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otterbagel · 3 years

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The Reunion (Part 1) Simon x Reader

Reader makes a rash decision, one that has long lasting consequences.

(Notes: There are two parts to this! Next part should be out next week. I'll probably start spacing out my posts after this so I don't get burnt out like last time. Also, didn't get to edit this one as much as I should've; the whole thing ended up pretty long and would take a long time everytime I tried to edit it. Can't believe it took me this long to finish one about Simon!!!)

"Hey, this is quite the unusual find, you gotta admit."

Your eyebrow raised without hesitation, your eyes looking down to check your shoes. "Not really," you remarked softly, eyes going back up to meet the object of the discussion: a PL600 android.

The salesman, who had uncomfortably started hounding you for the sale after you had curiously drifted towards the humanoid, was gesturing towards it flippantly with a toothy grin. "At this price?! Tell me, no, tell me where you found one this cheap— in this good a condition?"

Your mouth automatically frowned. The arms were covered by a dark undershirt that made most of the skin unseeable— any damage not on the face and hands wouldn't be factored into the buying purchase. You had a feeling this clothing choice was intentional.

"Just three hundred bucks!" The seller's round face turned into your line of sight. You quickly looked away out of discomfort.

Your eyes landed onto the android's clear blue ones. You hadn't looked very closely at any androids before, despite walking amongst them nearly every day. Did they all look this lifelike?

Maybe you were looking way too into it.

You swallowed, aggressively fumbling for your wallet with a grunt of annoyance. "Okay, fine. Three hundred."

With a pleased noise, the seller took off with your card, waving it in the air between two of his fingers.

You crossed your arms beside the android, who didn't seem to take any notice of what had just transpired.

…

Reality had begun to hit you like a truck on the way home.

By the time you opened the door to your tiny house, you realized just how big of a rash decision you had just made.

The android stood behind you quietly and without complaint as you released the door handle, letting the door softly bang against the wall. You stared dumbly into your own house, coat hanging limply from one of your dangling arms as you searched your brain for a solution.

You frowned, shaking your head rapidly. "I have no room for this."

"Excuse me—"

You jumped at the android's sudden intrusion into your own self reprimand, a small noise of fright escaping you before you could even begin to think of holding it back.

"—would you like me to get started?"

"Uh, yeah yeah yeah, uh… do whatever you want," you waved it off awkwardly, holding a hand to your chest as you attempted to catch your breath. You hurried inside, embarrassed of the whole situation.

You sat down on the couch as the android closed the door and walked past you and into the kitchen.

Without turning it on, you stared at the TV as your fingertips rubbed against your face in nervousness.

That had been such an impulse buy. You couldn't believe you had done that.

The faucet turned on for a moment. You think you had put a cup in there, but there wasn't much else to clean.

It seemed to be working properly. The guy who sold it was certainly odd and abrasive, but all in all it was a pretty good deal. Usually they were more than twice as much; newer models so expensive that the thought of you owning one was impossible. Even if it had some cosmetic damages, that was a small issue compared to its functionality.

Trying to ignore the strange new entity in the house, you flipped on the TV. It was the news.

There was some story about a recent fire that had decimated a small apartment building on the outskirts of Detroit. The police said it likely had something to do with Red Ice, although most evidence would probably be destroyed.

The android had finished whatever it was doing in the kitchen and had quietly begun watching the TV from the archway.

You looked at it as it parted its lips in preparation to speak. "Are you a fan of the news?"

"Sort of," you chuckled, looking back to the screen. "I work at a newstation— not this one, but I like checking it out from time to time."

The android nodded, continuing to watch the screen as it held its hands politely behind its back.

You looked it over, getting that feeling of nervousness again. "W-what's your name?" You blurted out quietly and without any grace.

It blinked at you, the LED spinning blue for a second. "My previous owners named me Simon. Would you like to change my name?"

You shook your head to yourself. "Do you like your name?"

It squinted at you in confusion before returning to its natural, composed look. "It's good," it responded.

Although you tried to maintain a jovial body language, you weren't doing a good job. "Great! Si… Simon is a great name," you chirped out awkwardly.

"Thank you," Simon replied, giving a small head bow.

You turned your head away from it as you felt your face grow warm with embarrassment.

What on Earth was happening to you?

…

You had been having a strange dream about work when you heard someone calling your name.

"...huh…?" you called out groggily.

Your name again. "...I think you're going to be late for work at this rate…"

Your eyes fluttered open. Simon was fiddling with his hands as he held them in front of his chest, eyes moving between you and the clock beside the bed.

It said 8:32.

The comforter was flung nearly off the bed as you jumped up in a panic. "Oh geez, yeah I'm gonna be late…" Random clothes filled your arms that you grabbed from your drawers as you prepared to go to work. "Thanks for waking me."

Simon quietly made his way over to you as you tried finding a pair of socks. "I didn't hear you walking around this morning," he said with a chuckle. "And where you stayed up later than usual last night… I figured…"

A laugh escaped you as you headed off towards the bathroom to get ready.

He had been living here… maybe three months? It had seemed like a much longer time than that. In that amount of time, things had definitely changed between you two.

Despite it being his intended purpose, it felt strange to have someone doing all your housework for you. It became an odd ritual pretty quickly: once you got home, you would work on chores together. Not that there were many— that was one of the perks of having a small house— but it just made you feel better about the whole thing.

The whole process was a bit cathartic for you; away from the hustle and bustle of the busy, stressful life at the newstation and into a warm, domestic one.

You hurried to the front door to slip on your shoes, Simon leaving his spot on the couch to see you off.

"I think I'll make it on time," you joked as you looked up at him. "Thanks again."

"No problem…" he responded quietly, struggling to retain eye contact with you.

As you rose to your feet, he gave you a brief hug. Your face immediately began to burn bright red.

"Have… have a good day at work…" he stuttered out before walking in quick strides to the kitchen.

You were still frozen in place by the time he exited your vision. "Y-you too…" you blurted out before fumbling out the door, realizing your linguistic blunder before you had even closed the door.

As you headed down the street, you let your hands touch your heated face.

…

You had nearly run home out of excitement.

It had been such a small thing, but the prospects of your future career had your mind going nuts.

After fumbling to get the key in the door and tossing it open, you slung your coat off your arms in a fluid motion. "Simon! Simon! You won't believe it!"

He was sitting on the couch— like he usually had been over the past year— engaged in some overly dramatic show you weren't particularly fond of. His eyes were wide at your sudden entrance. "Yes?"

You let the door make its way closed before you kicked it shut behind you, holding your arms out. "They said they liked my article!"

Simon stared for a moment before his LED flashed in excitement. "THE article?" He sat up on the edge of his seat, smiling at you as he was filled with a wave of positive energy.

"Yeah!" You nodded. "Not to get you too excited, but they're showing it to some of the higher ups, but it looks like I might get my own schedule slot soon!"

"Oh wow!" He exclaimed, rising to his feet and taking you into his arms to lift you up for a split second. "I knew it would happen! I'm so proud!"

You erupted into a fit of giggles as he held you, almost enjoying his praise as much as your own success. "Thanks Simon, I couldn't have done it without you."

He released you, letting his hands rest against your sides. "That's not true," he responded quietly, his face red as he looked to the side.

With a warm smile, you nodded to him. "Yes," you drawed out for effect. "You even came up with the idea. And, not to mention, the moral support."

He stepped back a little, crossing his arms as he attempted to hide his expression of happiness. "You're too kind."

The TV played in the silence, Simon fiddling with the edge of one of his sleeves as he pulled it down.

Your mind raced as you looked at his hand, debating on bringing it up right now when the mood was so light.

"They mentioned… uh... increasing my pay," you began, watching his expression for any hint of distress. "I thought that maybe… we could finally… you know… get that fixed…"

His hands trailed along his sleeve as he nodded to himself, seemingly lost in thought. "Yeah," he responded. "That would be nice… but it would be so expensive… are you sure?"

It had taken a few weeks to first see it, and even longer for you to see the full extent of the damage, but your initial thoughts had been correct. The long sleeves had been put on him for a reason, and it had seemed as though it had gradually become a personal choice as well.

His forearms and biceps had a lot of physical damage, certainly from his previous owners.

Luckily, it had been almost purely cosmetic. Aside from a few light dents and scratches to his actual body, it was just a matter of getting the covering fixed. As of now, the white sheen of his android body was always visible underneath his sleeves.

You wrung your hands together out of nervousness. "I just know how you said that you wanted it fixed," you took in a sharp inhale. "It won't be a problem to actually do, I've already been saving for a while…"

He smiled, rushing in to hug you again. You, a bit caught off guard this time, was frozen in place.

"I'd like to put the past behind me," he said as you finally came to and hugged him back, albeit still in a bit of a shock. "I think this is the first step."

As you embraced, you couldn't help but feel a pang of excitement and anxiety.

#dbh x reader #dbh simon #dbh simon x reader

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lovely-necromancy · 3 years

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A Cure for Insomnia Ch 17

Living with the Cowell's is going about as well as you'd expected it to go. In other words it's more or less a disaster for your mental health. Which is ironic considering you didn't put this much stress on yourself when you were sure a stalker was watching you.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the stalker didn't own your house and wasn't in your personal space at every turn.

You'd honestly been expecting Little Jo to be the biggest space invader but Dia and Nate were constantly hovering around you. Nate had taken up the other spare room, or rather his room away from home, the minute he heard you'd be staying with the Cowells. He's made it his job drive you to and from work for the past two days and you both take breaks together now closing the store when you do. Then the second you cross the threshold Dia is right by you either asking for some help cooking or rushing you off for hobby time in the sitting room. It's like living in a 1920's story book, minus the extreme prejudice you would've faced.

It's only been two days and you can't find a way to ask for more space. You tried asking to go on a walk earlier and it turned into a partial jog with Nate. You really just need a moment to yourself it's been five or six days since you last had some 'me' time. All your nerves are shot and you are just a few minor inconveniences away from snapping at someone.

And it would not be a smart idea to nap at your boss. Your boss who's been so considerate and helpful offering his support to you through this whole mess of a situation.

Nonetheless you need space and your own clothes. Nate's don't fit you properly and they're uncomfortably itchy against your skin. His detergent is also very smelly, more in the chemical sense than in a bad sense. Though it could be a bad sense considering the headache you've had the past day from the over bearing smell. You know it won't end well for you but you desperately need to go back home and grab your own clothes and maybe even your car.

Having the illusion of more freedom would put you more at ease.

After all it isn't like you want to knowingly put yourself in harms way, you just can't stand the suffocation any longer. That's why you decided to bring it up during dinner, and why you are now sat in the tensest atmosphere this table has possibly ever experienced.

“Installation ain't done yet.” is Big Jo's gruff response.

It's as if that short sentence gave everyone premission to breathe again.

“I'm not planning to stay, I just need my own clothes.” you press.

Nate glances over to you before placing his fork to the side, “Then why do you need your car?”

“I'd just feel more comfortavle if I had it.....y'know instead of just relaying on you for rides.” you gesture around to the table trying to get someone yo come to your defense.

Big Jo pinches the bridge of his nose, it's been a stressful week for him as well. You don't mean to be ungrateful in this scenario but you are Autistic and the routine you've spent months carving out for yourself is being ruined. You are wearing smelly itchy clothes and need to have something you have control over. Not to mention you're the one who actively experienced the home invasion and were sat in a hospital for two days.

Big Jo can deal with you asking to go collect your thing, as far as you're concerned anyway. You're at least entitled to that much.

Dia puts her hand on Jo's arm and he sighs, “Fine, if Nate takes you. You can go to the cottage.”

“Tio, they can't have the car.” Nate is wildly failing his arms and motioning to you as he explains that you're a known flight risk.

Great, nothing's been resolved and you are back to a tense dinner in the Cowell's home.

“Fine I won't take the car, just lemme give it to someone to watch it for the...the what's it gonna be a week?” directing the question to Big Jo who's been handling the security detail for your home.

He gestures in a so-so manner.

“Yea, just lemme give it to someone to watch for the week.” you pause before throwing your hand up, “Because let's face it none of us have any idea where those two are now, and they could've easily tampered with my car.”

That was the worst possible thing to say because the second you finish you sentence the table erupts into chaos. Dia and Little Jo voicing their concerns over you driving your car, Big Jo and Nate all but forbidding you from driving and you trying to find some sort of compromise.

“What if we had it towed to Whistle's? Nate takes me there after work and we make sure nothing's wrong with my car.” looking around the table at the mixed reactions before you.

“I'll call Lewis for a tow in the morning and you both can go after work.”

“thank you.” you say relieved that you can finally gain back control over your life. Maybe get a little bit of space a long with it.

Everyone calms down and goes back to eating. The air is still so tense you could practically cut it but without your constant stirring it seems to settle. The rest of the night goes by uneventfully, you've changed into some pajamas and are ready to lay awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

The antsy energy you've been building up these past few days have left you without sleep. Tomorrow the hallucinations will probably start up, you wonder if they'll be worse thanks to your healing concussion. Hallucinations aside, your real problem is being alone with your thoughts for the next seven or eight hours.

You have nothing to occupy your mind with and thus nothing to help block out the invasive thoughts.

You'd finished the TAZ graphic novels while you were still at the hospital. The Cowells had taken you straight to their home after you got discharged, so you hadn't been able to grab your switch or any smaller art supplies.

Ultimately knowing that all this was for your safety and benefit you understand them wanting to keep you away from your home. The sight of you attack. Even a supply run could prove dangerous. Try telling that to your restless and bored mind. Constantly feeling like one of the undead wandering around aimlessly with no real purpose has certainly not done anything good for your mental health The lack of stimulation was definitely making it harder to mask and not just explode in frustration. To just let loose and rage at everything: from the situation to your stalkers, hell even to Jo and yourself. The after the brief flash of rage it would be washed away by the overwhelming guilt you felt about being in this web and dragging everyone around you into it. Whether directly or indirectly.

Safe to say, it is not good to be alone with your thoughts right now.

And it is with that restless energy that your night of staring at the ceiling turns into a morning of staring at the ceiling. Until a knock at your door signals the start of breakfast. A routine you've recently become apart of while staying with the Cowells. Getting ready for the day you make your way to the dining room, not before steadying your nerves and static filled mind with a long and drawn out huff of air.

Not quite cathartic enough to be viewed as a sigh.

And with that you begin you day.

The morning fades into late afternoon and you find yourself in the shop a little before close, just looking through the isles. A vaguely human figure, much too tall to truly be an actual person, had brushed past Nate and into one of the isles. Honestly you're sure it's one of your hallucinations but you still have to double check the isles before you finish locking up the shop. Today had been really slow and you can only recall a handful of patrons throughout the day, though you haven't been with it enough to actually hace much accuracy on that statement.

Nevertheless you are searching for stragglers, thankfully you find none. Really hoping to get out and to Whistle's soon, then home to grab things that'll keep you occupied. Things that are finally yous; actual comfortable clothes, that smell like you too. Eyes blinking in rapid succession at your near giddy nerves.

For once your tic helps you vision, you're able to catch the book laid on its side. Its cover a deep russet nearly matching the shelf in color, you'd have missed it if it weren't for the inverted shapes that pressed themselves into your eyelids almost burning the scenery into your memory. Picking the book up you try to discern where it had come from.

Upon further inspection it appeared to be more of a journal. Half written in English with margins made out it – was that German? Yeah that was definitely German, the Eszetts is way too distinctive for it to be any other language. Poorly drawn out sketches littered several pages as you flip past them. Until you see a familiar but scrathy image. It's of a symbol a circle with an 'x' through it.

As you look at the jagged lines you can't really place where you've seen this symbol before. It's so familiar but the ringing bells do nothing to help you remember where you've seen this symbol. Flipping further in you catch sight of a drawing of a being that is slim and taller than the trees. Wasn't that the figure you'd seen moments before? Right as you were doing you check for customers? You're beginning to think this shop's haunted.

“Hey YN, coast clear?” The sound of Nate's voice stops you from inspecting the book any further.

Placing it back on the shelf and nestling it in between to larger books you turn and head out of the isle.

“Yea, no customers.”

“C'mon then, I don't want to be out all night.”

Rolling your eyes at Nate's exaggeration, Whistle's probably wouldn't take more than an hour tops and you won;t take long gathering your things from the house – you follow Nate out the door.

Waiting close behind him as he locks up. One thing about the attack is you've become hyper aware of your surroundings and are nearly always on high alert now when you're out in the open like this. Luckily in most spaces you had already noted the number of exits and where to find them. Having to plan escape routes ahead of emergencies might not be the healthiest mentality but it's kept you sane throughout this ordeal. Thank you American public school system.

When you get to the auto shop you see a familiar ticcing brunette talking to a group of mechanics as he leans on your car.

“Who the hell is that?” Nate says squinting at Toby who's practically laid out across the hood of your car.

Weird, haven't they met yet? Toby did hang out at the shop for an entire day. Had Nate not noticed him then? What about the picnic? Before you can say anything Nate's already out of the car and shouting something to the group. Most of the men standing around tense up as Nate storms up to them.

But you catch the dead look in Toby's eye, the other is still horribly out of commission. Honestly without your glasses faces blur from so far away but it's undeniable that there isn't a light reflecting in his eye. Nate seems to be directing his lecture to Toby who doesn't appear to do anything. He's like a big old house cat, tired and done with everyone's shit if they aren't actively feeding him.

Sighing you exit the car, your only real thought is defusing your Karen.

You aren't at all surprised when Toby locks onto the movement of you walking towards the group. The man perks right up and lifts himself off your car in one fluid motion. He's so agile, just like a cat. You can't help but smile a bit at the connection automatically reaffirming with yourself that Toby would totally push over a precariously placed glass of water.

“Hey, wh-mrrow-what'd you bring the car in for?” Toby asks side stepping Nate, completely ignoring the older man.

“Huh – oh, yea boss wanted it checked out to make sure it wasn't like tampered with – I guess. Y'know after the accident.” you know the mechanics probably know what happened to you, you do live in a small town after all. Gossip stops for no one. But you do have control over details and talking about the incident and you won't be letting go of that any time soon.

Toby's one good eye darkens as he nods, “Gotcha, well it's fine even had Jess take it for a drive. Drove fine. Fixed that weird clicky thing it did on left turns, you're welcome.”

Hah, during the drive through Franklin Toby lost it after two left turns. He noticed the clicking sound your car would make, oddly only on left turns, and started bitching about it to you. At the time you just thought he was being funny when he'd complained you needed to take it in to the shop to fix that. Guess he wasn't. But what's the point of fixing something so trivial?

You cross your arms and are about to sass Toby about how unnecessary that was when Nate interrupts.

“Well since the car's cleared we'd better go settle the bill with Lewis.”

“No need, no parts to replace plus my free labor.” Toby looks away from Nate and back to you “It w-w-was so sl-o-ow-w so I told the old man we were dating and I'd been wanting to fix up your car.”

Normally you'd protest a friend or anyone giving you free services but since this was on the Cowells' dime you weren't going to burden them anymore.

“That's sweet – really really stupid, but sweet.”

Nate's already moving around you two and motioning towards his car as he says, “Well thank you, now we really need to get going YN. I don't want to be out late.”

You nod to Nate, turning and saying bye to Toby from over your shoulder.

When you suddenly remember, “Wait, hey Tobias can you take care of my car for the week? I know it's probably a weird request, but I'm sorta “grounded” right now and can't drive till the cottage is set up. A little worried the battery will drain from disuse.”

If it weren't for the mask and swollen eye the confused sneer of his would be clear to everyone on the lot. He sputters for a moment before speaking up.

“Ok? I mean like that's valid – whoa – a valid concern...but your car's not that old. But I guess I'll watch it? I don't have Connor so it'll have to stay in the lot tonight, that ok?”

Oh this stupid beautiful boy just gave you an out. Probably not the one he meant to give you but you are taking it and running as fast as you can.

“Or, or, or-”

“No, no, and no. You can't be trusted to not just drive off in the dead of night.” Nate cuts in.

It took a bit of coaxing but after calling the house and getting Dia's blessing you obtained one night to yourself. Really it'd be one night spent at the lodge but it was still better than being a guest in someone else's house for the night, this way you're a guest at the lodge for the night. A little mini vacation if you will. And Toby seemed fine to go with you to the cottage while you packed a bag with your essentials, before you both go back to the lodge.

He even agreed to drop you off at the bookshop in the morning.

“Are you seriously going stir crazy after five days?” he asks as you pull up to the cottage.

“it's more their constant smothering I'm over. I know everyone's worried but I still need my own agency. Y'know?”

“Yea....I do.” he murmurs with a solemn look about him before he exits the car and makes his way to the front door.

Your steps falter as you near the cottage. A few flashing images pass through your mind before you shakily inhale. Fortunately Toby is right beside you squeezing your hand to remind you of his presence. You aren't alone this won't end like Monday night.

Opening the door the house is quiet and just as you had last seen it. Nothing was disrupted, even peeking into the bathroom where you expected a crime scene to be – only a toppled shower curtain and over turned bath mat remained.

It doesn't really feel like your house right now. A fuzzy sensation clouds your thoughts, like your brain is trying to protect you from connecting with this place after your recent trauma. Although you aren't sure how you actually feel there's a strong sense of discontentment.

Noticing how you linger in the threshold of the bathroom Toby gently guides you into your room, all without a word. Leaving you alone in your room to collect your things. You move around at a moderate pace, you aren't drawing this out but you aren't rushing to leave soon either. A handful of shirts, a set of jeans, shorts, and joggers later you are grabbing your switch. Before diving into your art supplies you hear a thud across the hall.

You freeze as if ice water had just been poured onto you keeping you in place.

“Tobias!” you call out not moving.

“Fuck – sorry I acc-ack-accidently kicked your trash can.”

When had he gone to the bathroom?

“Are you ok?” you receive a quick 'yea' in response.

Jittery and in no mood to sit and draw you pick up an embroidery kit you'd been meaning to rip into. Should keep your attention long enough, but maybe you should grab another kit just in case. Bag loaded with enough of your things so you aren't driven mad during your stay – you turn to leave but decide to grab your goat plush as an after thought before leaving your room.

Walking out and into the rest of your house you notice a lack of Toby anywhere. Going towards the front door you spot him as you pass the kitchen. He's messing with your garbage can before he takes out the bag and ties it up.

“Wha' cha doin'?” he's been a bit off since you both arrived but you don;t blame him. Not like you're fairing any better.

“I, I kicked it and a whole bunch of trash came out. So then I had to put it-it all back, but there's a lot here and you aren't gonna be here for a week....I, I ju-just thought it'd be better to tak-take it out now.”

Nodding, you're thankful to have such a good friend looking out for you. It would've sucked to come home to a toxic waste site because you'd left trash in the garbage for three weeks.

You probably just thought it came from the bathroom because of the echo or something. Paranoia's been a pain this past week. Maybe you should look into getting a roommate, they might help.

“They're not that helpful trust me.”

“Wow, did I say that out loud?” Toby nods, “Fuck I am out of it. How are you and Tim doing?” you might be deflecting/ignoring your own issues. But Toby had his own shit going on Monday night and you doubt he's talked to anyone.

“We're fine. Just fucking hate him.” the sharp jerk of his head keys you in that he's very much not fine.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Who are you, my fuck-ing therapist?”

“Fine, wanna bitch then?”

He comes off the defensive like he realizes that he's talking with you right now. His good eye down cast after he relaxes his stance a bit.

You go to grab your kettle, filling it up and placing it down on the stove to warm up.

“Any preference on tea? I've got a few.” it was very much more than a few.

A chair screeches as Toby drags it out to sit down at your small kitchen table. He doesn't respond so you get one of your special blends out. This blend has rose hips which you normally dislike anything scented or flavored with roses but the ginger and cinnamon can normally over power the slightly floral sting of this tea. Plus it's made with the intention of healing the heart and promoting self love. A spell tea of sorts. Toby could probably use a little pick me up, you always did after a fight with a friend. Getting out the honey you ready the tea infuser into the cup waiting for the kettle's whistle.

“So just wanna start talking....or should I ask questions?” you turn to face Toby as you lean against the counter.

He's taken his mask off and placed it on the table, of course you remember his deteriorating face but it still surprises you to see it after a few days of not actually seeing his face. Maybe you'll get used to it and one day won't be so fascinated by his teeth.

“Tim's just a dick who thinks he has a right to act like he's my dad. Li-ike-like I'm twenty-four he doesn't need to constantly question the things I do. He doesn't have any room to talk to me about my mistakes he literally could've fucked staying here up for us....” Toby head had been snapping to the left several times during his rant and it continued as he got very quiet suddenly.

Tim could've messed staying here up? Did he mean here as in Kepler or the lodge? Barclay did have to break up the fight maybe he didn't want any of the trio in but let Toby stay out of concern for his condition.

“Hey I'm sure it wasn't that bad, I could even talk to Barclay to get you unbanned from the lodge.”

He takes the mug you pass him and spoons some honey into it/ It's weird to see half his face drawn into concentration since the other half isn't able to emote yet. Holding the cup in his hands he stares at the swirling steam rising up as you bring your own mug over to the table taking a seat. Not once does he look up at you as you stir in a bit of honey into your own tea.

Toby's neck snaps, “Am I...is it bad that I don't want you to?”

You send him a slightly pitying smile.

“No hun, you're upset. And you're having a totally valid reaction to a falling out.”

Toby rolled his eyes, at least you thin he did. Hard to tell with just the one.

“My therapist would love you. That's the kind of bullshit she tells me like all the time.”

Not knowing what to say to that you just nod as he continues to stare at you.

You both continue to talk, well you continue to let Toby rant about how stupid and dumb Brian and Tim are as you finish your tea. You still don't know the details of the fight but it sounds like the cause was just the last straw between the men and not the actual catalyst. According to Toby the other two tend to baby him or talk over his ideas and suggestions because he's the youngest of the group. Twice Toby mentioned Tim's paranoia and how that was really the cause of the tension between them. And how Brian wasn't any help because he'd always side with Tim to make sure his boyfriend was ok.

Toby was very bitter when talking about Brian's role in this more than Tim's. As if his role of passive bystander just sent Toby over the edge. Which from the way he spoke seemed like it's been dragging on for some time. All of this was painting an even worse picture of the smug asshole. Though you didn't break your silence or series of nods and hums until Toby off handily mentioned Brian getting him in trouble with his therapist by saying he was the one who started the fight.

“He fucking snitched....wait no he lied?!” Toby had to blink a few times before he finally understood what had gotten you so upset.

“Yea I mean it's not that big a deal. I was able to tell Clarise I missed a few days of my meds and she made me set reminders in front of her on the call.”

Apparently Clarise was sure Toby suffered from Bipolar Disorder, he was very flippant when he told you like it wasn't anything big. When you mentioned ADHD he kind of blanked. He got fidgety when you mentioned the symptoms you saw and nervously told you his medication was working just fine for him. Not wanting to make him more uncomfortable you dropped the topic. Soon it was dark and you needed to leave to make it to the lodge for dinner.

“You sure you want to take the garbage out? What if Chonk is over there?” joking as you lock the door.

“Good point. Trash you live here now.” he dumps the bag onto your lawn and walks towards your kia.

“Toby!”you gasp out, which sounds weird amidst your laughter.

He stops and looks at you his expression more unclear than it's been all evening. Your heart skips a beat as you stare at each other for a moment, your laughter gone now.

“It's weird to hear you say 'Toby'.”

That's all he says before he grabs the bag and carrying it to the side of your house where your bins are.

The conversation in the car is pretty light in comparison to what it has been. Just jokes getting thrown around and sharing the gossip that you'd head in the hospital because nurses' can't keep their mouths shut. Neither of you know any of the characters in the stories but they're still pure gold. Like the man who came in after getting his hand stuck in a cookie jar. Nervous and scared his wife would find out he's been eating the new holistic dog treats. A few stories or more like vents about the auto shop got thrown in. By the time you got to the lodge both of you were in lighter spirits.

Everyone was ecstatic to see you up and about and made an extra spot for you at the table. You didn't miss how Barclay would rise an eyebrow every time you locked eyes. You just roll your eyes and continue eating. When it got time to settle in for the night you were planning to commandeer the couch but Toby offered his room.

More accurately he offered a chance to hang out with Connor which you readily accepted. The rottie was just as excited to see you, bounding over the second you stepped through the door.

“Sigh if only there was a way to see Connor everyday.” you say dramatically whistful as you hold the pup's jowls in your palms.

Toby responds in turn in a drawn out sarcastic monotone “Oh my, how sad your life must be. There's only one solution, marry me. So Connor can finally have the second parent he's always wanted” he ends with a scratch behind the pups right ear.

“I was just gonna kick you and steal your dog.”

He turns to face you, “I can't feel-”

“So if I kicked you in the back of the knee it wouldn't buckle?”

Toby goes silent before conceding to your point. A mumbled “Connor would avenge me.” is heard.

After you two settle down you both hop into bed to try and get some sleep. Toby was holding your switch hostage so you had no choice but to “sleep” now.

You really hoped he changed his sheets from the other day. You'd hate to find out you're laying in milk stained sheets. Pushing those thoughts away as your body finally starts to relax, you can feel when your mind begins to drift into the beginning stages of sleep.

“Tobes, you can crash at my place if you need to.” is the last thing you say before falling into a peaceful slumber.

Toby on the other hand wasn't able to get much sleep at all that night. He couldn't shake the feeling something bad was about to happen. And unlike Tim he didn't think it was because of you, it just had something to do with you. You were too kind to be one of The Operator's proxies, with all the clues of His presence in this town you were one of many red herrings. Looking over to you Toby only hoped you wouldn't get hurt in the crossfire. Not like Lyra did, he doesn't think he could handle something like that. Especially with how shitty Tim's been lately, he's on edge and constantly about to snap. He just needs a break from everything. Maybe then the weight in his stomach would go away.

In the morning Toby's keen to hold up his end of the deal and drive you to work. You buy him breakfast and an iced coffee from Dunkin' and a pup cup for Connor. The three of you eat in your car while you wait for Nate to arrive. When he does you say your goodbyes and head off to start your shift. Promising Toby you'd call once you've been ungrounded.

Nate's face is grim as you approach the shop, you're starting to get used to the cold sweats from these dread bearing encounters. That can't be a good thing.

Did something happen last night? Were the Cowells targeted? Was everyone alright? These thoughts and more swam through your head as Nate motioned for you to follow him into the shop quickly.

He locked the door and pushed you into the back room. His hast doing nothing to settle your fraying nerves as you stumble past the threshold.

“That Rogers kid, how well do you know him?” his eyes dart around the back looking at every shadow as if watching their movements.

“Who's Roger?” you feel out of the loop.

Was Roger one of your assailants? Had the police already found suspects so soon on what little information you had to go on?

With a groan Nate smacked his hand against his face muttering something under his breath.

“Toby, Tobias Rogers how much do you know about him?” his tone is rushed and sharp.

You didn't even know his last name until now. But maybe you had heard it before but it never clicked with you. Honestly you've known each other for a month that's not very long at all. But maybe it's long enough to learn some things?

“...ah not much?”

There's a panicked look in Nate's eyes and he does his best to control his breathing. But it's clear that Nate is either about to hyperventilate or go into an anxiety attack. You wonder what's got him so worked up as he reached into his bag and pulls out a manila folder.

He hands it to you, you can see the water marks left by his sweaty palms.

What on Earth is going on?

#a cure for insomnia #ticci toby #ticcitoby #ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby x reader #tobias erin rogers #Timothy Wright #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright x brian thomas #Brian Thomas #brian thomas x reader #creepypasta fanfic

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ladylynse · 4 years

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The Trouble with Ghosts: Lancer hadn’t realized how closely young Mr. Fenton’s school troubles–and the secrets he surely wasn’t telling his parents–were tied to ghosts until after that encounter with Phantom.

<< < Part XII [FF | AO3]

-|-

Lancer wasn’t entirely surprised to see that he was missing one of the shrubs on his front lawn. The Shakespeare lawn ornament wouldn’t be salvageable, either; the poor fellow was bent up enough to have written Richard Armour’s Twisted Tales from Shakespeare himself.

Still, he stepped aside to allow Mr. and Mrs. Fenton into his house without a word.

“You said Danny’s safe,” Maddie was saying. “Where is he? What happened? Did he tell you?”

“Did you just find him after he got away from that no-good ghost?” Jack put in. “Did—”

“Danny’s doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances,” Lancer said. “Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, might I have a word before you go to visit your son?”

A trace of a frown crossed Maddie’s face. “You mean before we pick him up to take him home.”

“I sincerely hope that to be the case.” He gestured toward his living room, where he’d set out another chair and cleared up most of his books, banishing everything that didn’t fit on the bookshelves out here to his bedroom. He planned to find more permanent homes for them all once these more pressing issues had been addressed—which is to say, he planned to buy and assemble at least one new bookshelf, once he found one that would fit within his remaining wall space. It would be a rather cathartic exercise after all of this. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“If this is about Danny skipping his detention again,” Maddie said slowly as they all settled into their seats, “I’m sure you’d agree that being caught in a ghost attack is a reasonable excuse for his absence, at least in this instance?”

“That ghost scum is determined to attack our family,” Jack added, not bothering to clarify which particular ghost he meant. Lancer dearly hoped he didn’t blame Phantom for all of this.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Fenton, it has come to my attention that your son has a very honourable excuse for all the detentions and classes he has missed.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid it’s his right to give you the details, and he’s agreed to do just that.” Under pressure, admittedly, but Lancer couldn’t see how they could do this without the cooperation of the Fentons. Besides that, it wasn’t right for Danny to keep this secret from them when it endangered his life. Were he a parent, he would rather make amends than continue to target his own child. The very idea of allowing this to continue as it had…. It was appalling.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your son has, shall we say, done a considerable amount of community service. While I cannot merely forgive every failing grade, I do believe that I can ensure that he receives partial credit for his work. I will also speak to my colleagues and see that they are more understanding of his absences, tardiness, and—if you’ll allow me to be quite frank—his inability to remain awake during class. With special allowances, Danny will be able to write makeup tests for those he misses and submit additional assignments for extra credit when need be.”

Maddie’s eyebrows rose, but Jack beat her to the question, saying, “You’d do all that for Danny-boy?”

Lancer spread his hands. “Really, it is the least I can do. I cannot speak for my colleagues, and I’m not sure how much he’ll allow me to share with them, but I do have considerable influence. We all know your son isn’t stupid; we merely had no idea what the problem truly was.”

“And his problem, so to speak, was community service?” There was a touch of hesitation in Maddie’s voice. The barest hint of incredulity. She knew that wasn’t strictly correct, but she couldn’t imagine the truth.

Frankly, Lancer couldn’t blame her. He’d have never dreamed it, either.

“Let’s just call it some rather unconventional extracurricular activities for now, shall we?”

“He was doing that—whatever that is—when the ghost found him,” Jack guessed. “So it’s made him a target of ghosts? And he can’t even carry around an ectogun in school? Are you going to talk to the board? Try to get them to make an exception for those who can prove they know how to use them? They shouldn’t cause more than a mild burn to human skin—”

“The no weapons policy will still include ectoguns,” interrupted Lancer. “At best, I can draft a proposal for your Fenton Thermos—a purely defensive weapon which cannot be used, accidentally or intentionally, against other humans in any way other than a conventional thermos might—but you would have to be prepared to draw up a distribution plan for those thermoses, as well as designated days they can be emptied or traded for empty thermoses. And I’m rather afraid the testing period would be quite extensive; we have no idea how someone might try to modify your thermos to achieve more nefarious effects, and we cannot hand any of our students, however much training they’ve had, a weapon that could be turned on others. Of course, the propriety of your design—”

“Perhaps,” interjected Maddie, “you could keep your proposal to just Danny and Jazz, given their experience and likelihood of being targeted?”

“There would still be no guarantee. Lockers are hardly impenetrable.”

“But they would be more likely to allow it, considering what happened to Danny.” Jack crossed his arms. “Extra activities or not, he was still on school property. At least try.”

Lancer ducked his head, acknowledging their points. “It is certainly something to consider amending—”

“I’ll draft the proposal and submit it to the school board,” Maddie said, “if you’re so reluctant to be associated with it. This is for my children’s protection. Even if it’s first dismissed, I want it discussed.”

She might not be quite so adamant when she realized how those very thermoses could become a detriment to her son, were someone to capture Phantom. True, Lancer didn’t think there were many sympathizers with the various ghost hunting groups that came through town, but Phantom had a lot of fans, and that wasn’t always a good thing.

Still, that was something that could be addressed in the future, and given what he’d learned from Danny, there was something else he wanted to address now. “Speaking of your children’s protection,” he began slowly, not sure if this was his place but not willing to let it go unspoken, “have you made any, ah, more recent safety amendments to your home laboratory?”

Jack and Maddie exchanged guilty looks, and Lancer had his answer before Maddie said, “The kids have their own HAZMAT suits, and they know basic lab safety and first aid.”

“Teenagers often believe themselves to be invincible,” Lancer said dryly, “and cannot always be trusted not to touch what they shouldn’t, even if they know better. Besides which, the safety of your own weapons and prototypes—”

“Danny told you how many of our weapons mistakenly target him?” Jack interrupted. “I’m working it out. I keep trying things. I’m going through them one by one. I’ve eliminated so many—”

“Please,” Lancer cut in, and Jack mercifully fell silent. He’d worried the man would bowl over his words in an attempt to justify what Lancer was beginning to think was a negligence so ingrained it felt normal. “I’ve seen a variety of your weapons. I own a few of your defensive ones. I can only guess how much you have stored in your basement and how dangerous even a handful of those weapons might be. I know it cannot be easy nor lucrative to be inventors, to run your own company, but you need to look into locating your lab somewhere else. It’s not just your safety or that of your children, though I hope that would be reason enough; were something to go catastrophically wrong, you might endanger your neighbourhood. Surely your desire to protect them in the future won’t drive you to continue to compromise their safety now?”

Jack raised a hesitant hand. “Did Danny tell you about changing the ecto-filter on the Fenton Ghost Portal? Because I, ah, might have exaggerated the consequences to get him to do it. More than once.”

Judging by the look on Maddie’s face as Jack said this, Lancer doubted she thought Jack had been exaggerating terribly, and that just made it worse. They were aware of what could go wrong and hadn’t sought to even look at potential properties to continue their research? Money was a factor, it had to be, more so than convenience, and pride might have kept them from asking Vlad, but considering the quality and quantity of weapons they produced, they were making something.

Perhaps, if they reinvested in infrastructure instead of buying new supplies to craft different weapons….

But perhaps that wasn’t what was holding them back at all.

Perhaps it was the ghost portal in their basement.

And the accident that could very well involve it, if Vlad’s had involved its prototype.

It made a cruel bit of sense. If Danny’s accident was indeed tied to the ghost portal, his parents did not know the details. And that meant that they couldn’t know everything that Danny had done with the portal, how he had tweaked their settings or whatever had gone on, and that meant they weren’t sure if they could replicate their results.

And they were afraid that they couldn’t.

Even if they didn’t know the truth, even if they didn’t suspect the truth, they knew there was something they didn’t know, and that had kept them from trying to separate their work and home lives even once safety had become an issue.

“Danny has left me to draw far too many of my own conclusions,” Lancer said slowly, “but he’s told me enough to give me cause for concern.”

Maddie straightened in her seat, recognizing something in his words before her husband. Not the right thing, perhaps, but enough of it. “Surely you don’t think we don’t care for Danny and Jazz?”

“I think you care a great deal indeed,” Lancer said, “but I fear that when it comes to your chosen occupation, you can both be rather…overzealous. To the point of preoccupation.”

“You really believe we care more for our work than for them?” Maddie’s voice was quiet. Cold. Lancer had never heard her angry before. A glance at Jack revealed hurt in his eyes at the thinly veiled accusation, but he held his tongue.

“I think your beliefs about ghosts can be a rather complicating point in your relationship with your children,” Lancer said carefully.

“We care about our kids,” Jack growled, “and we care enough to stop ghosts from doing anything else like this. The Fenton Spectre Deflector—”

“Mr. Fenton, I suspect both your children are more than capable of handling themselves in a ghost fight.” If Jazz knew the truth about Danny, she would have been helping him whenever Sam and Tucker could not—most likely, whether or not he thought he needed that help. She would be involved in more than a few isolated incidents, and she clearly knew the full truth about Vlad. “I do, however, wonder if you’ve ever taken the time to listen to them speak about the subject, or if you’ve simply contented yourselves with lecturing to them.”

“Of course we listen to them.” Maddie got to her feet, and Jack jumped to his as well. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lancer, but if that’s all you have to say, I’m afraid it can wait until after we’ve taken Danny home. If you would like to have a candid discussion about how Danny’s doing in school or at home, we can set up a conference once we know Danny is safe.”

Lancer didn’t rise from his chair. “I can assure you that is my intention.”

She smiled at him, but though her anger no longer showed in her voice, it came through in the lack of warmth in her expression. “Excellent. We’ll speak with you early next week to arrange a time.”

They didn’t want to listen to him right now.

He hoped that was merely out of concern for Danny and the fact that this conversation was keeping them from their son.

He hoped he hadn’t been wrong.

“Danny is just down the hall. In the bedroom on your left.”

Jack and Maddie murmured polite thank-yous before heading down the hall. Lancer took a few deep breaths but couldn’t steady his nerves. After everything that had happened…. Oh, for the love of The Railway Children, he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake, but it was far too late for him to second guess his decisions now. He’d make more tea—he’d happily drink the entire pot himself if no one else wanted any—and then join them. If nothing else, he’d have to apologize to Danny. His conversation with Jack and Maddie had not gone nearly as well as he’d hoped.

-|-

His parents burst into the room, all questions and concern, and Danny was happy he’d only eaten a little; his stomach was twisting enough that he wasn’t sure even that was safe.

Valerie pushed herself up and sat at the foot of the bed, neatly avoiding his parents as they came in with hugs and kisses and more questions.

Too many questions, considering they wouldn’t want to hear the answers.

“Mom, Dad, it’s okay. I’m fine.” A lie. His usual one. Habit. “Mr. Lancer’s been taking good care of me.”

“How long have you been here?” Maddie asked.

“Which ghost took you from the hospital? I’ll tear it apart molecule by mol—”

“It wasn’t a ghost.” If he was going to tell them the truth—and he couldn’t very well chicken out with Valerie right there, which come to think of it was probably the real reason she’d stayed—he might as well start there. “I didn’t…. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I…I asked Mr. Lancer to take me to his place.”

“Sweetie, you know if you’re concerned about ecto-contamination, we’re much better equipped at home than the hospital, and we’d understand—”

“It’s not ecto-contamination.” He bit his lip. “I mean, I don’t…. I don’t think it is. Maybe it is. I just…. It…. That part doesn’t matter anyway. These—” he gestured at his injuries “—didn’t come from a ghost.” They came because I was the ghost. Except he couldn’t make his mouth form those words. “It was an accident.” Everything was an accident, except for the part where Vlad had specifically targeted him. “Phantom—”

“I knew that putrid piece of protoplasm was going to be involved!” Jack exclaimed. “Don’t worry, Danny, when we find him—”

“You don’t have to look for him.” He had to bite his tongue and swallow the urge to follow that statement with lies. Anything to mislead them. “He’s…here.”

“And not responsible,” Valerie said loudly as Jack and Maddie produced various weapons. “For any of this. Trust me, I was there, too. I was just lucky enough to get out of it unscathed.” They turned to her, but she answered their question before they could voice it. “I didn’t see Danny or I would’ve said something. I didn’t realize he was there until later.”

Man, she was good at that. Maybe that’s why she’d gotten away with ghost hunting for so long. He’d always figured her dad was more aware of her activities than his parents were of his.

Of course, now she was looking at him, obviously waiting for him to take what she figured was a golden opportunity.

Why did this have to be so hard?

“I was…hiding.” That wasn’t the right word for it. “I mean, I was there, but Valerie didn’t know I was there. No one knew I was there.” He didn’t know how to start explaining this. All he knew, now that those words were out of his mouth, was that this was not the best start. “She didn’t recognize me.” Was that any better?

“What do you mean, honey?”

Okay, clearly not any better. Why couldn’t he just come out and say it? I’m Danny Phantom. That’s it. That’s all he had to say. Three little words.

They probably wouldn’t shoot him immediately, considering Valerie was in the room.

Her presence should be enough to make them pause long enough to question him, as opposed to the usual ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ policy. They shouldn’t automatically assume that this was a trick of Phantom’s, that he’d developed the ability to shapeshift or something and was trying to pretend to be their son. Even though they already assumed ghosts were out to get them and were willing to use any trick in the book and….

Still. Valerie had taken it well. And his parents had in the past. Granted, they’d been a bit more prepared for it in the past. Somewhat. This wasn’t….

He should just spit it out.

“Do you remember when you first built the portal?” Maybe that was a better place to start.

His parents exchanged glances. “What are you getting at, Danny-boy?”

“My accident. In the lab. When you guys weren’t home, and I convinced you I didn’t need to go to the hospital once you got back. That I’d be fine. That I was fine.” He hesitated, watching as their expressions pulled into confused frowns. “I wouldn’t even have told you if I’d thought you wouldn’t notice we’d been down there. Me and Sam and Tuck, I mean. Because I was…scared.”

“Sweetie, you know you don’t need to be afraid of us. We don’t want you touching our prototypes because we’re not sure they’re safe for everyone else to use yet, and we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I know. I…. Even though the portal was done, even though it wasn’t working, I just…. It was stupid. We were being…. We weren’t thinking. I mean, I still put on my HAZMAT suit, since I was poking around, but it was…. It wasn’t that I tripped on a cord and caused something to short out and something else to start working, or whatever we told you. I can’t even remember. The thing is, I actually went inside the portal. And then it…turned on. I mean, I…. I hit something. And then it started to work. While I was still inside.”

Silence. Fear on their faces. Concern, more like. His mom had gone white, and his dad put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Danny,” she whispered, “that could have killed you.”

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? It nearly had. Maybe it really had. He still wasn’t even sure what he was. Poindexter had called him a halfa, and Danny had joked about being half ghost, but half ghost wasn’t really a thing. Half dead wasn’t really a thing, either. True, he hadn’t exactly tested the boundaries as far as he could have while Phantom—he still took air with him into space, even though he’d gambled that the cold and the vacuum wouldn’t immediately kill him, but…. Shouldn’t it have? If he was really human at his core?

He hadn’t thought about it at the time.

He hadn’t thought that he might not be able to change back.

Did that mean he really was more a ghost that could pretend to be a human than a human with ghost powers? What he and Vlad did, what Dani could do—was that just an extremely unique ability? Like his ghostly wail? Was that ability what really defined a halfa, just like shapeshifters had a greater control over their form than the average ghost?

Or was it just what Jazz had theorized, some infusion of ectoplasm messing with his DNA? Maybe it was just extreme ecto-contamination that should have killed him but hadn’t. Because of how he’d gotten it.

Just like Vlad.

“I know.” Danny looked away, not wanting to see their faces. He caught sight of Valerie’s horrified expression and turned away from her, too, only to find Lancer at the door. He had no idea how long Lancer had been standing there. He’d never heard the kettle whistling, but Lancer had reset the tray with a tea pot, a box of hot chocolate mix, and an array of empty mugs and spoons. His expression was more of grim acceptance than horror or surprise.

Maybe he’d guessed as much from what Danny had told him earlier.

Maybe he’d just guessed as much because he knew the Fentons pretty well after all those parent-teacher conferences he kept calling, not to mention all the ghost attacks he’d witnessed.

Danny tore his eyes away and stared at his hands instead, knitting his fingers together and breaking them apart and twisting them together again. “The thing is, when I first woke up…. I thought it had. Killed me, I mean. I was…. I was terrified. I wasn’t…. I wasn’t myself.”

He should look at them. Try to read their reactions. Gauge the situation. See if they’d figured it out, so he didn’t have to say it.

But he was afraid he might see something else in their eyes or their expressions. Something he didn’t want to see.

“My reflection wasn’t mine.” He didn’t want to be doing this. Why had he agreed to do this? He could have convinced Lancer to give him a bit more time, surely. Or at least managed to get Jazz here. She’d be good at damage control. She’d anticipate their questions and have answers at the ready, while he…. He wasn’t sure how much he was thinking and how much he was just talking to keep from outright panicking. “The boy in the mirror that looked back at me…. It was Phantom. I’m Phantom.”

He waited for questions.

He waited for denials.

He waited for the telltale whine of any of their myriad of weapons to power up.

Instead, springs creaked and the mattress shifted as his mother sat down on the bed between him and Valerie. Looking up, Danny saw his father sink into the chair Lancer had abandoned earlier. Neither of them said anything.

No one else did, either.

“Sam and Tucker knew from the start, since they were there when it happened,” Danny said into the stretching silence. “Jazz figured it out a long time ago. They’ve been helping me. I…. I didn’t know how to tell you, so I asked them not to say anything. To anyone.”

Maddie reached out and pried one of his hands free, gripping it tightly in her own. Now that he couldn’t go intangible, he wasn’t sure it was a grip he could break and stay free, and for a few panicked milliseconds, he thought she was grabbing him to keep him in one place. He wanted to pull back—had to actively fight the urge to pull back—and wait.

He knew it couldn’t have been a long wait, but it felt like an eon passed before Maddie said, “It doesn’t matter how you told us. It…it matters that you’ve told us.”

He couldn’t read all the emotions in her expression, but she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t ready to blame Phantom, to call this a trick, to pull him closer and hold an ectogun to his head.

And when his eyes flicked to Jack’s, he saw pride there.

Maybe they believed him after all. Maybe this wasn’t going to go as horribly as he’d imagined. Maybe—

“Breathe, Danny,” came Valerie’s voice, and he remembered to suck in a much-needed breath and relax.

And then he let himself change.

He wasn’t sure if his mother’s flinch was in reaction to the sudden light or the fact that the hand she now held was the gloved one of a ghost she’d long considered an enemy, but it still hurt.

It really, really hurt.

Even if she hadn’t meant it to.

“Danny-boy,�� Jack breathed, but he didn’t say anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Danny whispered.

Maddie squeezed his hand and glanced back at Jack before saying, “We’re sorry, too, sweetie. For not listening.”

“And for making you afraid to tell us,” Jack added. He got to his feet and wrapped Danny and Maddie in a hug. “We still love you, son. Don’t think we don’t.”

Danny was pretty sure he heard Valerie mumble I told you so under her breath, but he didn’t care. He just hugged them back and let his tears soak into their shoulders.

(see more fics | next)

#danny phantom #danny fenton #mr lancer #jack fenton #maddie fenton #dp fanfiction #phanfiction #fanfiction #my writing #ladylynse #the trouble with ghosts #dp snippet #snippets

145 notes · View notes

sloppy-butcher · 4 years

Text

Waitin’ On a Superman - Chapter 3 : Like Pulling Teeth

(The Hillbilly (Max Thompson Jr.) x female!reader)

notes: i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and enjoy what i have managed to produce so far <3 its really helps me with my confidence and such

also i have made a spotify playlist of songs that i personally listen to when getting in the mood of the story. i would like to share it but only if yall would like to hear it ahaha er anyway, thank you again <3

Previous ; Next

Pulling your head free from the grasp of the hay straws felt like something akin to being born. All at once you were alive again, breathing in the cool barn air having just awoken from the land of musky earth. It was refreshing; cleansing; jarring. The dream world fell away and noise and smell bombarded you, crashing in like unforgiving waves against a wayward boat. You were confused by your surroundings, head turning around frantic for clues, until your eyes landed upon familiar yellow and you remembered everything.

You remember walking. You remember the dog. And you remember him.

It was brighter now, your mind more inclined to function as intended without fog or muck to slow production. You remember his voice, the sound of his heavy footsteps, the way in which he spoke and how he had helped you. Kindness, even small as his was, was such a rare oddity here, strangers only being associated with unforgivable violence and cruelty. But he was kind, offered you rest and protection where others would simply chase you out. It surprised you, more now than it did when it had occurred. How strange, how very strange indeed.

As you stood up from your make-shift bed, dusting stray straws off your jeans and t-shirt, a part of you started to construct a way of saying thank you to the man. Though you had nothing to give, nothing of material value, you somehow felt obligated to present to him your utmost appreciation for his generosity. It was an ingrained and practiced habit that consumed you until you started to focus more on the man himself.

You remember feeling oddly familiar with him - something about his voice perhaps? Or the way in which he walked and presented himself? Whatever it was, it triggered something from you, a deep, visceral response that made your stomach grow heavy with lead and your palms begin to sweat. And the more you tried to identify the specifics of your sudden upheaval, bringing it to the forefront of your attention, the heavier the response became and the more panicked you began to feel. Dread crept up your back and nestled into your shoulder whenever you thought about him. Something about trying to remember him made you feel … terrified. There was simply no other word to describe it. He terrified you. You just couldn’t understand why.

You were stuck at a crossroads. A part of you wanted to find the man and personally thank him for everything, to pay forward his kindness using gestures of companionship and see how far one could push this unique experience. The other part of you never wanted to meet the man ever again, demanding you flee at once and never looked back. Each road pulled at you, neither one able to one-up the other in strength and appeal thus leaving you at an uncomfortable, pointed balance. You rub your face with your hands, sighing as you tried to sway yourself to make a decision. You wished you were back asleep.

Nothing offered itself as assistance to your plea as you paced the barn and with no other option, you relented your fruitless battle and walked out into the night. Whatever will happen, will happen - whether that be you see him again or you finally manage to escape the corn-maze, you were going to meet it head-on regardless.

You stood on the border of the clearing between the barn safety and the yellow ocean, gazing into the sweet abyss that had been devouring you for so long. You wanted to stay at the barn, at the only sign of land where you could not drown. But you remembered his warning and with a heavy sigh you set off. Without looking back you stepped out into the field, casting yourself once more off to sea, letting go of the red barn and allowing the wind to swallow you whole and carry you to wherever it wished. However, you had only been walking for a few minutes before you heard the heavy panting of the dog behind you. So this is what has been decided. No fighting it, no running.

“Hello again.” You stopped and breathed in, gathering your confidence in the face of the beast, willing yourself not to give in to the unjustified fear. You had no reason to be so afraid, he had done nothing to you. Not yet. “I was hoping I’d find you again.” Your voice was calmer, collecting itself in idle conversation. You slowly, careful of quick movement so as not to frighten him or yourself, roll your head around your position, trying to spot any sign of the man hiding away. “I wanted to thank you for your generosity.”

“Did you sleep?” The man answered almost immediately, somewhat throwing you off balance. From how reserved and mild he was during the previous encounter you were sure you’d have to sweet talk him a little more to get him to open up. But his eagerness was not unwelcomed and you gave yourself over to talking.

“I did. On the hay pile in the barn. It was…” You paused from a moment, all cylinders in your brain firing in an attempt to find the appropriate word to describe your rest, “...great, I suppose.” At this he paused, probably to take in your response and work out a retort. In the silence something stirred, curling itself into your already weak stomach. You shooed it away and willed him to speak.

“Donny always liked the hay. It makes a good bed.” He said finally, drawing your mind away from the coldness in your palms and to his voice. You tilt your head at his mention of ‘Donny’. Was he referring to the same pig from the other night? Or in some weird way was he calling you ‘Donny’? For now you let the confusion slide and instead pushed on with the discussion.

“Do you not sleep?” You asked, your head continuing to timidly scan your surroundings. If he was opposed to your efforts to locate him, the man did not show it and without him actively stopping you, you endured without complaint. You practically heard the man shrug.

“Don’t try to.” He mumbled halfheartedly.

“It's because you’re stuck, like me. Right?” His perplexed quiet was enough of an indicator for you to example yourself. “I mean, you’re stuck here in this corn field. Just like me. I may not know exactly how long I have been here but I know it’s been a while.” You look down at your hands, fingernails dirty from stains you could not remember getting. “I’ve been walking through this field forever and yet I never reach a fence. Or a house. Or anything.” Speaking your fears into life was somewhat cathartic for you, reaching out to this strange person with a hand trembling and unsure made you hope beyond reason that he could sympathize with your plea. To be human and experience and understand the toils of another as if they were your own. You lifted your eyes to the corn and towards the position where you guessed him to be. You smiled, lips chapped and cracking from the stretch but persevering regardless. It hurt you to grin, a gesture you had not partaken in for so long that you had almost forgotten how to even do it. You hoped that it at least looked more sincere than it felt.

“You are stuck.” The man replied in his ever gruff and rocky voice, like stones crashing around in an engine. “I am stuck sometimes. The corn is like mud. It sinks.”

“Sometimes?” You inquire, an eyebrow lifting as your interest peaked. He grunted, sounding as if nodding with force.

“I can leave only when Boy is called. Called by the spider in the sky.” Suddenly, you jumped and gasped loudly.

“You know about that thing!?” You twirl on your feet, spinning around the corn looking for any hint of the man. Your eyes were ablaze with glory, ironic relief washing over your body at his words. Here you found another lost soul. Another person who could feel the sky pulsing and eating. Someone who knew that there was more to this world than just psycho killers wielding axes. “I thought I was the only one who could sense it! No one else at the campfire believed me when I said there was something up there.” Your victory waned at the mention of the campfire. Your smiling dwindled and your movement stopped, eyes clouded and downcast. The campfire? The others. When was the last time you had seen them? The last time you had seen anyone for the fact? You could barely remember their faces. They were all a blur like mist on a foggy bathroom mirror, there were faces but no details. Names but no meaning. You suddenly felt very lonely and longed to go back to that horrible campfire with those equally horrible people.

A most nasty habit that people had - the want to flock together like sheep. Though to be with people irked you, riding up with an ill-fitting pair of jeans on tender skin, there was no denying that your heart ached when it realized it was alone. You always said you liked being alone but you always hated being lonely.

“Will you walk with me?” Your voice was distant as your thoughts drifted back to the people waiting at the campfire, your tongue moving before your mind would react. “Will you walk with me to the fence?” In your stupor, the man’s reaction to your request went unnoticed. He was shocked, gawking at you with wide, disbelieving eyes and his mouth agape. He examined you from head to toe, tearing you apart with suspicious eyes, trying to uncover if you were attempting to hurt him or not. Was this some kind of joke? Were you going to laugh at him? You knew that there was no real fence, no true boundary to this place, and yet you wanted to exhaust yourself trying to find it? He was baffled by your ignorant persistence and resorted to studying you harder for any cracks in your outward appearance. Where he expected to find half-hidden malice, he only saw sadness. You were sad, he knew what it looked like on people. And it wasn’t fake sadness either, not the kind that people on the T.V wore when something bad happened. Yours was real, he could smell it.

“I will walk with you. To the fence.” The man replied softly, speaking at a volume that was tentative and hesitant, a part of him still remaining apprehensive to your next actions. You raise your head at his confirmation, a glimmer of your former smile returning to your lips.

“Thank you.” You lowered your head in a meager bow and after a moment debating whether to let him lead or you, you walked off in a direction you presumed to be forward with the man setting off behind you.

All through the walk you racked your brain from conversation topics; lovely weather we are having? What do you think someone would do with all this corn? There were so many different options to choose from yet each fell flat when pitted against possibility. Try as you might, you just could not think of anything to say. It also did not help that that horrible, foreboding feeling had followed you out there, trailing you like a dark cloud. With the man so close your familiar fear kicked itself into overdrive. There was just something so recognizable about him, something dreadful and vile. But what? What about him had spooked you to this extent? Sure, his voice was raspy and congested and his breathing was that of a sleeping beast, but his words and the soft tones he used were all of that of a boy. A simple youth who bled this pure form of compassion and slowness. Such a contradicting feeling he gave off, to be the reason you wanted to flee yet drawing you in with a need to know more about him. You yearned for the talking of frivolous topics to distract you from the gnawing panic that resided in your stomach but the rivers ran dry of inspiration and you were left to walk in pitiful, heavy silence.

In one last, desperate grab at distraction, you started to pay attention to his footsteps, a task made easier in the barren landscape of only corn and wind. His pace was loud and large, landing with each step in a heavy stomp. He must be very tall, you supposed. Or very big. The weight of the sound, after being taken into consideration, was not deemed as important to focus on when you noticed the odd rhythm he had. Instead of a consistent 1-2 pace that most people would have, the man had a rather jolted one. The space between thumps were uneven and gave you the impression that he had some kind of limp or poor leg. In a strange sense it almost sounded like a heartbeat.

Something flickered at your revelation. It was such a unique walk pattern that it triggered a memory in you, a vision of running and hiding away and the sound of a chainsaw. The fear flexed itself in your stomach. It did not help when the breeze shifted and you managed to catch a whiff of that previously undisclosed smell. His smell. The coppery smell of fresh blood. The coldness spread further, you mind reeling as the fingers of your panic threatened to grab you. You remember that walk. You remember that breathing. You remember that heartbeat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mentally willing your body to calm down and stop racing to conclusions. Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about the dog. Stop-

You come to a sudden stop when you realize that he was not behind you anymore. Snapping your eyes open you were greeted by the sight of the dilapidated red barn and its open doors. Disappointment mingled with your fluttering chest, terror mixing well with despair in a deadly concoction.

“I really am stuck here.” You mumbled to yourself, hands falling from your arms to hang useless at your sides. “There really is no way out.”

“Not unless Donny is called.” The man, oblivious to your dawning anguish, muttered from somewhere to your right. Though you knew that ultimately that you were never going to find a way out of the fields and that even thinking about it would only cause misery, that moment when your feeble hope died you were sure your heart had stopped altogether. This was your eternity now, to barely be alive when drowned in yellow. Nothing to run for, nothing to fight towards. Listlessly you feel your body regain itself, standing tall at the edge of everything. If this was all there is, then what are you scared for?

“Donny can stay at the barn again. Boy will be here soon. Stay. Sleep and I will come back.” You heard the man shuffle to leave and before you could even think you shouted at him.

“Wait!” The world shook in the wake of your outburst, such volumes never being reached in this sea of feigned tranquility. “Wait please.” You exhale, finally feeling the full weight of the fear you had tried so fiercely to run away from, settle mercilessly upon your chest. “I know you.” With your eyes looking at the ground, you turn your head over your shoulder towards the man. “I know you so there is no need to hide anymore. If I am to be stuck here with you, I want to see your face. And know your name.” He did not respond right away, a part of you suspecting that he had simply left before you had even asked your question, unaware of everything. But you could still hear his breathing, coming now in hollow gasps.

“No one likes my face.” He answered, voice surprisingly dangerous and bitter. You did not shy away from him however, did not give into the rising uneasiness of the mood.

“But I already know you. And I don't remember not liking it.” That was a blatant lie and you wished that he could not see through it. There was a growl.

“No! No! No one likes my face!” He was shouting, angry words springing forth from the same person who was so soft spoken just moments before. You turn more of your attention to him, your eyes still lowered allowing yourself one last opportunity to back down. You did not. There was nothing for you to go to if you backed off now.

“Please.” You knew he could not resist your request when you presented it in such a placid manner. There was a shout, an explosion of noise and violence and you jumped at its severity. You heard the rush of footsteps leap out from the field as a shadow loomed itself over you.

“Look! Look Donny! Look at Max and laugh at him!” He was right behind you, his hot breath bursting against your neck in towering waves. Without giving yourself the chance to consider anything, you spun around and came face to face with the fuming dog, his teeth bared.

At the sight of him, your knees went weak and the floor beneath you fell away. You wanted to scream, to run away, to give in to horror and fear and go hysterical and wild. He was hideous, truly monstrous and hardly even a man at all. It was flesh at war, torrents of skin fighting itself as it connected head to neck and neck to torso. Beneath that storm was a face pushing through, with a mouth wide, teeth crooked and eyes like fiery pinpricks in the dark. He was awful to look at yet your eyes could not be torn away. He stole from you your sanity with nothing but the mere look of his being alone.

Though your mind clouded with uncontrollable panic and fear, you could still recognize the man, his face unforgettable. It was him alright, no more denying it, no more pushing it away. You had known it was him from that very first encounter yet foolishly you had rejected everything, ignoring every piece of awful evidence that had sat itself right in front of your nose, all in favor of self desires. You wanted him to be someone else. You needed this strange man to be a good person whom you could hold on to, you could reach out for. But as the cruelest twist of fate, he was the complete opposite.

It was the Hillbilly - the monster who hunted you and the others with that wicked chainsaw of his. Nothing but a beast made of only the poorly defined form of man, a shape with no purpose other than to kill. You knew it was him from the moment you heard him behind you, breathing like that roaring engine he always did. You never forget the sound of the dog trying to kill you. You had been weak, allowing him to get close enough to you to practically have his bloody hands wrapped around your throat.

You wanted to run, to flee and try to live just that little bit longer - give your body and soul over to inherent prey instinct. But as you looked into those blazing, hateful eyes framed by grotesque threads of dirty skin, you found that all you could do was wait. It was like facing off against an oncoming train, reckless and unstoppable coming at you at full-speed fuming with noxious smoke. You had seen this movie before and knew how the story ended - he would kill you and leave your body for the rats.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to leap out of its path but something stronger and more persistent held you tightly in place. He was not moving so why should you? He was not attacking so why should you run? He was talking so why should you not listen? Once again you clung to the belief that if this man was able to talk and reason then there was something human inside him, something that could be grasped and felt. Regardless of all logic and reason you sought that something and waited for him to offer you another chance to try to dig it out of him. If this was the end, then you would not die with your back turned.

“Hello Max.” You said, your voice a quiet light in the gloomy atmosphere. You saw him visibly retract at your calmness, his eyes darting around your whole body in search of something, anything that would indicate malcontent. “It's nice to meet you.” His stupor lasted only a second longer before he roared and lunged forward, hand twitching around the handle of his chainsaw.

“Donny always laughs! Donny is always scared!” He reeled his head back violently, stretching up into his full, powerful height. You sank into his shadow but did not waver in your stance. Come rain or ruin, you could not find the effort to move your feet even an inch. “Everyone is meant to be laughing at Max! Everyone is meant to be scared!” He brought his attention back down to you and you shuddered under his glare, trying beyond anything not to flinch in his presence. “Donny is always scared!”

You waited a moment, allowing for his fuming words to cool and settle in the night air before answering with yours. “Donny is scared. They are terrified.” Max tilted his chin inwards to his chest, looking as if preparing to attack, a deep gnarl resonating forth from somewhere in that twisted body. “But not of you, Max. Donny is scared of your anger. Of your…” Your eyes drift to the chainsaw clenched tightly in his hand. Max’s own attention followed yours and for an instant you saw him relent his hold on the weapon. He shot his head back to you, had he had eyebrows they would have been furrowed with muddled anger.

“Donny lies! You lie! You laugh!”

“But Donny is not.” You retorted, your tone never raising above a mellow reassurance. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the blackness offer you strength as your confidence crumbled. You opened them again and, with a slow, soothing exhale, let your lips extend into the faintest of smiles. You gave him everything in that moment, putting forward all compassion and comfort you could muster into your eyes and smile for him to consume and judge. “I am not lying. And I am not laughing at you Max.” This earned a slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression from the man, his emotions, though messy under his tangled flesh, portraying clearly on his face. He was completely and utterly astonished.

You watched as he took in your coolness, sucking from you all the serene and hushed energy you had given. He shuts his eyes, slamming his jaw closed and shaking his head vigorously as if trying to shake something loose. He roared again, a most horrible sound that carried for miles in every direction across the field, making the corn around you shake from the sheer magnitude of his power. He raised his empty hand and started pounding his fist into his ear, screaming louder and harder with each contact. You were startled by his reaction and by the way he jumped so quickly from seeking your comfort to out-right rage. Without thinking you step closer to him, a hesitant hand lifting to reach for him.

Suddenly he jumped forward at you, coming so close that you can feel the heat of his anger eminent off his heaving chest. He stands over you, his fist, with knuckles gone white from stress, moves dangerously closer to your face and hovers there as if debating whether to choke you or not. You subconsciously gulp and take in your final breath, sure that this was the last moments of your pitiful life. You look up at him, his eyes bursting with something between uncontrollable hatefulness and a desperate pity. He tightens his fist and it shakes from the sheer force.

“Donny stays in the barn. Stays in the pen. Until Boy is gone.” His words were more rough, coming from behind gritted teeth. You nod up at him.

“Of course.” Max runs his eyes once more over you body, scanning every corner of your face for anything that he could use to call your bluff but finds nothing. With one final snarl he pulled himself away and disappeared into the corn, leaving behind no reminisce of himself to prove that all that happened was real. In the silence that filled the gap he had left you felt the universe cave in. Conflicting voices erupted in your head, your trembling legs buckling under your body weight. You felt cold and despondent, eyes lingering on the spot where he departed. While your mind wanted to stay and think, to mull over everything until you had worked yourself into a vile panic attack, exhaustion beckoned and you submissively and gratefully followed. Walking inside the barn you find your hay pile and within minutes you were floating away to the safe land of earth and nature.

#dbd imagines #dbd fic #dbd the hillbilly #dbd the hillbilly x reader #dbd max thompson jr #dbd max thompson jr x reader #dbd x reader #long post #waiting for a superman

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elle-imagines · 4 years

Note

NSFW headcanons for Android 17?

Android 17, originally human, was evolved forcefully into a cybernetic organism at a cellular level. Since he retains his form of a human man, he does have genitalia and sperm. His body is much the same, but he has moments where he feels he is separate from himself because of the alterations within him. Sex and intimacy between the two of you aids in his understanding of both of your bodies.

He has a habit of exploring anything, being quite curious naturally. He doesn’t hesitate to go off on his own to discover what he wants. This nature of intrigue is distinctively towards the different physiology between you two. Often, he will rub strands of your hair between his fingers, grasp your chin in his hand, or trace the lines on your palm with his finger. He does so absent-mindedly, focusing his eyes elsewhere so that he could savor the feel of your skin without sight dulling the sensation of touch.

“You feel a bit softer here. Definitely softer than me.”

“Move a bit so that I can touch you here.”

“Don’t be so shy, you can put your hands on me, too.”

The King of Riling You Up. He has a way of letting his eyes lower to a seductive suggestion that sends you to the bedroom. You are both aware he doesn’t need to communicate to let you know what he wants. If he does say something, it’s usually direct with a bit of playfullness and metaphors for “teaching him”.

“Come here.”

“Are you up for a game?”

“I feel like learning about you tonight.”

“Teach me something new today.”

Since every part of his biology and psychology was enhanced, including his senses and memory, he uses it very deftly to learn your body. Learning about your body, feeling warm skin and thrumming pulses that come from an organic heart helps 17 see his past life etched into you, in a way. He learns about who he was by exploring every aspect of you. He favors using his tongue on you everywhere because he can taste every note and aftertaste on your skin. Dried rose, teak wood, suede, notes of citrus, whatever it is, he will embed your scent and taste in his memory. If you are someone who menstruates, he can smell and detect your hormonal fluctuations.

“Smell a bit different today. Not bad.”

“I like this scent on you.”

“Let’s do this now, I know you get all shy when on your period.”

17 is programmed to be strategic and not suffer the same mistake twice. Although he can be a bit fearless, it’s instinctive for him to analyze his success and capitalize on it. This applies to any situation, including your pleasure. His ears are responstive to the intonation and volume of your voice and its subtle nuances. He can distinguish between a reserved groan and a displeasurable whimper. He knows what strokes and gestures you like very quickly, and will ingrain them into his memory.

Something tells me he is not afraid of period sex or body fluids in general. Nothing about you disgusts him, so he is open to doing things that may embarrass the average human. Blood, sweat, the oils in your hair, saliva, all of them are reminders of your organicity, an aspect that was taken from him. He is probably one of the most open partners when it comes to trying new things simply because he’s very laid-back and he does not have a cultural upbringing to attach norms and taboos to.

Although very durable to energy blasts and forceful kicks, he can be sensitive to sensations he wants to take the time absorb. Sex, a very humane act, helps him remember human sensations, particularly the intangible ones such as desire, love, and connection. His orgasm is something he seeks to relish in because it lets him feel beyond physical pleasure with you. He will edge himself and draw out his pleasure almost to the point that incites discomfort for him in order to have a strong release. He’s quiet except for a few grunts, his eyes tightly shut as distant memories of his life before resurfaces brightly under his eyelids. It’s cathartic, it’s breathtaking, and every time he orgasms, he feels connectedness with you takes him into another realm. Every time after he finishes, he will hold you against him and revel in the aftermath of lovemaking.

“Hold it here.”

“We have nowhere to be, right?”

Speaking of holding you, he enjoys what’s called “cockwarming”, in which he just penetrates you without moving. He memorizes every clench and enveloping warmth you hold around him. It’s not uncommon for him to get you to sit in his lap while you both watch T.V. or begin to take a nap.

At least a great part of being an android is his stamina. He does not tire, and his sexual response cycle can restart pretty quickly. He can also exercise self-control and maintain his erection while letting you orgasm first.

Overall, an attentive and playful lover in the bedroom. He is a fast learner, and also a bit malleable and open to learning new things. 17 is not above cracking a few jokes and lightening the mood, either. He’ll also throw in an offhand comment about a fluctuation in your hormone levels or body composition. He gives more than he receives, but won’t say no to you pleasuring him. It took a bit of getting used to since his nerve endings are extra-sensitive to stimulation, especially in his erogenous zones.

“You can be a bit rougher, I assure you I can take it fine.”

“Alright?”

“Sit still.”

“You know I’m not squeamish, so quit hiding.”

“I’m committing it to memory.”

“Give me a minute.”

“What’s wrong with staring?”

“I never tasted you here before…hold your legs higher.”

“Get on top; I want another view.”

“You feel like many things I can almost remember.”

#android 17 #17 #dragon ball #dragon ball z #dragon ball gt #dragon ball super #dbz #dbz kai #headcanons #dbz headcanons #dragon ball headcanons

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hamaon · 3 years

Note

Okay I know I already asked but if you feel like allowing another request, Lan Xichen?

Lan Xichen, oh Lan Xichen.

How I feel about this character No thoughts, feelings only. Flute swirl cute. Fingers? Cute. Gnawable. So elegant and conducts himself so gracefully. What a good boy. What a joy to the eye. Someone should kiss him a lot.

He’s so consciously good to everyone all the time. He’s so invested in being fair and he thinks about the world and how people and he himself relates to it so much. (“If there was no one but you in this world, Young Master Wei, you could do anything at all you wanted, but no man’s an island and we live in a society.”)

Massively fucked up about him always. It’s so fucking unfair. It’s, oh no. Canon gives him no path to recovery. I talked about cathartic negative emotions before, but this one feels too raw. From a shipping perspective it is a pretty satisfying note to end on ngl, but my mind still shies away from such total devastation. I can handle Jin Guangyao passing away, apparently, but letting myself think about Lan Xichen having to deal with the circumstances that led to that for the rest of his life is how I end up with fifty bazillion post-canon scenarios where there’s some closure because fuck that, actually.

All the people I ship romantically with this character Just the one guy. This is now a xiyao free space.

People have probably pointed this out before, but it really struck me the other day that the clothes Jin Guangyao is wearing when he first gets legitimized have the Jin sigil on the damn shoulder area like everyone was wearing as wee baby students during the Cloud Recesses lectures. During those episodes post-Sunshot, he’s not even a proper Jin. He’s a Jin pupil. He’s on PROBATION.

Meanwhile Lan Xichen is wearing the biggest, fanciest clothes he does in the show (I guess you could make an argument for the costume in the Empathy flashback), this is absolutely a man with power. Put them next to each other and look at them for a little while and you have like the largest possible gap in social standing they can have while being recognized gentry.

And this discrepancy was all that I could concentrate on while watching the episodes with that one Jin gathering where Wei Wuxian downs Lan Wangji’s drink and throws his weight around. Lan Xichen waits for the cup-slapping feat. Jin Guangshan to be over and quickly goes through the motions with the end-of-event niceties as a Lan representative and then, in his heavy-ass robe, hurries after just-an-intern Jin Guangyao like wait honey here’s a napkin (handkerchief) from my purse (sleeve) and oh man, he does not personally experience the person that is Jin Guangyao in terms of their social standing.

...Then they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in these fits in later episodes/scenes and pass opinions back and forth without either one being a particularly dominant voice in the conversation, generally sharing an outlook. Cute.

...End of xiyao free space.

My non-romantic OTP for this character Wei Wuxian! Okay, not really, but I do find all of their scenes together and their varying levels of tensity entertaining. I love Lan Xichen’s moments of gentle trolling in the show, whether or not they’re out of any particular personal fondness. Wei Wuxian shows a certain carefulness around Lan Xichen, I think. It’s a fascinating relationship in all of its iterations.

I should answer Lan Wangji, probably, in that he’s the actually close non-Jin Guangyao relationship Lan Xichen has that I’m most about but, hm. You know how sometimes people ship things in a way where [character A] is the one they’re actually invested in, and [character B] is merely a convenient vessel to make whatever they want to happen with [character A] happen? That’s pretty similar to my feelings on the twin jades.

I like Lan Xichen’s devotion to his brother, and how you can read a whole lot personal sacrifice into it (you will never convince me that the baby brother wasn’t their mother’s darling), but that’s about Lan Xichen, not the both of them. The small gestures of concern from Lan Wangji’s side do make me feel some emotion about them as a unit, but it’s, as has been pointed out, a very uneven relationship. That’s not really a bad thing, and it’s really what you would expect considering everything from their birth order to their family situation, but I don’t feel particularly strongly about Lan Wangji, who necessarily is the main focus both in canon and fandom because of that, so yeah.

My unpopular opinion about this character I suppose there are the usual opinions regarding ignorance, intelligence and passivity. That last one is what I dislike personally; basically every scene Lan Xichen is in he is doing some sort of complex situation management. Unfortunate that a character so resistant to the textual bad guy of the story (mob mentality lol) is such a joke to the fans at times.

However, I’m not here to talk about any of that. I’m here to talk about Lan Xichen and force! Used against people, but also in general. Because I’ve often seen expressed the wish that he should “get” to kick ass more and oh man, I don’t think Lan Xichen should fight, not more.

Okay, let me back up a little, it’s not that it’s a horrible thing that he, like, was very effective and active in a war most of the cast fought in, or goes on night hunts occasionally. But it doesn’t seem like it’s of a particular interest to him, either.

There’s this promo picture for the Untamed that I love where all the other Lan are posing with their swords (not Lan Yi, we’re not counting Lan Yi), but Lan Xichen’s is nowhere in sight and he has his flute, instead. It’s not that it’s not a weapon, also, but it’s so much more than that, and even when wielded as one it has a much wider variety of uses than purely destructive ones. The Lan have their music, but Lan Xichen seems particularly associated with his instrument over his sword.

Or take the live action scene where he blocks Nie Mingjue and people love to focus on that one part, but he... never draws the blade, the scene starts with him standing to the side, because he understands that it would be better if the two more relevant parties in this conflict managed to sort their differences organically between themselves, and ends with him standing aside again, because Meng Yao indicates he wants to take the lead. The bulk of the defending/persuading he’s doing is purely verbal (and eloquent!) and he raises his scabbard only when it’s literally the one thing that’s stopping Meng Yao from being cut in half. It’s the final option.

I like it when characters have “obvious” in-born traits (big, strong) that would seem to lead them down a certain path, but do not in fact suit them particularly well in reality, and when they are allowed to be recognized for qualities they themselves feel more connected to, which to me in Lan Xichen’s case is diplomacy and de-escalation. It can be an interesting reminder every now and then that, yeah, he could probably take control of a scene within seconds if he felt like it, but really only because it underlines how he’s... not doing that. When Zewu-jun has to actually go on the offensive, it feels like a loss. That’s not what this person is here for, fundamentally.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon The eyes-closing thing is nice, it says to me that he often finds the goings-on stressful, and that the way he recharges is by checking out for a moment. He’s worked hard, he should get to do that! Permanently. Let Lan Xichen walk out of society for good.

...Oh no, he kind of did.

#tägäämätön #xiyao-feels

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escriveine · 5 years

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Good Omens Author and Artist Recs

In honor of the tenth month, here are 10 Authors & Artists in the Good Omens fandom who are absolutely giving me joy and life right now. They each have published multiple pieces, and the intended audiences of these works range from general to mature-but-non-explicit to mature-and-quite-explicit.

The stories I most favor — including these recommendations — have happy endings, though not necessarily all works in the portfolios of the authors/artists will, so do read the tags and such for yourself.

(NB: The lists are alphabetical by username; it was hard enough selecting only 5 of each, don't ask me to rank them.)

Authors

ARK | @et-in-arkadia | AO3 Good Omens top-level: Ark

Start with the fic that pulse of my nights and days, a gorgeous, explicit romp that revels in revelations of pining, and love, and literary recitations.The way Aziraphale and Crowley gradually reveal themselves in confessions more naked than their bodies, in their desire to please one another in ways that augment, but are not strictly subject to, the sensual pleasure of the flesh is deeply engaging and soul-satisfying.

If you'd rather plunge into the fic that seared me with Aziraphale and Crowley's adjacent yet solitary pining, splintered me with mutually-recognized reciprocal angst (and Someone have mercy that I know that's a thing now), and finally made me actually cry when all hearts were mended (even mine), try this: these furious passions, these chances. It’s an exquisite agony and fierce, cathartic joy; a true paean to love and desire.

DRAWLIGHT | @drawlight | AO3 Good Omens top-level: drawlight

Start with the series Chiaroscuro, a kaleidoscope array of myth and legend and stories from time out of mind lived by two who would be lovers, would be loved, did they but know it. The tales take us from memory and starstuff, through living and revelations, to futures and syncretism; all of it suffused with light, light, light.

If Crowley's fears hurt, it is because I have held them, sliver-sharp and lying inside my own heart; when Crowley's rapture resounds, it is because each of us secretly knows the sound of blessed water falling on the desert — the echoes of love are built into our very fabric, waiting to reverberate. drawlight takes us through the moments, the tesserae of many colors with an intimate eye for hope, then shows us how the jangled tumble resolves into utter delight. It ends (though their story never really ends) as it begins (where all stories really begin) — in the stars.

FYRE | @amuseoffyre | AO3 Good Omens top-level: Fyre

Start with the series Crossing Paths, a sprawling, currently-41-chapter saunter Through the Ages with Aziraphale and Crowley. Each morsel of backstory is canon-compliant and richly evocative of its particular era, laced with enough detail to make this fellow history nerd’s heart soar (seriously, there are even endnotes giving specific context to the setting and pivotal flow of events).

But these are no dry ostraca, no cryptic, lifeless castoffs; these stories fairly shudder with the countervailing magnificence and wretchedness wrought by humans, each extreme alternately and seemingly arbitrarily condoned by Heaven and Hell. And this crucible of life on Earth refines something unexpected in the natures of both Aziraphale and Crowley — a tiny mustard seed of compassion that may have been intrinsic to their natures, but would never have come to fruition without being deliberately nurtured, sheltered, encouraged. It is something the other angels dismiss, and the other demons forswear. But over and over it draws these two incarnate immortals together, and the adversity that could have seared the heart right out of them instead makes them kind. And every bit of is in character. These stories made me cry and laugh and quail and hope and long for ever, ever more.

JESS THE RECKLESS | Twitter JessWhitecroft | AO3 Good Omens top-level: jessthereckless

Start with the series It's Not The End Of The World, Dear, a light-hearted romance exploring what happens when an ethereal and an occult being come together and have to navigate the supernatural repercussions of their involvement. The opening story picks up where canon left us, in a world saved and remade and spinning on. Aziraphale and Crowley work through what it means to be on their own side the way they do everything else, with snarky bickering and displacement activities and gravitating toward each other like two celestial bodies on close approach.

That delightful domestic fluff, with all its attendant joys and frustrations, gives us the opportunity to fall in love again with our pair of ineffable idiots even as they realize they’ve fallen in love with each other. There are picnics and portents, kisses and divine ecstasy, seduction and human pleasure. And so much outright hedonism, sexual exploration, and joyful fucking it feels positively sybaritic. Yet that’s not the end-all be-all here. Life is infinitely more interesting together, even as they tackle kitchen renovations and making dinner and assembling furniture. As Aziraphale quotes, Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove… The series is an ongoing indulgence, with another update posted just today (Oct-3).

LAURA SHAPIRO | @laurashapiro-noreally | AO3 Good Omens top-level: laurashapiro

Start with the series Leaves of Grass and the not-to-be-missed follow-on stories in the same universe: Working Hard in Damp Places and As Time Goes By. This extended series is everything great sex (and stories about great sex) should be — playful, joyful, loving. Daring. Scorching. An utterly delightful mix of banter and banging, pleasure and emotion, exploration and re-discovery with excellent character voices and interactions. It's incredibly fucking sexy and emotionally satisfying.

And lavish attention to detail makes Aziraphale and Crowley shine through as genuinely supernatural beings sharing the joys of their flesh (and all the very human transcendence that can bring). But there’s so much more, too. Laura weaves the most glorious, fulfilled and fulfilling yearning through every part of these works, and it's breath-taking. It's not just the scope of years for these immortal characters, but the depth, the breadth, the texture of their longing that's so amazing. Those first, nearly invisible tendrils first introduced in nearly offhand ways as "they talked, and they argued, and they dined and drank" ineluctably gather and twine into a great ribald ribbons of longing running through the fabric of their relationship — fascinating and inextricable.

Enjoyment of the wicked wordplay and cackle-inducing snark is left as an exercise for the lucky reader.

Artists

DRAWLIGHT | @drawlight | Good Omens Art Collection on AO3: as beautiful to me as lightning

Start with the piece I’m never getting over: and there, where my head pushed backwards (Original Tumblr post) (Full image on AO3)

Shared breath, shared gaze, shared being. Desire and connection flow through every line, thrilling the senses and stirring the soul. We are gorgeously suspended in the moment with them and know, in drawlight’s words, this is only the first time, never the last. I get happily lost in their soft blush of discovery and joy.

The rest of the collection well repays the looking with sweet heat, tender gestures, and the dawnglow of genuine love.

GEMENNAIR | @gemennair | Redbubble Shop: gemennair

Start with the piece I’m never getting over: Forbidden Friendship (Original Tumblr post)

A glimpse of their first picnic, in Eden. There is absolutely luminous joy in every shaft of sunlight, each dappled fruit, every green-gold leaf. And, of course, in the faces of Aziraphale and Crowley. And there are secrets awaiting notice: lily of the valley, first sprung in Eden, a symbol of hope and return to happiness; the possible origin of Aziraphale’s love for pears; Crowley amiably sheltering under the angel’s wing again.

Everything is soft and nothing hurts and I treasure the time I get to spend there.

GINGER HAOLE | @gingerhaole | Tumblr art tag | Good Omens Art Collection on AO3: Polaroids | Etsy Shop: gingerhaole

Start with the piece I’m never getting over: [CW: This kink is not everyone’s cup of tea. You may wish to preview the SFW Tumblr snippet and description first.] Sounding (Original Tumblr post) (Full image on AO3)

Even the SFW snippet gives me a heartrush. The long, accepting lines of Crowley’s body, the way he’s opened himself entirely to the pleasure being given to him, giving over control even to the point of allowing his halo to manifest.

In the full set of Sounding images, the depth of well-worn affection and tenderness between Aziraphale and Crowley, their reciprocally earned and returned trust absolutely shines. Aziraphale’s Botticelli hands fascinate; his intense concentration captivates. The contrast of a fully clothed Aziraphel reverently pleasuring an enthusiastically nude Crowley is beyond delicious. And Crowley’s trembling compliance enchants; his erotic exaltation thrills.

And the various nonbinary, genderfluid representations in the rest of the explicit Polaroids collection feel as genuine as the mindful, existential bond between the ineffable lovers. The same goes for the non-explicit artwork featuring them on Ginger’s Tumblr, too. Exquisite.

JASMINE TWIL | @jasminetwil | Tumblr Good Omens art tag | Etsy Shop: JasmineTwil

Start with the piece I’m never getting over: The first comic adventure of Aardvark!Crowley and Aziraphale (Original Tumblr post)

Playful, snarky, delightful comic-style fanart. There are details that callback to canon (like Crowley’s particular relationship to houseplants and Aziraphale’s tartan bowtie and camelhair coat), and others that exist purely for the joy of them (like Crowley’s demon tattoo appearing on the aardvark’s fur, and the UPC code on the plant pot — seriously, read the last 3 digits…).

Never underestimate the power and worth of laughter.

KHIROPTERA | @khiroptera | Tumblr art tag

Start with the piece I’m never getting over: making sure Crowley has lovely dreams about whatever he likes best (Original Tumblr post)

This is so meltingly soft and tender, I get all misty every time I see it. The deepening crepuscular colors, the scattered twinkles from stars Crowley likely hung himself, the smitten smile curving Aziraphale’s lips, the tender blush of sleep on Crowley’s cheeks give the scene a wonderfully dreamlike quality. I particularly adore this reminder of Aziraphale’s first act of service for Crowley: offering comfort and shelter under the curving expanse of angelic wings. In canon, Crowley’s acts of service tend to be fairly dramatic, increasingly overt gestures impelled by accretion of yearning and dire circumstance, so this homage to Aziraphale’s comparatively understated offerings is particularly sweet.

All the pieces in her portfolio make me squee, every time I revisit them. Truly, every single time. In fact, I was so inspired by her adorable Ineffable Husbands in scarves in the snow (Original Tumblr post), I ended up writing a vignette of ineffable fluff about it.

Postscript to the authors and artists mentioned here: If you would rather I present different links or other information, or if I have in any way mischaracterized your work, please tell me, so I can make corrections. While my words come from a place of love, it would be no kindness for me to gloss over mistakes or cause any of you discomfort. Thank you all. ♥

#good omens #authors and artists #absolutely no one asked for this #but I love them all so #tbh it was hard to limit myself to 5 each #and everyone who graces fandom with their talents deserves praise #thank you all #longform #fanfic recs #fanart recs

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arotechno · 4 years

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The Heartless: Chapter 8

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Chapter VIII: in which sometimes we surprise ourselves

After being recognized in my hometown—and tearing through it screaming in the most conspicuous way possible—there was no way I could stay there any longer, so I fled into the northern woods to consider my next course of action. It was only once I was alone with only the trees and creeping undergrowth that I let the tears begin to flow, initially white-hot with anger before sinking into unrestrained grief.

Maybe this was what Bertrand had meant when I said I would only end up getting hurt. But there had been a part of me that was hoping against any kind of rationality that I would return to find my parents alive and well. Even if they had rejected me, being able to chew them out for it would have been far more cathartic than the pain of only reopening a wound that could never be healed. A small part of me may have even been hoping I’d find Basil still here after all these years. But the idyllic notion of even having a home to return to had been a fantasy. Maybe people like me were only ever meant to be transient, like any home we’d ever have could only be temporary unless we built it for ourselves, clawing at the earth trying to create something out of nothing. Maybe this was the natural order of things, like if I tried to fit any sense of permanence or belonging into the caverns of my ribcage it would only ever inevitably be swallowed into dissolution by the empty space.

When I had finally wept myself dry, I reassessed my options. The easy answer would be to head back to Bertrand’s house with my tail between my legs and continue on as if nothing had changed at all. But I had reopened an age-old wound that left a sharp pain in my chest, as if I’d been cut open and left out in the woods to rot until the soil and the trees moved in through the gash that’d been left behind and made a home in the vacant space between my ribs. I concluded, perhaps foolishly, that the only path remaining was forward. No matter the costs, I had to press onward for answers, all the way to the far reaches of the kingdom if that was what it took. I would keep moving, leaving my hometown and the Village of the Heartless in the dust. I vowed that I would not return until I found answers, whatever that ended up meaning; no matter what, I refused to return home empty handed.

In spite of myself, I pulled the portrait from my room out of my bag. I had not seen my parents’ faces since the day I left, but their fading memory came rushing back clear as day as I wiped the dust and decay from the old frame—my father’s stoic kindness, my mother’s impish but steadfast guidance.

When the oppressive feeling returned, I went to put the picture away, but hesitated as I saw the afternoon sun reflect off something clear and shiny at the bottom of my bag. In disbelief, I reached in and pulled it out—three little glass vials of familiar red liquid, tied together with a piece of fraying string. There was a note attached:

Ace,

I have no use for these anymore, but perhaps they may help you on your journey. I do not know if they work, though I suppose you may get desperate.

Please take care, Ace. It is not a kind world out there. Though I suppose you know that better than most.

Bertrand

“Foolish old man,” I muttered to myself bitterly, though I was unable to keep a fond smile from creeping onto my face. Of course Bertrand had sent me with love potions, and nothing of actual use. I figured he must have slipped them into my bag at some point before I left. It was typical of him; ever insistent on his efforts to break the curse, no matter how futile. Nevertheless, I slipped the parcel back into the satchel carefully, followed by the picture frame that had been laying discarded at my side.

With a newfound resolve, I pushed myself to my feet, wiped the dirt from my pants, and began stumbling weary and bleary-eyed eastward.

* * *

As I traveled further from home, the quiet pastoral villages blurred into bustling small towns that made me hyper-aware in a hollow sort of way of the few measly coins jingling in my pocket. The evenings sang not with the quiet chatter of families and children’s rhymes, but with raucous laughter and live music that spilled out of taverns and large, ornate homes. The roads were all paved with neatly cut bricks or stones that clacked pleasantly under the dusty worn-out soles of my boots. The streets were always well-lit and well-maintained, lined with diligently trimmed bushes of sickly-sweet smelling flowers set against yellowing foliage. The trees still held a little greenery, as though summer were taking its last breath before giving way to the fall.

The further east I traveled, the more I stuck out like a sore thumb, though people seemed more content to simply brush past me in the streets rather than pay me any mind. I’d heard stories of the eastern towns as a child, tales of opulent mansions six stories tall and streets paved with gold. There, where the rich nobles and all sorts of other important folk lived, the wells never ran dry and the cellars were always overflowing, even in the longest winters. This, of course, had been a fairytale, nothing more than an over-exaggerated pie-in-the-sky dream of a life of wealth and bounty that was always going to be out of reach.

Seated in the shadow of an alley beside a lively tavern, stomach rumbling at the smell of freshly fried meat emanating from the open doors, I reckoned that the myth and the reality may as well have been the same, for all it was worth.

The night was cool, a light autumn breeze pushing the fallen leaves across the dirt floor of the alley. The only light came from the full moon and a flickering oil lamp that hung in the window above my head, casting my quivering shadow against the opposite wall. The sound of drunken laughter and clacking cups reverberated off the bricks, echoing in the empty night air.

The window flew open and I pressed my back as far against the tavern wall as it would go, sucking in a breath and holding it. An arm swung out and tossed a dirty canvas sack out into the alley, and then the window snapped shut again. After a moment of still silence, I exhaled and leaned forward on the balls of my feet to get a closer look at the bag. I pulled back a corner of the fabric; the sack was full of food, what looked to be burnt scraps and almost-rotting produce, the leftovers that paying customers didn’t want. My stomach growled, so loudly I feared it would alert half the town. Desperate, I leaned in closer—it wasn’t stealing if the food was being thrown out, right?

“Hey, get back!”

A figure jumped out from the other side of the building, sending me stumbling backward onto my butt. I clambered to my feet and reached instinctively for my bow, the figure for a knife on their belt. We both froze, squinting in the dim light of the alley.

“Wait a minute,” the figure hissed. “It’s you!”

“Knife Boy?” I blurted.

“Arrow Guy?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” The hand at Knife Boy’s belt moved to rest on his hip, and my eyes were drawn to the glint of moonlight off the dagger’s blade. “Wow, what is with you Heartless and scamming other folks’ food?”

My grip on the bow at my back tightened. “Keep that word out of your mouth before you get me arrested, or this time I won’t hesitate.”

Knife Boy raised his hands in surrender, taking a step backward. “Right, listen, I’m not going to attack you. I’m better than that now, I promise.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you doing all the way out east?”

“I could ask the same of you. Pretty risky for you to be traveling this close to the castle, no?”

“I asked you first. Do you live out here?”

Knife Boy stifled a laugh. “Do I look like I live around here?” He gestured down to his clothes, which even in the poor lighting I could tell looked more or less the same as mine. “I’m just here to steal, and you were about to take my loot that I waited hours for.”

I finally released my grip and lowered my hand back to my side. “Wait a minute. If you’re a thief yourself, why did you chase after my friend for stealing food back west?”

“You and I both know that had very little to do with the food,” Knife Boy replied bluntly.

“I—Fair enough.”

The tavern kitchen window opened brusquely, startling me back onto the defensive, and a deep voice bellowed, “Hey! What are you rotten kids doing out there?”

Knife Boy made a hasty dive for the discarded food and shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

“Why should I trust you?”

He tossed me a burnt roll from the bag and urged, “Let’s go!”

Juggling the offering in my unexpectant hands, I took off after him out of the alley, halfway across town, and into the moonlit woods that lay beyond. Eventually, we reached a small clearing with a clear, bubbling stream. The leaves had been pushed into a pile like a makeshift bed, and a circle of stones and charred wood comprised the remains of a campfire. It looked as though Knife Boy had been camping out here for at least a few nights, perhaps longer.

Panting, Knife Boy dropped down clumsily onto his leaf pile and began rifling through the sack of food, appearing to toss away anything he deemed entirely inedible. I sat down cross-legged a cautious several feet away from him, drawing my cloak tighter around myself and taking bites out of the bread he had thrown me in the alley. The resolve and courage I’d had back there had disappeared into the quiet night, settling into an unfortunately familiar sense of danger and otherness. Seeming satisfied with his inspection of his (our?) loot, Knife Boy passed me a bruised apple and set the bag aside before he began gathering kindling.

“Why are you helping me?” I found the strength to ask, hating the uncertainty in my voice.

Knife Boy did not look up from where he was trying to start a fire. “Do you want the honest answer?”

“I certainly don’t want you to lie.”

“Wonderful, you’re going to make me admit it.” As a spark finally took hold and ignited a small flame, Knife Boy wiped the dirt from his hands and sat back down on his bed of leaves. “To tell you the truth, the way you stood your ground for that girl made me realize maybe I was wrong about you bastards. I didn’t think you could act like that.”

“Like what?” I prodded.

“Like a person.” Knife Boy turned to me and the firelight shone bright against his face. I had never seen him this clearly; he couldn’t have been any older than 15, features still soft around the edges, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes, something familiar and sad.

“Can I ask you something?” I found myself saying.

“That’s mostly all you’ve done since I ran into you, so I don’t see why not.”

I chose to ignore his pointed comment. “Where are your parents?”

Knife Boy’s expression shifted into something unreadable and he quickly looked away. “They’re dead,” he whispered tersely, picking up a twig and dragging it through the dirt in front of him. “I’ve been traveling mostly on my own for a few years now.”

“Can I ask how they died?”

“You can ask, but I won’t tell you.”

“Right, sorry.” I turned the apple over in my hands, still uneaten. “I don’t know what happened to my parents, but I think it’s safe to assume they’re dead as well, or otherwise rotting in a cell somewhere. Either way, I doubt I’ll ever see them again.”

Knife Boy hummed in acknowledgement. After a moment, he looked back up at me, the unease in his eyes glinting in the firelight. “You knew your parents?”

“Now you’re the one asking questions?”

“It’s only fair,” Knife Boy muttered brusquely. “But you don’t have to answer.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine. I did know my parents, I lived with them for ten years. I had a friend, too, also Heartless, but when he was discovered, he was attacked by the other kids in the neighborhood. My parents sent me away, and that was the last I saw of them or him. I recently returned to my old home, only to find that both my parents and his parents were detained by the royal guard soon after, and nothing was ever heard from them again.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged again, even though Knife Boy was no longer looking.

“So that’s why you’re traveling. What are you hoping to find?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” I admitted. “Answers, I suppose.”

Knife Boy reached across the distance between us to snatch the apple out of my idle hands and took a king-sized bite out of it, and I saw no use in chastising him over it.

“What you want is revenge,” he countered with his mouth full.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you want to get to the bottom of this, then aren’t you headed for the top?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the question, earning a puzzled look from Knife Boy. The idea of infiltrating the castle grounds had crossed my mind on several occasions since I left the empty house. There was a voice in the recesses of my mind that said this entire journey was futile, but until the rest of me could accept that possibility, admitting defeat would simply never be an option.

“I have considered that,” I responded. “But I don’t think I’d make it very far.”

Knife Boy nodded and set his gaze somewhere far off beyond the trees that surrounded us as he continued devouring the apple. He said nothing more, leaving only the stream’s gentle gurgling and the crickets’ chirping to fill the void our voices had left behind. As the minutes passed in relative silence, I assumed the conversation had died, as Knife Boy didn’t seem eager to say anything more.

Then he chucked the remains of the apple core far into the woods and offered, not at all helpfully, “On your own.”

“Sorry, what?” I prompted, unable to hide the bewilderment in my voice.

“You wouldn’t make it very far on your own,” Knife Boy clarified in a biting tone, as if saying it out loud were physically painful.

“Are you… saying you want to come with me?”

Knife Boy groaned petulantly. “Ugh, when you say it like that it makes it sound like I actually like you and don’t think you’re weird and gross!” He huffed, not meeting my eyes. “Look, let’s just say that I owe you, okay? For sparing my life, twice now actually. And for showing me that I was wrong about you.”

Admittedly, “weird and gross” was one of the less scathing remarks I’d had directed at me or my kind before, so I let the petty insult wash over me like the rushing water over the rocks in the stream.

“And what do you get out of helping me?” I prodded.

“Let’s make a deal. You stop asking me personal questions, and I’ll help you sneak into the castle to find answers or avenge your formative childhood tragedy, or whatever.” Knife Boy reached his fist out towards me. “How’s that sound?”

With a smile, I returned the gesture; however, Knife Boy pulled back before our fists could make contact.

“Deal.”

#the heartless #aro #aromantic #aro writing #aro writers #aspec #aspec writing #aspec writers #writing #writeblr #op

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strange-n-unbluusual · 4 years

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Pink! Ch. 4: The Late Date

*Beetlejuice/Original Female Character. Adult situations. 18+ only.*

Summary: After six breather years away, Beetlejuice returns to find the house on the hill overrun by coeds. Lydia allows him to stay, but has rules. Things get more interesting when Beck, one of the housemates, reveals she can see him. Following a sordid affair, Beetlejuice finds himself lingering around Beck more and more. But will her affection last? And why does it seem to bother Lydia so much?

Chapter 1: The Setup

Chapter 2: The Buzzkill Date

Chapter 3: The Ex Lover

This one is a doozy! 18+ only!!

DMs are always open for thoughts, feedback and suggestions. Ty. On AO3 as CopperContessa_13

They weren’t kidding around when they named the place Winter River.

By late November, it was uncommon for the town to go more than a day without being graced by at least another inch of snow. Constantly clearing her car was annoying, but Beck enjoyed the white stuff otherwise.

She smiled when she saw a bright light peeking through her curtains one morning. When she opened her curtains, she saw the sun was reflecting off a fresh layer of snow that had fallen during the night. About six inches lay untouched on the roof outside her window, the rays making it shine like glitter. Some fluffy flakes still floated lazily down from the sky.

Just beyond the roof, she could see the people moving around in the town. The snow there wasn’t quite as untouched as her immediate view, but the scene was still so picturesque.

The plow trucks had already come, easily moving the puffy snow off the roadway. Most driveways were cleared, too, but tire tracks tattled on who’d woken up too late to shovel before work. Focusing on one street in particular, she noticed a man started to clear his neighbor’s driveway after finishing his own.

Children, no doubt on break from school, were already preparing barricades for snowball fights and running down the streets with sleds in hand. During Winter River's first snow this year, Beck asked Lydia if any kids ever came to sled at the house’s hill. Lydia said she’d let them if they tried, but that they hardly got visitors these days.

Something about a bad experience with a Girl Scout and a census taker? Whatever.

Inspired by the scene, Beck dragged her art desk in front of the window. Warmness tickled her feet as she walked past an air vent. Settling in her chair, she turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook and grabbed a piece of charcoal.

It had taken a couple of days for tensions to ease, but they did. Beck and Lydia maintained their distance, but it was more out of respect than compulsion. Lydia had noticeably stayed over at her girlfriend’s house more since the big fight. When Mariah was over, though, they were considerate and quiet. That didn’t go unnoticed by Beck who, consequently, decided it was in poor taste to pointedly use Lydia’s towels to clean up after she and Beetlejuice finished screwing around.

Having the house to herself really did help Beck cleanse any petty energy that remained in her brain. Nice mornings like this, especially, made her worries feel small.

Being alone on Thanksgiving break wasn’t sad or stressful for her. With school in Connecticut and home in New Mexico, she realized early on that a trip home for such a short break just wasn’t worth it. Plus, it wasn’t like she felt alone.

Her parents kept tabs on her through text messages. She had lengthy streaks with both of her sisters on Snapchat. The ghosts were still around, too. Adam and Barbara, whose presence around the place was a bit more common now, would sometimes make idle conversation. And, of course, there was also Beetlejuice who was… a lot.

As if his snarky observations weren’t grating enough when she pretended to not hear them…

Beck didn’t know someone could be so endearing and insufferable at the same time. She’d learned to finish her work at the campus library because, geezus, Beetlejuice was an unstoppable force at home. It didn’t matter if it was noon or midnight, he was always at the door when she got home. She always found the act endearing until he opened his mouth. From the moment she came in through the door, he'd follow her around like a very talkative shadow. Beetlejuice had a surprising amount to say about his day, considering he never left the house.

Books she read, movies she watched, websites she browsed. You name it. Beetlejuice had a very staunch opinion on all of it. Don't even get him started on what he thought of her housemates. Kendra will never be “punk,” Ash’s poetry is shit, Cici’s weird nipples make her boobs look like googly eyes and Lillian is a shallow bitch. Beck had heard it all.

He never had anything bad to say about Lydia, of course.

After his conscious stream of thought ruined the emotional climax of a series she’d been binging, Beck decided she’d had enough. She was about to tell him off when a thought finally occurred to her: he only talks so much because it's been so long since he’s been heard.

It was a cathartic moment.

It was also cathartic when she learned he got really quiet after blowing a load or two.

They had yet to bang outright. He told her that they couldn't. Something about Netherworld bureaucracy barring him from having sex with a mortal without being summoned. Wary of unleashing a demon for the sake of a 30 second bone sesh (give or take, she imagined), Beck decided she was fine with just hand and tongue stuff.

Speaking of bedroom calisthenics, it was weird he wasn’t curled up next to her that morning.

Beck looked up from her drawing pad to glimpse at the town again, but was distracted by something new on the roof.

She adjusted her posture just enough to make out the beady eyes of a snowman sitting outside her window. The snow used to make it was dirty looking, brown and grey. Its eyes and mouth were made up of tiny pebbles. A black and white striped scarf hung loosely from its neck. A gust of wind blew the knit fabric against the (several?) flimsy twigs being used for arms.

“Hey, sugar tits! Coffee’s on!” Beetlejuice announced while kicking the door to her room open.

Beck flinched, causing the charcoal she was holding to make a thick line on the paper. She frowned at the mistake, but decided not to make a big deal out of it. She could probably pass it off as a tree branch or something. Oh well.

Turning to face him, she was relieved to see him holding two mugs. Caffeine was just what she needed.

“You don’t have anything to do with that cute snowman on the roof, do you, Lawrence?” she asked while grabbing a cup.

“Cute? He’s not cute,” Beetlejuice scoffed. “Look at him peeping into your room! That dirty pervert.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve let that slide.”

He grinned and pulled her to his side with his free arm. She tried her best to ignore the gesture, opting to clutch her hot mug with both hands instead of embracing him back. Messing around was one thing, but she still wasn’t sure what to do when he made affectionate little gestures like these.

Still, there were worse ways to start a morning.

Beck took a sip of the coffee. Her face twisted into disgust.

“Something wrong, babes?”

“W-what did you use to make this?”

“Dirt and water,” He said taking a gulp of the stuff. “Why do you think the snowman is so dirty? I spent the morning digging through the garden to make this.”

Trying to contain her repulsion, Beck calmly walked over to her dresser and set the mug down.

“What? Is this not how you’re supposed to do it?” he asked. “Lydia said it was made with plants.”

“Yeah! A coffee plant. Which is definitely not topsoil.”

“Well I got it from the garden, didn’t I?!”

Beck took a deep breath.

“You are… something,” she said.

“I don’t get your deal. It tastes the same to me,” he shrugged.

“Stop drinking that!”

Beetlejuice stared her down as he chugged the rest. He patted his tummy and made a satisfied “ah” noise. Beck rolled her eyes but cracked a smile.

Jokes on him, she thought. She wouldn’t touch him again until he used some mouthwash.

You can’t have a weak stomach when you’re with someone like him, Beck had learned. If it wasn’t clear from the moss on his face and the dust that wafted off of him when he moved, they guy had an affinity for filth. What was more frustrating than the dirty clothes and greasy hair, though, was that she knew he could do something about it with a wave of his hand. Fucker didn’t even need to shower! He just liked being that way!

Beck liked her men dirty, though.

“I was just trying to do something nice for you,” he grumbled.

“Hon, I know, but it’s gross” Beck laughed.

She slightly regretted using the pet name when she saw him visibly perk up at its use.

“Let me get changed and I’ll make a real breakfast,” she quickly added.

“Are you gonna make pancakes?!” he gasped, lighting up further.

“If you want, I guess.”

“Fuck yeah!”

⁂

Later in the day, they’d decided to turn on a movie. One of Beetlejuice’s favorites— The Exorcist. He was so enamored with the screen he didn’t even see her slip away. He was re-alerted of her presence at the sound of heels clicking on the kitchen’s wood floor. He whipped his head around, desperate to get a view of her from the living room.

Beck was wearing tall brown boots and very tight jeans. The straps of a lacey bralette peeked out tastefully from under a knit sweater. A bit of jewelry and makeup accentuated her features. Her hair fell in big, loose waves just above her shoulders. Her coat and purse were held under one arm.

Beetlejuice wolf whistled, grabbing her attention.

“You look like a million bucks, Beck!” Beetlejuice said, walking over and slapping her ass.

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “I actually wanted to wear this cute bandeau and jacket I picked up the other day, but I’ll save that for when it gets warmer. Hoes don’t get cold, but they do get pneumonia.”

“Why are you worried about getting sick? I thought you were staying in today.”

“No. I actually need to head out soon.”

“Why? Grocery store closing?”

“No, Lawrence,” Beck giggled. “I’m going to the pub downtown. This guy from my sculpting class struck up a conversation with me about craft beer. Apparently he knows the woman who owns the place. We’re gonna try some of their new pours together.”

Beetlejuice was quiet for a moment before he finally responded with a breathy laugh.

“If I didn’t know you any better, Bexley, I’d say it sounds like you’re going on a date.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Yeah I am. My first since Lydia.”

“Well, you can’t go then!” he snapped.

She looked up at him in surprise.

“And why the fuck not?” Beck spat back.

“Because you and I are already together.”

Oh boy.

Beck’s mouth gaped open for a second, not exactly sure what to say.

“No, we’re not,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry I never laid it out, but what we have is strictly casual.”

“It’s not casual, babes,” he insisted.

Beetlejuice’s words were calm, but she didn’t miss the bits of red that were starting to fleck his green hair.

“We can talk about this later,” Beck said dismissively. “I need to go.”

Beetlejuice pinned her against the wall, holding her firmly in place by clutching her forearms above her head. Her shoes felt like they were glued to the ground— likely his powers holding her. She struggled against him, but quickly realized it was useless.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No, baby, never,” Beetlejuice cooed into her ear. “I’m just going to prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That your fucking little breather flings can’t hold a candle to how good I make you feel.”

Beck didn’t get a chance to respond before he hoisted her from the wall and laid her on the nearby countertop. He quickly undid her jeans but looked at her for approval before pulling them down. She hesitated for a moment before shrugging.

“Prove your point, big shot. Make it fast.”

Beck knew she was being greedy and inconsiderate for pulling a stunt like this so close to her date, but she couldn't help herself. She'd become addicted to his constant attention.

She tensed at the coldness of his tongue, but it quickly warmed inside her. It always did. One of Beetlejuice’s hands grasped her thigh while the thumb of the other worked her clit. Her hips spasmed at infrequent intervals at the pleasureful sensation.

She loved the way his tongue pulsed inside her at a steady rhythm. At first she was turned off by how inhuman in looked— wormlike and darker than a human one. The way it could stretch and move her, though, was incomparable to anything else she'd experienced. He was already driving her wild, his movements simple but skilled.

He wasn’t allowed to know that, of course.

Beetlejuice looked up at Beck. She was supported on her elbows, giving her enough height to look back down at him blankly. He knew she was trying her best to be unenthused, but her act wasn’t convincing. Aside from her electrified hips, he could read the lust in her eyes and hear the lilt of an occasional whine leave her mouth.

Not good enough.

Craving a more intense reaction, he slid out to tease her ass for a second. When she opened her mouth to gasp, he quickly rammed the tongue back into its familiar sheath. Beck’s hips bucked into his mouth and she let out long, pleasurable cry.

Beetlejuice smirked, raising an eyebrow at her from his spot below.

“Don’t get cocky,” she groaned.

Repositioning, he placed a hand on either of her thighs and spread her legs further apart. He took a second to appreciate how beautiful and vulnerable she was in this position before diving in headfirst again. She panted, weaving a needy hand in his hair. She'd move him gently, desperate to chase her orgasm with his help. She loved it when he maneuvered so that his appendage could both rub her little pleasure button and fill her insides.

She closed her eyes, imagining it was his cock filling her instead.

After manipulating her with his mouth for a while, Beetlejuice withdrew. Beck, who’d mostly shucked off her pants by that point, wrapped a desperate leg around the back of his head. She tried to push him back into place.

“I’m so fucking close,” she pleaded, “Please don’t stop.”

Everything in him wanted to oblige her.

Beetlejuice was obsessed. He craved to feel her fall apart in his hands. After so many rendezvous like this, it started to felt like his purpose in unlife was to worship her body. It felt like sin to not to give in to her wants.

But he had a point to make…

Beetlejuice kissed her left thigh, the wetness from around his mouth transfering partially onto her with it.

“You can cum when you tell me that no breather will ever satisfy you again.”

“That no wha-? Oh!”

She threw her head back and arched towards him as he slowly slid a thick finger in. The speed was disappointing and teasingly slow. Sitting upright now, Beck tried to stimulate herself further but was unable. Her hips felt like they were being held in place, making it impossible to ramp up the speed by rocking back and forth. Her hands, similarly, felt stuck to the counter. It kept her from playing with her clit.

Beck tried to contain her frustration but failed miserably. Finger still moving painstakingly slow, Beetlejuice watched her thin veneer of calm fall apart. A deep, grounding sigh from her lips slowly became a vexed protest. He laughed openly at her struggle and pressed his forehead against hers. The proximity gave them both a rush.

“Say ‘you’ve spoiled my body too much’ and maybe I’ll let you cum,” he said.

“I’ve had better!” Beck spat back.

He bit her neck in response. Pleased at the scream he elicited from her, he kissed the mark it made.

“Don’t do that! I don’t want Nathan to see it.”

"Fuck Nathan!"

Beetlejuice was about to bite harder when he got distracted by a buzzing noise. They both got quiet. Looking around, he realized it was coming from her jacket on the floor. It, along with her purse, were knocked out of her hands when he pushed her against the wall.

She grumbled when his hand and face left her body. Beetlejuice leaned down and fished the buzzing thing— her cellphone— out of her jacket. He looked at the glowing screen, an evil grin spreading on his face when he saw who was calling her.

“Pick it up. Now,” he demanded as he tossed it to her.

He dismissed the restraint from one of her hands, allowing her to catch. She swallowed nervously before answering.

“H-hi Nathan."

Beetlejuice resumed his position on her neck and teased her entrance with his fingers. As he placed his other hand on the small of her back, Beck realized with horror what he was about to do.

She bit her lip to suppress a moan as two of his thick fingers slammed into her repeatedly. It made her crazy, feeling the hilt of his hand ram against her pelvis. Beck tried to close her thighs to buffer the movement, but his powers still kept her position locked. He nibbled and sucked her neck, careful not to bite too hard this time. She liked it when he paid attention to the spot on her collar bone, too, he'd learned.

Her body trembled at the sensations. A tremor was in her voice, too.

“I’m not standing you up, I promise,” she laughed nervously into the phone. “I, uh, I’m stuck at my house. My car won’t start. Sometimes that happens when it gets too cold.”

Beck let out a yelp as Beetlejuice put a third digit into her.

“No! I’m fine. My back just hurts from hunching over my desk all day. W-what was that? Oh! Uh, yeah that’d be awesome. You're the best. I’ll see you in five.”

She hung up the phone, immediately tossing it aside in order to manipulate her clit. Beetlejuice laughed against her skin.

“Not so cool now are you, Bexley.”

“Shut up and finger fuck me like you mean it.”

That was all the prodding he needed.

Her sweater bunched up as the hand on her back clenched into a fist. Beetlejuice started kissing her on the mouth. Beck kissed back, fiery need consuming them both. When he untethered her other hand, he was surprised to feel her tugging his pants down. He moaned into her mouth at the way she stroked him.

Beck's concentration on him wavered. She broke their kiss and stopped manipulating his cock, too focused on getting herself off before she had to leave.

A long and drawn out scream soon crescendoed from Beck’s mouth. It was so unabashed it almost made Beetlejuice blush. He loved it when she didn't care who heard her cumming. I made him feel powerful. The Maitlands were probably somewhere out of sight and clutching their pearls over it. He certainly didn't give a fuck, though.

“Oh, fuck, baby. That’s right. Ride it out,” he whispered.

Combined with the feeling of her hand on his cock, the sensation of her body clenching around his fingers was almost too much. Beetlejuice was close to climax, too.

Regaining control of herself, Beck's hand started working him again. Beetlejuice grunted and came all over the base of the countertop.

They just stared at each other after coming down from their respective highs. The silence spoke volumes.

In a moment of tenderness, Beetlejuice tried to kiss Beck, but she turned her head.

Wordlessly, she readjusted her clothing. He watched bemused as she maneuvered her hair to fall over the purple and red mark he’d left on her skin. Hearing a car horn honk outside, she picked up her things and headed for the door.

Beck dared to glance back at him one last time.

Beetlejuice smirked back, mouthing the word “spoiled."

She slammed the door behind her.

⁂

The date was a bust. Nathan didn’t even go in for a kiss when he dropped her off.

It's not like she had anyone else to blame but herself, though.

Beck was distant the whole time, her mind more interested in replaying what had just happened rather than listen to her date talk. When she did pay Nathan mind, it wasn't for long. She was self-conscious about hiding the hickey on her neck. She was too distracted to give meaningful answers to the questions he asked. She was too overwhelmed with the worry that he could smell Beetlejuice on her. It wasn't long before he gave up on coaxing conversation out of her.

“Whelp. See you in class Tuesday,” he sighed when he dropped her off.

"Thank you. I'm sorry," was all she could manage to say back.

She really did feel sorry. She really did like him.

Beck was surprised that Beetlejuice wasn’t waiting for her in the foyer. She thought for sure he would been itching to gloat about how he was right. About how that dumb breather didn’t have a chance with her and all that.

He wasn’t waiting in her room when she got up there, either.

This was so unlike him, Beck thought. Where the hell could he be?

The ceiling above her room creaked.

“That bastard,” she muttered.

The message was clear: not only did he demand that she grovel, he demanded she actually go up to the attic to do it.

Resolved that she wouldn’t play his game, Beck started to get ready for bed and kicked off her shoes. Tossing her keys onto her dresser, she noticed the coffee cup that had been left there earlier. The art desk was still by the window, too, along with the drawing she’d been working on.

Picking up the sketch pad, she noticed the thick black line from before was gone. The picture, otherwise, was the same aside from the addition of two crudely drawn figures. A man and a woman peered out at the rest of the town from a window in the top part in one of the houses. The detail was hard to make out, but she could tell they were holding teeny tiny coffee cups.

Beck smiled despite herself.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice fandom #drama #writing #fluff #original female character #adult language #beetlejuice nsft #nsft

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terror-that-flaps-in-the-evening · 5 years

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Words and Scribbles

The first time Launchpad had to go out on an adventure with Mr. McDuck and the kids after he and Drake started dating, he left Drake a coloring book and asked him to do his daily colorings for him. Drake had really done his best before that to shrug his shoulders and say, “Oh, yeah, I’ll be fine here alone.” He’d been so nonchalant about it - telling everyone who asked that yea, he’d miss his boyfriend, but he’d be fine. He wouldn’t worry.

The coloring book was the straw the broke the camel’s back, however. Drake, despite telling everyone who asked him that, no, of course he wasn’t going to cry when Launchpad went out of town indefinitely on one of Mr. McDuck’s crazy, life-threatening, potentially world-ending adventures. He was a grown adult, and he could handle being alone for a few days, weeks, months, whatever it took.

He was a grown adult who was trusted by his boyfriend with his coloring book for the duration of an indefinite trip. Drake knew that Launchpad loved relaxing at the end of the day by scribbling away at the pictures inside - he knew the weight that was being handed to him in between the covers of such a simple and childish gesture.

So, yeah, Drake Mallard was a little bit of a sobbing mess the first time his boyfriend left home to go out on an adventure with his other family. For an hour after Launchpad left, Drake lay curled up on the floor in his living room, clutching at the coloring book that was left to him and wishing that he could call Launchpad.

He was pretty sure there was some sort of rule on airplanes that all cell-phones had to be turned off, though. At least on the commercial flights he’d taken. He wasn’t entirely sure if Della and Launchpad followed those same customs, but he certainly wasn’t going to endanger quite literally everyone he really knew just for a phone call to a duck that had only been gone for an hour.

Drake wasn’t completely useless, however. So, after only a few hours of moping about, Drake managed to drag himself off the floor and into the kitchen, where he promptly started tearing up again as he realized that he was making himself a dinner for one. Sure, he’d gotten a lot of his cooking out of his system when he was meal-prepping for Launchpad, the kids, Mr. McDuck, and Mr. McDuck’s niece and nephew, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t still have it in his heart that he should be cooking for at the very least himself and his boyfriend.

Drake ended up making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and practically throwing himself in one of the dining room chairs - which gave a dangerous creak from the force of which he plopped down. New dining room furniture, he noted, was something he needed to work on once S.H.U.S.H. started paying him…

Once he had devoured his childish dinner, he realized that he had a much more childish task to attend to. Drake flipped open the coloring book, tracing the crayon lines that had already been colored in by his boyfriend with his fingers, letting his mind drift to all the times that they’d been laying on the couch together, watching Darkwing Duck while Launchpad scribbled away.

He flipped through the pages slowly, admiring each and every page, despite the ultimate simplicity that the nature of the activity dictated. It wasn’t until he got to the first uncolored page that his heart dropped out of his chest once again as a piece of paper floated down out of the coloring book. He picked it up and read,

“Heya, Drake! This is Launchpad, obviously. I am writing here as instructions. You have to follow them. That’s the rules. They’re easy, because I don’t like hard games. Just color for me, like I said before I left (Thanks past Launchpad!). Then after you color, you get another paper. From me. Launchpad. Get coloring!”

The note was written in crayon, with alternating colors featuring some of their favorites and some random splashes of color. There were little scribbles and doodles all around the note, some of which looked vaguely like hearts that had been half scribbled out, then redone. A few of the longer words had a few crossed out versions in front of them, but no matter because in Drake’s heart, it was the world’s best piece of literature. Drake took the note over to the fridge, placing a Darkwing Duck magnet over it to hold it in place.

As childish as he felt doing it, Drake grabbed Launchpad’s box of crayons, curiously labeled “Launchpad’s! Do not eat!” Drake made a mental note to ask Launchpad if someone else had tried to eat his crayons before. Drake picked out a plum purple and began to darkly color the outline of the train that was sprawled out on the page in front of him. Once he’d finished his dark outline, he lightly colored in the body with varying shades of purple, creating what he’d call a work of art compared to Launchpad’s wild scribbles - not that he disliked the fact that Launchpad just went wild on the page with the pack of crayons. It was cathartic to watch his boyfriend do, and it was comforting to have that piece of him here now that he was out in the air somewhere, on the way to adventure.

The first day after Launchpad left, Drake went to the coloring book as soon as he woke up, very tempted to unfold the note that lay on the next page (Labeled, “No peeking!”) before he finished the coloring of the lion that lay on that page, but Drake knew that Launchpad’s first question would be whether or not he followed the rules, so he managed to hold back his eagerness to hear from his boyfriend.

Once he finally finished coloring the lion with an unfortunate thorn in its paw (Drake had added the splinter and a tear to the drawing - for dramatic effect!), Drake eagerly slipped his finger under the fold in the paper and flipped it open.

“Day one of no Launchpad. You must be sad. I know I am. In between being scared for my life, that is! Adventures are crazy. I am probably being very brave right now. You are probably being very brave too - being Darkwing alone. I am going to buy you a sooveneer.”

Drake made a mental note to tell Launchpad how to spell souvenir. He also made a mental note to tell Launchpad just how much this entire thing meant to him. It felt like he might not be entirely alone, what with Launchpad’s good natured-ness still there to envelop his heart in warmth. Reading the note, he could hear his boyfriend’s voice echoing through his head, and he could practically picture him laying on the floor in the McDuck manor garage, tongue stuck half out as he scribbled away notes and carefully folded them into little origami triangles to hide in the coloring book.

Each day only made Drake appreciate the gesture more and more. On day three (After coloring a picture of a pond full of fish, to which Drake drew in a shark), the letter read, “Things are probably getting rough on my end. I say they’ve gotten in three arguments by now! I’ll keep count and we can see when I get home! Have you caught any good bad guys? By good, I mean bad. By bad I mean extra bad. Extra bad-baddies. The mean kind. Answer here _______________. Tell me about it when I’m home.”

Drake scribbled away his answer in the small space provided, telling a story about a particularly rude villain that he arrested - he had gotten called a creepy cosplayer while he was in the process of tying up the guy. Drake drew a little picture of him, taking the liberty of adding devil horns. He made sure to leave the picture colorless, so Launchpad had something to do when he got back. Drake added the note and his own addition to his fridge collection. Another day closer to having his boyfriend back.

Day four was a coloring sheet of a small duck strumming away at a guitar. Drake wrote the notes for the Darkwing Duck intro above the guitar and drew a little smiley face. “Let’s Get Dangerous,” he wrote above the picture after he finished coloring it, proud of his handiwork for the day. He’d earned the next note.

“Heya! It’s LP again. I’d hope you know that by now. Today is a scavenger hunt. Or, sort of. Just go to the bedroom, and go under the bed. Or, look under the bed. There is a box that says, ‘Launchpad’s Do not Eat,’ on it. It has something for you. Miss you.”

Drake resisted the urge to run to the room immediately - instead he took the time to pin up the note alongside the first three. By the time he made it to the bedroom and dug the little shoebox out, he was shaking with anticipation. He opened the lid, and his jaw dropped. Within the shoe box was one of the few pieces of Darkwing Duck memorabilia that he had not managed to obtain yet - the classic Darkwing Duck slippers that went for hundreds online. Drake felt himself tearing up again as he put his feet into the cute little cartoony versions of his childhood hero.

On day five, Drake woke up with his entire body aching from the fight with a few of the Beagle Boys he’d had the night before. Usually when they woke up after a rough fight, Launchpad would massage his back for a while, he’d massage Launchpad’s back, and then they’d make breakfast together. Instead, he hobbled out of bed and made himself some toast. He immediately got to coloring, eager to see what awaited inside. He took his time filling the drawing of two ducks riding a tandem bicycle, trying to add features to the two to make them look more like him and Launchpad. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, so he ended up just labeling them in the end. He eagerly unfolded that day’s note, ready to hear it sounding out to him in his boyfriend’s voice in his brain.

“LP here! Mr. McDee said it’d only take a little bit, so maybe I’ll be home soon. Here’s a Hamburger Hippo coupon I saved for you. Get yourself dinner! I miss you. Or, I will miss you. I am Launchpad from the past. OooooOOOooooOoooo, spooky!”

The entire letter was surrounded in drawings of clocks and little ghosts. There were also a few of what Drake could only assume were supposed to be ghost clocks. Drake’s fridge was starting to look more like an art museum than a fridge, but he wasn’t complaining. Each time he saw the letters that peppered his fridge, his heart started fluttering all over again. He couldn’t wait to see Launchpad again - the second his boyfriend came knocking on his door, he’d get attacked with the full force of a flying, climbing, scaling hug that would no doubt end up with Drake clinging to Launchpad for hours.

Day six was laundry day. Usually they’d end up having a sock fight when they were trying to fold the clothes. Instead, Drake folded the clothes in record time with a sagging heart. His heart fell even further when he saw the coloring scene he had for the day - it was a sock. Who puts a sock in a coloring book? Drake made a mental note to look up who in the world designated the drawings that went into this coloring book so he could have a word with them. Once he finished, he eagerly grabbed the note that was stuck in that page, unfolding it to see,

“Laundry day. I probably need laundry day. Jungles don’t have washing machines. Fun fact. From Launchpad. Your boyfriend. I will throw a sock to say I miss you. In the future, not now. I am past Launchpad. Throw a sock for me too. Miss you,” Drake grabbed one of the pairs of socks he’d just folded, ripped the two socks from each other, and hurled one of them as far as he could. Somehow, it landed on top of the fridge. At least when he would have to ask Launchpad to get it down, he’d have proof that he was following the rules… Drake pinned the note up on the fridge, and continued on with his day.

Day seven. A week had passed. Drake found it hard to believe that he hadn’t heard Launchpad for a week. He hadn’t seen him for a week. He saved the coloring and note for that day until right before bed - wanting to cherish each second that he could of looking forward to it. As he was coloring away at the picture of the day - a monkey hanging from a tree (Drake was adding bananas to make it more fun), he heard a knock at the door.

Drake thought he must be hearing things - no way was Launchpad back so soon! He carefully closed the coloring book and lay it on his bed, somehow managing to fight the urge to just toss it and sprint to the door. He felt his legs turning to jelly as he walked to the door, wearing the slippers that his amazing boyfriend had somehow acquired for him.

Drake just knew that the moment he opened the door, it would turn out to be the mailman, someone who had the wrong door, an assassin sent to kill him, anyone but --

He swung the door open and felt his heart stop. There he was. Launchpad McQuack, in the flesh. Drake ran full force into the mountain of a man, who immediately picked him up to swing him around. “Don’t ever leave again,” Drake mumbled through his tears into Launchpad’s chest. He took in the scent of the man - how he’d missed that strange combination of baby shampoo, oil, leather, mustard, and a slight cologne-y smell.

“I missed you,” Launchpad squeezed the air out of Drake’s lungs, but it wasn’t something Drake was going to complain about - on the contrary. He didn’t want this hug to ever end, because it felt like the second the hug was over he might lose his boyfriend to adventure again. He couldn’t let that happen again, he loved every second he had with Launchpad. He--

“Launchpad?” Drake pulled his head back just enough to give his boyfriend a quick peck before burying his face in Launchpad’s chest and saying, “I’m in love with you.”

Maybe it wasn’t quite the opportune time for his first confession of love, but damn if it didn’t feel right. He felt Launchpad’s hug increase in power to a dangerous, spine-cracking level, and he felt like he was hugging just as hard back.

“I love you too, Drake,” Launchpad said, with tears in his eyes, “I love you so much.”

“I hope you know that you’re bringing me along on your next adventure,” Drake said, nuzzling into Launchpad’s chest. “I mean, what adventure wouldn’t benefit from famed superhero Darkwing Duck. And what day wouldn’t be better with the man I love?” Drake felt his heart skip a beat as he said those magical words again. Who knew that seven days without the man he loved would really awaken the awareness of that love in him?

#launchpad mcquack #Drake Mallard #drakepad #darkwing duck #ducktales2017 #ducktales #Fluff #LizardWriter

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arecomicsevengood · 4 years

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Is This How I See Jaime?

Objectively speaking, I am not that old. Still there’s no getting past the fact that I am getting older every day, like everybody else. I might not be at the point where my body betrays my age, where I ache all the time and grunt when I stand, but my mind still carries with it the weight of decades of lived experience, and this can at any moment make me want to lie down.

There are few artists that capture the feeling of aging quite like Jaime Hernandez. Partly this is because of his working method. No one else does what he does, making serialized comics for close to forty years, that tell stories with the same characters. These are not truly STORIES, utilizing flashbacks that provide crucial context to events and create literary effects, even as the overall narrative they tell moves forward in time and builds an attachment between reader and character comparable to long-running television series. Still, when broken up into serialized installments in issues of Love And Rockets, it can frequently feel like nothing is happening. Often, what you get in an individual issue is around fifteen pages, split between multiple pieces focused on different characters. These fragments are focused, compressed in a manner closer to cinema than television, but you’re still only getting what might amount to three to five minutes depicted on-screen. With a few exceptions, what you get in an issue is not a complete short story with a beginning, middle, and end. For all the influence the Hernandez Brothers have had on alternative comics, reading the people they’ve influenced will not prepare you for how much Love And Rockets is modeled off of serialized comics, and how much of its power it draws from continuity and extended engagement.

This pacing demands a certain level of expectation-free interaction, which is crucial to deep relationships. It’s worth noting Jaime’s strips run alongside his brother Gilbert’s work, which is similar in some ways, but by no means the same. Gilbert’s body of work is a lot more complicated, due in part to how prolific he is, the meta/self-referential/self-deconstructive elements of the stories he’s telling, and also how he draws tits like Mark Newgarden draws noses, that just keep getting larger. He deserves a deep critical reading, but I don’t have the energy, money, or time to keep up with him. Running the two brothers’ work side by side makes Love And Rockets implicitly about family, which then in turn becomes a subject each cartoonist explicitly makes work about. And not just “chosen” family, but the actual people who’ve known you your entire life. Which is, inherently, a concept which both means more the older you get, and remains somewhat alienating. As a reader, it helps to be prepared to extend to Love And Rockets the goodwill one would a family member, to begin to get on its level.

On a superficial level, making work about family seems somewhat conservative and nostalgic. That’s not to suggest it’s not valuable, or worth fighting for. There’s just a certain adjustment of values or attitudes a reader needs to make to get on board with the work, that might be at odds with the punk rock alternative comics reputation that precedes it. The comics themselves are built on a formal language of cartooning that’s older and out of fashion: Sixties Ditko comics, Lil Archie, Dennis The Menace Goes To Mexico. This adds to a feeling of being about aging in a way younger art cartoonists inspired by their same-age immediate peers can’t get to. For instance, I love Olivier Schrauwen, and I can see the influence Yuichi Yokoyama has on his work, and I view the two of them as peers in dialogue, creating the future of comics, which creates a totally different reading experience than I get reading work that feels more in dialogue with the past. The formal choices of the Hernandez brothers, including that their work appears for the first time in serialized comic book formats, calls conscious attention to history. Consciousness of the past hurts, and this truth is a huge element of the plots and themes of Jaime’s work.

It’s the sheer graphic strength of Jaime’s drawing that enables it to stick in the memory. He’s able to capture a tiny gesture and render it iconic through use of line and spotted blacks. The precision he brings his images gives them a certain ease of recall. This is the crux of a two-page spread at the climax of The Love Bunglers where, as a bunch of different stories and images are recalled, now rendered at different angles, they’re all there in your consciousness, in a mix of your memories of the comic and your memories of your own individual life. It’s a hugely cathartic climax.

However, both Gilbert and Jaime have this aspect to what they do that can easily frustrate a reader, and it is seemingly inextricable from the core of their power: Once a point is reached where you can easily follow along, and a satisfying conclusion to a story occurs, the next several issues will completely destabilize that and you will again not know what exactly is going on. For instance, if you read the Perla La Loca collection, collecting the “Wigwam Bam” and “Chester Square” graphic novels, by the end of it, you will have a very exciting experience that should convince you Jaime Hernandez is one of the greatest cartoonists in the world. Reading the Penny Century collection of the work that followed, plenty of stories will leave you feeling like he lost his touch, or is spinning his wheels. At the end of the book, and the “Everybody Loves Me Baby” story, you’re knocked flat on your ass again, but if you had read the original comic books as they came out, who knows if you would’ve stuck it out that long.

This, by the way, is one of the most realistic things there is. Life’s “things just keep happening” quality will fuck you up time and again. While I haven’t given up on life just yet, I have stopped reading Love And Rockets a few times. I’m not the sort of reader who sticks with a series out of inertia. I have always been hyper-aware of the value of my comic-book buying dollar, and therefore pretty fickle. If I read two issues straight of a comic that feels like it’s treading water, I would be done with it. I’ve gone back and picked up things after the fact and filled in gaps, or I’ve switched to reading trade collections checked out from the library. I bought the first two issues of the recently relaunched Love And Rockets volume 4 in one go, realized that it was continuing stories from Love And Rockets: New Stories, and didn’t go back for more, put off by the stories’ continuation from the previous volume.

It’s only now, with the release of Is This How You See Me and Tonta, that I am reading the stories that followed up The Love Bunglers in a complete form. They blew me away. The effects Jaime’s going for at any given moment may be subtle, but they accumulate, and this accumulation then becomes the true effect, and why I analogize it to aging: There’s this sheer weight that results from how things just continue to happen, and each time they hit you with what feels like more force, even as the moments themselves are minor ones. This is a true-to-life feeling that is very hard to capture. It’s present in the relentless pace of Charlie Kaufman’s masterpiece Synecdoche, New York, but that is a movie too intense to rewatch for many. Jaime’s work is built around you returning to it, which means it has to be somewhat inviting, and include levity.

Is This How You See Me focuses on the characters of Maggie and Hopey, introduced in 1981 as teenagers, now presumably in their mid-fifties, happily married to other people but still weighing the possibility of cheating with their ex. The characters return to a “punk rock reunion” in their hometown, to reminisce on the past with old friends, and old characters we haven’t seen in years appear, visibly older than when they were last drawn, but still recognizably themselves. This plot lends the comic some elements of nostalgic fan-service that I intellectually feel an aversion to. It feels almost like the plot is designed transparently for those purposes. Bringing back old characters would strike me as a crass project in the pages of X-Men or Legion Of Super-Heroes, but the naturalism of Jaime’s approach means that it allows him to show me things I legitimately haven’t seen in a comic book before. It’s probable they’ve been in movies or books, but I would argue they work better in comics.

For instance, there’s a scene where the reunited cast are showing each other photos on their phones. This is a normal thing people do, and so surely it has been depicted in a film. But in a comic, there’s this weird meta element to it. Smartphones have text message conversations appear in little word balloons, right? The word balloon being a technique comics used to depict speech, as part of their normal communication system of images. Then, when interacting in physical space, people show pictures to each other, using this device they usually use for the mimesis of speech over distances, but they’re communicating using pictures to show what their life is like. Which is what the comic itself is doing more generally. So, there’s there’s this semiotic quality to the gesture of the outstretched hand with phone in it which feels really profound when depicted in comics, while it would feel sort of stupid and uncinematic in a movie, where the aging theater audience would have to squint and ask their neighbor what is being shown in the text message they’re seeing on screen.

Similarly, we see the married couple of Maggie and Ray, separated from each other for the length of the weekend, fretting over how much they should be in communication, drafting texts and deleting them. There’s an intimacy people who live with each other share, where much of what they encounter apart from the other person they want to talk to them about, because to be close to another person is to have them in some ways always present inside your head. Depicting the writing of a text, and then the decision to delete it, captures both the intimacy of a couple and the intimacy of one’s own private thoughts, in a way that only a form with the intimacy of a comic is able to depict effectively. Prose alone can’t capture the fluctuations of posture and self-presentation which is the heart of deleting a draft.

Concern for one’s image is depicted as well in the title pages to individual chapters, showing characters taking pictures of themselves in mirrors with their phones. These pages seem to depict not so much the cultivated selfie but the self-awareness of the drafting process, the titles above them taking on a certain poetry, built around the words spoken to oneself unconsciously that are the opposite of the language one chooses to send in a message to convey a precise thought.

This stuff really impressed me, and it all fits within a language of small gestures. While there are tons of books that are about how connection works in the digital age, it also always feels like that stuff is a commentary on how young people live. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything as interested in how people in middle age use these devices. Of course, it’s possible examples exist in work targeted to older audiences, and I just missed it because it wasn’t marketed to me.

It was actually Jaime’s other 2019 book, Tonta, that spoke to me more. Here, the aging the book is about is a coming-of-age thing about a high school student, and the book has this spirited youthful quality to it from the outset. While other, darker, plot elements unfold as it goes on, what was interesting to me is that the noir-like narrative that exists as a counterpoint in the finished book might not have even seemed part of the same story to a reader of Love And Rockets, where the character nicknamed Tonta just sort of suddenly emerged. There’s even a few pages in this collection given over to narration by Ray, who otherwise doesn’t appear in the book. These elements don’t seem dissonant or like they don’t belong. It just makes the book itself feel loose, like it feels as free and exploratory as a teenager looking for something to do. Placed together inside a book, the disparate threads become united by having a main character to pay attention to how developments of the plot affect her. The book has a real tonal arc as it unfolds, and the way the book gets you in its grip from such a goofy start seems to replicate how the stories about the Maggie character developed over time, here captured in miniature.

The sum of these two books will at some point only be a portion of a future volume of the Love And Rockets library, the formatting of the Perla La Loca and Penny Century books I mentioned earlier. There are portions from recent issues of Love And Rockets that are natural continuations and codas from these books, and what tapestries these fragments will be woven into is unknown to me. Another gutpunch could be just around the corner or years in the offing. There’s really no way to know what the future holds.

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carmenlire · 5 years

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Drag Me Out Alive

read on ao3

He’s always had dreams.

They aren’t visions-- he insists to himself that he just has a vivid imagination, that his life gives itself over to dreamscapes that seem fantastical and too good to be true and altogether unrealistic.

Still. There’s a part of himself that just can’t help but wonder if the dreams are part premonition, part threat.

When he was younger, Izzy had persuaded him to sneak out of the Institute one fall evening. The wind had been bitterly cold and leaves had danced along the pavement as they’d walked down abandoned sidewalks. For New York, there had been a noticeable lack of people milling about but Alec had shrugged it off and chalked it up to the fact that it was one of the coldest days of the season so far.

Isabelle had led them unerringly to a psychic’s parlor. Alec had scoffed-- couldn’t help but make his opinion on their destination clear-- but Izzy had just elbowed him in the side and declared that according to Google, this was the best place in the city to see one’s future.

Who the hell would want to know their future, Alec had groused. We’re shadowhunters, Iz, and I’d rather not know that I’m going to die when I’m barely out of the Academy.

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle had walked backwards towards the door to the building. She’d looked at Alec, equal parts exasperation and excitement.

That’s the beauty of it, Big Brother. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for us and I want to make the most of it.

With a long suffering sigh that they were both overwhelmingly familiar with, Alec had followed his sister inside.

The door creaked on its hinges. A washed out gray, Alec had taken one look at the faded sign and felt something slither up his spine. Shamdon’s Sight.

The name isn’t familiar and Alec can’t place the etymology, even though he’s fluent in a number of languages, both demonic and mundane.

Shaking his head impatiently, Alec scolds himself. Isabelle just wanted to get her palm read and this whole damn thing is nothing but a farce.

Try as he might, Alec can’t quite convince himself that he’s telling the truth.

The room is dark and smells of spice and incense and dust. Everything looks cheap, well-used. Whoever Shamdon is, they aren’t making a lot of money and that tells Alec all he needs to know.

They walk past the empty reception area and head directly to one of the side rooms. There’s a woman there and Alec’s eyes almost pass her by before he realizes.

She looks perfectly nondescript. Her face folds into a million wrinkles and her rouge borders on obscene. Lipstick runs into the crevices next to her lips and her eyes are sunken in but hold unfathomable depths. Across the room, they meet Alec’s and his breath catches for a split second.

It’s all part of an act, he tells himself. This woman dresses the part and appearances are everything in her line of work.

Welcome, she greets and gestures to one of the chairs across from her. She lays a lingering glance on Alec but moves on to Isabelle quickly enough, dismissing him.

I only work with one person at a time, darling. Leave us be and your companion will come get you when we’re done.

Isabelle had urged Alec to leave without protest silently, glaring and gazing pointedly at the door with pleading eyes.

With a last glance, Alec had complied. He doesn’t know what it is but this entire place makes him uneasy. Dread wraps around his lungs no matter how much he tells himself to calm down. It doesn’t make sense and Alec’s never liked things that he couldn’t neatly compartmentalize.

He stands outside and sinks into the cold. Huddling in his leather jacket, he glares at his surroundings. He’s nineteen and feels ancient. His life rolls out before him, a long line of patrols and mission reports and hiding a piece of himself that’s more heartache than work.

Jace is a never-ending pain in his ass and he’s always worrying about Izzy, no matter that she’d kick his ass if she knew. His parents are always fighting-- he hears the hissed whispers and hushed arguments-- and he’s so damned tired most days that it’s a wonder he makes it out of bed.

He smiles but its sardonic. The dreams don’t help, he privately acknowledges.

Since he was a boy, Alec’s dreamed. They always seem so vivid-- splashing colors and flashing images-- but as soon as he wakes, they disintegrate into fragmented memories. He only has impressions during the day: gold eyes, black veins, a pervasive sense of freedom. When he was a child, they were a comfort. At five years old, the dreams were an adventure. He’d imagined that he was a soldier come to slay the dragon and rescue his people.

As he grew older though, the dreams started morphing. When he’s in the grip of a dream, it’s all he knows-- his reality zeroes into the way the light hits an opaque vial, to raw screams that sound hauntingly like his own.

The dreams are ominous and chill him down to the bone because he doesn’t know what they mean. He’s never told anyone-- will never tell anyone what waits for him when he sleeps-- but no matter that there’s a part of him that’s afraid, there’s still a piece that feels drawn to the dreamscape.

The screams are cathartic, the way the vial absorbs the light entrancing. Alec has these dreams frighteningly regularly but they’re a comfort, too. They’ve been part of him since he was old enough to remember them and even if he’s never been able to put it all together, it’s a puzzle he never tires of.

Cold seeps through his jacket as Alec loses himself in the mystery. He’s startled, then, when the front door bangs open and Isabelle comes striding out. On the surface, she’s as calm as ever, but Alec can tell she’s shaken-- it’s in the tremors of her arms, the way she glances carefully at her surroundings.

Are you okay?

With a curt shrug, Isabelle looks back at the door and crosses her arms over her front. I’m fine, she insists. It’s just that . . .

Alec waits her out, in the meantime studying her carefully. Izzy is rarely rattled but whatever the fraud had told her had gotten under her skin.

She lets out a breath before meeting Alec’s eyes. She told me that my hubris would be my downfall and that I’d find my love in the most unexpected of circumstances.

Raising a brow, Alec had asked, Did she give you a name? A description of this soulmate?

Mouth a terse line, Izzy had responded, All she’d say was that love takes many forms and that the line between friends is blurred.

Alec had scoffed. There you go, Iz, that’s a platitude if I’ve ever heard one. I hope you’re not paying attention to vague claims made by a charlatan.

Glaring, Isabelle had shoved at his shoulder. You go then, and tell me what she says doesn't feel like the truth.

Rolling his eyes, Alec had pushed off from the brick wall and glared at his sister before entering the shop again.

The woman was right where’d he’d last seen her and he feels a pull towards her that he can’t quite explain. So, he tamps down the feeling and tells himself that it’s just his imagination and Izzy getting into his head.

He sits down and the old woman tracks his movements with sharp eyes.

What is it that you want to know, young shadowhunter?

Alec looks into her steady gaze and feels like she’s peering into his soul. Shifting uncomfortably on the wooden chair, he merely offers, I want to know why I should believe anything you say.

He waves away the fact that she knows he’s nephilim-- most psychics in the city had the sight and all it proves is that she has learned to make the most of her negligible gift.

The woman laughs warmly and sounds like someone half her age. It sounds weirdly familiar but Alec can’t place it and shakes his head when a headache starts to form.

You’re skeptical-- I like that. It means you won’t run to do anything rash, that your heart beats steady and stable.

Leaning forward suddenly, she grabs Alec’s wrist in a formidable grip and her gaze sears into his. I’ll tell you this, nephilim, you might prove yourself yet.

Taken aback, Alec can only frown. He tenses in her grip but feels no give. It’s like iron bands around his wrist and he wonders what the hell kind of game she’s playing.

She studies him with a calculating air. Unease drips down his spine and he shivers in her hold.

Good, she says quietly. You should be afraid. And do you know why, darling?

Alec can’t explain it but that twisted term of endearment burrows its way into his chest, wraps around his heart and squeezes until it feels like he’s suffocating.

One day, we will meet again and when we do, you’ll have a choice to make. We’ll see if you’re so sure and steadfast when that day comes, Alexander.

His wrist is released as suddenly as it was snatched and Alec stands quickly, the chair behind him crashing backwards to the floor.

It’s strange but he doesn’t feel threatened-- he doesn’t fear that presence, no matter how unsettling the encounter was.

The two of them stare at each other and Alec doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let his expression give anything away as he nods once and turns on his heel, heading toward the door.

Isabelle is waiting outside for him and he doesn’t pause to talk as he starts striding toward the Institute.

Izzy doesn’t say anything, seems to caught up in her own thoughts, and leaves Alec to his.

He doesn’t know who the hell that woman was or what she was trying to accomplish. All he knows is that she shouldn’t have gotten under his skin like this. As Alec nears the Institute, his sister at his side, he finds that he can’t quite remember the look of the woman. The details are blurred at the edges and he shakes his head, impatient.

By the time he gets to his room and draws a locking rune mechanically, he doesn’t remember the woman at all.

When he falls into bed that night, the afternoon is a hazy memory that he can’t quite grab onto. Sleep drags him under and with it the dreams come. There’s a man that calls out Alexander in hushed, reverent tones and a fire in the background that burns in twisting shades of black and white.

Alec relaxes in his seat. It’s a sunny summer morning and for the first time in days, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. If it’s not one thing it’s another and Alec is so fucking tired of Jace and his mother and the whole damned world that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

One of the new recruits had almost gotten themselves killed last night and as Alec takes a bracing sip of his coffee, he wonders what it’d be like.

Shadowhunters reconcile death with life before they take their first runes. Alec’s always been willing to die for the cause, the raison d’etre that all shadowhunters were made to shoulder but that doesn't stop him from wondering about the after.

This sidewalk cafe is cheerful and worlds away from the dank oppression of the shadow world but Alec wonders that it hasn’t tainted his very skin. He might be the Head of the Institute and he might have found his own form of sunlight in one Magnus Bane but he wonders if it’s all meant to last or if it’s just a temporary reprieve.

Lost in his thoughts, Alec doesn’t realize that someone’s sitting across from him until he hears the tap of a cane against the concrete. He looks up and immediately freezes.

The man looks familiar but not in a way that he can pin down. It seems like he’s shrouded in shadows, even when the sun shines brightly down on them both and Alec feels an uneasy scratch between his shoulders.

“What do you want,” he asks and shifts subtly for his glamoured blade.

The man chuckles. It’s warm but fills Alec with warning. He has a flash of memory-- a psychic in Lower Manhattan-- but it’s gone almost before it’s formed.

He doesn’t answer and Alec doesn’t press. The man is attractive if perfectly nondescript. He’s dressed plainly but in well-tailored clothes and Alec can’t pin down his accent, no matter that he’s toured institutes on every continent.

Continuing to tap his cane, the man looks thoughtful. “It’s not what I want, I assure you,” he finally says.

His gaze focuses on Alec’s and whatever Alec sees makes the breath shudder in his chest.

It’s awareness. It’s knowledge that Alec can never hope to have and he wonders who the hell the man in front of his.

“And what is it that you don’t want,” Alec asks. His tone might be perfectly perfunctory but that doesn’t mean that his mouth isn’t dry as seven devils.

The man stares at him with amused eyes before he chuckles. “I want you to go back to wherever you came from. I want you to release your greedy little grasp on what’s mine. But alas,” he sighs before staring shrewdly at Alec. “It’s not meant to be and I just have to bide my time.”

He says those last words like they’re vile little things, like he’d rather kill a dozen men than wait futilely on the sidelines.

“Who are you,” Alec asks, pulse thrumming against his throat. He takes a lingering sip of his coffee to hide how unnerved he is but can see the way the man’s eyes focus on his barely trembling fingers.

“You don’t know who I am?” The question is sneering with the faintest hint of bite. Alec thinks he sees the man’s eyes flash before they’re the same pedestrian brown as before. The rhythmic tempo of the cane stops. In the silence, their eyes clash and distantly Alec swears he hears the sound of dull roaring and the shriek of blade against blade.

“You’ll know who I am soon enough, shadowhunter. Until that day, I’ll remind you of our past encounter. You have a choice to make and I will only offer my assistance once. I know you, you see,” he taunts softly. “You would blow up the very ground you stand upon to save those you love and someone new has wriggled their way into your good graces.”

“We’ve met before? Funny how I don’t remember you.” Alec’s voice whips through the air, quiet yet contemptuous. He doesn’t know who the man in front of him but he doesn’t like his gall. Alec is made of sterner stuff than a strange man crying out dire warnings.

As though he can read Alec’s mind, the man smiles but it’s cold and forbidding. “All in due time, young nephilim.” His expression morphs suddenly into something hungry and devastating. “Want to know a secret, Alexander?”

Recoiling at the name, Alec studies the stranger with new eyes. What the hell?

The man leans close and raises his cane to tip Alec’s chin up. “One day, you’ll come to me to save him and I will do it-- for the right price. We’ll see what happens on that fateful day.”

Standing, the man starts walking away. Unbidden, Alec can’t help but call out to the retreating figure as ice crawls up his back.

“Who the hell are you and why should I believe a damned thing you have to say?”

The man stills before he looks over his shoulder. “I’m your fate, dear Lightwood. Time will tell whether you’ll thank me or curse my very existence. Sweet dreams, boy.”

With that, he turns back and resumes his retreat. Alec looks down with a shuddering breath but glances up a split second later only to freeze.

The man has vanished between one step and the next and Alec can’t find him no matter how long he studies the people around him.

Settling back in his chair, Alec reaches for his coffee with shaking hands. The man, the things he said-- Alec doesn't know what to think.

Standing, he leaves a tip for the waitress and walks away from the cafe in a daze, coffee unfinished and sunny day ruined.

He sees shadows wherever he looks and wonders what the fuck just happened. Heading to the loft, he takes a shower, feeling distinctly if stupidly unclean, and thanks the angel that Magnus is out on house calls for the day.

He spends most of the day thinking about the man and how he could have known his name. His taunting premonitions make Alec’s skin crawl but Christ if he knows what to do about it. However, there’s a piece of him that isn’t justifiably creeped out-- there’s something in him that yearns to know more, wants to reach for whatever that man is alluding to but damned if he knows why.

Resolutely, he decides the man had been mad, had been rambling and looking for a willing ear. Nothing else makes sense and Alec feels the beginning of a headache every time he tries to pull everything together.

He falls into bed in the warm afternoon sunshine and surrenders to sleep almost immediately. In his dreams, he smells the fires of the damned and feels tears on his cheeks as he accepts an offer in a sure, steadfast voice.

This is a nightmare, he thinks a little wildly.

Magnus is weak, he’s fading and aging and there’s not a good goddamned thing Alec can do for him.

Well. That’s not true.

He remembers a man with flashing eyes and an ebony cane. As he looks into Magnus’s face, into gold irises with slit pupils, everything comes crashing over Alec and his knees almost give out at the realization.

“Asmodeus,” he whispers and it’s like he’s been summoned, like he’s just been waiting for Alec to utter his name.

“Alexander.”

The Institutes alarms are sounding off but Alec doesn’t pay them any mind. He hears frantic knocking on his office door but all he can focus on is the two men in his office.

Magnus, his boyfriend, writhing on the ground as his eyes roll back in his head.

Asmodeus, leaning negligently against his desk, that damned cane resting under stacked hands. He observes the tableau in front of him with apathy but even in his devastation, Alec sees satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Leaning over Magnus, Alec looks up at Asmodeus. “Magnus needs his magic back.”

His voice is quiet with a hint of desperation lingering under the words. Asmodeus smiles.

“I can give him what he needs,” he says easily. “Whatever I’ve taken is just as easily replenished.”

Pausing, he studies Alec for a few moments. “My help comes with a price, though, young shadowhunter. Are you--”

“Do it.”

He looks taken aback but his eyes are unsurprised. “You haven’t heard my terms, Alexander.”

“Then why don’t you tell me them so I can agree,” Alec grits out.

Chuckling, Asmodeus complies. “Very well, then.”

He’s still leaning carelessly on Alec’s desk and Magnus is still losing his fucking life in front of him and the Institute’s alarms are still raising bloody hell. With a wave of his hand, the alarms silence in the office and the sudden quiet is stark. Alec hears Magnus’s labored breathing and the crackle of his fireplace. He looks up and when he meets Asmodeus’s eyes, he stills for a moment.

Gold eyes stare back at him, at once threat and salvation.

“I will give my son his magic back. I will make him hale and whole again-- you, however,” he trails off. His smile this time is cruel and cuts to the quick. “You I will make immortal. You will remain one of your dreaded kind but you will never age and you will never die. You will forever remain as you are-- tied to Magnus, to me, and I will watch as you grow bitter and resentful. That is the price, shadowhunter. That is what I will take in exchange for saving your love’s life.”

Opening his mouth, Alec doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Magnus is clawing at his arm. Looking down, Alec’s heart feels flayed open.

“Alexander,” Magnus mutters. “Don’t do it. Don’t make this deal, not for me. You don’t know what he’s asking, darling. You don’t know what he’s capable of-- do not accept.”

Magnus ends his entreaty with a pleading look but as Alec studies his boyfriend, he’s reminded of the quiet confession he’d made all those weeks ago.

I don’t think I can live without you.

He sees his heart in Magnus’s eyes and knows that his choice is hardly a choice at all.

Leaning down, he lays the softest of kisses on Magnus’s lips. He’s still now, laying on the ground with tears and fatal acceptance swimming in his eyes.

“I love you, Magnus.”

Magnus closes his eyes at the whispered admission. Without opening, he replies in a hoarse voice, “I love you too, Alexander.”

It’s the hardest thing that Alec’s ever done, standing from Magnus when he’s hurt, when he goes limp in exhaustion and pain as the loss of his magic ravages his body from the inside out.

He does it, though, and isn't ashamed when his own tears spill over. Alec stands and sways on his feet. Swallowing hard, he straightens and takes a single step towards Asmodeus, who’s watching him with amused eyes.

“I will only ask once, Alexander. Do you accept the terms of my deal?”

“Yes.”

It seems like the ground shakes and Asmodeus finally pulls away from the desk. He pulls out a vial from his jacket and holds it up so that it catches the late afternoon light. It’s pitch black, dark as hell, and it’s another piece of dreamscape returned to him.

“A deal is a deal, shadowhunter.”

In the time that it takes for Alec to reach out and take the vial, he relives a million memories and mourns a thousand deaths. He’s sure, though. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. Anything is worth saving Magnus and that’s a conviction that Alec knows will never fade-- not with all the time in the world.

Uncorking the vial, he takes one last look at Magnus before switching his gaze to Asmodeus. It’s almost to his lips before he abruptly pulls it back, Asmodeus watching him with a faint smile.

“How,” he asks. “Why.”

Sighing, Asmodeus studies him and Alec feels his eyes linger on his deflect rune, on the necklace that was a gift from his son.

“There have been rumbling for millennia about the shadowhunter child that would aspire to immortality. It wasn’t until you were born, though, that angels and demons alike knew the fated nephilim had arrived,” he says thoughtfully. He looks at Alec with shrewd eyes. “I see all, young shadowhunter. I know future as well as past and I could see the connection that would form between you and mine.”

He laughs but it’s sardonic. “Those dreams were a way to reach you, to test your loyalty. You’ve always been so strong,” he marvels mockingly. “You dealt with the dreams and I could feel the yearning in you. I knew it was only a matter of time until circumstances pressed your hand and I vowed to be there when it did.”

“Why,” Alec manages. “Why do you care so much?”

“Don’t you see, Alexander? Immortality is as much gift as curse. There will come a day when you look at Magnus and all you can see is what you gave up. It may take a little while but I’m a patient man and we have all the time in the world to watch your love turn to seething hatred.”

Trailing off, Asmodeus takes a step closer to Alec who refuses to move an inch, no matter how much he wants to recoil. Asmodeus doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of Alec and then he grasps Alec’s chin in thin fingers that possess an iron grip.

“And when that day comes,” he continues softly. “I will welcome my prodigal son to Edom with open arms. You see, Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you are my way back to my son and nothing matters as much to me as him.”

He jerks his chin to Magnus who doesn’t even look aware of the exchange as he sweats through his waistcoat and the breath rattles in his chest.

Asmodeus pulls his head back until they’re staring into each other’s eyes. “I might save him but it’s not for you. You are nothing but a passing diversion. I am the one constant in Magnus’s life and I will stand next to him long after the very sight of him turns your stomach.”

The breath shudders out of Alec’s chest and he swallows hard. “That will never happen,” he vows in a low tone. “I will never give up on Magnus and I will never let him return to you. He is mine and I am his and nothing in this goddamned universe will ever change that.”

He spits out the last of it before turning his back to Asmodeus. As he stares at the fire roaring under the mantle, he brings the vial up to to his lips and throws it viciously back.

The screams start immediately.

Falling to his knees, Alec doesn’t feel the impact onto the granite floor. On all fours, his head hangs low and he tries to make himself as small as possible as pain radiates through every bone and organ and blood cell.

All he knows is pain, all he can hear is his own screaming voice, already growing hoarse. Looking down, he watches as his veins turn black and he wonders if it all wasn’t just a trick by the most powerful prince of hell.

He falls on his front, splayed in front of the fireplace and distantly watches as Asmodeus makes his way over to Magnus. He sees the way he kneels before Magnus’s side and the way crimson magic soaks into his boyfriend’s prone form.

The last thing he sees before it feels like his very soul gives out is Magnus waking in Asmodeus’s arms with blue wisps of magic curling around his arms.

He dreams. There’s a man with gold eyes that represent home and a world that’s far different than any he’s ever known.

He watches from afar as everything changes time and time again, the one constant the man beside him and the love that flares bright and high between them.

He wakes and in this new consciousness feels reborn.

He’s free and he’s taken and when he hears a hushed, reverent, “Alexander,” in a voice he’d know anywhere, he knows he’s safe.

Alec opens his eyes and stares at Magnus, at the rest of his life, and promises both heaven and hell that he’ll hang on to this with everything he is and everything that he will ever be.

#drag me out alive #my writing

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kinsbin · 5 years

Text

Courting

Title: Courting Ship: Alexys/Predator [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2058 Summary: Tusk tries to give Alexys a fitting gift for mates of the Yautja, but, it doesn’t go as he planned. When she explains human gifts to him, however, he tries a second time. Hopefully it will be better.

A/N: A commission for @space-sweetheart! <3

Alexys had been mentally prepared for a lot of things upon garnering a space-alien boyfriend living in the confines of her apartment complex. She had grown used to the concept of having to come up with cover up stories as to why there always seemed to be the sound of two people living in her home when she lived alone. Of having to refuse other’s plans because she had made a promise to someone else earlier that day. Her friends had suspected that she had found someone to spend her time with and, while they did miss her greatly at times, they encouraged her to experience this ‘strange mystery person’ and whatever joys they might bring her. She was happy they were supportive of her, certainly.

But if only they knew what she had truly gotten herself into.

She was prepared for it, though! Of having to hide the massive predator that was Tusk from the world and...it was cathartic in a way. He was hers, and only she was able to have him on this planet full of billions of other people. She was mentally prepared for the consequences that came with it.

What she WASN’T mentally prepared for, however, was said massive alien coming home with a literal human head in his arms. What she wasn’t prepared for was him offering said head out to her in the middle of the kitchen, where she sat in her pajamas on the counter chewing on what was once an appetizing bowl of chinese food.

The moment her eyes laid themselves on the severed head, its human face contorted into a gaze of shock and pain through rolled up eye sockets and a lolling out tongue, the fried rice between her lips tasted all too much like brains. All too texture like the sight before her, with its blood oozing out of its nose and ears and the hair being pulled taught up in scaled hands while rigor mortis set vaguely into is person after a few hours of existing outside of its circulatory system. Though Tusk purred with a pride she couldn’t quite place at the fact that he had done this, she only felt morbid terror as her body curdled with refusal at the sight before her.

Tusk’s purrs soon echoed into confused clicks of his native tongue as he looked down through his visor, still placed on his head after a successful hunt, to watch her shove her food off of her lap and scramble towards the sink. The plate of food hit the ground, spilling its rice everywhere and breaking into small pieces amongst the tile. Alexys felt herself heave into the stainless steel basin, emptying herself of the contents she had so been cherishing earlier.

The head fell to the floor to join the food soon, blood staining the tile, the rice, and the broken plate shards as more confused Yautja noises seemed to steep from his mouth. Alexys could do nothing to respond to them until her heaving had stopped, lips pursed together as she blinked away the tears that had fallen from her eyes out of shock.

A hand brushed her neck, gently caressing the tender skin before lifting her hair up in clawed fingertips. Tusk allowed the strands of her locks to fall between his grip, unsure of whether it was okay to hold them as he wanted or to give her space to heave properly. Alexys sighed once she was done and turned the faucet on, wiping her eyes off after rinsing her mouth out and facing him fully. His hands found her face, cradling her cheek gently in the massive hand as he reached around with his other to slowly remove his hunter’s helm. It was placed on the counter upon its removal, his eyes now boring into hers as they watched one another in contemplative silence for a long time.

“I-Wh…” Alexys took a deep breath and dared a look back at the severed head, “Why...is that here?”

Tusk paused thoughtfully, trying to come up with a way to explain the words in a way that she might understand fully. All he could think to finally manager through the startled surprise of watching his loved one throw up, however, was a meek gesture to the head and then to her. It was accompanied by a nod and a soft click, something about it managing to translate itself in Alexys’ head with all of her months of learning and figuring out the language he offered her.

“A...gift? Was it supposed to be a gift?”

She did not mean to offend with the incredulity in her tone, but, it seemed she failed as his body tensed and a growl of hurt pride rumbled somewhere in his throat. Another violent gesture echoed towards the head. As if he was truly saying ‘of course it was! I did this for you!’ and she found it both parts endeering and horrifying.

She knew he didn’t know better, though.

“Ah...No, I-” She bit her lip and took a breath, “I can explain wh-what happened after you. Remove it from the house. And maybe far away from the building in general, please. I need to-hm-mop the blood up and probably sweep the rice and plate away...Man...I liked that rice too.”

She felt his deepset confusion commingle with his rage as he huffed a subtle agreement, massive hand reaching down to scoop the head up in his arms and then march himself away from the home they shared. Alexys got busy, grabbing some bleach and a couple of towels and trying to ignore the staining trail leading away from her home.

After the ground was clean and he returned with no sign of a head at his side, Alexys felt at ease enough to sit him down and fully explain.

“Tusky,” She managed out slowly, “I appreciate the gifts, I really do. I’m...flattered, really. No guy’s ever given me a gift….especially not one he had to kill for…”

At this notion a proud click echoed from the base of his chest words fading in and out of her peripheral as she felt him draw closer to her form. His body was still hot from his hunt, temperature fluctuation in his species seemed constant and volatile as they existed. He was hotter as he moved, and Alexys momentarily wondered if that was why he always felt like he had to be doing so. To shift and to exist meant to live for the Yautja. Perhaps there was something buried in the recesses of their DNA that made this so. Regardless, it was irrelevant to the situation at hand as she put her own palm onto his chest and took a breath, silencing his proud churrs enough for her to keep going.

“But...here, with humans. We...we’re different when it comes to gifts. It’s weird I guess, but, we like things like...flowers or plants! Rocks that sparkle and handmade prizes you’ve offered with thought and care-not saying that the gift itself wasn’t thoughtful or you didn’t put any effort into it, of course! It’s just...how we are. Just like you’re how you are.”

A long strand of silence, held taut between them like an elastic wire, echoed silently through her home. Tusk had dipped his face down as he thought of her words, eyes searching the void before him in contemplation of the status humans saw as ‘proper gifts’. There was momentary terror in her heart that he might take offense to the explanation. That he might storm out of her home and never return, or worse, return with several more heads in an effort to change her mind from the weak gifts humans seemed to prefer. Her body tensed for a moment, breath exiting her lungs a little faster than before as she tried to find a way to explain it yet again in her mind.

All things in her mind were cut off, however, when the predator before her stood up abruptly and turned to the door. Without another word between them, he stalked out of the house and shut the door tight behind him, leaving her in the room alone with her shock and confusion.

What just happened? Had she said something wrong? Had he finally decided that she was too weak to be with and left for the larger pastures of land that was the universe? Did he need time to think it over? All of these thoughts whirled in the back of her mind like a painful typhoon of panic. Alexys let out a shaky breath and stood up, legs moving to the door to peer out from where he left.

She couldn’t see him anymore.

The night was spent in worry afterwards, her stomach curdling with fear as she thought of what he might be doing. Where he might be going. Was she ever going to see him again? Her grip tightened on the thin metal fork in her hand as she stirred idly at some homemade batter in the center of a mug, the microwavable cookie recipe she found online doing nothing to quell her fears but everything to fill her sweet tooth that had developed through the worry.

Far into it, she heard the front door open yet again. Her heart leapt forward all too excitedly in the pit of her stomach as she turned to face the doorway, mug dropped on the counter in favor of rushing towards the noise. Her bare feet hit the carpet of her living room with an immeasurable speed, the soft material doing nothing to quell the beating of her heart as she stood, silent and shocked, to face her alien lover. Tusk stood before her, his body straight and proud in traditional Yautja posture. It was an entrance he had formed when he first came in earlier that afternoon, only, instead of sporting a severed head peeling back with flesh he was holding...holding…

“Are those flowers?”

They were indeed flowers, though, not in the traditional bouquet sense. The variety of apparent wild flowers sported occasional thorns and weeds in their stems, small baby’s breath decorating the lines of dandelions and poppies that littered the bouquet. Each flower she had seen before, she noted, in the forest near her home. The same forest that she had found Tusk all those months ago, where she had dragged him from and patched him up. Where they had fallen in love. The memory flooded her senses and so did the love she had for the alien before her.

“Did you...pick those for me?”

Both questions were answered with nods, appreciative clicks and gentle churrs of his language echoing easy between her ears as he held the flowers out more. It was then that she noted the blood staining his hands. The way it got on the stems and dripped on the floor with the water from the plants that had been near the local stream bed without a doubt. Alexys couldn’t find herself to care, however, as a smile spread itself against the seam of her lips and she ran forward, engulfing Tusk in a tight and needy hug that would have made him startle back if not for the fact that, compared to the amount of weight he normally lifted, she was practically feather light.

“Thank-you.” She whispered the words against him as they hugged, her arms tightening around his neck as they kept each other close. She could feel his breathing quicken and relax with the relief of knowing she appreciated the gesture. His arms soon tightened around her, crushing her to him in a show how much he appreciated it. The physicality of their relationship was one of the few ways they were able to clearly show their feelings for one another and, by god, he would do it was well as he could.

When they separated, Alexys kissed the base of his mouth and smiled softly, “Let’s stick to flowers from now on, okay? I...think they’re pretty.”

A chuckle seemed to bellow from his chest as he gave a nod of approval to the idea, the two of them embracing again as the flowers were held around them, illuminating the room in the scent of the forest and safety.

#self insert #self ship #self shipping #kinley writes #commission work #writing commission

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