keeping you from falling flat on your face. "I-I'm not kidding, you know! I really don't know what I'm doing, can't we start out slower - you're gonna make me sprain an ankle at this rate and then I'm gonna be pissed, I don't have all the magic woo-woo insta-healing powers you do - are you even listening to me?--"

"Course I'm listening." Dante smiles down at you, easy and sympathetic, giving your waist a little reassuring squeeze and pretending for your sake that he doesn't notice how you're blushing. "Look. You're making this harder than it has to be. You trust me, right?"

"You don't want me to answer that--" your hand tightens on his as you nearly trip again, mouth setting into an indignant pout. "If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be letting you do this."

"That's all you need to do," he says, still smiling, bringing the both of you to a halt and just looking down at you for a moment. "Trust me. I'm not gonna let you get hurt. Just close your eyes and follow my lead - I promise, you'll be fine."

"I've heard that one before," you mutter, but after a moment, you take a slow, deep breath, try to will the tension out of your shoulders, and tightly close your eyes.

It's still awkward, even like this, and you're still desperately hoping you don't end up twisting or spraining something, but it is easier - not looking at what you're doing lets you focus more on what Dante's doing, lets you feel how he's guiding you to move, and while you're certain you'll never be more than perhaps vaguely passable at this, it's beginning to feel less arcane and more actually doable. (It helps that he's very easy to follow; you may not be skilled, or even capable, at dancing, but you do know a partner with a firm leading arm and easily comprehensible body language can take even the most subpar dance up a few notches, and he fits those requirements to a T.) Honestly, it's even beginning to approach something you might call genuinely fun by now, and you don't even realise you've started smiling until you hear him muffling an adoring chuckle, snapping you out of the half-trance you've settled into, your cheeks flaring brilliantly red when you open your eyes again and see him watching your face. "Stop staring at me," is the first thing you can manage to say, and it comes out a little sharper than maybe you would have liked, but his affectionate expression never falters and so you don't let yourself spiral into needless apology. "I swear you just like to embarrass me."

"Only cause you're so cute when you blush," Dante shrugs, lets his feet and yours come to a stop and lets go of your hand to reach up instead, tracing light fingers along the heated pink splashed across your cheeks. "Even cuter when you're enjoying yourself, though. Sure looked like you were having fun, even if you say you can't dance."

"I can't," you retort petulantly, but you're leaning your head into his touch, so any attempts at acting genuinely angry are not even close to successful. "Maybe I just like being close to you--" and the instant the words leave your mouth, you're going bright red all the way up your ears, not having meant to be quite so blatantly honest, but it's too late to take it back now and so you just turn your eyes away in mortification. Why does your traitor mouth always do this sort of thing at the worst moments, you wonder? "I, um - look, forget I said that."

He studies you for a moment, sympathetically amused, tightens his grip on your waist when you try to pull away and turns your face back towards his. "Hey, c'mon, that's nothing to be embarrassed about. All you had to do," he lets his hand drop from grasping your chin, settles it on your waist as well and pulls your body flush against his, "was say something, yeah? I'm sure as hell not gonna say no to such a tempting possibility." His chuckle, low and resonant, is more easily felt by your proximity to him than it is heard, and it makes you feel both hot and shivery in equal measure, sparking off a low burn of pleased curiosity along your every nerve. "So if that's what you really want..."

You swallow hard, nodding just a little, not quite trusting your voice but trying it anyway. "Yeah," you manage, and thank whatever deity might be watching over you, the words don't come out shaky. "Just - let's stay just like this for a little while...okay?"

"You got it," Dante agrees, quiet and affectionate, a hand coming up to rest gently against the back of your head as if to cradle you against him. "As long as you want."

Still blushing brilliantly, you press your cheek to his chest and close your eyes, just nodding again and letting the strong, steady pulse of his heartbeat beneath your ear soothe your jangled nerves, drowning out everything else around you.

Maybe if this is what it leads to, you think, you might just let him try to teach you to dance again sometime.

#devil may cry #sfw #character: dante #character: reader insert #pairing: dante x female reader #warning: none

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sadoeuphemist · 5 years

Text

“You ever wonder where all these little caches of gold come from?” Glyph mused.

Tinker's flail lashed out, smashing open another set of pots. She knelt over the little piles of gold glinting amidst the clay shards. “Not particularly. Other adventurers, I assume? Ventured into the dungeons, managed to scrape together a little stash of gold, got killed by some unlucky encounter, and presto, gold for the taking.”

“But why so little?” said Glyph, humming in circuits over her head. “You’ve already got over ten times that amount on you, and we’ve been down here not half an hour. It’s always such piddling amounts, isn’t it? So that you’ve got to scrounge up at least a dozen caches just to afford a half-decent weapon.”

Tinker jangled the gold pieces thoughtfully in one hand. “That’s true,” she said.

“Who keeps that little on them? Assuming - let’s just say, that you’re an exceptional adventurer -”

“Very generous of you,” Tinker said.

“Even one of those loutish bandits who keep hassling you could manage a run long enough to scrape up a decent amount.” Glyph flitted by the damp dungeon walls, illuminating them in a flickering blue light. “How come you never find a single cache of gold large enough to say, ‘Well, that’s all my expenses sorted out! New set of armor right there! That’s another downpayment done on my pyromancy lessons!’”

“All right,” said Tinker, standing up. “Why do I have the feeling like you’ve already deciphered this mystery and are just waiting to enlighten me?”

Glyph made a thrum much like clearing her throat. “Tiny adventurers.”

“Excuse me?” Tinker said.

“Like when you kill a dragon, and get to loot its hoard,” said Glyph, humming around excitedly. “Now there’s a payday! Great heaps of gold! But it’s not a vast treasure to the dragon itself, is it? That’s just, you know, its personal savings. It’s what a beast of its size has managed to accumulate just going about its day to day.”

Tinker frowned. “I ... I suppose?”

“So you scale it down,” said Glyph, shifting into calleagh, the lore configuration. “Tiny adventurers. Crawling through the cracks and crevasses of the dungeon, invisible in the shadows, carving passages between the brick and the mortar. Clad in leaves and scraps of leather, armed with shards of iron. A leather pouch slung across their back, bulging with the weight of gold, accumulated coin by coin!”

“Tiny adventurers,” Tinker repeated.

“Just imagine them! Timing their dashes, their leaps, watching the massive colossi trod their paths along the flagstones and waiting for a safe moment to strike! They’d fight those vicious black rats, frothing like wild beasts; spiders and their trip-webs; coiling centipedes with a hundred hooked legs; and who knows what other sorts of beasts you’d crush unknowingly beneath your boots without a second thought. Colossi bearing burning torches in one upraised limb, like dragons sending showers of sparks raining down like meteors. And where would they go to set their tents, light their campfires, unroll their bedding? Why, through the cracks of a pot, of course, or slipping between the boards of an old crate. An abandoned refuge, a crumbling shelter, wooden or clay, wherein to unburden themselves of their treasure, and in a moment’s respite admire the golden sheen of their accomplishments.”

“No, no, now hold on,” said Tinker, shaking her head. “That can’t be right. I’ve come across my fair share of skeletons down here, certainly, rummaged through abandoned knapsacks, but I’ve never seen any of them in miniature, any tiny rusted swords, or any of that sort of thing ...“

“Oh, really?” Glyph challenged. “Can you honestly say you’d have noticed, say, the crumbled remains of a tunic made of leaves, or a rusted iron nail that once served as a lance? Have you seen the skeleton of a flea? If I smote a mite to pieces and scattered its limbs, would you even notice that as carnage?”

“Well ...” Tinker frowned. “No ...”

“And that’s not even getting into all the ethereal arts of the fae - silk armor woven from cobwebs, slivers of moonbeams sharpened into blades, that sort of thing.” Glyph shifted into the healing legheas configuration for no reason, glowing green in self-satisfaction. “I mean, it’s only sensible, right? It only stands to reason, that if we’re down here raiding things bigger than we are, there’s a, you know, sub-economy going on beneath us, responsible for the clustering of gold and resources ...”

“I suppose...” Tinker murmured, looking down at her pitiful handful of coins. “That’s really sad!” she said suddenly, clenching her fist and glaring at Glyph. “Why would you tell me all of that?!”

“What? What’’s sad about it? You were previously under the assumption that you were looting the stashes of deceased adventurers! It’s the exact same thing!”

“Yeah,” said Tinker, very aggressively winding her flail back onto her belt. “But they’re small! That’s what’s the difference!”

Glyph gave a chiming laugh. “They’re small?”

“Yeah!” said Tinker. She shoved the handful of coins into her money pouch and adjusted her knapsack on her back. “And don’t laugh at me about it! It’s sad! That’s what it is! Some tiny and pitiful creature venturing into the dungeons and scraping up their measly pile of gold just so I could -” She sniffed loudly. “Shut up, okay?”

Tinker raised her torch again and they ventured deeper into the dungeon, Glyph bobbing behind silently, much dimmed. The circle of torchlight illuminated the walls of black stone, and the passageway leading forward like a pit, and the darkness of everything that lay ahead. The automatons recessed into the walls, the pit traps, the spinning blades, the soft scraping of bone that marked the passage of the patrolling undead - dangers lurking unseen just until they ventured into the circle of the light. Great bone claws emerged, a plume of flame arced through the air and splashed against the flagstones as Tinker leapt aside, sprinting out of the radius of the spreading flame. The Bone Dragoon leered out at them with its many teeth. Tinker beat out a patch of flame spreading up her thigh, and unfurled her flail.

“If it’s any consolation,” Glyph piped up, “if and when you die down here, you’re going to provide a bounty the likes of the little people have never seen. The carcass of a fallen titan, spilling gold - they’ll make pilgrimages to you, probably. It’s like a dragon’s hoard, without having to actually fight the dragon first -”

Tinker looked up at the Bone Dragoon, all armor and spines, thrice her size, another oily globule of floating flame building up in its rib cage. She shifted, feeling the weight of the gold hanging off her. Not for the first time, she wondered how she had gotten into this line of work to begin with. The Dragoon glared at her malevolently, hatred radiating off it like a furnace. Tinker wet her lips.

“Thanks,” she said. “That helps.”

#fiction

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sabraeal · 4 years

Text

The Butterfly Effect, Chapter 2

Chapter 1

A continuation of the AU of Wide Florida Bay, starting after Ain’t Saying She’s a Gold Digger, for @infinitelystrangemachinex‘s birthday! I had hoped to get farther than this, but thing ended up getting....very long. SO I SUPPOSE YOU ALL CAN LOOK FORWARD TO MORE, ONE DAY.

The floor is packed; bodies pressed back-to-back and back-to-front -- and, in some memorable instances, front-to-front. There’s barely room for the Holy Spirit in here, let alone Obi’s set of shoulders, but he bumps his way through anyway. He may not be at his fighting weight anymore, but his gains send enough bros stumbling to reassure him that he hasn’t lost his edge.

Not that he cares much about that right now. He’s got a mission here: the exit and its tacky-ass bead curtain. Because once he gets there --

“Oh!”

He stares down to see red spilling down his back, to see a round pair of green eyes peek up from his shoulder.

“You all right?” he rumbles, hating the way there’s not enough air in his chest, how he doesn’t have enough blood circulating through his brain to come up with something more clever than that.

“What?” Her brow furrows, too cute, and he’s so tempted to just lean it, to just kiss where it wrinkles --

“I said,” he murmurs, pressing his lips right up to her ear. Her hand clutches his sleeve, nails digging in like kitten claws. “Are you all right?”

“Oh,” she breathes, sending sparks skittering down his skin. God, he is in trouble. “Yes. Yeah. I’m -- I’m just fine.”

He nods, turning back, trying not to notice how soft and small her hand is in his, how lightly she’s touching him, like she’s afraid if she grabs much harder he’ll turn to smoke.

Fuck, he doesn’t -- he doesn’t do this. Nanaki didn’t hold hands; if he wanted to fuck someone he’d just do it at the club or go back to the girl’s place, not -- not this. Not bringing her home, letting her into his space, letting her know where he lived. That was just begging to get his car keyed.

He was also someone who didn’t actually exist, except for on some registration forms somewhere back in Atlanta. He’d never been much more than a shadow to hide in, a shroud over a mirror. Something to keep his past from finding him, and his present from knowing him.

Obi peers back over his shoulder, watching how Red tucks in close to him, how sometimes her fingers lightly brush over his bicep to keep him close when the crowd tries to pull them apart, and it’s terrifying how much how much he doesn’t want to hide. Not from someone who sees him like she does.

The beads jangle as he pushes them aside, whacking at his calves like some weak-ass tentacles, and god, what he wouldn’t give for this fucking place to have some class for once. The last thing he needs is to trip on this shit straight out of a hippy teacher’s magazine and really ruin his night.

He takes the first step, but he has to squint in the dark to make out the next. Sure, that strip lighting is supposed to help, but all it does is make depth perception a learned skill. All these rainbow colors are killing him.

With a lurch, he takes the next step. His foot hardly fits on the stair -- god, how small were the people that built this place? -- but what worries him more is the tug on his arm. Red’s stalled out on the landing.

He sucks in a breath, steeling himself. He knew this was going to happen. One drink isn’t nearly enough to make him look like a good idea, especially not when the last time they’d seen each other, she’d called him a big meanie and told him to go hug a tree. It was only a matter of time before she’d come to her senses.

“Hey.” She startles at the word, watching him mount the last stair with wide eyes. He expects her to be wary, to be scared, but instead she just seems...confused. “You okay?

“Hm?” Her head tilts, hair bobbing to one side, and honestly, now is not the time to be wondering if that patch of freckles on her neck might be sensitive.

“It’s just...” There’s no reason for this to be so hard. He’s done this before, loads of times. He may be a garbage fire of a person, but trying to force someone into bed with him? Not his style.

Besides, he’s never had trouble getting girls to take their clothes off. It’s just -- just--

He’s never actually cared. If a girl didn’t want to fuck him, there were plenty of ones who did; he just had to walk back into the club and find one. But now that it’s her, the girl who orders extra whip on her hot chocolate because coffee is too bitter, he doesn’t know how to -- to say she has a choice, but also he would, really, really like to take her home. Specifically.

God, who is he anymore?

“Do you...?” No, scratch that, that sounds dumb. Begging is not a good look for anyone. “We don’t have to--”

“Oh! Oh no, it’s not--” these stairs may be darker than pitch, but that blush of hers lights up the place-- “These stairs are treacherous.”

Obi has met cute girls. Ones with soft little bobs just like hers, who always walk around on their shivering fawn legs and stare up at him with their too-wide eyes, saying cloyingly niche things like it’s a replacement for having a personality. They don’t do shit for him.

Except now here this girl is, leaning into him like she’s sharing a secret, her mouth rucked up at a corner, and his only thought is the last time he heard that word, it was in an SAT prep course he was firmly failing. Also, what scores Red might have gotten on them; he can already see the way she’d duck her head as she tells him about her 1700 on the first pass, how she kept going back to get the perfect score only to be foiled by one of the vocabulary words that wasn’t in the study guide --

All right. He needs to get a grip here. One solid, whole-ass grip. This is just -- sex. Sex stuff. Not share time at the local preschool.

Her small feet shuffle at the landing, and he spreads a smirk across his lips. “Do you need me to carry you down, my lady?”

“Oh!” He can’t wait to see just how far down that blush goes. If they ever manage to get out of here. “N-no! I can-- I can handle myself.”

“Are you sure?” He leans in, just a little, until he can feel the heat of her body against his skin. “After all, I’m at your service tonight.”

This close, her chest brushes against his when she gasps. Her lips are still swollen from kissing, and, god, he feels the gap between them like a physical ache. “If that’s the case...”

Her hand lets go of his, fingers brushing over his until they slip though, palms kissing, intertwined. Like -- like hand-holding with some intent. Some heat.

She flutters him a look somewhere between shy and coy. “Then just make sure you don’t let go.”

It’s the smoothest move anyone’s ever pulled on him -- that anyone’s bothered to pull on him -- and god, they really need to find a flat surface and some privacy. Now.

“Right,” he says dumbly, because that’s the kind of guy his is now: the kind that has their breathing go all haywire because a girl wants to hold hands. The kind that entirely lose their game because someone says to hold on tight.

Obi doesn’t know what the fuck is happening. But he also wants it to keep on happening, so he just turns around like he holds hands all the time, like he’s a real hand-holding pro, and guides her down the stairs like she’s wearing stilettos and a six-foot train.

Or, with the way she wobbles, like one of those robo-dog toys that cost three hundred bucks but never learned how to navigate a house with more than one floor. She looks hot as fuck, but those are definitely not her wedges. He’ll have to write a thank you note to whatever friend lent them to her, because with the way she’s clinging to him every time her ankle gives a good shake, these bad boys are going to be the MVP of the evening.

Obi isn’t exactly cozy with Jesus or whatever, but he’s pretty sure making it down to the last step without a sprained ankle in sight is something close to divine intervention. He throws one up for whatever saint or angel had dominion over hot hookups and turns away, making to open the door, but--

“Oh!”

His whole body stutters. He only looked away for a second, and yet --

“Something wrong?” he asks, letting the door shut in front of him. “Did you--?”

“Oh, no, not anything...” She shakes her head, and down here it’s too dark to see her blush, but he knows it’s there. “I just forgot I have, um, stuff at the coat check.”

He stares for a minute, trying to glean anything off those guileless eyes with only the rainbow lights to guide him. On any other girl, it would be a dodge, a way to duck out of a hookup she was having second or third thoughts on. Which would be fair, since this morning he’d locked her out of her school, tried to tank her academic career --

But he just can’t see it on her. If she didn’t want him, she’d just...tell him to fuck off and die. Or, more likely, go hug a tree.

God, that should really not be doing anything for him. But here he is, half-hard and holding the door open, hoping she likes holding his hand enough to come home with him.

“Okay,” he murmurs, following when she tugs him out the door. “Should I...?”

Stay? Go? He’s really starting to dig the way her hand fits into his, but if she wants to make a break for it --

“I’ll just be a second,” she promises, with the sort of earnestness that doesn’t belong anywhere outside of one of those movies they made him watch in English class. With one last squeeze of his hand, she peels away, getting into line just a few feet away.

He misses her already.

This is -- it’s trouble, pure and simple. He’s supposed to be thinking about how much he wants to fuck her, how good her red hair is going to look spilled out over his black sheets. And he is, on some level, it’s just --

He also want to know her favorite color. Her favorite food. Where she’s from and what classes she likes. What her major is and whether she’s got siblings. And it’s not -- not --

It’s not normal. Not for him. Other may people may be into this whole dating crap, begging for their hearts to be stomped on, but he isn’t. He doesn’t do feelings.

He glances over at the line. Red stands three back, stuck behind two girls trying to find their ticket with six drinks and no pockets between them.

She likes plain bagels and cream cheese, and hot cocoa with extra whip. Sometimes she’ll treat herself to the berry cream cheese too, instead of the regular, but only if she’s by herself, poring over one of those ridiculously thick textbooks of hers, the ones that cost bank because you have to buy a new edition every year. He’d watch her sometimes, glad that he at least hadn’t picked a STEM major since the books alone would put him in the red. She’s got a bad habit of biting her lips, and a hoard of lip balm to help, and every single one of them is made from local beeswax. Strawberry is her favorite, and --

And that should be enough for him. More than enough. He doesn’t need --

“Can I help you?”

A hostess blinks at him, service smile in place, and it strikes him that he’s just...lounging here, right where people wait to be seated for actual food and not just fried pickle chips and mozzarella sticks.

“Oh, no, I’m just--” he looks over at the coat check, catching the red in a sea of black-- “I’m not--”

Red glances up, catching his gaze, and she just -- waves. And smiles, her cheeks flushing a sweet pink, and he -- he waves back, just as cutesy and small.

“Oh, you’re waiting for your girlfriend,” the hostess says. “Never mind! You two have a nice night.”

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. “Thanks,” he says, definitely not squeaking, not even a little bit. “We will.”

Obi shifts, pressing his shoulders to the wall, and lets his legs settle out angle. Not a lot, but just enough to give him the real tall drink of water look. It may be cliche, but that cool guy lean makes girls crazy, and he’s something of a connoisseur of lighting a fire.

Still, it feels -- off. Weird. He can’t shake that maybe he doesn’t look like some bad boy, good for a night in the sack, but -- but --

A boyfriend. The kind you bring home to mom, or grandma, or -- or whatever sort of parental guardian situation you have. The kind of person you introduce to someone you want to believe your life is together.

And he‘s not that guy. He’s never been that guy. But Red keeps throwing him the cutest impatient looks, even tapping at a watch she doesn’t have and --

And maybe he could be. If the right person came along.

The club doors slam open so suddenly, even the bouncer jumps. The girl that stomps through is dressed to the nines, all black sequins and tanned skin, hair so dark that vantablack would be jealous. The kind of girl that would be just his type, if only that hadn’t suddenly shifted to cute red heads who think gosh and dang are four-letter words.

“Ha,” the hostess scrapes out at the girl beelines to the coat check. “Feel bad for whoever is on the wrong side of her.”

He can’t shake the feeling she’s familiar. “Tell me about it.”

“Shirayuki!” she yells out, and oh, of course, it’s Red who startles. Because this is Red’s friend, the girl who would catch breakfast with her on Tuesdays and Thursdays, right before her physics lab --

Kihal Toghrul. Father’s some big deal back in Puerto Rico, or at least big enough for it to warrant Haruka telling him to stay the fuck away.

Well, good thing Obi’s not working for him anymore, because it looks like he’s about to get all up in that business, and not in a fun way. At least he knows who to thank for the shoes, now.

He can’t hear their conversation; the coat check’s in sight, but with all the noise from the restaurant and the club, it’s impossible to make out anything but Sparky’s explosive gestures and Red’s calm, measured refusal. Even still, he knows the topic of conversation is him, namely, what the fuck are you thinking, going home with that guy. And not just because She-Hulk is throwing glares at him that would kill any man who possessed a sense of shame and decency.

Well, jokes on her. He hasn’t had any of that for years.

Obi leans back with his most disaffected slouch and smirks. Not just any smirk, of course, but his biggest, smuggest bad boy smirk he can summon, complete with insolent eyebrow raise. It’s gotten him kicked out of more schools than he can count at this point, and it must work just as well against overprotective girl friends as it does on priggish deans, because it sends Ground Zero over there through the roof.

Whatever, might as well have a little fun before she ruins his night anyway. Not like Red’s going to go anywhere once Little Miss Cockblock reminds her that it’s been T-minus 8 hours since she blew her fuse at him. Sure, he seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago, when it had been go home with him or commit acts of public indecency right there on the dance floor, but they’re not hot and heavy now, and --

“Hey!”

He turns, straight into a blinding flash. He’s still seeing afterimages when Valkyrie gets right up in his grille, glaring at him with face more thunderous than Ragnarok.

“I have your picture now,” she tells him, tone informing him that this is a threat-type situation, and he better act accordingly. “And I’m gonna send it straight to the cops if you pull anything funny.”

For a good minute, all he can do is stare. It’s not the first time he’s had someone threaten to call the cops on him, but honestly -- he’s seen himself in the mirror. That’s fair.

But still, still --

He laughs. Not even a good old chuckle, just a full on belly laugh, because here he is, Public Enemy Number One as far as this chick is concerned, and she’s -- what? Threatening to send campus police a really unflattering tinder pic because her friend misses check-in? He knows exactly how much attention that is going to get on Thirsty Thursday, when they’re out mediating ugly drunk break-ups and calling EMTs for stomach pumps. It’s like --

Obi chokes on a breath, fingers clenching his shirt. It’s like she tried to warn Red off, and she -- she --

She wants him anyway.

“Yuck it up,” Miss Empty Threats huffs, which is much less annoying now that he knows none of her ranting has put a stop to his evening, that even though Red has every reason to back out of this thing, she still -- still -- “If you put a hand on Shirayuki that she doesn’t like, I’ll cut it off. And your balls too!”

He wants to inform her that, against all odds, there doesn’t seem to be a finger of his she isn’t asking for, but for once, he knows better. Getting into it with Mother Duck will just make her scoop up all her ducklings, no matter how hard they protest, and anyway, he doesn’t --

He doesn’t want to upset her. Because she’s Red’s friend. A good friend, from the looks of it. And he respects that. He’s glad she has someone like that looking out for her.

Besides, getting into it with Mama here over nothing is only going to give Red second thoughts about whether she wants to -- to -- ah, hang out with him again.

Yeah. That’s it. Because he’s the sort of guy who hangs out with girls he hooks up with, definitely. This is -- is friend stuff. Not -- not anything more serious than that.

Red’s hurrying her way over, looking positively stormy, and Elena de la Vega gives him one last glare for good measure. “Don’t forget what I said!”

“Don’t worry,” he tells her with a grin, “you’ve made yourself memorable.”

Red watches her friend flounce off with a worried look, one she turns on him once Hurricane Kihal has stormed her way back up to the club. She’s had time to have second thoughts now, even third thoughts, and with Toghrul’s interference, she’d probably had four, five, and six, plenty of time to realize --

“Are you ready to go?”

He blinks. She’s flushed, collarbone to hairline at least, eyes fixed to his shoes like she’s afraid he might -- that he’s the one that’s going to call it off. Like maybe dealing with five seconds of her surrogate hover-parent has convinced him this whole thing isn’t worthwhile, that she’s not worthwhile, and --

And he doesn’t know how to say he’s talked to her for maybe ten minutes straight without her yelling at him, but he wants to know if she has anything spicier than tree hugger in her vocabulary.

So he doesn’t.

Obi hooks a finger around her jaw, tilting it up so she’s looking at him, and slow enough to give her time, he leans in. It’s not anything fancy; no clashing tongues or seeking hips like a few minutes ago, but it’s nice. A quick and tender.

It’s not until he pulls away, catching her wide eyes, that he realizes -- that’s a boyfriend kiss.

She’s the one to lean back it, to brush her lips against his, and this one lingers, long enough he wraps his hand around her back to steady her. Long enough that his breath starts to come quick, that his dick twitches in anticipation.

She settles back on her heels, eyes still closed, breath huffing softly between them.

“Yeah,” he manages, trying not to think how much he want to see her face like that again, all softly blissful. “Let’s...let’s go.”

He takes her hand again, and this time she threads their fingers right away, tucking in close. “Okay.”

She gives him one, bright smile, and he --

Oh boy, he is...he is in trouble.

#obiyuki #The Wide Florida Bay #The Butterfly Effect #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #modern au #ans #andi i promise i thought they were gonna get in the car #but then i added kihal being a mama duck and things got LONG #but now i have a whole first draft of THAT for a later date #so please enjoy Obi freestyle screaming because he doesn't!!! do!!!! dating!!!#but shirayuki is so cute and he maybe kind sorta would like to do dating with her oh god

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

Text

Seared with Scars - Chapter 6 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Hey, kids. Did ya miss me?

Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Smoking, PTSD, descriptions of graphic injuries, descriptions of miscarriage, and panic attacks.

I am so sorry this took so long to get out. That’s all on me. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you guys actually still care enough about to read.

Previous chapter

---

“I survived, but it’s not a happy ending.”

- Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried”

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

The guts of the gun sparked again, and a low rumbling of thunder shuddered in the night. Fiddleford wanted to blame it for his shaking hands, but he had always been a terrible liar, even to himself.

He set down his screwdriver with a quiet sigh, and chanced a glance up at the clock. 1:37 am. He had no idea why he didn’t feel more tired. Helen had long since downed the rest of her beer and gone back into the living room, swaying slightly. He heard the couch squeak loudly as she plopped down on it. Soon, Fiddleford heard her snoring softly.

She had not spoken a word to him in the time it took her to leave the room and fall asleep. Hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

After the sort of day she’d had, he understood. Pity played in his chest. She was a decent women. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the waking nightmare that was Stanford Pines’ so-called research. It was clearly taking its toll on her now. He wished that he could comfort her, in spite of her current feelings towards him.

He’d been wracking his mind the entire time he worked, trying to find something, anything stashed away in there that would assuage her fears about Dr. Matthews. To ease her mind that her friend and colleague wasn’t the one who’d broken into her home and terrorized her. That he wasn’t mixed up in anything unsavory.

And sure, he knew that, even if Dr. Matthews was part of his flock, there was nothing to fear, but Helen didn’t. If he was being perfectly honest, he could see how the whole thing seemed rather off-putting. All the secrecy and hush-hush stuff might seem practically cultish to an outside observer, but now that Fiddleford had found out about the defect in the gun, it was easy to understand why he’d decided that the Society needed to work in secret. Memories that the gun tried to suppress could be called forth with any sort of trigger - a smell, a sound, even an errant thought about some seemingly innocent thing could force the unwanted memories to come rushing back.

And that was the last thing Fiddleford wanted. If he wanted to carry on his work, he needed to fix that when this was all said and done. It was all too important not to.

The front door opened, and he heard the merry jingling of dog tags as Ripley trotted in, right past the kitchen archway, and into the living room. Another jangling of the tags and a satisfied huff led him to believe Ripley had jumped on the couch to join Helen. The thought made Fiddleford smile. At least Helen could get some comfort from someone.

He was pulled out of himself when he heard the front door shut. Stan was still outside, had been since their argument. That had been over an hour ago.

Fiddleford sighed again, trying not to let that awful faded scar he’d seen dance too vividly across his mind. He reminded himself that, although the other man’s hardships were indeed tragic, that didn’t change the fact Stan was a brute - swearing at him and threatening him and tossing him about like an old ragdoll. Fiddleford’s shoulder ached a bit from the way Stan had wrenched it, dragging him downstairs, throwing him at the foot of that...that...monstrosity in the basement.

Stan Pines didn’t deserve Fiddleford’s sympathy, and he was not going to get it.

Fiddleford shivered again as the draft from the previously open door finally hit him. It had already been so cold out, and the storm wasn’t making things any better. It was probably freezing now.

If Stan had been on his own for ten years, he was certainly used to cold nights, possibly even colder than this. But just because you were used to something didn’t make it pleasant to endure.

His wrist throbbed again. No. Stan was choosing to stay outside, like a huffy child. He could freeze for all Fiddleford cared.

He lifted his screwdriver, intent on losing himself in his work once more. Stan Pines was not going to distract him anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

Gosh darnit.

Fiddleford set the screwdriver aside and got up from the table, trying his hardest not to scrape the chair against the wood floor too loudly and wake Helen. He even tiptoed past the opening into the main room, just to be safe. Aside from Ripley waking up momentarily to offer him a bleary glance, he managed to make it to the front door without any problems.

A frigid blast of icy air bombarded him as soon as he opened the door a crack. He thought about turning tail and running back in, but something stopped him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything done until he made some kind of amends with Stan. Apologize for his insensitivity, for all that Stan had been through, whatever. Just so long as Stan knew that Fiddleford wanted to make things right.

Bracing himself, he rounded the door, and was immediately greeted by the stink of cigarette smoke...

“I can’t sleep,” the man said, his cigarette burning down between his fingers. He barely seemed to notice as it was reduced to ashes. “It’s all I see anymore. You have to help me.”

Fiddleford shook his head. As welcome as memories sometimes were, now was not the time for them. He had to focus on what he came out here to do.

Leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the weak porch light, was Stan. A cigarette was between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting lazily from the tip. Stan himself was sopping wet, his red jacket plastered to his skin. His brown hair hung limply around his face. Stan barely seemed phased though. Instead, his surprisingly intense gaze was focused solely on Fiddleford.

Fiddleford tried his best not to shrink away. He’d come out here with a purpose, and he reminded himself that, no matter how intimidating this man was, he was still just a man, and one who’d been through quite a lot. The least Fiddleford could do was give him the dignity of not acting afraid of him.

After a moment or two of realizing Fiddleford was not going anywhere, Stan slowly blinked, then turned his gaze back out to the black forest just beyond the house. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine what was out there that he’d want to see, but if Stan was anything like his brother, he was sure that there was something, some mystery he wanted to solve or creature he wanted to study.

Fiddleford gulped silently, and took a step closer to Stan. After another moment of stamping down his anxiety, he said, “Hi there.”

Stan didn’t reply.

“I bet it’s cold in that wet jacket,” Fiddleford said softly, grateful that the rain had let up enough so his words weren’t swallowed up entirely.

Not that it mattered, since Stan didn’t reply. He merely brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

Fiddleford pressed onward. “I was thinking about making a cup of tea,” he said. “Did you maybe want to come in and have some? It’d warm you up.”

The cigarette was brought away, and Stan held in the smoke.

“Maybe you and I could talk. Because I really think we need to.”

Stan tapped the ash at the end of the cigarette, and it floated down to the porch like gray flakes of snow.

“I…” Fiddelford faltered for a moment. Why wouldn’t Stan say something? Anything? How angry could he possibly be? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. You were right - I didn’t know you existed until now. But if I did...if I’d known the sorts of awful things you’ve had to endure, I never would have said what I did.”

Stan released the smoke through his nose as he flicked his steely gaze back at Fiddleford, making him look positively dragon-like. It was almost fearsome enough for Fiddleford to forget his soft nature and go back in the house to hide. Almost. But then he caught a glimpse of Stan’s eyes in the pale yellow porch light.

There was no anger left in them. No malice. Not even any frustration. Stan simply looked tired.

Fiddleford felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Taking another step forward, he hesitantly reached out his hand, and placed it on the cold, wet fleece of Stan’s jacket, and said, “I think you might benefit from having someone to talk to. You’ve obviously been holding a lot in.”

Although it might sound boastful, Fiddleford was very good at getting people to open up to him. He’d always been small and non-threatening, patient and understanding; the kind of person that made people feel comfortable about dropping their defenses. It’s why the Society had been so successful. He didn’t need to seek out new members; they came to him, desperate for his support and kindness to soothe their frenzied minds.

He offered Stan his sincerest smile as he waited for him to reply.

After a beat of silence, Stan sighed and shook his head “You ain’t interested in helping me,” he said, tone flat. “You just don’t wanna feel guilty.”

Fiddleford yanked his hand away from Stan’s jacket as if it were an open flame. “I...I beg your pardon?” he said. It was all he could think to say.

“I think you heard me pretty clearly,” Stan replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Fiddleford felt heat bubble up behind his cheeks, his mind groping for some kind of response. He found nothing. Finally, a little more sharply than he intended, he blurted out, “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This mess we’re all in is hardly my fault. It wasn’t my idea to poke around with the dangerous things in this town. I didn’t want to come back to this house and relive this nightmare. And I certainly didn’t decide to build that thing down in the basement!”

“But you did help.”

Fiddleford closed his mouth so quickly his teeth audibly clacked together. As he turned away from Stan’s gaze, his mind belched forth an image, an image of Stanford excitedly explaining his plans for the portal to him. A warmth, a feeling of giddy anticipation, blossomed in Fiddleford’s chest, spreading out and into his fingers and toes. He’d shared his former partner’s enthusiasm. They’d been ecstatic to start such a monumental feat together, to reach new heights of achievement and understanding. He’d wanted to make the portal as much as Stanford had.

But that was before the incident. Before whatever happened that drove Fiddleford away. The memory was still hidden away, beneath layers of fog and protection, and he knew it was better off that way. He gave his head a shake and said firmly, “I didn’t know what we were doing. I didn’t know where that awful gateway would lead. And once I did, that was it. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

“But you stayed in Gravity Falls.”

Fiddleford whipped his head around to face Stan again. The other man looked completely unfazed, like he’d made a casual remark about the rotten weather.

Stan continued, “You had a wife and kid waiting for you back in California. A pet project that Ford said you were pretty interested in. Hell, the reason he never tried to help you till now is because that’s what he assumed you did.” Stan flicked the stub of his cigarette away. Fiddleford heard it hiss softly as it landed in the wet darkness beyond the porch. And then that intense gaze was on him again as Stan asked, “You had a life ready to be lived. So why did you stay here?”

Fiddleford quickly stammered out, “Well...I...because I wanted to help people. Help them deal with the supernatural things…”

“This town is almost 150 years old, Fidds,” Stan said. “And the weird stuff has been here since before the town was even an idea. There wouldn’t be a Gravity Falls if the folks here couldn’t deal with all the weird shit in those woods. You’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Fiddleford spat back. The ferocity in his words shocked him, and he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, trying to calm himself down. When he felt the flush of his cheeks subside a bit, he added, fighting to keep his tone even, “The people in this town rely on me.”

“Yeah, but why?” Stan asked. “You didn’t owe these people anything. I know for a fact that none of them ever had the guts to come out here. You guys weren’t exactly town celebrities. You could have gone home, lived your life, and left my brother to whatever was waiting for him beyond that portal. But you’re still here. So, I’m gonna ask you again: with a family waiting for you, and a town that didn’t need you to martyr yourself for them, why the hell did you stay?”

Fiddleford wanted to respond. He wanted to brush Stan off, tell him he was crazy, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He wanted to find some clever thing to say to finally get this man - this violent brute who’d slung him around like a ragdoll and called him names - to stop asking him these questions.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find an answer for them that didn’t prove Stan right.

So he stayed silent.

Stan watched him for another moment, before he turned his gaze back out to the inky black forest, and said, “The portal may have been Ford’s idea, but you had a hand in it. And deep down, you know he’d never have been able to build it without you. That’s why you stayed, even after it scared you so bad you left. That’s why you started this whole Blind Eye thing. Because you felt like you had to make up for it. You screwed up, and you didn’t want to live with that. So you tried to fix it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that,” Fiddleford asked wearily. He found he no longer had it in him to argue.

“Because I’ve been watching Ford do the same thing since we found you,” Stan replied.

Fiddelford thought of Stanford, eyes brimming with tears a few hours ago. He sighed softly.

“It sucks doing something out of guilt,” Stan said. He sounded less like he was talking to Fiddleford now, and more like he was just thinking out loud. “No matter how much you do, no matter what ends up happening, you never feel like you’ve done enough. You just keep beating yourself up and beating yourself up until one day, it just kind of dawns on you that you haven’t really fixed anything. Nothing’s better, nothing’s changed. You just feel that much shittier about yourself.”

Off in the distance, in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound.

“Look,” Stan continued, “in a way, I do get where you’re coming from. There are days when I’d give anything to never remember some of the things I’ve been through. You weren’t wrong when you said there are some things that no one should ever have to endure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford watched Stan reach up and gently run his fingers down the length of his arm. Now, more than ever, he regretted his words about “everyday” trauma. There was nothing commonplace about the pale scar under that sodden fabric. And the fact that he’d tried to turn something like this into something inspirational? It turned his stomach more than the thought of the scar ever could.

Stan spoke up again, jarring Fiddleford from his thoughts. “But as much as the memory hurts, it’s still there. It’s as much a part of me as the scars it left behind. All I can do now is make my choices with what I know. And I chose to try and keep living.”

He turned back to Fiddleford, gaze beseeching. “You’ve got a choice now too. You can keep hiding, keep forgetting, and one day, maybe, it’ll all finally be gone. But I can’t guarantee that you’ll be the same man as when you started.”

The owl in the forest called out again.

“Or,” Stan added, “you can face those scars, and finally start doing some real good.”

Fiddleford maintained his gaze at the other man, this man who’d proven he was more than just brute strength and cheap insults. This man, who, for all his bluster, was surprisingly wise, even though it hurt Fiddleford deeply to think about all that happened to him to obviously make him that way.

Maybe Stan was right.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of dirt crunching under tires. He lifted his head and saw a pair of headlines slicing through the pitch blackness. In the distance, the owl hooted indignantly and fluttered away, a speck against the night sky. As the car came closer to the house, Fiddleford realized that it was a blue Buick. Helen’s blue Buick. The one Stanford had taken off in.

Beside him, Stan muttered, “Oh my god,” and before Fiddleford could even offer a reply, the other man was across the porch and down the stairs, loping like an excited dog to meet the car. He even raised up his arms and started waving the vehicle down, a relieved smile splitting his face. It was actually rather sweet.

The car stopped a few hundred feet from the house, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights went out, and Fiddleford could finally see the silhouette of someone behind the steering wheel.

But as he looked, he realized something wasn’t right.

The figure didn’t look like Stanford at all. It was much shorter, even sitting down. The driver’s face had a bushy mustache. Fiddleford couldn’t make out the mop of messy brown hair, but there was the outline of a slight belly.

Whoever was driving was not Stanford Pines.

Stan hadn’t seemed to notice yet, and ran up to the passenger side door. “Get out of that damn car, Sixer,” he cried, clearly with laughter in his voice. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you stupid nerd.” He rounded the car as the driver’s side opened, but stopped short when he saw a five-fingered hand reach up and grasp the window, in order to pull the driver the rest of the way out.

His face fell completely when Dr. Ed Matthews emerged from the car, wearing a bright red, hooded robe. His face was grave.

Stan quickly backed away as if he were facing a loaded gun, but Dr. Matthews didn’t seem to notice. His iron gaze settled on Fiddleford. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Dr. Matthews finally seemed to realize that his cigarette was going to waste. He tossed it on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Please,” he said again, sounding ready to break, “please, Mr. McGucket, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You are in the Society,” Fiddleford said as the memory faded. “Stan was right.”

“And if I’m right, that means you sold us out,” Stan said, the bubbling anger apparent in his voice. He took a threatening step towards Matthews, looking ready to throttle him. “You were the one who broke into Helen’s house. You were the one who attacked us.”

Matthews didn’t even look in Stan’s direction, but a flash of irritation flashed across his face, like the other man was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. “No,” he replied plainly. “I wasn’t the one who broke into Helen’s house.” He turned his attention back to Fiddleford. “I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to come back to the sanctum.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Stan growled. His fists were balled up by his sides, ready to fly.

Matthews ignored him and continued to plead with Fiddleford. “Please, sir. Ivan is out of control. You have no idea the kinds of things he’s been doing in your absence. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow. Ivan? Out of control? It seemed impossible. If there was one person that Fiddleford trusted to keep the Society alive while he was gone, it was Ivan. He may have been young, but he was mature, intelligent, and could read people like they were open books. He was dedicated, perhaps a little too overbearing in regards to Fiddleford’s health, but he meant well.

Stealing another glance at Stan, seeing the murder in his eyes, knowing it came from a place of righteous fury at being assaulted and manhandled and victimized by the group the old man before them belonged to, Fiddleford realized that tonight had proven to be a night dedicated to showing him he didn’t know anyone as well as he thought he did.

“Look, Doc,” Stan barked. “Whoever this Ivan character is, he can figure out his own shit. Fidds isn’t going back to Jonestown with you. And if you don’t start running as fast as you can back the way you came, you won’t be making it back either. So get the hell out of here.”

Matthews finally turned his gaze on Stan, and said, “Do you really want me to leave, Stanley? Even if I’m the only person who can help you rescue your brother.”

Stan’s face fell in shock, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“He’s in poor shape,” Matthews added. “Ivan has not been kind to the man he believes responsible for our group’s troubles. Your brother doesn’t have much time left, and we have no time to argue about it.”

Before Stan could even open his mouth to speak, Fiddleford heard the front door slam open, and Helen’s voice call out, “Ford?”

Matthews’s eyes went as round as dinner plates, and slowly moved towards the sound of the voice. Fiddleford looked over his shoulder and saw Helen standing there, framed in the weak porch light, wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, her hair hanging wildly around her face. Her glasses were slightly crooked on her face, her dark green eyes wide behind them. She looked like a madwoman who’d just stumbled her way down from the attic. Her gaze jumped between each man on the lawn in front of her, all standing stock still, watching her watching them. It was like a macabre stage production.

Finally, in a low voice, Helen said, “Ed...what the fuck is going on?”

Fiddleford couldn’t exactly explain why, but when he saw a glimpse of Stan and Dr. Matthews’s faces, he knew that facing Helen and trying to explain all this to her was going to be more painful that anything he’d ever done.

------

Glass Shard Beach had never been so cold. It leached through his clothes, his skin, and settled into his bones, making him shiver and quake like a newborn deer. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stave off the chill as best he could, but his limbs felt rubbery, and wouldn’t obey his commands. All he could do was lie prone on the sand, as hard and frigid on his back as a slab of marble, and stare up at the steely gray sky. A harsh wind blew across his face, sharp enough to cut. It was going to storm.

A pale yellow light entered Ford’s vision, and suddenly, a slit pupil was staring back at him. Fear pulsed through him as Bill materialized completely before him, his unwavering gaze boring into him like a drill to the forehead. He wanted to run, but whatever was keeping his arms plastered to the sand was doing the same to his legs. He could only lie there, limp and useless.

“Geez, Sixer,” Bill finally said, his body flickering in time with his nasally voice. “I’ve seen you look pretty bad before - and I mean, like, really, really bad. But this? This is almost depressing.”

One of Bill’s black stick arms came to the spot his chin would be if he had one, his single eye furrowing in thought.

After a moment, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait!” he said. “Did I say ‘depressing’? I meant ‘absolutely hilarious’!” Bill let loose a peal of mocking laughter, his floating body turning lazily in the chilly breeze of the beach. “I gotta hand it to you, Sixer, you fail abysmally at a lot of stuff, but making me laugh at your ineptitude sure ain’t one of ‘em!”

Bill righted himself, and leaned down so he was right in Ford’s face. “I mean, look at you,” he said. “You tried to make up with that dumb hayseed after he saw me in an indecent moment - super rude, might I point out, guy needs a talking-to about knocking first - and look where that got you! All alone, on some bald weirdo’s basement floor, selling out your friends and brother as soon as things get a little too hard for you. This is almost funnier than you thinking dismantling that portal is gonna stop me! Which, let’s be real here, was already pretty darn funny.”

Shame boiled behind Ford’s cheeks. “I-I will stop you…” he ground out.

“Hey, it talks,” Bill said. “And is completely delusional, apparently.” He chuckled again. “Look, Fordsey, I’ve got a life outside of you. And one bad break-up isn’t gonna stop what I’ve got in store for your world. You don’t make plans as big as mine without having a few safety nets. Now, to me, you’re nothing more than a dancing monkey, here to amuse me when I take a break for some time punch.”

Suddenly, Bill shot out a hand and grab Ford’s index finger, yanking it back violently. Ford let out a strangled cry of pain.

“And speaking of amusement,” Bill said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I think that Ivan guy had the right idea. Breaking fingers sounds like a riot. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl. It’ll almost be as fun as that time I flung you down the stairs!”

Ford felt like weeping.

“Now, let’s see, where to start. Hmm...eeny...meany...miney...yooooou…”

Someone was shaking him, and Ford opened his eyes with a shout. He inhaled heavily, gathering up as much air as he could in his burning lungs. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for years. His hands shook under the ropes binding him to the chair.

As Ford’s vision cleared, it dawned on him that he was still in the dark room in the inner sanctum of the Society of the Blind Eye. He was slightly unsettled that the sight filled him with a strange sort of relief.

“Are you alright?” a voice said. Ford looked up, and realized that a robed figure was watching him from the shadows. In their hands, they held a tin bowl full of water. When the figure realized Ford was looking intently at the bowl, they said, “I thought you might need some water. I came in and you were talking in your sleep. So I woke you up.”

Ford recognized the gentle voice of the follower from before. The one who’d so gently inspected his injuries and tried to comfort him. The one who’d convinced him to give in to Ivan’s demands to save himself. Ford’s fists balled, his hands still shaking, but now in anger instead of fear.

The figure took a step towards him, and Ford snapped, “Don’t come anywhere near me.” As if suddenly glued to the spot, the figure stopped moving. Ford could feel them watching him from under their hood. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll take anything you give me,” he continued. He was acutely aware of how his voice cracked ever so slightly, indicative of the strain his mind was under, but he didn’t care. “You probably planned that little stunt earlier from the beginning. Bait me with some kindness so I’d roll over and do whatever you wanted. I’m on to your game, so you can just get the hell away from me.” His voice broke miserably, and he screwed his eyes shut against the shame that shot through him, his breath coming out in ragged heaves.

He heard footsteps approaching him and was suddenly aware of a human presence very close to him. He opened his eyes again. The figure set the bowl gently on the ground, and let out a quiet sigh. “What happened with Ivan was never my intention,” they said. “I truly did want to help you. I don’t like seeing people in pain. It’s just my nature.”

“You’re a liar,” Ford spat back, but he felt his anger petering out quickly. He was just so tired. The chill that he thought was just a product of his dreams suddenly squeezed him like an icy fist, sending a powerful shiver down his spine.

The figure sighed again, then reached up and grasped their hood. Before Ford could ask what they were doing, the hood was tossed back, and a young black man, roughly his own age, was staring back at him. His features were careworn, and he looked about as tired as Ford felt. “My name is Darryl,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

Ford gaped for a moment before he breathed, “Wh-why would you...”

“I thought actually seeing a person under here - a real, living person - would maybe make you feel a little safer. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear, I wasn’t playing earlier. It’s literally my job to fix up injuries like that one.” He gestured broadly to Ford’s head. The wound near the base of his neck took that moment to throb dully.

“I really did want to help,” Darryl added. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dented tin cup. “And now, I’m trying to again.” He dipped the cup in the bowl at his feet, filling it with water, and held it out to Ford. “Do you want a drink or not? It’s whatever you want to do.”

Ford looked at the cup, then back up at Darryl, trying to read his face, see anything that might indicate subterfuge. But he saw nothing. The bright brown eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze with a strange, soft command, reminded him of Stan. Limply, he nodded. A brief flicker of relief crossed Darryl’s face as he moved closer and put the cup to Ford’s lips.

Ford hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water was snaking its way down his throat. It was lukewarm and had a bit of a metal tang to it, probably from the town’s old pipes, but it tasted amazing to him. Darryl took it away far too soon.

“Sorry,” the other man said, setting the cup aside again, “but I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you some more in a minute.” He reached down to his belt, and pulled loose a threadbare blanket. “I know it’s not much, but I figure anything is better than nothing in this damp little space.”

He laid the blanket out across Ford’s chest, tucking it in a bit at the arms. Despite how worn it looked, the blanket did help, and the aching chill that had settled in Ford’s body began to lessen.

“Now, let’s try to get that horror show on the back of your head fixed up,” Darryl muttered, more to himself than to Ford. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handkerchief. As he stooped down to pick up the bowl, Ford saw a glint of gold on his left hand in the dim light. Looking harder, he realized it was a simple golden wedding band. It made sense, honestly. Darryl wasn’t much older than him, and Ford was an outlier when it came to relationships. Of course most men his age were settling down, marrying and having children. But it raised a question in Ford’s mind, one he couldn’t help but vocalize.

“Why is a young married paramedic in a memory-wiping cult?”

Darryl froze. A flash of panic flickered across his face, as he muttered, “I wanted to forget. Same as everyone else.”

“But I want to know what,” Ford asked. “I know this entire group thinks I’m some kind of dangerous madman, but I’m not. I tried to tell Ivan before, I go looking for the unexplained so I can explain it. You can protect yourself if you know what you’re up against. And if you told me what made you...join, maybe I can help you understand it.”

Finally, Darryl turned to face him. Ford had expected him to be angry, or at least defensive, but instead, his face was drawn and sad. The bright brown eyes now looked a thousand miles away. In a quiet voice, Darryl said, “Only demons I’m running from are my own, Dr. Pines.”

Despite himself, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The Society only has a few rules. The people who want their memories erased have to be willing. We don’t tell anyone who isn’t a member about it. And, most importantly, the only memories we erase are paranormal ones. That was something McGucket was always very firm about.”

“But Ivan told me that the memory gun can get rid of anything.”

“It can, but McGucket never wanted to use it for what he called the “everyday” stuff. He always said those are the sorts of things humans were meant to handle. It was the most important rule. But Ivan hasn’t been following the rules for a good, long while now.”

“He’s been erasing other memories now?”

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t Fiddleford do anything about it?”

“He didn’t know. Ivan realized that the more McGucket used the gun on himself, the more it rattled his brain. There’d be days when McGucket would wander around, looking like he didn’t know where he was. We’ve found him outside more than once, curled up next to the garbage cans because he was trying to figure out how to get home from here.”

Ford thought of Fiddleford in that alleyway, looking so thin and haggard and, most of all, lost.

“Ivan’s been taking full advantage of it,” Darryl continued. “McGucket can’t argue about ethics when he doesn’t even realize that Ivan is working against him, so Ivan has been offering to erase any bad memories, in exchange for loyalty.”

“But why? What does he gain from it?”

“I don’t know, entirely. Maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he just liked to be in control of people It sounds crazy, but from the looks of things, I think he’s amassing an army.”

“For what?”

“Like I said, I don’t know entirely. But whatever it is, he’s obviously not gonna let a little thing like humanity get in his way.”

Darryl dunked the handkerchief in the bowl of water, scrunching it up in his fist to squeeze out the excess water. As he began moving behind the chair, Ford said, “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

Darryl hesitated a moment, then walked briefly back into Ford’s line of vision, reaching a hand down into his robes. Ford heard a clinking of metal as the other man pulled forth a simple metal chain from around his neck. Attached to the end were two dented dog tags. “Private Little, of the 113th Infantry Brigade,” Darryl said simply. “One tour in South Vietnam, 1969 to 1970.”

Sympathy settled in Ford’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Oh…” he mumbled.

“Not to offend or anything, but I’m guessing you didn’t serve.” Darryl gave him a wry look as he ducked back out of sight, behind Ford.

Ford felt the soft, cool handkerchief being gently pressed into his neck. He tensed only for a moment, expecting pain, and was amazed when none came. He felt himself relax. “No,” he replied. “My dad did, but that’s about as close as my brothers and I got. College kept me out of the draft. My older brother had asthma, so he was exempt. And I’m not sure how Stanley managed to avoid it, but I’m sure it had something to do with fleeing to another country.”

Darryl chuckled a bit at that, and said, “Wish I’d had the brains to do that. Would have saved me a whole mess of trouble.”

“What happened?”

The handkerchief stilled for just a moment. Finally, Darryl said, “We got ambushed. It happened so fast that sometimes I have a hard time believing it happened at all. But my dreams always remind me. They just mowed us down. Ten seconds, tops, and it was over. I took a bullet right to the knee cap. Dropped where I stood. My buddy, Hank...he took one to the gut. He must have hung on for half an hour…”

Darryl trailed off, and Ford didn’t urge him to continue. Oddly enough, he thought of his father. He knew Dad had served, but beyond the basic facts, he never told Ford or his brothers about his tour of duty. It wasn’t until Ford was at least eleven that he accidentally stumbled across the Purple Heart his father had been awarded, stuffed away in a box in the hall closet.

He thought of when Shermie came back from the recruiting office, and how Dad’s shoulders seemed to slump when his older brother informed everyone that he was medically unfit for military service. It was the first time Ford ever remembered his father being excited about something.

He wondered what memories his father would want pulled from his head, if he was given the choice.

“And that’s why you came to Ivan,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Darryl responded quietly. “For a while, I managed to live with the memories. Believe it or not, the job helps. I see a lot of blood and death, but at least now I can do something about it, ya know? It’s not like with Hank. It...it kinda helps me cope. Does that make sense?”

Ford thought of the portal back home, how he sequestered himself for hours with it, this living testament to his failure, how accomplished he felt when he managed to make any kind of headway with it. He nodded and said, “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Loud noises are the things that tend to upset me now,” Darryl continued. “Cars backfiring, slamming doors, that kind of thing. Had to stop going out on the Fourth of July. But those are things you can live with. After my daughter was born…that’s when the dreams started. Vivid shit, almost perfect recreations of that day in the jungle.”

Darryl squeezed more water from the handkerchief, and added, “By the time Ivan found me, I was desperate. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t sleep. It was affecting my job, which used to be one of the only things that kept me grounded. And at home...I knew seeing me this way was hard for my family. Even if I hadn’t done it for myself, I would have done it for them in a heartbeat.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Darryl dabbed tenderly at the base of Ford’s neck, then gave a small grunt of satisfaction before he ducked back into Ford’s field of vision. His face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Darryl,” Ford said. “I’m sorry you ever had to feel like this cult was your only option.”

Darryl gave him a sad smile, and said, “Thanks, man.”

Another question suddenly dawned on Ford. “Wait,” he said. “If the reason you joined the Society was to erase those memories, then how do you still remember them enough to tell me?”

“Because there’s something wrong with the memory gun,” Darryl said gravely. “McGucket thought it would be a permanent process, but other members have started remembering whatever it was they erased. And that scares them more than you ever could.”

“That’s why Ivan wants Fiddleford back so badly.”

“Exactly. He’s getting desperate. The only thing he’s got to ensure people’s loyalty is that memory gun, and if it doesn’t work, then the others have no reason to stick with him. To fix it, he needs McGucket.”

This was so much worse than Ford ever thought. His original idea was that Ivan wanted Fiddleford back simply because he was their leader. But all Ivan was interested in was Fiddleford’s engineering skills. Fiddeford wouldn’t just be worse off if he was dragged back to this hellhole. His very life could be in danger, once Ivan had gotten what he needed from him.

“We have to stop him,” Ford said firmly.

“I know,” Darryl said. “If he’d go after two people who mean absolutely nothing to him, think of what he’d do to McGucket.”

Ford’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t being arbitrary when I said that Ivan would go after Helen and your brother. I know he will because he already has. When Helen and Stan went back to her house, someone was waiting for them. A Society member, trying to find Fidds.”

“What?! Who?”

“I don’t know. They managed to fight whoever it was off. As if anyone needed another reason to be afraid of Helen Bergstrum when she’s mad, now she’s slashing faces with car keys.” Darryl shook his head a bit. “But Stan got a pretty nasty blow to the head. They called me in to patch him up. That’s when I realized what Ivan had done.”

“Was he alright?”

“Yeah, I stitched him up. He was a little dizzy, but no worse for wear. But it made me realize that Ivan has gone too far.” He cast his gaze back up at Ford, the brightness in his eyes verging on fiery passion. “I don’t really understand why you do what you do, Dr. Pines. It even kinda scares me a little. But you never intentionally hurt innocent people. Dr. Bergstrum is a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be terrorized in her own home. And your brother? Anyone who’s willing to throw down just to protect his friend is cool in my book.”

Darryl looked down into the bowl of water he still held in his hand. Ford wondered what he saw staring back at him.

“So,” Ford said, “what are you proposing?”

Darryl looked up, directly into Ford’s eyes. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, Dr. Pines, and then I’m getting you out of here.”

-----

Helen drummed her fingers against the sticky kitchen table. Across from her, doing everything he could to avoid looking her directly in the eye, was Ed Matthews. Her friend, her colleague. A man she’d worked with for almost seven years, who gently teased her about her interest in the paranormal. Who’d been there when life was almost too much for her.

The man who helped a memory-wiping cult break into her home and violently attack her.

Stan and Fiddleford sat in chairs between them, on the side of the table. Their eyes bounced between Helen and Ed, as if they were watching a pair of bombs, primed and ready to explode.

Helen didn’t blame them. That wasn’t very far off from how she felt.

“Helen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. You have every right to be.” Ed’s eyes were tired as he lifted them up gingerly to meet Helen’s glare. “But I promise you, I’m done lying. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Helen narrowed her eyes, fighting hard to keep her voice level and her fists from swinging in rage. “I’m counting on it, Ed,” she muttered. “I figure any explanation you give me has gotta be a pip.”

Ed ducked his head, away from her withering stare, ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out even a syllable, Helen cut him off and said, “You lied to me.” She was ashamed how her voice wavered ever so slightly. “You lied about Fiddleford, about that girl, about the old man...how? How could you do this?”

“I didn’t want to,” Ed said miserably, putting his head in his hands. “But you have no idea the kind of power the Society has. The kind of power Ivan has. And what could have happened to me if I didn’t play his game.”

Helen stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose brow was furrowed heavily, lost in thought. He was obviously trying hard to remember anything to do with this Ivan character, to see if there was any validity to Ed’s claims.

Until then, there was no way they could trust Ed.

“Helen, you of all people understand who absolutely insane this town is,” Ed said emphatically. “I know going to the Society was wrong, but it wasn’t until I actually saw for myself what drives people to it that I finally understood.”

“What exactly did you see?” Stan asked carefully.

Ed sighed, and replied, “My house isn’t that far beyond the lake. My wife loved the sounds of it at night.” He paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly very, very far away, but he quickly shook his head and continued on, “But then she started saying she...heard things out there. Low, rumbling noises. Almost like growls. I dismissed it as a dream, but she insisted there was something out there until the day she died. One night, not too long after her funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the dock. That’s when I finally figured out what she was talking about.”

Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all leaned in, like scouts hearing a spooky campfire story.

“Poking above the water, staring right at me, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.”

“So there really was something out in the lake,” Helen breathed. “That girl really did see something.”

“Yes,” Ed said sadly. “As soon as I heard her talking about seeing something in the lake, I knew exactly what she was talking about. So Ivan went looking for them.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide with horror. “You wiped their memories without their consent?!”

Ed flinched, like a chastened child. “I didn’t,” he said. “Ivan did.”

“And you just let your band of hooded freaks target a scared teenage girl?” Stan said, the contempt in his voice barely masked.

“You make it sound like I personally put the gun to her forehead,” Ed retorted. “I would never have told Ivan about her, about any of my patients, but I didn’t have to. Gossip travels fast in this town, and it wasn’t long before Ivan found out and went after the girl and her friends. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s like I said, I was too much of a coward to admit that what Ivan was doing was wrong. He has the entire Society convinced that the townsfolk are better off living in ignorance, even if we have to show them that by force.”

“How could he do this?” Fiddleford suddenly cried out. Helen, Stan, and Ed all whipped their heads around to look at him. He was angrier than Helen had ever seen him, and didn’t seem to notice at all that everyone’s attention was no on him. He raked a hand through his hair, grabbing up a clump of it halfway through and squeezing, as he continued to babble. “I thought Ivan understood why I was doing this more than anyone. I...he...he upheld the Society’s rules more than anyone. I just...I don’t understand where this all came from. It doesn’t seem like him at all.”

After a moment, Ed said, “Tell me something, sir. Do you remember the last conversation you had with Ivan before all this insanity began?”

Fiddleford gave him a confused look, and said, “Of course I do! I...we...oh, my god…”

Slowly, realization dawned on Fiddleford’s face.

“You don’t, do you?” Ed asked.

Fiddleford squeeze his hair tighter in his hand. “I...all I really remember is that Ivan was upset. He was yelling about something. But after that…” Fiddleford’s hand fell from his hair. He looked so very small as he muttered, “After that it’s all a blank.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Helen’s mind. “You must have caught him wiping the memories of that old man!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, then said, “It adds up. It explains why you were in such piss-poor shape when Ford and I found you. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Ivan shot you. And you’ve been surrounded by reminders of your past all day, so you’ve been recovering faster.”

“But...why?” Fiddleford asked helplessly. “Why would Ivan want to go behind my back?”

“For the obvious reason,” Helen said. “Because he’s doing something he didn’t want you to know about. He knew you’d never approve of whatever it is he’s doing, and he was right. So he wiped your memories.”

“And that’s how the Pines brothers found you,” Ed added. “You must have wandered out of the sanctum again.”

Helen quirked up her eyebrow, confused. Sanctums? If this cult of Fiddleford’s wasn’t actually pretty frightening, she’d laugh at how pretentious they were.

Her confusion must have been pretty clear, because Fiddleford said, “Sometimes, after using the gun, I’d be a bit, well, mixed up. I’d wander outside and sit in the alley, though not always intentionally. It helped me think, get my thoughts in order. And that’s where I must have gone after Ivan wiped my mind.”

Fiddleford plopped heavily into his seat, obviously overwhelmed by all that he’d just discovered. Helen didn’t blame him. She felt a bit like doing that herself. But she needed more answers. Turning back to Ed, she said, “But how did they get into my house? You were the only person who saw us today, who knew we were with Fiddleford. And I got some pretty good cuts in on whoever it was. Since you don’t have any cuts on your face, it couldn’t have been you.”

Ed sighed again, and reached into his robe sleeve. Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all tensed immediately, ready to jump at whatever Ed had hidden inside.

But all he pulled out was a shiny, silver house key. An exact copy of the one Helen had used to unlock her front door, and then slash at an intruder less than ten minutes later.

Helen felt like she was going to be sick. She cast her glance back up at Ed, searching for answers. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Yes, she was definitely going to be sick.

“You…” was all she managed to mumble before she had to stop. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t be able to hold down whatever was threatening to come up.

“I don’t know who attacked you, Helen, but this is how they got in,” Ed said. “I made a copy back around Christmas, when you and the kids went to Salem to visit your parents. You asked me to house sit for you.”

The world tilted around her. She shakily stood from her chair, her legs wobbling dangerously. Stan and Fiddleford both looked ready to jump from their chairs at the next move she made.

She was going to be sick or she was going to faint. She couldn’t tell which anymore.

Ed was still talking. “I had been meaning to make one for a while before then. Ever since what happened with the baby-”

Something snapped inside her.

She couldn’t hear Ed anymore. Her heart had launched itself directly into her ears, and all she could hear was it hammering away, feeling like it was ready to burst. Somewhere far away, a tinny noise that she vaguely registered as Stan’s voice asked, “What baby?”

That was it.

Lurching like she was possessed, Helen flung herself at the sink, and with a painful spasm, vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. The only thing she’d had in her stomach for the last few hours was a can of beer. Stomach acid followed shortly after, leaving a burning trail up her esophagus.

She felt a touch ghost across her back, and heard the distant voices of Stan and Fiddleford, talking to her, trying to get her to say something, anything, to indicate what was wrong. She couldn’t answer them. She had no air to answer them with. Their voices became even more muffled as she concentrated on her heavy breathing.

She tried to force down the pain that blossoms in his abdomen and lower back. She knew there was nothing there that could be causing it. She knew that the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg wasn’t really there. And she knew Daisy’s panicked voice, stammering into the phone that her mother needed help, was just a phantom in her mind, played on a loop by her sadistic, traitorous brain.

She knew all this, and it didn’t help a damn bit.

Suddenly, she felt two calloused hand prying her grip from the sink, and gently guiding her away. They didn’t let go until she was sitting again, probably back at the kitchen table, and even then, the presence behind her didn’t fade. It stayed at her back like a supportive column. Another set of hands, these softer, gentler, grabbed up hers and held them. She heard a kind voice, with a soft hint of an accent speaking to her, piercing through the memories and the droning. It took her a moment to realize it was Fiddleford, and that the sturdy presence behind her was Stan.

Fiddleford was saying something, and slowly, the cacophony in her brain faded, abd she could make out words. “...just gonna slow your breathing down a bit, that’s right. In and out. In and out. Come on, Helen, you can do it. In...”

Slowly, laboriously, she followed his instruction. She took a shaky breath in.

“And out.”

She obeyed.

“Atta girl,” he said encouragingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze.

Helen’s cheeks burned with shame. Daisy had been right. She was a mess.

She cast a sidelong glance over at Ed, who looked positively mortified, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something. Helen wished he wouldn’t. He’d already said quite enough.

But he finally spoke anyway. “Helen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I...I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. I had no idea...I didn’t know that this was still so…”

“Doc, cool it for a minute,” Stan said sternly. “Let her breathe.”

“How’re you feeling?” Fiddleford asked her, his grip still tight and reassuring.

Like shit. Like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Like a hysterical, useless load. Like you guys are never going to look at me the same way ever again, her thoughts screamed.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, disgusted by how small her voice was. “I...I guess I’m not as okay with this as I thought.”

“Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked. “Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she said. To prove it, she pulled her hands free of Fiddleford’s, even though the loss of the comforting warmth made her ache inside. She ignored it.

“Do you maybe wanna...I dunno, talk?” she heard Stan ask from behind her. She could almost picture his face, drawn tight with worry and care. He’d been shooting Ford that look all day, just waiting for the minute when his brother fell apart. And the fact that he might be looking at her that way made her almost feel sick enough to vomit again.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said sharply. “It was just a miscarriage. They happen to millions of women every single day.”

“Oh, Helen…” FIddleford put a hand to his heart, looking ready to cry. The shame that had pooled in her cheeks spread, prickling along her skin like poisoned barbs. She ducked her head down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“It was two years ago, Fiddleford,” she muttered. “Don’t go all weepy on me. I’ve had time to come to grips with it. Obviously not as good a grip as I thought, but it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”

“But what about…” Fiddleford began.

She cut him off, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly slammed right into Stan’s gut. “That was just a freak thing. I’m stressed and I’m tired and all I want to do is go bash this Ivan bastard’s face in and get Ford home.” She pushed past Fiddleford, still looking dewy-eyed, and headed out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I also need some air. Come get me when you guys have a plan put together.”

She could feel their eyes on her back, even as she left their line of sight and headed towards the front door. She had to get out, and practically sprinted to close the distance between herself and the door. She flung it open and, as soon as she was out in the cold, wet night, she inhaled as deeply as she could, then shut the door behind her.

She stood there for a few minutes, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to force her mind to calm. It wasn’t working. She needed something to take the edge off.

Her gaze drifted, and in the dim porch light, she saw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the railing.

They were probably Stan’s. She’d thought the smell of smoke on his jacket was stronger than usual.

Helen hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years, not since before she’d gotten married, and with all the new literature constantly coming out about the hazards of cigarettes, she’d felt it hypocritical to ever start up again. But now, she didn’t care. She needed one like she needed oxygen.

She snatched up the pack and pulled one out. The lighter was flimsy and cheap, and took a few clicked to finally hold a flame, but eventually she got it. As she took a few puffs, she heard the door open behind her. She hadn’t smoked enough of the cigarette to turn around and face whoever it was.

“I told you I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. She didn’t care which one of them it was, or what they had to say. She was not going to just sit there and listen to them talk about how sorry they were and ask why she’d never told them and all that other shit she’d been hearing from anyone who ever found out.

All except Richard. After he found out and dealt with it for a few months, all he said was goodbye.

“I didn’t say anything,” Stan said behind her. “I mostly came out here to try and save my cigarettes. I already smoked a couple after my little spat with McGucket, and I figured if you found them, that’d be the end of them.”

Helen didn’t reply. She just exhaled and let her muscles relax.

They stood for a moment in silence. Stan didn’t make a move toward her or speak. Helen barely even heard him breathe. Then finally, he said, “I wish you could have told me when you were ready.”

That was one she’d never heard before. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was looking out into the woods, his face somber.

“Even if you’d never told me,” Stan continued, “at least then it would have been on your terms. It might have been an accident, but Doc Matthews had no right to bring it up like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Helen turned around the rest of the way to face him. “If I had my way, no one would ever know,” she said. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise.”

“That’s understandable,” Stan said. “It obviously still really bothers you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Helen said, leaning back against the wall, tapping the ash from the tip of the cigarette. “People look at me differently when they know. Suddenly, I’m not a doctor or a woman who’s raising three kids by herself because her husband is a jack-off. I’m the woman who had a miscarriage, and I’m someone to be pitied. And being pitied is a fucking nightmare.”

“I get that,” Stan said. “But I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like what just happened didn’t scare the shit out of me. It’s not that I think you’re someone to be pitied. It’s that I’m worried about you, and wish you trusted me to support you in this. People like me and Fidds and Ford? We get what it’s like to live through something no one else can understand.”

Helen sighed, and said, “Stan, there are thousands of people who understand what I went through. Last time I checked the statistics, 10-20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. What happened to me was practically commonplace. It’s nothing compared to what you and your brother and Fiddleford have been through.” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “So...why does it still bother me?”

She saw Stan inch closer to her. Her voice was getting tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She was too exhausted not to cry. “I’ve gone to the support groups,” she muttered thickly. “I’ve read the books. I’ve even done a little of the therapy. But every morning I wake up and it’s still there. It’s not always like this, but it’s there. And if I can let something like this rattle me so much, for so long? Then when good am I to you? What good am I to anyone?”

Stan was flush against her side right now. Without even thinking about it, she let her head fall, until it landed on his broad shoulder. His jacket was damp and soaked her hair a bit. She didn’t care. The tears that trailed down her nose were going to make it even wetter anyway.

“Helen,” Stan said softly, “it doesn’t matter what happened to make you feel like this. It might not be a homelessness or cults or weird demons, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was horrible, and it happened to you. That’s all the reason you need to still be affected by it. There aren’t any rules that tell you when you’re supposed to be okay with something.”

She didn’t answer him, she just took another drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling as she brought it to her lips.

After another beat of silence, Stan said, “That bastard walked out right after it happened, huh?”

She nodded as blew out the smoke. “A couple of months, give or take. He said he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with me. Later, I realized he’d probably been looking for an out, and the baby was his excuse.”

“Piece of shit,” Stan muttered.

“I was gonna have a girl,” she muttered. “I wanted to name her Christina.”

She felt Stan move his arm down, and cup her hand in his. It was warm. She tossed the half-finished cigarette over the railing and into the bushes.

“You could have at least had the decency to finish it,” Stan grumbled, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t you know those things give you cancer?” she replied. “You should be thanking me.”

“You wanna head back in, maybe lay down?” Stan offered. “We’re trying to put together a bit of strategy. Ed’s offering to take us to bust out Ford, and we need to hurry.” She heard the worry creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to keep things casually for her sake. “Apparently, he’s not in great shape.”

“I’m coming with you,” Helen said firmly. There was no two ways about it.

“You sure?” Stan asked. She could see the doubt in his eyes, and she wanted to smack it out of him.

“Never been more sure,” she replied. “I feel like a pretty good catharsis for me right now would be to beat in the face of the fuckwad who caused me all this misery. And since Richard moved to California, that only leaves this Ivan bastard.”

Stan smirked a little, and said, “Alright then. I’m not gonna stop you. You can even take my bat. It’ll give me an excuse to brush off my knuckle dusters. And give your house keys a rest.” He punctuated that last comment with a playful check of her shoulder. She couldn’t suppress the smile.

She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good person, Stanley Pines.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. He began leading her back into the house. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Now let’s go knock around some cultists.”

Helen pushed down the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, nodded, and followed him in.

-----

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#gravity falls #fanfic #mystery nerds au #seared with scars #ford pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #society of the blind eye #tw panic attack #tw miscarriage #tw ptsd #tw discussions of war #tw graphic injuries

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unfolded73 · 5 years

Text

How Do We Get Back (3/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

Rating will be explicit in later chapters. This chapter 3.8k words. (ao3)

Notes: As previously warned, this fic includes adultery. But as someone messaged me to ask, there are no kids involved.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

________________________________

Chapter 3

The first thing David saw when he got out of his Uber in midtown was a big red sandwich board on the sidewalk that said ‘99¢ PIZZA!’.

“Ew.” He shuddered and turned around, seeing the bar he was looking for a couple of doors down. The Distillery, it said in an understated serif font. Doubting that any distilling actually took place there, he took a breath to steel himself and went inside. He opened his Tinder app and quickly sent a message: I’m here.

The hostess took in his Neil Barrett shirt with black lightning bolts adorning the shoulders, and her haughty expression shifted into a smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet someone, but…” He looked down at his phone again. “I don’t think he’s here yet.”

“Well, you’re welcome to wait at the bar.” She pointed it out, her wrist jangling with bracelets. On a Tuesday, even this tourist-hell adjacent bar wasn’t completely packed, but there were only two empty seats that he could see. With a fluttering hand wave to indicate he’d do as the hostess suggested, David made his way over, taking the stool between a group of bros in business suits and a lone tourist.

He’d been browsing Tinder for a lack of anything better to do that afternoon, and after swiping left on half a dozen guys who listed Crossfit among their interests, and as many women who listed ‘influencer’ among their jobs, David had matched with a guy who appeared to be a nice balance of bookish and handsome. Andrew’s tortoise-shell framed glasses and his flirtatious smirk raised David’s hopes that he might get a decent conversation out of this hookup. The fact that Andrew suggested they meet in midtown had almost been enough for David to call the whole thing off, but then he’d looked at the smirk again and agreed.

The bartender approached David. “Get you a drink?”

David looked up from his phone. “I’d love a French 75 if you have Hendrick’s.”

The bartender nodded. “Can I get you another one?” he said to the man beside David, pointing to his almost empty beer glass.

“Sure, thanks.”

David saw that Alexis had posted a selfie with Stavros in a New York club the night before. He hadn’t even known she was in town.

“Gotta say, I don’t really know what to do with my eyes when there’s no TV behind the bar,” the tourist next to him said suddenly.

David looked up, frustrated that someone was trying to make small talk with him, and blinked a couple of times. “That’s what your phone is for.”

The man talking to him smiled sheepishly. “My battery is terrible so I try not to use it too much.”

“Okay.” David opened his Tinder app but without read receipts, he couldn’t tell if his date had seen his message or not. He glanced around the bar, looking for a man who looked like Andrew’s picture, but he still didn’t seem to have arrived.

“I’m Patrick,” the guy next to him said, holding out his hand for David to shake.

David looked at his hand for just a beat too long before tentatively taking it. “David Rose.”

While he was far from famous, David’s name did inspire a spark of recognition in certain circles. Patrick showed no such recognition. His handshake was firm, skin dry and fingertips calloused. David extracted his hand quickly just as the bartender delivered their drinks.

“What do you do, David?” Patrick asked.

“What’s it like, being from a town small enough to strike up conversations with strangers in bars?” David said, trying to shut the conversation down with a dollop of cruelty.

Patrick didn’t take the hint or if he did, the hint only served to amuse him. He just grinned back at David. “It’s pretty nice, actually. What’s it like living in New York?”

David finally looked the guy up and down. Mid-range denim jeans, wash-and-wear cotton weave light blue shirt, too-short haircut that emphasized the roundness of his face. Cute, with big brown eyes that in the right context could be devastating — the eyes were definitely his best feature.

“In answer to your first question, I’m a gallerist.”

Patrick nodded as if he was considering that. “Hmm, okay. What’s a gallerist?”

David squinted at him, his glass at his lips. “Pretty sure it’s right there in the name. Or do you need me to explain what an art gallery is?”

Laughing and flushing with embarrassment, Patrick held up a hand. “Okay, I deserve that. I guess I’m asking what exactly is involved in being a gallerist?”

“Why?” David asked, his whole body recoiling at the questions from this earnest stranger.

Patrick shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“I cultivate an aesthetic that centers around outsider art, mostly.”

“And what does that mean?” Patrick asked in an overly patient manner that made David feel like he was being made fun of.

Huffing out an impatient breath, David continued, “I arrange to display artists’ work in my space, I cultivate relationships with buyers, host cocktail receptions for special exhibitions, that sort of thing.” His rings flashed in the dim light of the bar as he used his hands to enunciate each point.

“Sounds like interesting work,” Patrick said, his eyes never leaving David’s. It was unnerving, and a little sexy.

“Let me guess, Patrick. You’re in town on business,” David said, already looking back at his phone to show how disinterested he was in the answer. Trying to get the upper hand again.

Patrick chuckled. “Guilty. I’m attending a tax seminar in Hoboken, and I took the ferry over. This is my first time in New York.”

David’s head whipped up at that. “Well, that’s adorable. Why are you at this bar, though? Shouldn’t you be… going to the top of the Empire State building or something?”

“That’s a bit cliche, isn’t it?”

“Everything about you screams tourist, you may as well lean into the stereotype,” David responded.

“Everything about me screams tourist?”

David rolled his eyes. “Yes. Your whole…” He gestured to encompass all of Patrick. “... vibe.”

Patrick looked down at himself and then back up. “Is that what you’re doing with that shirt and the rings and that drink and with checking Tinder every two minutes? Leaning into the stereotype?”

David gaped at him. He’d been trying to insult this guy a little bit, just enough so that the conversation could be over. He hadn’t expected Patrick to be able to match him.

“Wow, okay.”

Patrick suddenly looked regretful and a little scared. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a… homophobic way. I’m not used to talking to people so much more sophisticated than me.”

Sniffing, David looked back at his phone. “No, I imagine not. Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

David turned us phone over on the bar and drank half his drink in one gulp. “My date is flaking on me. And after he made me come up to midtown.”

“Is that bad?” Patrick asked. “Not the flaking part — that’s obviously bad — I meant the midtown part.”

“Not if you’re a tourist trying to get your poster on camera for the Today Show.”

“Ah.” Patrick’s lips twitched. “That would be during the… day though.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Only barely.”

David drummed his fingers on the bar. “You’re from Canada,” he said.

“Come on, I only said ‘sorry’ once.” Patrick said with a grin.

“Your accent is unmistakable,” David said, and then indicated himself. “I have dual citizenship. I was born here, but my parents are Canadian. They still have a place outside of Toronto.”

“Oh, yeah? Where did you spend your childhood?”

David rolled his eyes. “Everywhere. My parents are Moira and Johnny Rose.” When Patrick looked at him blankly, he continued. “My mother’s an actress. My father founded Rose Video.”

That made Patrick’s face light up. “I worked at a Rose Video in high school!”

“How fun for you.” David finished his drink and pulled out his wallet. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to make my escape.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s face betrayed his disappointment, which was interesting. “Who am I going to talk to now?”

David looked over his shoulder at the men in suits who’d been getting louder and drunker. “Those guys?” he said, cocking his thumb at them.

Patrick made a disgusted face. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

It occurred to David for the first time to check Patrick’s left hand. A simple wedding band sat unassumingly on his ring finger. Not that wedding rings said anything about a person’s sexual preferences anymore (if they ever had), but it did say something about this Patrick’s motivations. Either he was just alone and bored in New York and looking for someone to chat with, as it appeared on the surface, or he was looking to cheat on his wife or husband with someone he wouldn’t have to see ever again. David had been on the receiving end of that kind of attention from more than a few wives and husbands over the years. It never felt great, in the end.

On the other hand, those brown eyes were a little bit devastating. And under his cheap Oxford shirt, Patrick’s arms did look nice and strong.

“I guess I could have one more drink,” David heard himself saying.

~*~

“I’m sorry, but that is the most boring fucking job I have ever heard of. If you say it again, I will literally fall asleep at this bar,” David said, tipping the last of his third drink into his mouth.

Patrick grinned widely. “Business manager at an electrical supply company,” he whispered close to David’s ear.

David masked a shudder by theatrically letting his forehead hit the polished surface of the bar, trying not to get distracted by how sexy Patrick’s voice could apparently be, even when he was talking about his dull job.

Patrick laughed and picked up another slider from the plate they were sharing.

“I mean, I know it’s not as glamorous as being a gallerist—”

“You’re right, it isn’t. It isn’t glamorous at all,” David said, debating if he should order one more drink. If he did, he’d cross the line from pleasantly buzzed over into drunk, and that was probably a bad idea for a number of reasons.

“I mean, I’m not the… what was it? ‘Rembrandt of Wall Street’?” Patrick said, referring to something they’d overheard one of the finance bros say before they’d cleared out to go hit another bar. They’d barely suppressed their giggles at the time, and now David allowed himself a full-out laugh, Patrick laughing right along with him. David leaned over in Patrick’s direction in his mirth, losing his balance slightly and catching himself with a hand on Patrick’s denim-clad thigh.

He let his hand stay there just long enough that it still plausibly fell within the realm of an accident, but he took careful note of a tiny catch in Patrick’s breath, and the way he licked his lips as David righted himself. Interesting, he thought.

Patrick had had only had two and a half beers over the last few hours (counting the one he’d almost finished when David arrived), so at least David knew he was in full possession of his faculties. Not that it mattered; why was he worried about whether Patrick was drunk?

Because you want to fuck him, his inner voice supplied. Which was depressing because this very funny, surprisingly attractive button of a man was definitely married, likely to a woman, and nothing good was going to come from going down that road. Best case scenario, Patrick would reject him immediately, being the upstanding person that he was. Worst case scenario, something would happen between them and David would end up getting his heart stepped on.

Patrick was looking at his phone. “Wow, I had no idea what time it was. You don’t have any idea how late the ferries run, do you?”

“Do I look like I ever go to New Jersey?” David asked, taking a bite of the last slider.

Laughing, Patrick flagged down the bartender and asked him the same question.

“You’ve already missed the last one,” the bartender told him. “Separate checks?”

“Shit,” Patrick said at the same time David said, “I’ll take the check.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that,” Patrick said.

“Please, you saved me from a shameful retreat when my date bailed. It’s the least I can do.”

“I guess I can take a cab back to Hoboken?”

“A cab through the Lincoln Tunnel will cost you at least seventy-five dollars,” the bartender said to Patrick as he handed the little black folder to David.

“Oh,” Patrick said, and David could tell that was a lot of money to him. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for picking up the check.

“I could call you an Uber,” David offered.

“You’re already paying for the drinks and the food, David; I can’t ask you to do that.”

He started to say that the money meant nothing to him, but then he had an idea. “Well, then you can crash at my place and catch the ferry in the morning,” he said as he stuck a credit card in the little pocket and set it on the edge of the bar, trying to seem nonchalant.

He wasn’t looking at Patrick but he could feel his surprise. “Oh… I don’t… I can’t…”

“That’s not a pick-up line, I literally just mean you can crash there. I’m not trying to—”

“No, I know,” Patrick said quickly. David finally looked at him and his eyes were very wide. “It’s just too much of an imposition for someone I just met. And what if I’m an axe murderer?”

David tried to suppress a smile, his lips twisting. “Well, are you an axe murderer?”

“Are you?”

The bartender put the check in front of David, and he quickly filled out the tip line and scratched out his illegible signature. “Yes, but I’m taking a sabbatical from the murdering.”

“What a coincidence, me too,” Patrick said.

“Then it’s settled,” David said, pulling on his leather jacket. “Come on.”

He didn’t really expect that to work but when he headed for the exit, Patrick pulled on his own (much more weather-appropriate) winter coat and joined him.

An Uber appeared like magic a mere minute after he summoned one, and David held the door open for Patrick, letting him get into the car first. Patrick sat silently as they crawled down 9th Avenue, looking out of the window at the storefronts.

“Is there traffic like this at any time of the day or night?” Patrick finally asked.

“It clears out eventually,” David said, watching Patrick. He was fidgeting with his hands, playing with his wedding ring, and David felt a stab of guilt. Yes, there was a level on which this was innocent, but there was another, more true level on which it wasn’t, on which the touch on Patrick’s thigh had been calculated, and the invitation to his apartment a tactic. Still, he could back out and let the innocent explanation for inviting Patrick back to his place become the true one. It wasn’t too late to be honorable for once in his life.

They finally arrived, and David tried to look a little more graceful than he usually did shoving on the sticky vestibule door of his building. He mostly succeeded.

“I can find you an unused toothbrush,” he said as he led Patrick up the stairs. “And if you want to shower tonight or in the morning, I can get you a towel.”

“Thanks again, David. This is incredibly generous.”

David unlocked the door to his apartment and opened it, gesturing for Patrick to go in. “Please, I have a spare bedroom, it’s really no trouble.” After taking Patrick’s coat and carefully hanging it up in the hall closet, David moved deeper into the apartment, flipping on lights as he went. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“Uhh… yeah. Thanks.” Patrick walked over to the living room windows. “This is a really nice apartment.”

David filled a water glass from the pitcher in the fridge and carried it back out to Patrick, standing at Patrick’s side and following his gaze out the window. “It’s not as nice as the apartment I used to have, but it’s fine.”

“What happened to the apartment you used to have?”

David raised his shoulders in a sort of shrug. “Turns out my father’s business manager was embezzling from him a few years ago. He was caught, but he hadn’t been paying taxes for a while so we had to pay…” He suddenly couldn’t think of the word.

“Penalties?”

“Right, penalties. So we had to sell off some stuff, including that apartment. Also, as you can imagine, the video business isn’t what it used to be,” he said with a smirk.

“Yeah. So do you not have a Netflix account out of, like, solidarity?”

David laughed. “No, I have a Netflix account. Why, did you want to watch something?”

Patrick shook his head and set his water down on a glass end table. “I should probably get some sleep. I’ll need to be up pretty early in order to make it back to the seminar for the morning session.” He continued to stand rooted on the spot, though, making no move away from David’s side.

“Did you need to charge your cell phone?” David asked. “You mentioned earlier—”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Patrick pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. David made a face at his cheap Nokia phone with the chipped edges, but he opened a drawer under his coffee table and pulled out a tangle of different chargers, some of which had been left behind by people he’d dated. He quickly found a suitable one and plugged in Patrick’s phone.

“Okay, well, spare bedroom is right over there,” David said, returning to Patrick’s side and indicating the door next to the one that led to his own room. The atmosphere between them felt heavy, and David knew he should move away from Patrick, go get him a towel or something to defuse things, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Then Patrick made a tiny move of his head, infinitesimal really, in David’s direction, and that was all David could take. He met him more than halfway, mouth on Patrick’s and hand coming up to cup the back of his head. The kiss was relatively chaste, but there was no question that Patrick was on board for it, his lips nipping at David’s bottom one, one of his hands clutching at David’s bicep. David felt a bit like a dam was breaking on the desire that had been building between them all night, and he let himself enjoy the few blissful seconds of that kiss.

“And when I said I wasn’t trying to pick you up,” David whispered when they parted, “that didn’t mean I was averse to picking you up.”

Patrick’s still held onto his arm, but his facial expression was pained. “David, I’m married.”

“Yeah, I noticed the ring.”

“To a… to a woman. I’ve never done that before with a guy. So…”

“Oh.” David did take a step back then. So that’s what this was. A small-town closet case who’d gotten married under false pretenses. Not exactly what he’d hoped he was signing up for. “Is it a religious thing? Are you one of those guys who’s been scarred by conversion therapy?”

Patrick shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. I really thought…” He ran his hands over his face. “Holy shit, how could I not know that that’s what kissing someone is supposed to feel like?”

David couldn’t help preening a little bit at that. “I don’t think I’ve ever been a sexual revelation to someone before.”

With an uneasy chuckle, Patrick let himself drop onto the sofa. “What am I doing? Why did I come here?” he murmured, almost to himself.

David sat down on the sofa too, leaving a space between them. “Look, it can end right here. You go sleep in the guest room and I’ll go sleep in my room, and…” He threw up his hands. “And in the morning you won’t even have to see me, because I’m not really a morning person, so…” He trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

Patrick was fidgeting with his hands again, twisting his wedding ring. “My intention wasn’t to… treat you like an experiment, and that must be what this seems like. As if I set out this evening to go to a bar in a big city and meet an anonymous man so that I could test drive a… another sexual orientation.”

David gave him a sheepish shrug. It didn’t not seem like that.

“I started talking to you for the exact reason you said: I’m from a small town where you make conversation with the guy sitting next to you at the bar. But David, I…” He looked up finally then, and fuck, those brown eyes were exactly as devastating as David had feared they could be. “Thinking about it now, I was attracted to you from the moment you shook my hand, and I honestly don’t know if it’s just you or men in general, but if it is men in general that would certainly explain a lot of things about my—”

David put a hand over Patrick’s to stop his manic motion, and it simultaneously stopped his mouth from moving, the tumult of words drying up as rapidly as they had started. It was a relief. Patrick’s openness was turning David inside out; he wasn’t used to being around people who said exactly what they were thinking, who didn’t play games, whose every word wasn’t calculated to manipulate.

“It’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay. And whatever you want to do is okay,” David said, and then winced. He was definitely going to regret this, but he couldn’t help himself. The idea of helping this man discover a new side of himself was too tempting to resist. “I can be… if you need to test things out and see the way you feel with a man, then I can be that. For you.”

Patrick’s eyes widened, then dropped to David’s lips. “Why would you do that?”

“Umm, because you’re hot?” David said flippantly, trying to lighten things up. “And because it seems like you need a push in the queer direction,” he added with a gentle laugh.

A quick smile flashed across Patrick’s face before his face turned serious again, his eyes still trained on David’s mouth. And then he leaned in.

Chapter 4

#schitt's creek #schitts creek #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #schitt's creek ff #hdwgb fic #my fic

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