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johnbrand · 3 months

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Successor

As soon as the notification came, Alan accepted the weekly meeting with his boss. He readjusted his new tie and tailored navy suit as the invitation sent him through.

“Good morning, Alan.” His boss was an older man, a large, refined one at that. Rumor had it that he would soon be leaving the company for retirement. Alan hypothesized it was arriving much quicker than people realized.

“Good morning, Sir.” Alan had quickly picked up the honorific through these weekly meetings. “How has your day been so far?”

“We will skip the questions for today and be prompt to work. Hit the ‘Record’ button.”

This always happened. Alan’s boss never wanted to discuss anything outside of business. He was always so worried about the company and their profits. Without a second thought, Alan hit the ‘Record’ button. Across the screen, his boss smiled as Alan face went pale. His eyelids drooped and his jaw went slack.

“That is much more appropriate,” Alan’s boss relished smugly. “Let all those pesky thoughts dissipate and evaporate. Clear your mind completely for our meeting. Let my words be the only thing that resides within your mind.”

Alan remained empty and still on the other end. His boss held a malicious smirk. “You have been coming along swimmingly as my successor, Alan. It still fascinates me that you have not realized it when this is our last meeting.”

It was true. Since these weekly meetings had begun, Alan’s boss had been prescribing various updates into Alan’s system. Each time Alan hit the button to ‘Record’, his conscious state went on standby while his subconscious transcribed each addition, subtraction, and modification his boss made. Once Alan’s boss was finished, the recording ended, leaving Alan unaware of any changes or abnormalities.

“I should have solved this issue long ago, but no more of those brazen personal questions. Being stern and direct is more productive. It is much better commanding attention.”

“Yes sir,” Alan replied flatly.

“Speaking of commanding attention, it is time to address that sound of yours as well. A deeper voice that contains emotions is better suited to keep others calm and in control at all times.”

Alan’s neck thickened, significantly jutting his Adam’s apple.

“Yes sir,” Alan agreed, his voice now mimicking his boss’s deep, disinterested, and gruff texture.

“I see you have acquainted yourself to the glory of a three-piece,” his boss grinned. “But it appears to be a little large on you. If you want to be as successful in my position, then perhaps you ought to wholly fill the space I am leaving behind, would you agree?”

“Yes sir.”

Each part of Alan seemed to pulse as the recording translated across his body. His legs stretched and thickened, the torso magnificently broadened, his butt swelled from underneath. The chest expanded, his neck and arms bulked, and his height ascended ever so slightly. Even his feet vibrated, slowly expanding and widening until they fit perfectly into the shoes that had been previously tailored and then altered larger by his boss’s words.

“Tall and thick, just like me,” Alan’s boss purred. ”If you are to lead our company, you ought to have my strong jaw to capture our investors.”

Alan’s face rippled, losing its youthful charm as it morphed into traditional masculine perfection. His bouncy curls receded and thinned slightly, a thick coat of pomade gelling it up into a mature quiff.

Alan’s boss was jubilant. The physical work was always much more fun than the tedious mental tasks they had been dulling over for the past few months. “I believe something will need to house your newfound testosterone, Alan.”

Alan’s crotch tingled, swelling and growing. He now had a thick, juicy member, swollen and throbbing. Alan’s low-hanging balls swelled as he began to palm himself.

“As you are aware, Alan, the majority of our meetings have been spent on realigning how to address this issue.” His boss then pulled out a stiff cock from his suit pants, one identical in length and size to Alan’s. He began stroking it as he continued. “As a leader, I adapted to the needs of the majority. You must do the same.”

Before the meetings with his boss, Alan had been a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community. But week by week, he had found his fantasies shift from his masculine boyfriend to twinks, to femboys, to watching the male in straight porn, to eventually watching the woman in straight porn. His boss had monitored all this behavior, waiting until the lesbian porn appeared in Alan's search history to announce his retirement to the board, and enact the physical changes to his successor.

“You have already given up so much for me, for the company. Your boyfriend, your personality, your figure and identity. Now all that remains is your genetic code.” His boss sniggered taking a dramatic pause before instructing, “Rid of it, Alan.”

With a forceful grunt came a massive load. Alan’s existence was expunged out into the suit pants. His boss smiled with satisfaction, ready to present his successor to the company.

#gay to straight #male tf #male transformation #preppification

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months

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Three for One 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: How are these getting longer lol

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

If you thought the darkness was torturous, the light proves to be worse. You look at your surroundings. It’s eerie. A room curated for one. For you.

The white fluffy stool in front of a matching vanity. A picture of a woman in white sitting in a meadow, flowers all around and a stream flowing through the lush field. A vanity painted with flowers, the night tables matching; the bedspread under you similar woven with pansies. The trim at the top of the wall is pink petals on white and a soft rug under the foot of the bed.

It’s all very cute but deranged. You’d love to have all this and more but you’d rather your apartment. If the price is those three men then you’d rather a gutter. Most importantly, you want your dog.

You can’t even make your demands. The walls can’t give you what you want. You doubt your captors will either but you can try. You can wear them down. You can be nice sure, you prefer that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be your own brand of evil.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. The noise needles in your ears and you hear the mechanism click. You raise your head to watch the door open and the one with the beard enters. Alan, Arnold? Ugh, you don’t care.

He doesn’t break the threshold. He crosses his arms and stares at you. A ripple in his forehead underlines his thoughts.

“I’m going to bring you out but you have to be good,” he says.

You close your eyes and drop your head. You fill your chest and let out a blasting wail. He grunts and stomps to the bed. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you until you nearly swallow your tongue. You bite the tip as he sits you up and you’re forced to face him.

“No, no more of that. Or you don’t get your first present.”

“I don’t want any of your presents,” you sneer.

“This one, I think you do,” he intones, “I’m asking you to give me a chance. Let me show you that this isn’t just for us. This is about you, honey.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you hiss, “why can’t you just let me go?”

He shakes his head, “it’s too late for that.”

“I won’t behave. I swear, I’m going to scream–” you inhale and he quickly covers your mouth, his other hand coming around the back of your skull.

He hushes you as his blue eyes darken, “honey, I’m being nice right now, so you need to go along with this. If you don’t…” he pauses and looks over his shoulder, “I don’t know what they’ll do.”

You furrow your brow. Getting out of this room is one step closer to escape. You can be good. For now.

You let the tension leave your body and soften your expression. He senses it and slowly slides his hand away from your mouth. You flick your lashes, putting on your best pout.

“Okay, Alan, I’ll be good,” you avow.

His brow tweaks and his cheek ticks. His nostrils flare as his chest rise and falls, “it’s Andy.”

“Right, I’m sorry, I’m really freaked out,” you show your teeth sheepishly, “that other guy… he hurt me.”

“Which one?” He asks.

“Er… stache guy.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he huffs, “can I untie you?”

“Yeah.”

“No, honey, I’m asking,” he looks you straight in the face, “you’re not going to try anything, right?”

“I can be good,” you squirm, “my wrists hurt.”

“Alright.”

He lays you back and rolls you over. He pulls the tape away from your arms, then your ankles. You think of the trick from the van. You know his weak spot but it’s too soon for that. Timing, it all comes down to the right opportunity.

“Let’s go,” he takes your hand and helps you up.

You get to your feet and let him lead you out. His large hand clings to yours as he pulls you after him like a child. As you go into the hall, you examine every inch of the place. He takes you into the front room, a low din that in any other circumstance would be cozy.

It looks like any other living room. A sectional and an armchair, an artificial fireplace set into the wall, a mantel trimmed in tinsel, a rich carpet spread over the dark hardwood, and shelves of books along with a television mounted to the wall. The tree in the corner stands bare over a red velvet skirt.

“We can decorate the tree tonight and see if Santa leaves anything for tomorrow.”

You hold back a scoff, “um, I know Santa isn’t real.”

He chuckles, “it’s a joke.”

“Is this the surprise?” You deflate. Sounds like work to you. Of course, your apartment is too small for a proper tree but you’re less than excited for a pastime you always longed for.

“No, not the only one,” he lets you go as you tug on your hand. “Honey, we did this all for you.”

You turn on him, “I didn’t ask you too.”

“Hey, hey, why are you acting like this? You’re such a sweet girl.”

You swallow tightly and hear beeping again. Then a clamour that includes a scramble, some scraping and the thump of a door against something else. You try to see past Andy as you feel cold air rush in from outside. You want to race past him but he’d be on you in a moment.

You hear a familiar growl before another voice wafts in from the entryway.

“Ah, he bit me. Again!” One man says.

“You think I’m having fun at the ass end?” The other retorts.

“Woah, oh, shit–”

There’s a duller thump and you hear claws and paws on the floor. Your heart leaps and you look around Alan– Andy as you hear the heavy breaths bounding towards you.

“Ernie!” You squeal as the Saint Bernard lumbers in, furtively searching before he spots you. “Ernie, my boy. Oh, baby boy.”

He nearly knocks over Andy as he barrels into your arms. You hug him around the neck and inhale the scent of his fur. His collar tinkles and let his warmth ease your fear. You were so worried about him, more than even yourself.

“You said it was a puppy,” the bare-faced man snarls as he shakes his hand.

“I didn’t know…” Andy says.

“He is a puppy,” you insist.

“Who let the pussycat out?” The mustachioed creep asks.

Your eyes shoot darts in his direction and his hand shields his pants, almost instinctively. Ernie drags his large rough tongue up your cheek. He was scared too but now you have each other.

“Surprise,” Andy says, “so now, honey, you’re going to be good, right?”

You look at him and chew your lip. His eyes fall to Ernie and you put your arm in front of the dog. He doesn’t need to put his threat into words.

“Shit, I’m bleeding. That thing got shots?” Scarf asks.

“What about the girl? She got me good,” Mustache snickers.

“No, but maybe I should get checked now,” you snip.

“Woa-ho!” Mr. Caterpillar exclaims, “she’s got a mouth.”

“Honey,” Andy warns, “we’re being good, right?”

You huff and nod.

“So, apologise.”

“What?” You burst out, “he–” You stop and look between all three men. You have Ernie but you’re more worried about him getting hurt than knowing he’d hurt them in an instant. Even then, he has his head low, a steady rumble brewing in him.

“That thing needs to calm down,” the naked faced one whines, still cradling his hand.

“He’s confused,” you defend your son, “okay? And I’m sorry, er, dude, I’m sure you don’t have any communicable diseases.”

“The fuck? Disease– Alright,” the man steps forward, “that’s it. First she bites me, then she kicks me in the dick and now–”

“Lloyd,” Andy puts his hand up, “no. We’re all just getting used to each other. You’re not exactly easy to be around yourself.”

“Fuck that, I’m funny,” the fuzzy lipped man, Lloyd, argues.

“Everyone just quit,” Andy demands, “alright? Did you get the food?”

“Food?” The bare-faced man shrugs out of his jacket, “what food?”

“For the dog? I told you–” Andy begins.

“Ah, shit, knew we forgot something,” Lloyd chuckles, “he’ll be fine. He can eat chicken, can’t he?”

“He has a sensitive tummy,” you say.

“Jesus,” the third man grumbles as he hangs his scarf over his coat. “I’m not going back. It’s late.”

“Can he have rice? Carrots?” Andy suggests.

“I guess, I don’t know if he’ll eat 'em,” you look at Ernie as his deep brown eyes meet yours. You pet his head to keep him calm. He doesn’t like these men any more than you do.

“Fine,” Andy huffs, “go get the decorations,” he orders the others.

“Why don’t you get the decorations?” Lloyd sneers.

“She needs to change,” Andy explains.

“Like we can’t help her,” the other man challenges.

“I don’t often agree with him, but he’s right. We’ll get her changed.”

You grimace as your eyes ping pong at the back and forth of their conversation. This isn’t good. You don’t enjoy being talked about like you’re not there.

“How about I get myself changed?” You offer.

The men turn to you. None of them seem impressed. A sudden peel of thunder fills the room and you look at Ernie. His bark echoes in your ears.

“Shut that thing up,” Lloyd snaps.

“He’s quiet,” you say, “he was just saying the same about you.”

“Really?” He goes to take another step forward and the other man stops him, “Ransom, let me go.”

“I’ll take her, you two go get the decorations,” he says.

Andy frames his hips and sighs, “fine. We all know the plan. Let’s stick to it.”

You want to raise your hand and clarify that you do not, in fact, know the plan but you suspect you’re not a part of the collective. You keep your hand on Ernie and gulp. He nuzzles your hip.

You bend and pet behind his ear, “it’s okay.” It’s not. You move to face him, “sit,” you raise your voice, “stay. I’ll be right back.”

As you stand, the dog obeys. He’s a gentle giant, at least with you. You pat his head and turn away. The men watch you.

“That thing listens?” The one they called Ransom asks.

“He can.”

“Come on,” he beckons you with two fingers, a smirk ghosting on his lips.

“This is bullshit,” Lloyd mutters as Andy approaches him.

“We can keep talking all night,” Andy pats his shoulder, “or get things moving.”

“Whatever,” the man smooths his mustache.

You reluctantly move towards the third man, the one with no personality grown out on his lip or jaw. A baby face if you ever saw one. The way he leers makes you uncomfortable. He smells like Armani.

“Not smiling now, are you?” He says under his breath as he ushers you down the hall.

He points you into that same bedroom. You stop just inside and he shoulders past you with a grumble. You watch him go to the wardrobe and open it. You look between him and the door. You could make it.

You wait a few seconds as he pushes hangers over the bar. You take a step. He doesn’t notice. Another and he’s bitching about colours. You didn’t think men were that picky. You get right in the frame of the door and back out. He looks around the open wardrobe.

“Bye,” you wave and pull the door shut.

You know he’s probably swearing at you but you can’t hear him. You hold onto the handle and hit the little lock icon in the corner of the keypad. The deadbolt rolls into place.

This is it. You edge out to the living room. You don’t see anybody. Ernie sits where you left him, sniffing the air. He sees you and perks up. You wave him over and he lifts his rump, taking careful steps across the room.

You grab his collar and take him with you to the front door. You twist the handle, it doesn’t budge. You flip the lock over it, still nothing. You don’t know what to do. What the hell?

You search around you. The windows are barred, you can’t get out that way. There’s a small box right beside the door. You flip it open to reveal another keypad. Fuck.

“And where are we going, pussy cat?” The question nips your ears as a plastic ornament pings off the wall beside you. You spin and face the mustachioed menace.

“You know, I just need some fresh air.”

Ernie growls and puts himself between you and the man, keeping the distance with his body. He prowls around, snout low as he paces back and forth. Lloyd steps closer and the dog mirrors him.

“Call that thing off,” he demands.

“Why would I do that?” You challenge.

“Well I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I made him stop,” he opens and closes his fist.

“You wouldn’t hurt a puppy–”

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he tilts his head.

“Ernie,” you call the dog, “quiet. Sit.”

The dog lets out a wispy boof but listens. He flops his butt down and glares at the man. You put your hands up and step forward.

“You’re mean. How can you threaten an innocent dog?”

“He drooled on my Jimmy Choo’s,” he says, “come on,” he grabs you by the back of the neck, “let’s go get the dumbass out.”

Ernie barks as you whimper. You flutter your hand at him as Lloyd’s fingertips pinch into your tendons, “Ern, it’s okay, I’m okay. Stay.”

He must hear the panic. He remains, restlessly shifting his front paws. You march beside the man back to the hallway. You reach to touch his arm and he only squeezes harder.

“Shouldn’t blame you for trying,” he says, “but I will.”

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lemondidurmom · 5 months

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You know what time it is 😋 (Alan Mido smut rough draft) he's literally my babygirl

"That's it, my little fighter," Alan growled, his voice thick with desire. "Let me see how much you love it when I take control."

He pulled M/n back up, guiding him to sit on his bed. He knelt in front of the man, his eyes locked on the slick, open hole. He reached out, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin, eliciting a soft gasp. "You taste so good," he whispered, before plunging his tongue inside.

M/n's moans grew louder, and Alan couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. He had claimed his newest, most promising member, and he intended to keep him close.

He continued to eat M/n out, his tongue darting in and out, his hands roaming over the man's body, squeezing and pinching. "You're mine now, M/n," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

As M/n's' orgasm rippled through him, Alan didn't let up, continuing to pleasure him until the last shuddering gasp had faded. Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's a good boy," he said, helping M/n to his feet. "Now, let's get you cleaned up. You've got a lot of training to do."

As he helped M/n pull up his shorts and get dressed, Alan couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. He had claimed his newest member as his own.

#tokyo debunker alan mido #alan mido #alan mido x reader #alan mido x male reader #alan mido smut #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker

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kamala-laxman · 8 months

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Of course, you can’t force your mind to be silent. That would be like trying to smooth ripples in water with a flatiron. Water becomes clear and calm only when left alone. - Alan Watts

#alan watts #mindfulness

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matttgirlies · 5 months

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Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - drinking,, sexual references

y/nn = your nickname if your confused🩷

Chapter 8

After Christmas we did something exciting every night, usually beginning after midnight. Sometimes Matt rented either the Memphian or the Malco theater to watch movies. Other times he rented the entire Rainbow Skating Rink, the infamous roller rink I’d heard so much about.

My first night there I was lacing up my skates when the boys asked me, “Do you know how to skate?”

“Sure,” I said.

“But do you know how to skate?” they persisted.

I got the message real fast when a box of knee pads was passed around. This was not your ordinary around the rink to organ music skating. The idea here was to keep your bones intact.

I wobbled onto the rink only to wobble off. I wasn’t about to stay on that floor after seeing the determined looks on the other skaters’ faces. They made the Roller Derby look mild. From the sideline, I watched them rounding the rink, adjusting their jackets and shirts so they weren’t too tight and checking that their arms and legs were securely padded.

Then Matt skated into their midst, calling out, “Okay, everybody. Y’all clear the way on the sidelines. I don’t want anybody hurt over there. Honey, why don’t you get on the other side there with Louise [Gene Smith’s wife]. The rest of you, get your asses somewhere else.” They all started laughing, and he said, “Okay, let’s go!”

About twenty-five skaters locked hands, forming what they called a whip. Skating abreast, they began circling the rink, building up speed. The objective of the game was to remain unscathed at speeds of over ten miles per hour. It could be very dangerous if you were to lose your balance or if you were at the tail end, when, by turning quickly, they all “cracked the whip.”

There were a lot of falls, but despite the danger, Matt seemed to know exactly what he was doing. I noticed that whenever someone was hurt, he was the first to see if they were all right and to decide if they should continue to play.

I still don’t know how anybody kept from getting seriously injured, yet no one complained and most of them were even willing to do it again the next night. It was rough, but as Matt put it, “If you’re man enough to get out there, then you better be man enough to take the licks.”

New Year’s Eve was approaching. Matt told Alan to rent the Manhattan Club for the evening and to invite about two hundred people, Matt’s friends and the presidents and other members of his fan clubs.

Although I was excited about the party, I couldn’t help thinking that after New Year’s Eve I would have to leave. Matt kept telling me not to think about it. I noticed that whenever I mentioned a problem to him he’d just say, “It’ll all work out, don’t worry about it. I’ve got enough to think about without having to worry about that.”

He always avoided problems. If I was disturbed or depressed, or if I felt we were becoming distant and wanted to get closer by talking it out, he avoided me or told me my timing was bad. There was never a good time.

Once I reproached him about the attention he was lavishing on the girlfriend of one of the regulars. She was very attractive, about my height, with black hair and a nice figure. She had come into the kitchen, where several of us were sitting, and Matt, who was wearing dark sunglasses, began making comments like, “Boy, it’s getting warm in here. Anybody else warm?”

I was so upset I left the room. I waited for him to go upstairs, then followed shortly behind him. “Matt, I have to talk to you,” I said.

“Sure, Honey, what is it?”

“I saw the way you were eyeing that girl. It upset me.”

“Look, woman,” he said, losing his temper. “No one tells me who I can look at and who I can’t. Besides, your imagination’s getting carried away. I’ve seen her ass around here long before today.”

With that I stomped out, slamming the bedroom door. I felt betrayed that he’d even desire another woman and was annoyed that he’d never admit it. I became obsessed and watched what Matt liked, what attracted him, trying to be everything he ever imagined a woman could be, and more.

The New Year’s Eve party at the Manhattan Club started around 10 p.m., but Matt timed our arrival a few minutes before midnight. We just had time to order double screwdrivers when the countdown began. Then we all sang “Auld Lang Syne.”

As people shouted “Happy New Year!” Matt pulled me close and said, “Baby, I don’t want you to go back. You’re staying here. We’ll call your parents in the morning.”

I was in such a state of ecstasy that I didn’t notice what I was drinking: four double screwdrivers, all drunk through a straw. After one double, I was feeling high; after four, I was reeling. I went into the ladies’ room with Louise and stayed there for what seemed like hours, swaying back and forth in the stall, trying to get myself together.

When we finally returned to the table, I tried to act as if everything was okay, but Matt took one look at me and said, “Baby, we better get you home. You’re in no condition to be here.” He asked his old friend George Klein, the Memphis disc jockey, if he would take me home.

I spent most of the ride back to Graceland with my head out the window. George and his date walked me to the door, where we said good night, and I let myself in.

Gripping the banister, I slowly climbed the white stairs, shedding my clothing as I went: my jacket, purse, shoes, and blouse left in a long trail up the steps. By the time I reached the bedroom I was wearing only my bra and panties. I collapsed on the bed and passed out.

A few hours later I heard Matt tiptoe into the room and come over to me. His condition was not much better than mine. I could make out his silhouette against the ceiling above me. I didn’t stir. Gently, he took off the rest of my clothes. Then he kissed me and kissed me over and over. This night we almost went too far. His vow was nearly broken. My passion had gotten to him and under the influence of alcohol, he weakened. Then, before I knew what happened, he withdrew saying, “No. Not like this.” It had to be special, just as he’d always planned.

I have to admit that, at that moment i didn’t care if it was special and I didn’t care what he’d vowed. I didn’t care, in fact, what he wanted at all. I only knew I wanted him.

The next morning my head throbbed with a terrible hangover. I felt ashamed and embarrassed—and yet not at all sorry about what we’d done. He was a little closer to being all mine.

The moment of truth came when we called my father in Germany. Matt was on the extension in his office and I was on another phone somewhere else in the house. Though the connection to Wiesbaden was filled with static, there was no mistaking my father’s words.

“Young lady, I will not go through this conversation again. We made an agreement. You were to leave there on the second of January. You’ve got one day left and you’d better be on that flight!”

Matt interjected, “Captain, sir, if she could just stay a couple more days. I have to be back in L.A. soon, and it would be nice—”

“Matt, I can’t do that. She has to be back in school and that was the deal. I’m sorry. y/n y/ln, are you there?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“We’ll be at the airport. You know the time; we’ll see you then.”

I was furious. I flew into Matt’s office where, sitting behind his desk, he was just hanging up.

“I hate them. I hate them both,” I yelled like a spoiled child. “Why are they stopping us? They just want me home to babysit, to take care of the kids, that’s all.”

Matt’s face was flushed with anger. “We made a goddamn agreement—who the hell does he think he is, talking like that on the goddamn phone—him and his military upbringing.”

He grabbed the phone and called down to the kitchen, demanding, “Where’s my dad! He down there? Tell him to come upstairs to the office.”

Within seconds James was at the door. “What is it, Son?”

“Goddamn Captain y/ln,” he shouted. “We just called to see if y/nn could stay a few more days and he comes off with this cocky attitude and refuses with his jargon about making agreements.”

“Now calm down, Son. It ain’t that bad. He was probably just concerned about her being home in time for school.”

“School, what the hell do I care about school?” Matt snapped, ignoring James’s efforts to soothe him. “Put her into school here, that’ll solve everything. She doesn’t need school. Hell, they don’t teach you anything nowadays anyway.”

“Well, Son, she’s gonna have to go back, there ain’t no two ways about it, give or take a day or two.”

“Goddamn, Dad, you’re not helpin’ matters any,” Matt said, but he was beginning to calm down. He sat back in his big desk chair and swiveled it around to face the window, then gazed out toward the pastures. Finally he turned around and announced that he had a plan.

Matt’s strategy called for me to return to Germany and to arrive in good spirits, then to concentrate on doing well in school so that my parents wouldn’t be able to use my poor grades as an excuse for not letting me return. Matt wanted me to finish high school in Boston and to that end he would make arrangements for me to return as soon as possible.

Germany

Although Matt said that I should greet my parents with a friendly smile, from the moment I got off the plane, my attitude was one of defiance. I now believed that my parents were a threat to my future happiness. I didn’t realize that their fears and concerns were entirely reasonable. All that mattered to me was what Matt and I wanted, and no one was going to stand in our way.

The weather was cold and dreary, which certainly didn’t help my mood. I walked through customs to find my parents waiting. Noting my attitude, their expressions were cool, their welcome stiff. No loving arms wrapped around me, no loving words greeted me. Only my father’s abrupt order, “Let’s go.”

The drive back to Wiesbaden seemed longer than forty-five minutes. I sat in the backseat in icy silence. No one mentioned my request to stay at Graceland.

“All in all, did you have a nice time?” Dad ventured.

“Yes,” I replied, looking out the window at the clusters of trees bare from the harsh winter.

“Did Matt like your present?” Mother asked hopefully.

“Yes,” I assured her. “He loved it.”

“Was it as cold in Boston as it gets here?” Dad asked, keeping the conversation light, trying to make me open up and talk.

“No, it’s colder here,” I replied sharply, referring to both the weather and my attitude. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror and surprisingly, Dad looked away rather than reacting to my cutting remark.

I knew I was pushing my luck with them, but I couldn’t suppress my feelings and pretend that everything was all right. I was so deeply in love that chitchat seemed pointless—as did everything except for Matt. I remembered how he had held me before we said goodbye, with such emotion and need that nothing could keep me away from him. How could I explain these adult feelings to my parents who, I thought, could never understand and would think me silly or just infatuated?

When we arrived home Dad said, “Well, you’ve got school tomorrow, so try to get as much rest as you can tonight.”

Mom added, “You should have dinner and get right to bed.”

Did they both honestly think that I could slip back into the routine of ordinary life?

I rebelled against going to school. I skipped classes, went to town, and downed a few beers with whoever I could get to join me. My attitude worsened along with my grades.

My parents were as confused as any caring parents would be, hoping the problem would eventually go away. But I didn’t make it easy for them. What had started out as a simple introduction to the world’s greatest rock-and-roll star had turned into a nightmare for them.

Matt began calling me almost immediately, and we’d talk for hours. My parents heard me whispering and giggling till three in the morning and wondered what on earth we could be talking about for so long. Nothing really—yet it seemed like everything.

I began to reveal to my mother that Matt and I loved each other and longed to be together. Finally one day I summoned the courage to tell her that Matt wanted me to finish school in Boston. Her response: an unqualified no. She felt it could wait until my father’s tour of duty was over. That would be the end of summer, she said, and there was no need for me to return to Matt sooner.

“But Mother,” I pleaded, “you don’t understand. He wants me there with him.”

“Why you?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion. “Why can’t he find someone his own age? You’re only sixteen. What is this man doing to our family?”

She buried her face in her hands and began crying.

I did feel sorry for her. We were always close, she was always there for me, but this time she just didn’t understand. I hated seeing her in pain, but nothing seemed more important to me than Matt. Not even my mother.

“He’s not anything like you imagine,” I said, “and he needs me, Mother. I won’t get hurt. Please talk to Dad.”

Slowly she raised her head and looked at me.

“y/nn, I’d never forgive myself if I let you go and if you came back to us with a broken heart. You’re so young! You have no idea what lies ahead of you. All you know is you’re in love. Do you know how difficult that is to fight?” She sighed. “I wouldn’t wish this on any parent.”

She brushed away her tears and after a moment said, “All right, I’ll talk to your father, but not just yet. It’s still too soon.”

I gave her a big hug and whispered, “Thank you, Mother. I know you can do it. I love you.”

Now I had to wait for my mother to intercede. I knew how much my father was against the idea. My parents still didn’t really know Matt’s intentions toward me. They only knew what I had told them. But they had also read in the newspapers that Matt was dating every one of the female costars in his movies, so naturally they were suspicious.

One day on the phone I told Matt, “If you want me to come back and go to school, you’re going to have to talk to my father yourself.”

“Put him on,” Matt replied. “I’m not MacArthur, but I can sure as hell try.”

Drawing on all of his charm, Matt assured my father that if I was permitted to move to Boston, I wouldn’t live with him at Graceland but with his dad, James, and his wife, Angela. Matt promised to enroll me in a good Catholic school—he’d choose it himself—and make sure I graduated. He said I’d always be chaperoned and that he’d care for me in every way. Declaring his intentions honorable, he swore that he loved and needed and respected me. In fact, he couldn’t live without me, he said, intimating that one day we’d marry.

This left my parents in a dilemma. If Matt were as sincere as he sounded, there was a chance that our relationship might work out. But if it didn’t work out, they ran the risk of my returning to them disillusioned and brokenhearted. If they refused to let me go, I might never forgive them and I would bitterly regret this unfulfilled love for the rest of my life. In that light, there was little they could do but say yes, and eventually they did.

In truth, I was as mystified as my parents were about why Matt wanted me to come live with him. I think he was attracted by the fact that I had a normal, stable childhood, and that I was very responsible, having helped my parents raise my younger brothers and sister. I was more mature at sixteen than I was at fourteen, when he’d met me, not only because I’d gone through the normal growing period, but also because I’d experienced the pain of living without him for those two years.

Most of all, he knew he could depend on me. I wasn’t interested in a career, in Hollywood, or in anything else that would draw my attention away from him. I also had all of the physical attributes that Matt liked, the fundamentals he could use in turning me into his ideal woman. In short, I had everything that Matt had been looking for in a woman: youth and innocence, total devotion, and no problems of my own. And I was hard to get.

I intended to do whatever I had to to hold him, because if he had ever sent me home, it would have meant not only that I’d been wrong in going to him, but that my parents had been wrong for having permitted it. I firmly resolved to make our relationship work, no matter what.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - do you guys like longer chapters like this?🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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alan-in-the-outernet · 20 days

Note

hmmm perhaps it's my complete and utter love for stories about self-confrontation and self-acceptance through literal means... but i'd like to hope that at some point in apotheosis au, noogai can become alan and alan can become noogai. neither of them are erased, they're combined, and stronger for it. alan is still there, as is the god the sticks believe in

maybe the color gang knowing alan, and believing it's him, is enough to keep him there

I do like those kinds of stories too! Just in my head it's been a little hard to imagine that happening- maybe it's because living eternally is something that seems utterly terrifying to me, and that the influence that ends up over Alan as Noogai makes it feel rather disconnected for him- it's him, but it's also what other sticks BELIEVE him to be, so it's not quite him- toeing the line between him and not...

BUT... I DO ALSO LOVE THAT THOUGHT... that they realize when Alan dies out wherever he truly was... he probably warned them that it could happen eventually... but then they realize Noogai is still around... and so... they hope, they believe, that Alan is still there-

...Okay I started writing and it got away from me- LONG THING UNDER THE CUT...

...The darkness was gone.

The thoughts... came slowly, but that was the first thing he noted. Everything had been gone... it hadn't been painful, merely... one moment he was there, and the next... it all stopped. And yet...

The darkness was gone.

Alan began to walk, the sound of water gently splashing under foot, and yet... his shoes didn't feel wet at all. It was strange- worrying in a way... but he kept moving, letting his gaze raise- and then he froze.

The darkness was gone.

No eyes stared back... nothing a gentle glow- and behind that, straight white and black lines, a point directed towards him... he knew that form anywhere... a Cursor.

The darkness was gone.

He swallowed faintly... taking a small step back. Maybe... maybe he hadn't died. Maybe he was dreaming... but an actual dream. But he hadn't had those in so long... it was always something else- helping a stick, lingering with them until the morning came, a grieving stick come to ask him something... it was never like this.

The darkness was gone.

"Alan."

The darkness was gone.

He flinched when his name was called, taking a tiny step back... and the cursor moved forward to follow, a slow movement, as if trying to keep him from freaking out- but he was scared- what was happening, what was-

The darkness was gone.

...It clicked into place.

"...You're Noogai."

"Yes."

"...I'm dead."

"...Yes."

Alan took in a shaky breath... before weakly laughing... rubbing at the back of his head. "Right... of course, I..." Closing his eyes, he swallowed... looking off. It was just... white. All white.

"...Why am I here...?"

"Why would you not be?"

The question... made Alan pause, as he looked towards the floating Cursor. Noogai. Why would he not be?

"I-I... because I'm dead...? I..."

"Yes. You are. But also not. I am y-"

"No you're not!" Alan suddenly snapped, turning to face the Cursor once more. "You're NOT me... And I'm not you. You're- I don't know where you came from, but you're just- you're what came everytime I sleep, something that took over, I-"

He'd shudder... fighting the tears... "You're not me."

...And Noogai let him cry for a moment... before floating closer.

"...Am I not? You are the reason I exist. Why I wanted to help those children more... why I was able to truly be kind... why I was able to spare those in moments where it was needed..."

The cursor moved slowly, lingering behind him... as Alan stared down at the water below, and the reflection that stared back... his tears sending ripples through the water...

"I would never be, with out you... Perhaps we are not the same, but is that not true for every moment of life? You are not the same as you were at 17, are you...?"

"...No."

"No. You are not... we are like two walks of life, existing at the same time..."

Noogai moved, so he could be in front of Alan... and the human slowly looked up towards Noogai, swallowing.

"...And I... do not want you to be scared of me.."

Noogai would softly admit... wiggling where he floated.

"I could always sense your fear... always in the back of my mind... and I wished... that I could assure you..."

It was a soft admittance from the God... who despite not having eyes, seemed to look at Alan in worry.

"...And now... I want you to walk with me."

"...How can that happen?" Alan would softly laugh, rubbing at his eyes... he'd never thought of all that... that the God might- want him around. It always felt like... like a looming presence... like he was being consumed, controlled... like one day, it'd consume him... and he'd be gone... something inevitable...

"...If I'm dead, then-"

"But you are me, and I am you. And I am alive..."

The God would comment, moving a little closer... lowering it's point down... and Alan slowly lifted his hands to gently hold it... eyes widening...

It was... a lot softer then he expected...

"So perhaps one body has ended... but this one has not... and your creations- they call out to you... can you not hear them?"

Alan paused... before tilting his head...

He'd been so overwhelmed before... that he hadn't really been listening... but now that he did... Yellow... Blue... Green... Red...

Second...

"I can..." He breathed... before turning to look at the Cursor once more. "But... if we walk together-"

"Perhaps it will just be Noogai or Alan... or maybe it will be both of us... I do not know..."

Noogai softly rumbled out... and Alan shuddered slightly at the vibrations against his hands...

"But... does it matter...? You will still be here... and that is what matters to me..."

"...It's scary."

"...Why?"

Alan sighed softly... lowering his head down to rest against the cursor, as he pondered how to answer, "...I'm scared... that it won't feel like me, I guess... that..."

"...That you will be consumed...?"

"Yeah..." Alan weakly chuckled... before swallowing... "But... I want to see them again... and..." He ran his hand over the Cursor, softly chuckling. "I guess... I guess you're not what I expected..."

Which caused Noogai to rumble slightly... before pulling back a hint.

"...So. Will you walk with me...?"

And it only took a moment... before Alan responded.

"Yes... I'll walk with you."

#asks #apotheosis alan au #saisk rambles

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oohnotvery · 5 months

Text

Edges of the Night (Chapter 10)

Read here on AO3.

Someone’s gone missing in Glacier National Park, Scully tells herself. That’s why the helicopters are out. It’s the only possible explanation.

It couldn’t be—there’s no way—it can’t be that those helicopters are for them. No one’s tracking them anymore. Mulder ditched the ring back in Utah. It flew out of his hands and landed in six feet of snow. Right? Right?

“We can’t stay in this house,” Mulder mutters, dragging her by the shoulders to the front door.

She stumbles in the dark, her brain spinning. “Wait, wait, stop,” she says, laying a hand on his chest. His heart is racing. “Mulder, stop a minute.” She draws in a long breath, trying to collect her thoughts. “Why can’t we stay here? We won’t fare much better if we try to take the car out. They know what vehicle we’re driving. They’ll spot us the minute we get on the roads.”

Even though it’s dark, she can sense the moment Mulder pauses to consider it. For a time, everything goes still and silent. Even the beat of the helicopter blades grows quieter.

And then he starts pacing.

“We’re sitting ducks in this damn house, Scully,” he grumbles angrily. “No weapons, nowhere to run. They’ll find us. It might take a few days, but if they were able to track us to this area, they’re eventually going to figure out we’re in this cabin.”

She swallows hard, nodding in agreement. As he walks by her, he reaches out to squeeze her waist.

“So,” she says after a long minute, “I guess the ring wasn’t tracking us after all.” She rubs subconsciously at her empty ring finger.

Mulder doesn’t respond.

When she contemplates the fact that her engagement ring is gone forever because of Mulder’s mistaken assumptions, she feels a pang of regret. But other thoughts and feelings quickly overshadow the pain of that particular loss. Finding out that Alan was planted in her life; questioning whether his feelings for her were real; wondering what things will look like when she gets back to that life.

A keen sense of self-pity ripples through her as she recalls her life in California, how she believed she was happy, how she believed in her feelings for Alan. But as usual, being around Mulder has thoroughly disrupted her belief system.

She shakes her head to clear her mind. Now isn’t the time to think about these things.

As the minutes pass by, their tentative decision to stand their ground and hunker down in the house starts to seem less and less appealing. If they don’t run, they’ll almost certainly be found here. But if they do run, there’s a chance they’ll be caught sooner. Right?

“Can you please stop pacing?” she finally barks. “You’re making me nervous.”

He ignores her and she scowls irritably. He’s a caged lion, a ticking time bomb.

“Do you have any idea how they’ve found us again?” she asks after a few minutes, wringing her hands.

He grumbles a no.

She’s hesitant to even speak again, but she has to give voice to her thoughts. “Do you think—is it possible—” He glances at her through the darkness. “Did someone we know give us away?”

The caged lion goes deathly still.

“Frohike would die before doing that,” he breathes with conviction, and he sounds so sure of it, she nods too.

“Skinner?” she whispers hesitantly, hating herself even for the suggestion. But her logical mind demands she consider all the possibilities—no matter how unlikely.

“I don’t—” he sighs, his shoulders crumpling. “I don’t think he would give us up either.”

She purses her lips and nods. There’s a dark, chilling thought niggling at the back of her mind. It’s been there on and off during this entire escapade of theirs, but she’s vehemently refused to consider it, has continually denied it access to her conscious mind. Because if she takes it out and examines it, the results will feel devastating. Horrific. Life-altering.

With the distant beat of helicopter blades nearby, though, she really has no other choice but to face the unthinkable. She licks her lips unsteadily.

“Mulder,” she murmurs, and she feels his body turn to face hers. He must be able to hear the panic in her voice because he takes two steps into her, his hands falling to her waist. She tips her forehead to his chest and his hands travel up her spine to cup the back of her neck. She huffs a painful laugh. It’s like he already knows what she’s going to say. “Mulder, the chip . . . the chip in my neck.”

He swipes a tender finger across the raised bump above her spine. “It’s not that,” he says decidedly, and she instantly knows he’s already considered it too.

She scoffs, pulling away. “And how do you know that? They found us without the ring. Clearly it wasn’t that, so this is the next most logical explanation we have.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “It’s not your chip, Scully. It can’t be—”

“But what if it is?” she exclaims, pushing against his chest. “Mulder, we could be running forever and they’d still always find us!” She sucks in a lungful of air. “We need—we need to split up. You need to get away from me. If they catch me, so—so what? They’ll dangle me as bait for you, they wouldn’t hurt me as long as you’re still running—”

He grabs her wrists so hard she flinches. “No,” he growls. “That’s not happening. I’m not leaving you.”

“Then we cut the chip out of me,” she says confidently.

His hands dig more painfully into her skin and she cries out. “Mulder—”

He releases her with an apology on his tongue, crushing her head to his chest. “That is not an option, Scully. We’re not even sure if they’re using the chip to track us. Get that out of your mind, because I’m sure as hell not removing that chip from you. It saved your life.” She grabs at his shirt, bunching it up in her fists. “We can fight this, Scully. We can—we can keep running. We just have to stay one step ahead of them.”

She huffs exasperatedly. “We can’t run forever, Mulder. It’s only been a few days and we’re already—we’re exhausted, emotionally wrecked. We—this running—this isn’t a life. It’s barely even survival.”

“Bullshit,” he says, and she glances up from his chest. His eyes blaze with conviction through the darkness. “I’ve learned a lot these past nine months. Most importantly, that what I’ve been living isn’t a life. Not without you. It’s only a life if I get to spend it with you, Scully.”

Her mouth falls open, but before she can respond, he’s dipping his head down to press his lips to hers. She moans into his mouth and pushes her hands beneath his shirt. All her earlier uncertainty slips away. With time pressing in on them at every angle, she’s realizing that this may be her last chance to experience anything good. Forget Alan, forget fidelity, forget her life back in California. Those don’t exist, not in this space, not when there’s helicopters hunting them down and a chip in her neck and Mulder’s desperate confessions whispered against her lips.

He peels off her shirt and she yanks his off too, stretching on tiptoes to reach above his head. Her hands tremble as they touch smooth skin and firm muscle, and she wishes they could turn the lights on so she could look and feast.

His hands don’t hesitate to roam to her pants, releasing the zipper and shoving them down her legs. She shivers in the cold air and he draws her in, slipping his hands over her ass to pull her close. And then he’s hooking his hands under her thighs and lifting her off the ground, and she scrambles to link her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist.

He tilts his mouth to trail down her jaw and neck as he stumbles in the dark to find the couch. She laughs in surprise when they tumble onto the cushions together, her hands flying out to brace herself against his chest. In his lap, she lifts her hips and fumbles inelegantly at his jeans, breathless when he finally swats her hands away and does it himself. They shimmy his pants off together and then she’s sitting half-naked on his boxers, which leave no room for imagination. She can feel everything, and it’s delicious. She wraps her arms around his neck and grinds down into him, enjoying the way his head falls back against the couch at her movements.

She’s about to drag his head back up for another kiss when she feels it.

Right there, along the top of his spine.

A rough line of raised skin. It’s thin and small. Very small. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-small.

Small, thin, raised . . .

It’s a scar.

For the second time today, she freezes in his lap. And for the second time today, Mulder begs her not to stop.

“Please,” he whispers, and it’s so desperate that she can almost convince herself to keep going. Just put it out of your mind until you’ve done this one thing, she thinks. Just wait a little bit longer to unravel the true horrors of tonight. Let yourself enjoy him for just these next few moments.

“Mulder, stop,” her higher logic demands, and it’s authoritative enough that he immediately retracts his hands from her thighs.

“You okay?” he asks nervously, running his fingertips across her biceps. She still has her arms around his neck.

His featherlight touches distract her momentarily, and she again convinces herself that she could just keep going right now. With unwavering self-control, she drags her focus back to the more pressing issue.

“There’s something in your neck,” she says, and he too goes still.

“What?” he whispers incredulously. Slowly, his hand rises to meet hers, which is poking and prodding the top of his spine. Gently, she guides his finger over the place where she feels it, the very slight, very unremarkable protrusion right under his skin. An incision scar, just like hers.

He flies off the couch, sending her lurching to her feet. He grabs her hand and drags her towards the bathroom, where he shuts the door, turns on the lamp, and stuffs a towel in the door crack to block out the light.

They blink at each other for a long second, two sets of eyes dragging lustfully across half-naked bodies. God, he looks gorgeous. Tousled, muscular, clearly aroused.

They snap out of it and she motions for him to turn around. He stoops low and she stretches to her toes, fingers quickly finding the place on his neck.

Sure enough, there it is. A very small incision, just like hers.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, her hands falling away.

He turns around slowly, eyeing her meaningfully. “You’ve got to cut it out of me.”

She starts to nod, because that is the next logical step. Take out the tracker in his neck, then flee.

“Scully?” he says urgently, motioning for her to leave the room, probably to get her medical bag.

She shakes her head. “No, Mulder.”

His eyes widen. “What do you mean no? This is obviously what’s been tracking us this whole time—”

She holds up a hand to interrupt him. “Would you let me take it out of my neck?”

He scoffs. “Are you kidding? If it was just a—a tracking device? Of course I would. It’s tracking us, for Christ’s sake—”

“How do you know removing it won’t kill you? How do we know what it really is?” she says softly. “How do we know it’s not like mine?”

His expression falters. “It’s just a tracking device,” he repeats, but he sounds less sure of himself.

She shrugs. “We don’t know that. For all we know, it could—it could release some toxin into your body the moment you remove it. It could—it could be a slower-acting agent, like cancer, like what I was given—”

“We’re taking it out,” he says decisively, pushing past her to shove open the door.

Apparently, all thoughts of keeping the place dark have gone out the window. He rushes to the bedroom and grabs her medical kit, yanking it open and rifling through it until he produces a sharp tool. It’s the wrong one for this job, but she doesn’t bother correcting him.

He turns on her with a madman’s eyes. “You’re taking it out of me, Scully.”

“Let’s just think—”

“Stop,” he yells, thrusting the tool into her hands.

Her hand trembles in a way she’s not used to while holding surgical instruments, and she can see the conviction in his eyes.

“You’re taking that goddamn chip out of me or so help me God, Scully, I’ll—” he pauses, unable to continue his toothless threat.

She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. “It might kill you,” she argues quietly.

He reaches forward and squeezes her shoulders, his eyes burning into hers. “If that thing doesn’t kill me, they will, someway or somehow. Either way, I very well may die. But there’s another possibility, Scully, don’t you see?” His eyes crease wistfully. “There’s a chance it’s just a stupid tracking device, nothing more. And that gives us the chance to run, to get away from here.”

“But where do we go? The car—”

He shrugs. “Into the woods. Get lost in that national park.”

“But the bears,” she protests weakly.

He laughs and she sees hope rising in his gaze. This is really it, she realizes. This truly is their biggest chance for survival.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, not stopping to marvel at how quickly he’s once again become the only person she can’t live without.

He grimaces. “Take out the fucking chip, Scully.”

Mulder doesn’t burst into flames or ooze green jelly or die from a fast-releasing toxin. In fact, the chip removal is relatively unremarkable. He flinches at the initial cut and Scully hides her nerves by teasing him about his pain intolerance. And then she removes the little fucker from his neck.

“How long do you think you’ve had this in?” she asks as she cleans the wound.

He grits his teeth. “I was conscious the whole time I was in San Diego, even after they found me at the airport,” he muses. “So it must have been before that. I would have known they put something in me, right?”

She nods. “This incision is well-healed. I’d say it’s been months at least.”

He turns to face her and she tosses a cotton pad into the trash. His eyebrows crease. “At the hospital, then. When I was in the psych ward.”

She swallows, dropping his gaze. “They must have known, then,” she says.

He hums a question.

“They must have known that they wanted to continue using you. Destroying the files was never enough, not even from the very beginning. What they’ve always wanted—”

“Was me,” he interrupts, smoothing his hand across her waist. Her lips part at the warmth of his palm against her bare skin. He squeezes her hipbone and briefly, she remembers what they were about to do right before she discovered the tracker. She shivers. “They always planned for me to die in disgrace. So they stuck a chip in my neck in case I ever did anything they didn’t like, like follow you to San Diego, or run away with you to Utah. That way, they could always drag me back and bend me to their will.”

“And me?” she asks, cupping his elbow and drawing him closer. “Just a pawn to get you to cooperate?”

His eyes darken. “I’ve said it before. You’re my Achilles heel, Scully. Everyone knows it.”

She bites her lip, flushing. “Do you think they were ever really planning to ship me off to run more experiments? Or was that all bluff?”

He eyes her carefully but doesn’t answer.

“I haven’t forgotten, Mulder,” she says meaningfully. “You still owe me the contents of that letter.”

His eyes close briefly, and then he steps forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Later,” he promises.

After dressing, they gather their modest supplies in a bag and then start arguing about the car. Mulder insists they risk driving; Scully fears it will be the death of them.

In the end, Mulder wins again, convincing her that if they don’t take the car, they’ll just inevitably end up lost, starving, and exposed to the elements smack-dab in the middle of grizzly territory. It’s the threat of bears that eventually convinces her.

It takes Mulder five tries before he manages to get the car up the hill without headlights on. The vehicle bump-bump-bumps over terrain it was never meant to climb and Scully clings to the dashboard with a dizzying lack of optimism.

Once they reach the road, though, they both heave a sigh of relief. They’ve agreed to avoid driving into the park—it will be manned by park rangers, who may or may not be keeping watch for two FBI agents on the run. Instead, they head west towards another set of mountains, the plan being to bunker down in northern Washington’s remote Cascade Range until they’ve determined whether they’re still being tracked. They still haven’t worked out a plan for getting basic supplies or accommodations; by now, their faces are probably plastered over every news outlet in every town. They can’t just walk right into a gas station or motel.

On the road, they are completely silent as they fly through dense forest, headlights still off. The driving is treacherous—a mixture of snow and ice still covers the roads and without light for guidance, Mulder is barely keeping them on the asphalt. Scully keeps looking in the rearview, waiting for the inevitable moment when a car flies up behind them, or a helicopter drops out of the sky. But nothing happens. Eventually, they pass a sign for a national forest and without hesitation, they pull off the main road to head deeper into the wilderness. It is nearing dawn when they decide to stop and hunker down in a vacant campground.

Mulder mumbles something about needing to get gas and Scully shoves that concern to the back of her brain. They’ll worry about filling the car later. Right now, they need rest.

She climbs into the back while Mulder reclines his seat as far as it’ll go. They make eye contact as the sun starts to rise, flooding their car with light.

He reaches back to take her hand and she loops her fingers loosely with his.

“If anything happens,” he tells her solemnly, “you run. Leave me. Get as far away from me as you can.”

She frowns. “Not gonna happen, Mulder.”

He cracks a wistful smile, squeezes her fingers, and leans back in his seat. She shuts her eyes, listens for the sound of helicopters. But the forest is silent, save for the singsong of birds and the hum of insects.

She sleeps.

Scully wakes with an unbelievable urge to pee. Groggy, disoriented, and crick-necked, she rises from the backseat. Mulder is sleeping peacefully, his arms crossed over his chest. She smiles fondly. He looks for all the world like the version of Mulder who spent every night falling asleep on his couch in front of the T.V. She resists the urge to reach over and push his hair off his forehead.

Instead, as quietly as she can, she opens the car door and sneaks outside, silently cursing the fierce chill in the air. She hunkers down behind a tree to relieve herself, eyes scanning the quiet morning for signs of trouble.

Sensing nothing out of the ordinary, she rises to her feet. Ten feet away, she sees Mulder stirring in the front seat. He glances in the backseat and startles at her absence, then flings open the door.

“Mulder!” she calls quietly, and his eyes race to find hers across the forest. She smiles as relief crosses his face.

Sunlight warms her skin and she is suddenly filled with an incredible sense of optimism. The tracking device is gone. They escaped the cabin without notice. They seem to have reconciled, mostly.

And perhaps most thrillingly, Mulder wants to get her naked.

She takes a step towards him.

There’s a pop, a distant echo.

Something strikes her shoulder so hard she falls backward, the breath forced from her lungs.

She opens her mouth to call for Mulder’s help, but the pain hits her. Fire—raging, burning, roaring fire—races down her body and she screams in agony.

She hears Mulder shout, distantly notices the sound of footsteps approaching, but all she really knows is extreme, acute, blinding pain.

Against her will, her eyes flutter closed, and she realizes she’s losing consciousness. Her screams turn weak, then faint, and then she can barely open her mouth at all.

Someone’s hands reach roughly under her armpits and she is momentarily comforted by the thought that Mulder is saving her. He knows how to treat gunshot wounds. This is a gunshot wound, right?

Wait—why the hell was she shot?

As she’s lifted to her feet, her eyes blink slowly open, and in that brief moment, she realizes that the arms around her don’t belong to Mulder.

Because he is writhing on the ground in front of her, two men wrestling to keep him pinned to the earth. His eyes are glued frantically to hers and she realizes, even through the agony, that this is it. They’ve been caught.

A sob escapes her throat and the person holding her tosses her violently over his shoulder. She cries weakly at the renewed pain, her eyes tearing away from Mulder’s.

She strains to hear his shouts, but her hearing is starting to fade. Her vision goes in and out. Her attacker jostles her on his shoulder and another wave of pain jolts down her body.

She faints.

#mulder x scully #the x files #dana scully #x files fanfic #msr fanfic #x files #fox mulder #msr #txf #xfiles fanfic

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toaverse · 1 year

Note

What if… Fire Wade and Water Ember?

Oh!

Note: I'm keeping the character's canon names to avoid confusion :)

On a small boat, Brook is traveling with her two sons and brother to Element City, wanting to arrive on land before her daughter would be born.

The family fled from a storm in Fireland, the country the family came from

Brook's husband however, didn't survive the storm, and Brook is still grieving his death...

Once the family arrived on land, they immediately try and find a place to stay, but all the landlords won’t let them simply because they were fire, not even if there were two kids involved…

Luckily, they find an abandoned house, a place they will turn into their home. That night, Brook’s daughter Lake would be born.

And later on, the family would start a shop as well.

Brook however, became far more strict and overprotective over her children, as well as becoming more bigoted towards other elements, especially water. She even stated to all three of her children that they marry fire, and only fire.

Years passed, and the family build their shop. While Brook taught all three of her children to run the shop, that soon only fell on Wade due to Alan eventually having a wife and kids and Lake focusing more on high school and their girlfriend.

So, Wade wanted to make his mother proud. All he had to do is prepare himself to take over the shop before she retires and find himself a nice Fire-woman who he will marry someday.

But all of that gets ruined when the pipes began to burst, and he met a Water-woman named Ember who worked as a city inspector, having to make notes to shut the shop down…

#element swap au #wade ripple #ember lumen #brook ripple #alan ripple #lake ripple #answered ask #toaverse answers #elemental au

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magicalgardenofhypnosis · 4 months

Text

Alan’s Spa Day

Alan Ritchson flew off the continent of North America to secret hidden location of his own choice as the helicopter lands the propellers stop and he exits to see one skinny young man who is awaiting him. Alan stood tall over him like fucking tower built like a tank walking up to him as his feet pounds the feet because he is so god damn heavy and walks in to a swinging door to his new life. The man guiding him in to the side hall way to lead him in to the locker room as he lifts his shirt up exposing his body to the air that inhabits the room something about the room gets to him. The shirt flips through the air as his hands land on to his pants firmly landing on to the tip of his as he swoons and he his hands are now firmly planted on to his belt as he is at it undoing the belt letting it drop to the floor in a quick action. The man exits the room in to another side of the building standing in front of a private control booth closing the door as I flick the switch and everything locks down flicking another switch as the intensity of the air fills the room.He begins to swoon as I can hear him begin to struggle removing his pants kicking them off of his feet landing on to the bench he is sweating and wiping off the watts on his body he takes a deep huff and he laughs his butt off.I flip another switch as the camera blurs on to the television dropping his pants as his defining muscles sculpting like a God begin to ripple before me, he spun about with his ass so huge popping up as if jiggle a bit in action. A smile spreading across his face with facial expression as he bigs to giggle loudly out of control, he grabs his cock to begin to play with it slinging down as he is stroking with it so hard and I can’t wait to see the moment he cums. “OH FUCK! AHH! WHAT? OOOHHH! How the hell am I so hard right now? I can’t cum! What the fuck? Ahh fuck! FUCK!” He screams as his back falls on to the bench crying pain, pleasure and lust.

“Behind a door panel with lift upward to the ceiling.”

“I see it! Should I walk through.”

“Obviously! Hurry up”

“Yes Sir!”

“Put on the clothes I left on the bed”

“Yes Sir! Why do I feel so hard and weird?”

“It’s the air purifier cleaning you up “

“Oh duh! This is a spa”

“You funded the venture “

“It’s a celebrity private club”

“Do some poses “

“Yeah grab that guitar “

“Do some dances “

“Bust a move”

“Oh God! I am hard “

“Show me some ass”

“You are hot”

“Bitch please “

“They are for the sponsorship”

“Every ad campaign”

“Imagine you are so hot”

“Everyone wants you “

“Wants to be “

“Haha”

“You think so?”

“Don’t Move”

“Sorry babe!”

“Babe!”

“We are together “

“You got it”

“Do you love me Alan?”

“From here to the moon”

“Yes babe”

“Join me babe”

“Hell yeah!”

“I’ll be in the spa”

“I love it”

“What dummy?”

“You grabbed my ass”

“Swat”

“Ouch!”

“Follow the arrow”

“Wicked it’s gym”

“It’s 2024”

“Whatever “

“Get to work bitch”

“I love being demeaned “

“Fuck off!”

“You are hot”

“I know “

“Babe”

“Yes babe”

“Mind if I sit on your lap”

“Getting hard “

“Good job!”

“What a bitch?”

“Thank you sir”

“I think I’ll cop a few”

“Do what you want?”

“That not me”

“Swat”

“Oh God!”

“I am hard”

“Damn! You are awesome “

“You are using me”

“I can’t wait to fuck you”

“Oh yeah?”

“Rock you like a jungle gym”

“Make you swoon”

“Yes babe”

“I am all yours “

“What did you do to me?”

STOP!”

“Excuse me!”

“You are teasing me”

“No! I am not “

“Bro”

“Fine”

“I’ll fuck you”

“The spa is awesome “

“It’s special “

“Indeed”

“It fixes you “

“Improves your health “

“Dumbs you down”

“Makes you a bro”

“Makes you addicted “

“Drives you mad”

“I became yours”

the end

#alan ritchson #mind control #hypnosis #transformation #spa #spa day #reprogramming #reality change #man to slave #pheromones #Hypno air

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wafflebloggies · 1 month

Text

Fever

(The latest Captain Disillusion video, for a bit of context)

It was a quiet day at the beach stand. The day was too hot, the waves were below par and there was an annoying sandy breeze, and even now in the best hour of lunch the tourist trade was slow. Sandwiched comfortably between two coolers and a serviceable fan, the operator and sole proprietor of the beach stand, otherwise Claude, was in the best possible position to watch the figure approach.

It drew attention, the only changing thing in an otherwise serene landscape. The palms swayed gently in the breeze, the sun blazed, the waves rolled on, the striped blue-white sail banners for the surf school rippled and flipped back and forth up by the road, but the figure went from a small dot to a dark shape against the white sand to a recognizably human figure to a guy, tan shorts and a white shirt and a slow trudging pace, drawing closer under Claude’s vaguely interested eye.

When the guy finally got close enough, he stopped at the edge of the parking lot and stood looking across the heat-hazy road behind the beach, or at least where it could be seen through the thick screen of pitch-apple. With his mouth slightly open, gazing in all cardinal directions, he looked as if he was trying to spot something in particular. Claude thought the guy was probably good for an Aquafina at least; he looked a little fried and not much like someone who was particularly enjoying their beach walk. He didn’t look much like someone who’d prepped well for one either, with his bare feet and hot face.

As he caught his breath, the guy’s vacant gaze wandered eventually around to the beach stand, the counter, met Claude’s mildly curious sunglasses, bounced nervily away. Eventually, with a manner on him that seemed to not want to commit to anything decisive, he came closer, not very sure-footed on the hot tarmac and ribs of sand that had drifted up across the lot.

“Hi, uh, sorry, can you- do you know what that street is?”

Claude looked in the direction indicated.

“That’s Seventeenth, down there.”

The guy nodded a few times, but didn’t exactly look enlightened. Claude could understand; walking aimlessly down the beach for any length of time was apt to get anybody turned around, especially tourists.

“She’s El Danio,” he said, running his finger along the pitch-apples, to indicate the long avenue ranging north-south behind them. “That’s the casino, up at the lights.”

The guy seemed to gather up a desperate resolution. “Is this Miami?” he asked.

This was a lot less understandable, as was the peculiar blend of hope and horror in the question, marked in the guy’s face. Claude had only been wondering if he was on vacation or just lost, but now other questions started rising. There was nothing markedly threatening here, nothing to really alarm or set him reaching for the bat under the counter, but you never knew, and if trouble was going to happen on this fine afternoon it wasn’t difficult to see it coming from some shoeless weirdo who didn’t seem to know what city he was in.

“Fort Lauderdale,” he said, cautiously, but this only elicited a completely different kind of peculiar look, a mingling of momentary relief, agitation, calculation and quiet despair, aimed into the middle distance. The guy nodded, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, rubbed the pinkening bridge of his nose.

“Oh... alright. Thanks.”

“Sure. You okay? We got water, soda…”

Claude usually would have called it as a pretty sure sale, since if anybody looked in dire need of a cold drink, it was this guy. However, he only gave the cooler a longing glance, and didn’t reply. Instead, he shielded his eyes and squinted up at the sun, high and nearly dead overhead, then pointed down the beach in the other direction, the way he’d been heading.

“Miami’s that way?”

Claude nodded. The guy nodded back in a sort of resolute, unhappy echo, set his shoulders, and headed off.

The walk took almost five hours.

Alan had put up with so much at this point that just quietly taking whatever ridiculous scenario was hurled his way- or that he was hurled into- had become second nature to him. What really hurt, if he’d been able to examine it at all just then, was knowing with chilly clarity that this stupid, wretched situation, all this pain and trouble, could have been so easily avoided with just a single thought.

A single, simple, momentary impulse of care.

Finally reaching home in the gathering evening, weary to his bones, he had just enough energy to limp up the small strip of green alongside his apartment and crack the trick window, heave his weight up onto the sill, and haul himself up and over. After the long, long walk, the energy this cost him felt like the absolute last reserve he had left.

His apartment was dark, the air cold on his arms and face, though the night had felt suffocatingly close just a little while before. He crawled into bed, dragging off the unfamiliar sand-filled clothes along the way, and slept.

Shallowly, restlessly. The night passed, the morning, most of the day. He dreamed he was still walking, heat and sand and a hundred unfamiliar streets. He woke shivering, with Leica nudging at his side. He pulled on a shirt, fed her, changed out the water in her fountain as she followed his slow painful steps like a small shadow, with something more than her usual alacrity. She seemed to know, as far as a cat could know, that something wasn’t right with him. He wished he could tell her he was okay, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if she’d been able to understand that much, she would probably also understand that he was lying.

He tried to apply himself to making food for himself, but found his body too sore and stiff and mind too dazed to make any sense out of the few things left in his fridge. Connections between thoughts moved sluggishly, failed to hook up at all. His feet were cut and blistered and almost too painful to stand even after he tried to patch them up, and every muscle in his legs felt strained. Vaguely aware he didn't feel okay, vaguely aware that most practical approaches to a solution involved his phone and his keys, he gave up, and crept back to bed.

Slept, shallowly, restlessly. Woke, with a cold shaking fever on him. He couldn't get a fix on the room- the walls and ceiling ebbed and wobbled nastily in an ashy twilight that could have been dawn or sundown. Time slid or crawled, it was dark, rain drummed on the glass, the sun was hazy through the gap in the curtains. The little gap tormented him, the thin slant of bright light it let in inching across the room with a mechanical inevitability that was somehow unspeakably distressing. The concept of getting up and closing the curtain properly seemed completely beyond him, out of his hands.

Some chunk of eternity later, with a titanic effort, he got to the bathroom. He drank a little water, retched over the sink, threw up nothing. His stomach ached, but the idea of this as a fixable issue was buried somewhere under the haze, and he couldn't pin it down. One foot, or both- an inseparable entity of foot- throbbed dully with his pulse. He had no clear memory of making his way back to bed. Somebody- not him- did it in slow pieces; endless hallway, an icy expanse of living-room tiles, sticky-prickly bedroom rug.

The fever turned hot a few times, but for the most part he was miserably, teeth-chatteringly cold. The gap in the curtains was still his nemesis, until night took it away. Alan could feel its hot, harassing, exacting stare even then, no matter which way he turned or how he tried to shut it out with blanket or pillow or fingers, drilling into him like a baleful yellow eye, measuring his small human worth. He couldn’t ever satisfy it, and the strain of trying to was killing him by inches. He tossed and turned, beyond exhausted, unable to rest. His forehead was clammy and his mouth felt like a dried-out drain, a storm canal somewhere, foul and parched. Was it possible to be too tired to sleep?

Through a dark swamp of fever and incoherent worry, through a hundred unreadable to-do lists and an overbearing weight, he struggled as he was fighting over a beach turned to quicksand, a heaving formless mass that clung and tried to suck him down. Towards dawn, twisting away from the angry eye in the curtains as it brightened, he gave up. He let it take him, a thick sea of black shivering oblivion closing over his head, filling his mouth, his eyes.

After a long incoherent gap, he thought he heard a sound, then several sounds. He thought he heard voices. Fighting open a sticky eye he saw his bedroom wall, the yellow shade of a light he hadn't turned on. Shadows moved. He tried to ask a question, but his throat point-blank refused. Shuddering, he tried to blot out the shapes with his hands, only for someone to lean over his bed, and gently stop him.

"Hey, it's okay," said a voice, quietly. He knew it, but could only manage a sort of eroded croak.

"Yeah," said Ellie, despite the noise only resembling her name on the loosest of loose construction. She squeezed his hand. "We're here, you're gonna be fine."

She brought the scent of sunscreen with her. He couldn’t see much, apart from her dark curtain of hair and concerned eyes. She put his arm gently down at his side and moved back, and now he saw Blair behind her, a tall thin shadow.

He tried to tell them how grateful he was that they’d come looking, that they’d even noticed. Somewhere along the way he lost himself, and the restless sea churned over him, but not quite as deep as before.

How long this time, he didn't know. When he woke up, he felt a little better, shivery and weak, and Blair was sitting by his bed, reading, with Leica a tricoloured comma dozing on his lap. When he realized Alan was awake, he put the book down and smiled.

"Well, we have our instructions," he said, as Leica stretched and spilled lazily down from his knees. "You’re to take two of these," and he set a small bottle on the nightstand, with a short dry skittering sound within, like a distracted rattlesnake, "but you need to eat something first, and keep drinking as much water as you can- slowly. I'll get something uncomplicated. How does oatmeal sound? Or eggs?"

Alan hadn’t heard much, after a certain point. His stomach lurched, and the orange plastic bottle with its printed label seemed horribly big in his wavering focus. "Blair, I can't- I can't aff-"

Blair's smile went away. "My doctor," he said, firmly, "came over, as a favour to me, which is quite besides the point. More importantly, he said you're severely dehydrated- amongst other things. He gave you an injection for that, and another one for your foot, he's sending over some antibiotics for that as well. He took out a bit of glass, I think."

Alan said, shakily, disconnectedly, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Blair looked down, brows pulling sharply together. "I should be apologizing to you. After you stopped answering your phone, I told Ellie you were likely just- busy. If I'd listened to her in the first place, we'd have been here much earlier. Somehow I always manage to forget she's the one with all the common sense."

He paused.

"We still can't find your phone. It seems to be on, but calling it-"

"I don't know where it is," mumbled Alan. "It was in my jeans."

"Where, ah... where are your jeans?"

"Space."

He had closed his heavy eyes, but he could hear the silence. It lengthened, maybe confused but definitely not surprised, before Blair threw it off with a cough. Alan felt the long, thin hand press his own, briefly, the rustle as his friend stood up.

“When you’re feeling up to it,” he said, “I think we’re both interested in what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Alan croaked. “Just, you know, work stuff.”

“Work stuff,” repeated Blair. “Yes.”

He was standing at the window now, by the direction of his voice. Most likely with one arm lightly in the other behind his back, in a way that would look ridiculously pompous and archaic on almost anyone else but with Blair just looked natural, and he was probably looking out at the truncated view of electrical boxes and scrubby trees just as he would have gazed out of the window of his workshop or across any marvellous panorama of the Bewilderness, seeing the same things wherever he chose to look, the same wild sweep of potential. Just now, he sounded as if he was studying an annoying tangle, a knot without a good end to snag.

“I’ll see about those eggs,” he said, gently. Alan heard him open the door, the soft click as it closed.

As dull-headed and empty as he felt just then, Alan still struggled with the feeling that something- something rested leaden on him as he let his friend go. Guilt was at the forefront, that he hadn’t tried to explain further, to make it seem right. It somehow seemed to always be his task to try to make things right, to make the inevitable fallout seem reasonable and okay, but the difference was that it usually felt as if there was a point in trying, at least. Just now, he found he could only think about how it never seemed to fall on the Captain, the one who could talk, who was good at talking, explaining, being convincing. The Captain never even appeared to notice this too-familiar sinking something, in any form, not Blair’s chilly sideways looks at his back that penned whole essays, not even Ellie’s hesitation when hesitation was so unlike her. It always seemed to fall wholly on Alan to try to deflect these things, and now- at least for the moment- the point was gone. He couldn’t deflect or control their reactions this time. Whatever the consequences would be, he was finally too tired to try.

It took a little time- it took several days- for Alan to recover enough to face the closet, the simple slatted wooden door that opened on one side to his quiet apartment hallway and on the other to the humming blinking corridor of the ship, to creep like a trespasser back to his station in the edit bay and the intimidating build-up of everything awaiting him there. He could have handled any kind of workload- it was the confrontation he really dreaded.

When it did catch up with him, though, it wasn’t at all the kind he expected. The Captain had other things on his mind.

“I am not just imagining things!” The Captain was pacing, never a good sign. Alan watched him warily, feeling somewhat trapped in his chair, a defendant who hadn’t even realised he was on trial. “This radio silence is completely out of character. Look, I linked her to this video of a capybara yesterday, and- nothing! You know she loves capybaras! It had a little hat on and everything. See?!”

His phone was extremely close to Alan’s nose. He leaned back a little. “It’s very cute, sir.”

“And- some guy delivered my stuff this morning! Some random guy!”

Alan blinked a few times. It was hard to know how to field this. “Well, I mean, SpaceJunk probably has a lot of couriers, it’s not always gonna be Ellie-“

“No, it is always Ellie! Always! Except this morning, when it was some random guy!”

“Well, okay, she probably just had a different route…“

“No. No, there’s something going on, and it’s not just her, either- look, look at this.”

He jabbed at his phone a few times, held it up like it was something to stop traffic with. Alan was quite relieved to have a reason not to look at the Captain for a moment, and instead focused on the screen as it rang out, beeped a short, single note.

“The person you are trying to call is unavailable. Please try again later."

“Blair doesn’t always- remember about phones, Captain. He might just- wait,” he said, raising a tenuous finger to the phone as the Captain snatched it away, “did that say you’ve made forty-seven attempted c-”

“It’s all adding up, Alan! Maybe you’d have a better idea of what’s been going on around here if you hadn’t decided to vanish on me- don’t think I didn’t notice-”

“Wh- you- sir, I-”

-but at this point there’s only one possible explanation.” The Captain drew in a deep, bristling breath. “They’re avoiding us.”

In the pause that followed, Alan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. In the moment, he felt closer to trying to make a point, trying at least to say something, than he ever had before. The reality of his injured foot, the itchy remains of his sunburn, his lingering aches and pains, everything pushed him to speak. He wanted to say, do you have any idea what you did? He wanted to say, there’s a beach like a quarter-hour from my place. I could have gone there. You could have put me there, zapped me over there instead of some random place five hours away, and I guess I’m lucky it was just Fort Lauderdale, not Malibu or New Zealand or Mars. And that’s not even the point, you could have put me anywhere, if you’d only thought to bring me back.

Not trusting his face, he looked at the floor, then sideways, like someone feeling slowly along a rope, and so back to the safety of his monitor screen. It didn’t stay safe for very long, because the Captain appeared above it, all indignant eyebrows, not about to be put off.

“Hey! Are you even listening? I said-”

“No, I heard you, I- I just don’t think that’s really all that... likely?”

The Captain looked at him, pityingly. “The power of denial,” he said. “Never ceases to amaze me. Well, you do what you want, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

He stomped out, already dialling again. Alan watched the doors hiss shut behind him and started to let out a relieved sigh, biting it sharply in half as the doors swished open again to admit the Captain’s head.

“Don’t literally do what you want; do the rest of the annotations. The file’s on Gamma drive.”

He disappeared. This time Alan waited a while longer, just to make sure, then limped carefully across the edit bay and hid himself behind a bank of servers while he pulled out his own phone. He still didn’t have a lot of energy to spare, and his head was starting to hurt. He peered through a gap in the humming racks, phone to ear and eyes ranging anxiously towards the door in a little ocular waltz of paranoia as he listened to it ring.

“Ellie?”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing, um-”

“How’s your foot?”

“It’s fine. Are, uh, are you working today?”

“Yeah, just heading back from the Triangulum. Everything okay?”

“Yeah…” Alan swallowed, poking a messy loop of cable back into the server cage. “That’s your normal route?”

“Yup.” It could have been purely imaginary, but Alan felt there was something just a bit too definite about this yup. It was a very clear, very quick yup of premeditated purpose. Possibly. “Hey, let’s get lunch.”

“It’s-” He glanced at his bare wrist, took a couple of panicky swipes at his phone, failed to get it to show anything other than the call, picked his way gingerly back across to check the computer. “It’s kinda late…“

“But you haven’t had lunch?”

“No, I’ve- no-”

“I’ll be like an hour, if you can last out. Mango Tree?”

“Well-”

“Okaycoolbyeeeeee!”

Alan looked at nothing in particular for a moment or two, then sat down slowly at the workstation and tried Blair. Two rings, and then Blair’s clear voice, sounding like he usually did- like the phone couldn’t be trusted to pick up his voice unless he spoke as if he was trying to hail someone across a fairly large room.

“Hello, Alan. Did you know it’s National Lighthouse Day today?”

Alan had to take a moment, after this beginning, to pick up the scattered card-house of his thoughts and put it back into a semi-ordered pile. “No, I… actually didn’t.”

“There’s seven hundred and seventy-nine of them in the United States. We might visit some today. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m- I’m fine, are you-”

“How’s the foot?”

“It’s fine.” Alan took a breath. “Is there something wrong with your phone?”

“Oh, well, you know I don’t really understand these things,” said the Dreamfinder. Alan could hear, didn’t have to imagine, the smile in his voice. “I think I heard it made some noises a while ago. Always beeps and bings, these gadgets.”

“Uh… huh.”

“That’s the party line, anyway.”

“Was that… was that a pun?”

“Well, perhaps... I was fairly sure of a good reception.”

“I don’t know, it sounded kinda like you were phoning it in…”

And it was stupid-simple, how easy it was to talk, sometimes. Alan listened to his friend describe a little lighthouse on an island near Boston, a hundred years old before Blair had even been born, and then he told Blair about the light at Daugavgrīvas, destroyed six times by fire, war and storm, always rebuilt. There were a few more phone puns, and a lot of illumination-based and nautically-inspired puns, and he hung up smiling, with Blair’s quiet laughter in his ear, and only realised after about a minute and a half that he hadn’t managed to really ask him anything he’d meant to at all.

Nearly half an hour had slipped by since he’d kind-of-not-really agreed to meet Ellie, and he was sitting with a half-written text, trying to figure out what to tell her to cancel, when in the space between ‘Hi,’ and ‘Sorry’ a strange impulse struck and he decided to just... not.

Instead, he scrabbled around in a drawer for a marker, wrote ‘AT LUNCH’ on a bit of electrical tape and stuck it at a decisive slant across his monitor, then fled before the sight of what he’d done frightened him enough to try to peel it off.

Under a dim glow of blue and red, his abandoned workstation idled quietly. After a while, the monitor flickered once or twice, bright under the strip of tape, then went dark.

#captain disillusion #alan amelik #my writing #ellie fleet #blair mercurial #the dream team

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