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itwasrealtome · 2 months ago

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RUNAWAY

Olivia Benson x fem! detective reader

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

ANGST & FLUFF | Olivia Benson x fem! detective reader | Masterlist

Summary: During an investigation, Y/N, the youngest member and most athletic detective of the unit, pursues a suspect who flees from them. But a collision with a car injuries Y/N who finds solace in Olivia’s presence.

A/N : I don't know what to really think of this one. It was lying around in my drafts. So here it is.

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•••

Manhattan wasn't built for racing.

Amanda had gone back and forth on the issue–her arguments backed up by those unpleasant washing-machine sensations rolling around in her belly–before finally settling on that conclusion. It wasn't the most scientific observation, sure, and it certainly didn't account for all the reasons she currently felt like she might lose her breakfast, but it was comforting in its simplicity. Easier to blame the narrow, over-congested streets and the suffocating crush of cabs, delivery trucks, and coffee-fueled cyclists than the real reason for her unease.

Which, as much as she hated to admit it, was Y/N.

The youngest detective in their unit drove like she had something to prove. Or maybe like she thought physics was more of a polite suggestion than a law. Y/N's hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles pale with pressure, but her expression was all laser focus and cool determination. She leaned forward just enough to suggest she was ready to merge her body with the engine and take full command of velocity itself.

Amanda swore under her breath as the SUV jerked through a tight corner, one tire kissing the curb before Y/N straightened them out again.

—I swear, kid, you missed your calling as a getaway driver.

The detective didn't respond. Her jaw was clenched, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, were locked on the black sedan cutting through the traffic three car lengths ahead.

—She's not even breathing, the blonde muttered, one hand gripping the oh-shit handle above her door. Tell me she's breathing, Liv.

Olivia didn't look over. She was in the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dashboard, the other curled around her phone as it buzzed with updates. Her expression was unreadable—calm, composed, the way only Olivia Benson could be while flying down Delancey Street at borderline-illegal speeds.

—He's heading west on Delancey, she said, her voice clipped but clear. Units are converging near Bowery. He's not going to get far.

Y/N's fingers flexed on the wheel, shifting gears with a practiced, almost effortless flick.

—He won't make it that far.

The SUV jolted again as it hit a pothole hard enough to send Amanda momentarily airborne in her seat.

—You know, she grunted. For a city where people pay twelve bucks for a sandwich, you'd think they'd patch the damn roads.

—Less commentary, Y/N snapped, barely glancing in the rearview. More eyes.

Amanda raised both brows.

—Well, excuse me for trying to keep my organs where they belong.

—She's got eyes, the captain cut in, her voice cool and steady, but her gaze flicked sideways toward her young protégé for half a beat.

Amanda bit her tongue but leaned forward between the seats, trying to get a clearer line on the car they were following. The suspect's vehicle swerved sharply, clipping the corner of a food cart and sending a scattering of aluminum trays and shouts into the air. He was panicking. They had him rattled. He was going to run.

—There! Rollins pointed. He's bailing.

Up ahead, the sedan skidded to a sloppy stop at the curb, the rear fishtailing slightly before the driver's door flew open. The suspect didn't wait–he was out and moving before the tires had stopped turning, disappearing into a stream of pedestrians without so much as a backward glance.

—Go left, Olivia barked.

Y/N didn't hesitate. She jerked the wheel hard, cutting across the intersection and mounting the sidewalk with a jolt that sent a chorus of pedestrians scattering. Tires screeched in protest as she bounced them back onto the road, bringing the SUV to a stop so fast Amanda's seatbelt dug hard into her shoulder.

Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, the youngest was already throwing the door open.

She tore across the pavement like a bullet fired from a cannon, weaving through startled pedestrians and skimming past lampposts with inches to spare. Her boots hit the concrete with solid, echoing rhythm, the kind of confident, unrelenting pace only a body trained for speed and power could maintain.

The suspect had a good head start, but she was closing the gap–quick, focused, her braid whipping behind her like a signal flag. She didn't look back. Didn't need to. She knew Olivia and Amanda were behind her, but the chase had narrowed into a tunnel of instinct and adrenaline.

The man ahead barreled through the front door of a narrow brick building wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered deli. Y/N followed without hesitation, slamming her shoulder into the door as it swung wide under her momentum, echoing hard against the frame.

Inside, the stairwell smelled of dust and old sweat. The walls were lined with peeling paint and dented mailboxes. The detective didn't slow down. She heard the thudding footsteps above her, and she took the stairs two at a time, muscles burning as she climbed. Her lungs expanded with sharp, determined breaths, eyes flicking upward to catch the flick of a jacket disappearing around the landing.

She reached the third floor just as the door slammed ahead of her–an apartment maybe, or a hallway access. She pushed through and found herself in a long corridor lit by flickering overhead lights, doors on either side, most of them closed, one of them swinging slightly from where the suspect had shoved through.

—Y/N!

Olivia's voice echoed from below, strained and slightly winded, the command still present beneath the urgency. But Y/N couldn't wait. She ran. Her heart thudded in her ears as she followed the banging noises of the suspect knocking into walls and furniture, careening his way through the maze of the building.

He was desperate, and desperate men were dangerous.

She reached the end of the hallway just as he slipped through a stairwell door and disappeared downward. Without breaking stride, she pushed through after him, taking the steps down with the same speed she'd used going up.

Behind her, her captain was in pursuit, her breathing heavier, her stride strong but tempered by years of chases and a body that no longer obeyed the same way it once did. Amanda followed, swearing under her breath, boots slapping against the concrete. They were both experienced, both tough as nails, but they knew Y/N's pace was something else–fueled by youth, drive, and maybe something deeper, something to prove.

By the time their protégé burst through the back door, she was only seconds behind him. It flung open into a narrow alley behind the building, and the air hit her face cold and sharp. She saw his shoulder disappear to the right, and she pushed herself harder, muscles screaming in protest as she sprinted after him.

Trash bins blurred at the edges of her vision. Her feet pounded through puddles left by the morning rain, and a dog barked from an open window somewhere above. The suspect reached the edge of the alley and darted into the street without looking, and Y/N didn't think–she just followed.

Benson came out the back door not ten seconds later, her chest rising fast, lungs burning. She caught sight of her detective just as she hit the corner of the alley and vanished into the open.

—Y/N!

Her voice didn't reach in time. She ran, ignoring the fire in her legs, Amanda's footsteps behind her sounding just as strained. She hit the edge of the alley and skidded to a halt, just in time to see the blur of movement–Y/N stepping out into the street, a car hurtling toward her from the cross traffic, the driver's horn blaring too late.

Then came the sound—louder than anything. A dull, horrifying thud that seemed to fold the air in on itself.

The young woman's body hit the hood and rolled, crashing to the pavement with a sickening crack of limbs and bone. Time splintered. Olivia's heart lurched so violently she forgot how to breathe. Amanda cursed loud and panicked behind her, sprinting forward as if her sheer will could undo what they'd just witnessed.

The captain's legs moved before her mind could catch up. She ran across the street, weaving between braking cars, the world narrowing down to the motionless figure crumpled at the curb.

Y/N lay on her side, eyes closed, face pale, her braid now damp with grime and blood. One leg was twisted unnaturally beneath her, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling gasps.

Olivia dropped to her knees beside her, the sound of city noise falling away under the thudding in her ears. The world shrank to the young woman sprawled on the pavement—Y/N's blood-streaked temple, the harsh rise and fall of her chest, the tremble in her fingers as she tried to push herself up. The brunette reached out instinctively, one steady hand pressing gently to Y/N's shoulder to still her.

—Hey–no, no, no. Don't move, she said, her voice low but firm, the kind of command wrapped in care that only she could deliver. Stay down, Y/N/N. I've got you. Just breathe.

Y/N blinked hard, lashes sticky with grime, her gaze struggling to focus through the haze of pain.

—The–he ran, she gasped, a line of blood curling at the edge of her lip. Her words were ragged. He got away.

—No, he didn't, Olivia said quickly, shaking her head. Her hand shifted to brush damp hair from Y/N's forehead, careful, gentle. Amanda's got him. He didn't get far. We've got him, sweetie. You did your job. It's over.

Y/N tried to turn her head but winced, her whole body tensing as the pain surged again. Her leg, Olivia noticed now, was clearly broken–swollen, bent at an angle that turned her stomach. There was more–bruising around her ribs, abrasions on her arms–but it was the way the woman's voice trembled when she whispered "How bad is it?" that hit the deepest.

The oldest paused for a breath, her eyes scanning the injuries again, her brain already cataloguing damage. But what her detective needed wasn't triage. She needed something solid to hold onto in the swirl of fear and pain closing in around her. So Olivia softened her voice, let her hand curl around Y/N's.

—You're gonna be okay, she said. You hear me? You're hurt, yeah–but help's coming. I've already got paramedics on the way.

She reached with her free hand to her radio, her fingers sure and practiced despite the weight in her chest.

Central, this is Captain Benson. Officer down. We need a bus at Clinton and Stanton, now. Female detective, mid twenties, struck by a vehicle. Conscious, but we need medics on the scene ASAP.

She released the call, never once letting go of the hand. Y/N's eyes fluttered shut for a second, her brow tight. Olivia could see her fighting against it–against the pain, the fear, the instinct to get back up and keep moving even when her body was crying out in protest. She squeezed her hand gently.

—Stay with me, she said, her voice a quiet tether. You don't have to be strong right now, okay? Just stay still. Let them take care of you.

Sirens echoed in the distance, and Olivia allowed herself to exhale slowly, her body still leaning protectively over the young detective. Across the street, Amanda had their suspect pinned against the side of a parked van, his hands cuffed behind his back, his face pressed to the metal. She looked over once—just once—and met her boss' eyes. A silent exchange passed between them. The blonde gave a short nod. The bastard was going nowhere.

Olivia turned her attention back to the injured woman, whose breaths had grown shallow and uneven. Her hand was still curled in hers, grip weak but desperate, like she was clinging to the edge of something she couldn't quite name.

—How's the pain? asked the captain, her voice low, steady, trying to sound like the calm in the storm.

Her eyes searched Y/N's face for truth, for tells. The latter gave a breathy laugh that caught in her throat, shaking her head slightly against the pavement.

—It's... not that bad.

Her lie was too thin to even pass as a joke. Her jaw was tight, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was biting back something real.

Olivia tilted her head slightly, leaning closer.

—Y/N/N.

Y/N blinked hard, once, then again. Her lips parted, and for a moment it looked like she might hold her ground–but then she gave in. Her voice cracked on the words.

—I can barely feel it, she admitted. My leg. I-I don't know if it's because the pain's so bad it's gone numb, or if... She swallowed, her eyes flickering to the brunette's face and staying there. Or if it's because all I can think about right now is looking at you. Focusing on you. Just... staying with you.

Olivia felt something twist deep in her chest at that–fierce and protective, almost unbearable. She squeezed Y/N's hand, her other palm resting lightly above her heart.

—You're here. You're doing great, sweetie. You're not alone, okay? I've got you.

Y/N gave the barest nod, her lashes fluttering. Olivia took a breath and gently asked: "Can you move your toes for me?"

There was a beat of silence. the detective's eyes flicked downward, like she was willing her body to obey, and then she gasped out a breath.

—Yeah, she whispered, relief rushing through her voice. Yeah, I can.

—That's good, Olivia said, brushing her fingers across the woman's forehead again, pushing back sweat-damp hair. That's really good. That means something.

But then the youngest tried to lift her head, craning to see the damage to her leg. Her torso twisted with a sharp inhale, the movement small but dangerous.

—Hey-no, no, no. Don't. Don't look. Not yet.

—But I need to-

—No, you don't, Olivia cut in, gently. What you need is to stay still until the paramedics get here. Let them take care of you. You don't need to see it. I promise you, okay? I've got eyes on everything.

For a moment, Y/N looked like she might argue–but then her body sank against the pavement again, the weight of exhaustion finally starting to catch up. She trusted Olivia. Always had. And that, more than anything, was enough to make her let go of the urge to control what she couldn't fix.

The sirens cut through the narrow street seconds later, their rising wail a strange comfort. Benson turned slightly as the ambulance squealed to a halt, its back doors flying open before the wheels had even stopped turning. The paramedics poured out like a wave, a blur of navy uniforms and urgent voices.

Y/N blinked up at the sky, wincing as the medic leaned in with a flashlight, checking her pupils. Another knelt by her legs, assessing the damage, his movements brisk but careful. One of them pressed a syringe gently against her arm, his voice low and calm.

—You're gonna feel this kick in real quick. It's just something for the pain, okay?

She gave a sluggish nod, her eyes already glossing over, her jaw relaxing as the drug seeped through her system. Her breathing slowed, the tension bleeding out of her limbs, replaced by a drowsy kind of calm. Her lips parted as if to speak, but whatever she was trying to say came out slurred, barely a whisper. Olivia crouched nearby again, her eyes never leaving her.

—M'fine, she mumbled, though the slur in her words betrayed just how much adrenaline had been holding her together.

Olivia leaned down and brushed her fingers lightly over her cheek again, a soft gesture meant to ground her as much as soothe.

—She's gonna be a little loopy for a few minutes, one of the paramedics told her, reaching into his kit for a stabilizer brace. We had to start something strong. That leg's broken in at least two places. Possible hairline fracture in the hip, too.

—How bad is it? Liv asked, her voice low but tight, all business wrapped around a barely concealed thread of fear.

The paramedic glanced up at her, pausing just long enough to show he understood this wasn't just a procedural question.

—The break's clean. Messy, but treatable. We'll know more after imaging, but she's lucky. No spinal signs. She's responsive. She can move her toes, which is good. Very good.

—And the head injury?

—Mild concussion, from what we can tell. We'll monitor for swelling, but she's lucid. She's got good reflexes. This could've been worse, Captain. Much worse.

She nodded, a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding slipping free. Relief didn't flood her exactly–it edged in slowly, cautiously, like it needed permission. She glanced back to Y/N, who was mumbling something incoherent, her brows furrowed under the weight of confusion and drugs. Amanda appeared behind her then, jogging over with her hair pulled loose from the chase, face flushed and drawn.

—He's in custody, Amanda said, breathless. Uniforms are taking him downtown. Little bastard didn't get more than two blocks before I caught him trying to blend into a crowd.

Olivia stood, her arms crossing tightly, eyes flicking back to Y/N's form as the paramedics began easing her onto a backboard.

—She moved fast, she murmured. Too fast.

Amanda nodded grimly.

—He panicked when he saw her gain on him. Swerved into the street. Didn't even look.

The sound of velcro straps echoed sharply in the quiet that followed. Olivia took a step closer as Y/N was lifted gently onto the stretcher. Her hand hovered near her shoulder before brushing it lightly, grounding them both.

—She's gonna be okay. She's tough.

—I know. But sometimes... tough doesn't mean unbreakable.

•••

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#olivia benson x reader #law and order svu #olivia benson #amanda rollins #amanda rollins x reader #law and order svu x reader #l&o svu

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wonderjanga · 9 months ago

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I love your headcanons!!! Do you think that with Fawcett being a time bubble and magical influence and when new technology is introduced to the city that it changes? Like the engineers study magic as well due to the proximity to the Rock of Eternity? I'd imagine like perpetual motion machines do exist and parts of the plumbing system are fantastical magic animals. Like the old telephone wires are autonomous snake-like entities that Marvel has to untangle sometimes. (They do get tangled up). It's all very surreal and dream logic stuff.

I would love to see what's under the hoods of their cars. Do they run on pixie dust or dragon tears? Are there small sprites keeping it all together?

I’ve actually never really thought about this but here are some ideas! I think they would study magic when getting engineering degrees cause I’m pretty sure they’d just think of it as apart of engineering maybe. Like for example, when building houses they’d make fairy doors in certain places. I also think that instead of Lightbulbs for street lamps they hire fairies every night to make themselves light up. They get payed in pretty stones. Detectives can hire ghosts to help solve crimes. I think their cars run on either, but they’d be higher quality gas so most people would use normal gas. I also think there would be lawyers who work specifically with cases about fae. There’s gonna be lawyers to get that first born back. People might use magical herbs in everyday cooking too. Like someone might get a dried leaf called mystic petals because when ground up, they taste similar to sugar. (The plant makes hair, skin, and eye color more vibrant) One of the teachers at an elementary school is a Lich that has nothing better to do but teach. Or a Centaur works as a PE teacher. I also think that Fawcett could be so affected by magic that the buildings and sidewalks could be sentient. Like a little kid’s about to trip on a crack and the pavement moves the crack out of the way. Or someone who’s vandalizing a building gets hit in the face when the building pushes a brick out. Certain roads seal up their potholes, and maybe Billy is running down an alley being chased or something and the alley walls close up behind him cutting his pursuers off. The flowers grow all year around in a certain part of a city, it could be hot all the time in another, it could snow frequently in another, and trees could start turning orange and letting leaves fall in another because of the presence of spring, summer, fall, and winter fairies who split Fawcett up into small kingdoms. Billy oversees their diplomatic affairs. You find Santa at the grocery store buying cookie mix because “it’s cheaper here than at the North Pole”. The Spirit of Halloween would start pestering people in beginning of September to put up their Halloween decorations. The Easter Bunny would be a local attraction to go see, as it would be in a meadow every Easter making eggs and giving them to other bunnies to go hide. There’d be tones of restaurants in Fawcett with from from multiple creatures. You can go to a small place on 45th, where you can order from fairies who make sandwiches and soups using traditional fairy recipes and herbs. Or a small stand ran by orcs who sell Owlbear on a stick and roasted Blood Hawk legs. There could be a pair of yetis who sell snow cones using snow from the Himalayas. They have human flavors like grape, and yeti flavors using fruits grown from their tribes. When zombies crawl out of their grave, there’s insurance for both the damage to the coffins and the ruined grave and for people who get bitten. Doctors tweaked the polio vaccine for zombification. Wind elementals help people they favor when they fall. Water elementals help move snow from roads. Earth elementals help with construction. Fire elementals help melt down metals for jewelry stores and factories. Harpies sing for crowds. Gelatinous Cubes can be used as lubricants for machinery and extremely strong glues. I also think the rock messed with time. There are dinosaurs displayed at the zoo. Certain buildings look like they’re from different eras. Gothic architecture, favored by vampires. Victorian architecture. Neoclassical architecture. Also there are wyvern. Though they’re all the size of vultures. They’d have multiple different scale colors which have been made into jewelry or bags. Animal rights activists heavily protested that, and did the same thing they would do to mink coats in the 90’s to the dragon scale items. They threw paint on them. Mimics have exterminators to sniff them out. Shapeshifters wear certain tags while in magical form so they won’t get flagged for animal patrol. There’s also a bunch of other races such as lamia, gorgons, lizard people, homuncules, and goblins.

#billy batson #captain marvel dc #dc captain marvel #shazam #fawcett #fawcett city #fawcett comics #this was much longer than i intended #Post limits suck #This would’ve been longer

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coopszqi · 9 months ago

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\\ ᗰEET TᕼE ᑕᖇEEᑭEᖇ! \\ Ticci Toby. \

ꕥ \\ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ, ᴅɪɢ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ!! \\ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ʏ/ɴ ʟ/ɴ, ᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇᴇ ꜱʟᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, ʜᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜᴇʀ.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

𝓒ℛ𝓔𝓔𝓟Ⴘ𝓟𝓐𝓢𝑇𝓐. | ᴛɪᴄᴄɪ ᴛᴏʙʏ x ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | chap 1.

ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Detective Y/N L/N, a young woman investigating thee Slender case, encounters a man ordered to kill her. The story involves Slenderman, a supernatural entity responsible for child disappearances and killings. One Of Slenderman's in famous proxy's, Ticci Toby, has been assigned to kill L/N. But complications arise when the Detective develops what seem to be feelings.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ��ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜰᴏᴜʟ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ, ɪɴᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You're driving through the dense forest in Maine, heavy rain beating down on your windshield as you navigate the winding roads. Fog obscures your view, but you're not concerned. You've made this drive a hundred times and know every twist and turn like the back of your hand. Plus, the GPS on your phone guides you the rest of the way. As you venture deeper into the woods, the road narrows and turns to gravel. You slow down, carefully avoiding the large potholes that dot the winding path. Rounding a curve, you spot a cabin tucked away in the woods. It looks old and weathered, but you know it's solid and well-built. It's one of your favorite places in the world—a peaceful retreat from the busy world, especially with all the recent disappearances.

As you pull into the dirt driveway, a sense of comfort washes over you. You've made it, despite the torrential rain and fog. Stepping out of your car, you take a deep breath of the fresh, damp air, inhaling the scent of pine trees. You grab your keys and hurry to the front door, eager to settle in for the night and dry off. "Finally back home..." you sigh with a soft smile, closing and locking the door. You've been in New York for a case since last month—you didn't like being away for so long, but you agreed anyway.

As you make your way to the kitchen, you hear the sound of paws racing towards you. Turning, you see a large black Labrador retriever bounding your way, tongue lolling and tail wagging enthusiastically. You smile as the happy pup leaps into your arms, snuggling against you for warmth and attention. You pet its head and scratch behind its ears, feeling the dog's warmth and love radiating from its body. "Hello to you too, Giz," you chuckle softly, a warm smile spreading across your face as the dog grins back. Your sister took him while you were gone, though you suppose she came by not too long ago to drop him off. You head to the fridge, grabbing the jug of Sunny D and pouring it into a glass.

You've spent many joy filled days in this cabin since you were a kid, far from the bustling city and its hectic pace. The cozy, rustic atmosphere is a welcome change from the noise and chaos of urban life. Yet there's something haunting about the cabin that you can't quite put your finger on. Rain pours down outside, and wind howls through the trees, creating an unsettling atmosphere. Despite your exhaustion, you can't help but feel uneasy. You light a fire in the fireplace and sink into a cozy armchair, trying to ignore the feeling that you're being watched. As you drift off to slumber.

Grabbing your phone, you sigh at the time. It's 5:30. Unfortunately, you've got work in an hour. Great. It's not that you hate your job—it's just tiring. You wanted to follow in your mother's footsteps as a detective, and you did just that. Now you're officially a detective helping the state of Maine. You groan and reluctantly pull yourself out of the armchair, stretching your limbs with a small ‘POP’ as you do so.

"Did I really fall asleep here last night?" you grumbled, hands instinctively reaching for your face, attempting to rub the sleep away.

You now make your way up the wooden stairs, each step creaking beneath your bare feet. When you reach the top of the stairs, you walk down the long hallway, admiring the nice, long deep red rug your mother had bought you before her passing.

Finally making it to your room, you walk over to your closet and pull out a white button-up shirt and a pair of neat folded bootcut jeans. Still feeling quite sleepy, you sigh deeply and slip on your picked out undergarments and your outfit, the fabric cool against your bare skin. You feel a twinge of pride as you smooth the barely noticeable wrinkles in the shirt, your rightfully earned badge gleaming on your brown belt in the dim light.

You walk over to your vanity and comb your hair, smiling slightly at yourself in the mirror. Sliding on your black leather boots and grabbing your service weapon, you take one last glance in the mirror making sure everything is in its place.

As you walk out the front door, you feel a mix of excitement and bravery. Your senses tell you that today will be challenging, but you're prepared to face whatever comes your way. After all, you're a special agent, sworn to protect lives and property, and to serve and protect the public, and ready to prove yourself once again.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Once I made it to the station, I clocked in and sat at my desk. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. "Hey hon, sleep well?" Valerie asked, grin stretched across her lips, dimples on her slim pink cheeks, her dark brown wavy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, caramel highlights running through her thick hair. Val was my partner in crime—we'd gone through criminal justice together, and we'd been friends ever since.

"Eh, it was okay. Crashed out on the recliner, so my back hurts like hell. You?" I replied, leaning back and spinning my chair to face her.

"Good," she chuckled, holding two coffees. She handed one to me, then rested her free hand on my desk. My mouth practically watered at the steam rising from the cup, a smile playing on my lips.

"Just what I needed. Any news on Cromwell's case?" I asked, taking a sip, the warm liquid hitting my tongue.

"Nah, but.. there was another disappearance last night. At Narrow Gauge this time," she replied, her smile fading slightly, thin dark pink lips pursing together.

"Damn, that's the ninth one this week," I sighed, sitting my warm drink down. "Sure is. And you know what's even weirder? All the bodies have some sort of connection." “How so?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow in curiosity.

"On most of the bodies, there's a recognized X symbol carved somewhere on the corpse," she explained, frown displayed on her lips. “Children have been disappearing in and out as well, parent are worried sick and we have no trace of where these kids have gone.” She exhaled, thin dark brown brows furrowing. "Sounds like a cult thing to me. Nothing out of the fuckin’ ordinary around these parts," I replied with a quite snort.

"I'm starting to think it's more than that," Val countered, finally bringing her drink to her lips, her dark lipstick leaving a stain on the plastic cup. "Detective Cromwell talked to each family and asked around—friends, therapists, etc. They all said the victims were experiencing hallucinations a few weeks before their deaths. Coincidence? I think not."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it is connected," I mused, resting my cheek in my palm. "But if so, what kind of mastermind is behind all this? Running people to insanity? And the kids?, it doesn’t make any sense" My brows furrowed in thought, picking my cup up for another sip, hoping the calming liquid would sort my thoughts.

“I'm not sur—" Val began, but was cut off as the Sergeant burst out of his office, bellowing my name.

"Well, you're fucked," Val snickered.

"Apparently so, Wish me luck," I let out a breathy chuckle, standing up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1,110.

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ!, ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀʀᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ😓🙏, ʙᴜᴛᴛ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ 2 ᴀɴᴅ 3🗣️

#ticci toby x reader #ticci toby creepypasta #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #x reader

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lrithill · 4 months ago

Text

Nightmare on Clown Street (pt.2: The Real State Agent)

Oh. My .God.

When I started this story, I didn’t think it was going to turn into this madness...

(This one escalated quickly).

Here you got part 1:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

And part 3:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/778840861948755968/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt-3-happily-settled?source=share (Part 3)

Warnings: Comedy, Hostage Situations, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Rescue Missions, Danger, Cowboys, Zombie cowboys, Absurd, Love, Madness, Stockholm Syndrome, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soap, Fire, Explosions, Chaos.

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

*In the Car*

Silence.

The only sound is the car engine, being forced to its limits by James—If he keeps this up, he’s gonna stomp right through the floor and have to drive home like the Flintstones.

Marian stares out the window, drumming her fingers on the glass—her reflection smiles back at her.

Trujilda is still unconscious, mumbling something. She seems to be having a nightmare… (though honestly, it can’t be worse than reality).

—Trujilda…—James calls her name.

James notices her having a bad dream and tries to wake her up gently—after dealing with one psychopath, he really doesn’t want to handle another.

—Trujildaaaaa—he touches her softly, trying to be affectionate.

FZUM

Trujilda’s eyes snap wide open—if they were glowing red, she’d be Terminator. A real killing machine—indestructible—, negotiation is not an option

She grabs James’ hand like a magnet snapping to metal. —the same hand Art had grabbed earlier, ust to add insult to injury, –or salt to the wound.

—Trujilda… I think we should go to a hospital…—James' voice is barely a whisper—. Look at my hand, those freak’s nail marks are getting infected… it looks really bad, shit… —James is practically crying—. I think it’s getting gangrenous or something… MY HAND IS GONNA FALL OFF, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! —he spirals into full-blown panic, the very image of despair.

Trujilda simply examines his hand—or rather, scans it. Slowly, she sits upright in her seat, then turns her head toward James in a stiff, robotic motion—you can almost hear the gears turning.

She doesn’t let go of his hand.

Suddenly, James almost prefers Art.

—James…

She is powering up her laser beam

—What are we doing in the car?—she bats her eyelashes innocently, her fake kindness dripping like poison, that Jeff the Killer smile creeping back onto her face.

—I did what I had to do, Trujilda. We were this close to—

—HOW COULD YOU JUST LET SOME FREAK TOUCH ME AND GRAB ME LIKE THAT?! —Trujilda shakes him violently, her ultrasonic scream shattered his eardrums —. I should’ve listened to my father, you’re a dickless coward! —her eyes practically burning with sulfur.

ZHHHHRRR-KA-BOOM

Obliterated.

—He did more than just touch you, Trujilda…—James has had enough of being a punching bag—. He kissed you…. and you did NOTHING to stop him—James accuses, his voice sharp—. You wanted it, didn’t you? Was that to make me jealous? —James starts spouting conspiracy theories (honestly, who wouldn’t want a kiss from Art?)—. Do you think I’m stupid…? I know I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor, but—

—WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE KISSED ME?!—Godzilla-tier laser beam activated, cleaving the car in two.

—He wasn’t a freak…—Marian cuts in, preventing her parents from finalizing the divorce papers Art had drafted for them.

At that exact moment, the car jerks violently—as if it hit a pothole. But there was no pothole. It was more like the car’s engine skipped a beat.

Both James and Trujilda snap their heads toward the backseat in perfect unison.

—WHAT?!

—He painted my face—Marian says innocently—. Look, he even gave me his pencil.

Trujilda detects the pencil as if it were a loaded firearm. Her gadget-arm activates, grabbing it at lightning speed and hurling it out the window.

"Target eliminated."

She then proceeds to wash her hands with holy water like it’s industrial-strength disinfectant.

—I KNEW IT! That guy wasn’t a man… he was the Devil! —Trujilda crosses herself in terror—. He put a curse on us, an evil eye, a—

—YOU’RE RIGHT!. —James immediately swerves toward the nearest church—. Our daughter now bears THE SYMBOL OF HIS CULT. It’s only a matter of time before we start receiving letters written in blood.

James reconsiders his moving plans… but to another country.

Suddenly, the car radio crackles to life.

Nobody touched it.

The music plays , distorted.

“Drop on by the Clown Café, your favorite meals on wheels…”

Marian’s eyes flash yellow for a brief second.

—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

The car practically launches itself down the hill, tires screeching, the seatbelt warning beeping furiously.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art and you watch as the brown car approaches from the distance—slowly but steadily—without stopping.

Murphy was right: "If something can go wrong, it will."

You have a decent amount of patience (Though earlier, you almost shattered James' ribs when he mocked Art for being mute…)

But Art…

Art is a literal clockwork bomb.

Once the timer runs out…

BOOM.

Nuclear explosion.

(And you? Standing there, watching the chaos unfold—like Oppenheimer fixing his hat as he gazes upon the destroyer of worlds.)

You quickly step in front of Art and grab his hands.

You still have time to save that poor soul from a painful, slow death—and from being served up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

—Art… remember what we practiced… breeeeathe— you soothe him, making exaggerated inhale-exhale gestures.

Art looks at you, but doesn’t really look at you. His gaze is distant… or maybe he’s staring directly into your soul. You notice his hands trembling.

—Shhhh… count to ten, my love— you whisper, though you're starting to doubt yourself—. Come on, let me see you do it, with your fingers— you encourage him (no psychiatrist could ever achieve this level of crisis management).

You lift Art’s hands to chest level, guiding him through the count.

You raise one of his fingers.

—One… —you need to get his mind off that car—. Keep going, you’re doing amazing, my king— you smile, hoping he’ll return the smile.

That’s asking for too much.

But then, to your surprise, Art lifts a second finger, by his own.

(You officially deserve a PhD in psychology only for that finger.)

Now, Art has his eyes closed, which you like even more—he actually seems focused on staying calm.

He raises a third finger. His breathing slows.

You’re so proud of him.

"Art is doing amazing, I can’t believe this, it’s like—"

5 fingers.

Art has just raised all five fingers on one hand.

—Art… you skipped four, sweetheart— you say gently, trying to lower one of his fingers to get the count back on track, smiling.

You try to push one down—no luck. (It’s stiffer than Wolverine’s claws.)

You shake your head.

You can smell the impending disaster.

7 fingers up.

Art’s eye sockets are practically bulging out of his skull.

"No… NO NOOO."

9 fingers.

You dramatically throw your arms around him, seeking desperate comfort— all hope is gone.

There’s nothing left to do but pray.

You want to scream, like a soul being dragged to hell.

BEEEP BEEEEP.

“THIS IS THE END FOR US!”

You feel Art struggling to lift the 10th finger, his movements agonizingly slow.

You can hear his heart pounding against his ribs at full speed.

His whole body is tensed, his muscles coiled like springs, –ready to hurl himself at anything that so much as twitches.

And then—

BEEP.

Art passes out

He drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back with a solid THUD.

Technical KO.

You can’t believe it.

The battle between good and evil was so intense inside his head that he just completely crashed— Literally, Blue screen of death.

You flex your arm and clench your fist in victory.

"God was with me today, fuck yes", you think triumphantly.

And that’s when a figure emerges from the vintage car. She adjusts her glasses, struggling to believe her own eyes.

"Is there seriously a girl cheering because her boyfriend just passed out?" she thinks.

She approaches the car with firm steps, clutching a folder overflowing with papers, against her chest.

You see her coming and quickly pull yourself together. With Art out of the way things are going to be much easier.

(No.)

—Hello there!— you greet her, wiping away your tears of joy. —I’m (Y/N), nice to meet you. You must be the real estate agent, right? —you smile at her.

—I'm Bruna— she says formally—. Nice to meet you too… though I can’t say the same for him— she points at Art, she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Art lies flat on his back, eyes wide open, his toothy smile plastered on his face. If he weren’t breathing, he’d pass as a Halloween decoration.

—Yeah… uh…— you scratch your head—. It’s been a really stressful day… I think his blood sugar dropped. —You pull a random excuse out of thin air.

—Oh! Do you want to go get him some juice or something? —Bruna offers—. I can stay here and watch over him if you’d like—

—NO NO NO!— you practically scream, frantically waving your hands.

—O…kay— her smile turns awkward. Bruna glances around, as if she’s on a hidden camera show.

—What I mean is… He’s totally fine!— you try to explain—. This happens to him all the time. Trust me, it’s only a matter of time before he wakes up —You say it with a strained expression, nervously chewing your nails. You sound more like you’re warning her than trying to reassure her (which is the case).

You kneel down and pull Art’s hoodie over his face—like a mourner covering a corpse at a funeral—so you don’t have to look at his demonic grin.

—Are you sure… he’s alive? —Bruna narrowed her eyes at you.

—Yeah yeah… of course he’s alive, hahaha!— you reassure her with nervous laughter—. This dude is fresh as a daisy. Hell, even if you chopped his head off, this bastard wouldn’t die, hahahahaha!

"And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing right now," you want to say.

—Well… I hope he recovers soon. —Bruna adds, pretending she didn’t hear the whole “even if you chop his head off” part.

—Exactly, hehe, hopefully. —You nod enthusiastically—. He's my boyfriend, and I love him to bits, I'm literally crazy about him. —you sight.

You notice Art’s head shifting slightly from side to side, regaining consciousness.

You immediately kick him in the head, knocking him out again. All the way back to dreamland.

You smile.

(So in love)

Bruna adjusts her glasses, blinks hard… but chooses not to question it.

—Anyway, as you’ve well guessed, I’m the real estate agent. By any chance, have you seen a family of three around here? I was supposed to meet them for a house tour this afternoon. —Bruna explains, though you already knew that—. There was a ton of traffic, so I got delayed —she excuses herself—. I even sent them a message, but they haven’t read it— Bruna’s mind starts piecing things together. —Honestly, if I didn’t know for sure that James wasn’t a mime, I’d almost think he was this guy, and you’re a psycho that knocked him out or something. —she chuckles.

But you don’t laugh.

Your face is pure horror.

You turn pale as Art.

The "M" word…

You glance at Art and see his fists clenching tightly, his knuckles turning white with tension.

—SSHHHH…— you hush her immediately, slapping a hand over her mouth.— Don’t say that word... —Your wild-eyed expression is downright unhinged.

—What… word? —Bruna is actually starting to get scared.

You get way too close to her—her personal space is your personal space.

—"Mime…" —you whisper in her ear—. Listen, he hates being called that. I mean, you know how men are… Trust me, you do not want him waking up in a bad mood. —You’re one step away from getting on your knees to beg.

—What? —Bruna stares at you, completely baffled.

—Seriously, you have NO idea how lucky you are that he’s unconscious. —You grab her hands, pleading.— You should leave. Immediately. Please, I’m begging you. —Your face is a tragic, desperate mess. She really needs to leave.

—Seriously, I’ve never met anyone who's actually happy that their boyfriend passed out . —Bruna taunts—. If he fell into a coma, what then? Would we pop champagne? —she laughs sarcastically.

—No, no, please… He went through this for five straight years, and I am not dealing with that again —you state in the most deadpan tone possible.

Bruna stares at you.

You stare back at her.

—But that’s not the point. —you urge—. You need to leave. Take the "For Sale" sign with you, and don’t come back. —You start pushing her toward her car.

Time is running out, and this woman just won’t take a hint.

You grab her by the shoulders and steer her toward the driver’s seat.

But she quickly slips out of your grasp like a damn ninja.

—What the hell is going on here? —her voice turns cold, demanding.— I want to know what happened to James and his family. And I want to know who YOU are and who the hell that poor guy on the ground is.

Bruna is a tough nut to crack.

For the first time, you wish Art was awake. He made things so effortlessly easy with the other three.

But Bruna? She’s like a final boss compared to James.

—I'm calling James. —she announces—. And if he doesn’t answer… I’ll have no choice but to take measures.

She’s not bluffing.

Bruna starts dialing.

Bip bip bip…

You're starting to sweat. —She probably thinks you kidnapped them; or worse –that you’re trying to cover up a murder. And that’s why you’re so set on making her leave.

(What she doesn’t know is that you’re literally trying to save her from being killed!).

You pray that James picks up.

Biiiip… biiiip… biiiip…

"Please… please… pick up."

A single bead of sweat rolls down your temple. Then another.

You are NOT built for this kind of stress.

A chaotic mess of noises suddenly blasts through the phone:

-A bell ringing

-A man howling in despair.

-A cat hissing aggressively.

—Bruna? —James’ voice finally emerges from the chaos.

—Hey, James! How’s it going? —Bruna throws you a “you just got lucky” glance—. Where are you guys?

—Oh, thank God… I’m so relieved to hear your voice… we feared the worst—James exhales, clearly shaken—. We’re at the town church. Uh… long story.

—The church? Is that nearby?

—Yeah, it was on the way… it was an emergency. —he explains, poorly.— Although, to be honest… the nun helping us here is… kinda weird. —his voice trembles—. But after everything I’ve seen tonight, I’m sure it’s just my imagination… I’m just being paranoid… —he trails off.

—I’m at the house. —Bruna announces.

—YOU’RE AT THE HOUSE?!

Bruna nearly drops her phone, shocked by the scream.

—Look, I don’t have time to explain. I don’t even know how to explain, but GET OUT OF THERE. NOW.

Bruna freezes.

For the first time, she is genuinely afraid.

—RUN. FROM. THE CLOWN.

The call cuts off.

The last thing heard on the line are prayers.

Silence.

Bruna’s whole body goes cold –her skin crawls. That call was seriously disturbing.

And then…

HONK. HONK.

Your blood runs cold.

Bruna and you turn around at the exact same time, as if fate had already been written.

And there he is.

Art. Brand new.

His smile is still there. His eyes glimmer with excitement. He lifts a hand in his signature greeting.

And then, his lips move—no sound comes out, but the message is crystal clear:

"Miss me?"

Art takes a step forward.

Bruna takes a step back—her papers slip from her hands and scatter across the ground.

Your brain starts racing at a million miles per hour.

Art can smell fear. –And nothing thrills him more than seeing terror in the eyes of his victims–that moment when they realize there’s no escape.

He starts stalking toward Bruna –like a predator–, his gaze locked onto her, his smile widening with delight—his mind already spinning with endless possibilities.

And then…

You gather your courage.

You step between Art and Bruna, using your body as a human shield.

"You’ll have to kill me first." You telepathically challenge Art.

Art hisses like a rattlesnake.

The two of you lock eyes.

Neither of you move.

You look just like two cowboys about to face off in a classic spaghetti western duel.

The wind howls between you, kicking up the invisible desert dust.

A tumbleweed (imaginary, but just as dramatic) rolls across the space between you and Art, marking the start of the showdown.

"Para rin para rin pon pin... uh uh uh uh…"

Both of you remain in a tense stance, as if life itself depended on this moment (it does).

Art narrows his eyes, locking his gaze onto you, his smile widening. His fingers rest at his sides, as if preparing to draw an invisible weapon.

But you refuse to be intimidated.

You take a step forward, feeling like Clint Eastwood himself.

Art raises an eyebrow—he’s surprised by your determination.

Deep down, you know this is Art’s weakness. He is a true showman, and when faced with a situation like this, he can’t help but get into character—like a real method actor.

You sincerely believe that the only way survive him is to play along with his performances.

(Though that doesn’t guarantee survival either… but you have the perks of being the favorite, of course.)

The silence is deafening.

Time seems to stop. There is no sound but the wind.

“Waaaah wah wah waaahh… uh uh”

Art spits on the ground with grave seriousness—he’s living it.

With even more seriousness, you also spit on the ground (does he think he’s a better cowboy than you? You’re competitive).

Art chuckles to himself. He loves your spirit.

You are engaged in a fierce duel of intense stares; the tension could be cut with a knife—or better, a rusty hacksaw.

Bruna doesn't know whether to laugh or cry

Slowly, you move your hand toward your pocket.

You’re having a genius idea.

Art watches your movements carefully, analyzing you.

He follows the movement with his eyes, his body on high alert. His pupils dilate. He is completely absorbed in the scene.

And suddenly, with the speed worthy of a county sheriff, you pull out your hand in the shape of a gun and…

BANG!

With the precision of a hawk’s eye… you pull the trigger, even mimicking the recoil—actually feeling it in your hand.

Art’s eyes widen. He clutches his shoulder as if you had hit him squarely. His expression is one of dramatic pain… then, of fury.

He presses a hand over the wound, dramatically trying to stop the bleeding.

He staggers backward, gritting his teeth—at the very least, he should be awarded the Golden Lion.

He tries to lean on an imaginary wall; but he’s losing too much blood, barely able to stand, gasping for air.

“Bitch… you got me…”

He takes a few unsteady steps, falls to one knee, grips his chest…

Kneeling, he looks into your eyes and nods slowly, granting you victory as a worthy opponent.

“You’reas good as they say, maybe even better… Looks like the devil came for me today…”

And finally, with one last agonized breath…

He lets himself fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

Dead.

Silence.

At this, you raise your hand in the shape of a gun and blow on your fingers, as if dispersing the smoke from the barrel. A half-smirk on your face.

“Only one of us was walkin' out of here”

You turn to Bruna with a look of satisfaction and defiance—if only you had a sheriff’s badge to flash.

Bruna has taken off her glasses—they didn’t want to keep watching this movie.

Then, without warning, you hear Art convulsing on the ground behind you.

You spin around quickly, back on high alert –gun in hand.

With difficulty, he raises his hand, gesturing, “Come closer… I have… something… important… to tell you…”

You take a few cautious steps toward him and lean over his body.

And then, with the last of his strength, he tries to lift his air horn, his hand trembling so much it looks as heavy as Thor’s hammer.

He seems just about to sound it.

His final words…

But he doesn’t get the chance, because life has already faded from his eyes.

His gaze is lost in the sky.

You close his eyelids with a solemn gesture.

You lower your head to his chest, pretending to grieve his death, pretending to cry in sorrow.

(In reality, you’re dying of laughter, but you don’t want Bruna to see you.)

You stand up.

Art, satisfied with his performance, suddenly springs back to life and claps enthusiastically.

You turn to Bruna, who is blinking like she’s in a parallel reality.

—Whew, that was close…— you say, wiping the sweat from your forehead—. Safe and sound, see? —You smile at her proudly.

—You say that like he wasn’t looking at me like he wanted to turn me into hamburger meat…—points at Art.

—Yes, but he didn’t do it, hahaha. That’s called self-control, —you say proudly—. We’re improving a lot.

You hear Art growl from where he is. He makes a gesture with two fingers, pointing at his own eyes and then at Bruna’s.

“I’m watchin you, and I won’t blink ” you both read.

—You two really are made for each other, —Bruna laughs nervously, suddenly realizing why this house had been forsaken for so many years...

(Because of these two).

Still, Bruna refuses to believe you’re just two crazy people in love—there isn’t always a perfect match for every misfit.

Art approaches you both at a slow pace, limping. Apparently, he’s also been shot in the leg–he’s now wondering if he’ll ever be able to ride his horse again.

—Well, you see, we’re members of a theater club, —you say, trying (once again) to make everything sound somewhat normal—. You just happened to catch us in the middle of a rehearsal and… we were playing around with improvisation, —you explain—. This is going to be a box office hit.. Thanks for involuntarily participating! —You shake her hand as if she were a famous actress.

Art nods in agreement.

—And… if you were rehearsing… why was your boyfriend pass out earlier? —Bruna interrogates you.

—Well, uh… you see… mmmmm… —You touch your forehead, thinking—. It’s a movie… about zombie cowboys.

Art closes his eyes, trying to hold back laughter… but nods again.

—Aaahhh that’s it. —Her eyebrows rise in surprise.

—-Aahhhh that’s it, —you imitate her—. At first, I really made you feel terror, huh? It really seemed like an apocalyptic situation, right? —You tap your temple twice with your finger, as if you were a theatrical genius.

—To be honest, I was going into real paranoia, you looked genuinely desperate.

—And rightfully so, hahaha. —You grab her shoulders and look deep into her soul. —He was going to kill you.

Art nods again. Smiling.

Then proceeds to make a choking throat motion, –eyes filled with rage.

—Yeah… hehehe. —Bruna removes your hands from her shoulders—. I see a future for you guys in this… And the rest of the actors in the club? —she looks around.

—Ahh… uh… it’s just my boyfriend and me.

—-Huh… Who would’ve guessed? —She rolls her eyes—. I hope you haven’t actually shot them. It wouldn’t be the first case. —She glances around, maybe looking for an escape route.

Art shrugs innocently, raising his palms beside his head, smiling.

“Who knows”

Bruna suddenly gets lost in thought.

Something feels off.

Her eyes dart between the two schizophrenics standing in front of her. She scans you—your messy hair, your wrists, your ankles, the visible skin… there almost seem to be bite marks on your shoulder…

Everything is too strange. Your desperate attitude… Art’s behavior, at the very least… unsettling.

James’s call…

"RUN FROM THE CLOWN."

His voice echoes in Bruna’s mind.

—Hey, (Y/N), —Bruna calls to you—.Do you mind coming with me to the car? I have a pamphlet there with all the information about the sale.

—Oh! That sounds good, let’s go. —You’re hopeful that she’s finally getting into her car and leaving.

Art moves with you, ready to follow.

—(Y/N) alone, —Bruna insists—. I just need to ask her something… you know, girl stuff. —She adds an excuse.

Art glances at her from the corner of his eye, starting to suspect something is about to happen. He tenses up, ready for the worst.

"What if she's a detective investigating a case? What if she's an undercover cop?"

But he has to stay calm. He can't take any risks without proof—she could have a weapon. The last thing he wants is for you to actually get shot. (This time real).

Bruna and you stop right at the front door of the car. She opens it and pretends to look for something…

She hands you a blank sticky note and a pencil—her hands trembling.

—Write… quickly… this is your chance, —she whispers, her eyes wide open.

—What…?

—Whatever you want to tell me that you don’t want him to hear… write it down. —She subtly gestures toward Art with her eyes.

—Bruna… I don’t know what you’re trying to say… —You laugh nervously.

—How long have you been here? Has he hurt you? —She’s deadly serious.

—Who…? Arthur? —You’re so confused.

—-If you're kidnapped, you can tell me. I’m going to get you out of here…I want to help you.

—Kidnapped?! —You burst out laughing—. The only thing Art has kidnapped is my heart. —You place your hands over your chest like a hopeless romantic.

—Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?

—Of course I do! But my love for him is real… not Stockholm’s. —You laugh, trying to ease the tension, but you’re starting to feel uneasy.

—I’ve heard that at first, they seem kind. They treat you well… it even feels like they love you, —Bruna grips the sticky note so tightly it nearly turns into a ball in her fist—. But deep down, you’re nothing more than a hostage to them. A toy to play with. You can’t believe him. You’re stronger than him.

Art is now looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist. His foot taps impatiently against the ground.

—Bruna… Don’t be ridiculous.

—LET’S GO!!!

Bruna shoves you into the passenger seat with all her strength and slams the door shut before sprinting to the driver’s seat at full speed.

You don’t even have time to process what just happened before Bruna has already locked the car, sealing the doors and windows. You try to open the door—no use.

—AAAAAART! —You call for help, looking at him through the windshield.

—WE’RE GETTING OUT OF HERE NOW! —Bruna slams the accelerator, the tires screeching, dust rising.

Art stares in utter shock, his hands clutching his head as if he can’t believe what’s happening, his expression a mask of pure terror for the first time all afternoon.

“NOOOO, MY HOSTAGE!”

He watches as the car speeds down the hill, taking the same road James and his family used to escape.

But Art knows exactly what he has to do—he’s been in situations like this before.

What Bruna doesn’t realize is that Art is not just an ordinary mortal man.

He chuckles to himself, imagining how you’re going to explain to Bruna what’s about to happen.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*In the car*

The road stretches ahead of you like a never-ending tunnel.

Bruna is driving at full speed, even faster than James—after all, this is not just an escape, it’s a rescue mission. She keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, her grip firm on the steering wheel, her seatbelt strapped tight.

Her knuckles are white with tension. She has no idea if she’s saving someone or dooming herself.

She has the courtesy to fasten your seatbelt for you. Caution is her middle name—she doesn’t tolerate anything less than perfection.

The engine roars like a wounded beast.

—James told me he was at the church in town… —she says, not taking her eyes off the road.

—Bruna… –you say, gripping the car’s handle—. This is a huge mistake.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’re used to driving with Art, you’d be throwing up—Bruna takes turns like a Formula 1 driver.

—Are you okay? You have my full support to vent about whatever you need, —she reassures you—. It must have been so hard for you… living with that psychopath and—

—Arthur has never hurt me, —you cut her off before she can keep accusing him—. Seriously, he’s just… intense.

—Intense is my ex when he sends me ten messages in a row, —she laughs—. But that’s a far cry from keeping you handcuffed…

—What? —(Did you hear that right?)

—I saw your wrists, —she points at them—. I know it doesn’t make sense in your head right now, and you’re going to try to justify him… but girl, no man who loves you would do that.

You look down at your wrists.

Yes, there are handcuff marks –very deep ones indeed.

Your face turns bright red.

—Uh… like I said… he’s intense hahaha, —you hope she understands without needing to go into detail.

—I even saw the same marks on your ankles, —she covers her mouth with her hand in disgust,imagining the excruciating scene.

—Well, if you saw how he looks under his clothes… just as bad, if not worse, —you huff, remembering those moments.

—Him???

This is the final straw for Bruna.

—OF COURSE, WOMAN! DOESN’T A COUPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO PRIVACY? —You’re officially losing it, this is beyond ridiculous—. HE’S INTO THAT SHIT, OKAY? AND SO AM I.

—Don’t try to romanticize this, girl, I’ve seen—

—ROMANTICIZE?! I’LL ROMANTICIZE YOUR FACE! —You lunge at her.

You grab the steering wheel, trying to destabilize the car—you want to crash into a tree just to stop all of this. You don’t care about the fine you’ll have to pay.

Bruna and you scream as you fight for control, her slamming the accelerator while you stomp on the brake at the same time. She yanks your hair, and you spit in her face.

(Art has taught you well.)

Both of you are practically sitting in the driver’s seat, but Bruna is more determined than you—nothing is going to stop this car from reaching its destination.

And then, Bruna can’t believe what she’s seeing:

About 30 meters ahead, a familiar clown-faced figure stands, holding a black sign with white letters.

"CIRCUS"

He’s standing like a hitchhiker, but when he sees the out-of-control car, he cheerfully hops into the middle of the road.

He moves with light, playful bounces, grinning.

—NO FREAKING WAY! —Bruna’s voice cracks with disbelief—. HOW…? HOW…? THAT’S…

—NO… UH… THAT’S HIS STUNT DOUBLE… —you swallow hard, watching as Art positions himself right in the middle of the road—. …for action scenes… —You finish while shutting your eyes, fully aware of what Art is about to do.

Art rocks back and forth on his heels, like he’s just waiting for a bus.

For a second, the world freezes.

The engine roars, the black sign flutters in the wind.

The speedometer climbs past 180 km/h… and rising.

You cover your eyes with your hands—you don’t want to see this.

Art sees you and, grinning, covers his own eyes too, mimicking you—but peeking comically between his fingers.

His smile never wavers.

And then…

Bruna hits Art.

CRASH.

You brace yourself, expecting to feel the car rolling over mangled flesh, a final honk…

But none of that happens.

Bruna is still screaming, the car is still speeding downhill.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t hear a thing.

And then, you gather the courage to lower your hands from your face and open your eyes.

Your eyes meet Art’s.

He’s clinging to the hood of the car. His long arms allow him to grip the surface tightly, his face pressed against the windshield, the "Circus" sign blocking a good portion of Bruna’s vision.

He kisses the glass—a kiss for you.

—See? I told you he loves me. —Joy floods through you at the sight of him.

Bruna doesn’t even bother answering—there’s no point in arguing with a lunatic.

Art gestures to Bruna that he’s totally fine, raising his eyebrows with a friendly smile. He even has the audacity to flash a thumbs-up—before gripping onto the hood again.

Bruna’s face twists in absolute rage.

Art may have survived getting hit by a car…But he won’t survive the laws of physics.

She activates the windshield wipers—soap and water included—to "clean" Art off the car.

You watch as Art flails side to side like a cartoon character, like a soggy rag—at least the windshield is going to be spotless.

(You fear he’s going to consider this a shower if you all make it out alive.)

You have to do something to help him!

You grab the steering wheel tightly, yanking at it with all your strength—triggering the airbag perfectly.

BAM!

The airbag explodes into Bruna’s face with full force, shattering her glasses, shards of glass embedding into her skin.

While Bruna is dazed, you frantically search for the car’s lock button—you need to open the doors and let Art in.

You find it, but before you can press it—

Bruna starts jerking the wheel violently, sending the car into a zigzagging frenzy, throwing you and Art off balance.

Art swings wildly from side to side, rolling across the hood of the car with every sharp turn.

But Art clings to the vehicle like Spider-Man—not even the slickest soap can make his grip fail. (Once again, soap proving to be his greatest enemy.)

One sudden swerve sends Art dangerously close to falling off the side—he barely manages to grab onto the side mirror—on your side.

Your eyes meet through the window.

You see him, now so close, –struggling to survive a mess you got him into, all because you managed to stop him from killing then when he had the chance… for listening to you, after all.

He taps the glass with his finger, drawing a heart… like reminding you that no matter how this ends, he will always love you.

You press your palm against the glass, and he does the same.

So close… yet so far.

But this isn’t the time to get romantic.

You quickly gesture to Art to climb onto the roof—you’re terrified that Bruna might crash into a tree, splitting him in half by the waist.

Art slides up, escaping the ruthless windshield wipers, reaching the roof rack.

Now, he has a clear view of where the car is heading.

Bruna can see it too.

The three of you lock eyes on the same sight—

At the end of the road stands the church.

You see it from the front seats.

Art sees it from the roof.

Bruna, in absolute desperation, does what any Fast & Furious protagonist would do.

“HOLD ON TIGHT—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”

Art screams too—but no sound comes out.

HONK HONK HONK HONK (panic horn honking)

Bruna yanks the wheel harder than she ever has in her life—at full speed.

The tires catch fire.

The car skids.

Flips violently onto the asphalt.

The world turns upside down.

One roll.

Two rolls.

THREE ROLLS.

Bruna and you are thrashed around inside the car like you’re in a demonic washing machine.

Art is launched like a catapult. Like a cannonball.

You see Art flying through the air.

Everything moves in slow motion now.

This is the end for Art. –He’s going to smash into the ground, all his bones fractured beyond repair…

You look at him like it’s the last time you’ll ever see him.

Your mind flashes back to all the memories you’ve shared with him:

When you first met him, at the brink of death.

When he gifted you a foot (according to him, it was the best-smelling one he had ever sniffed), you still have it… as an aesthetic scented candle.

The first time he touched your hand—electrifying.

This is the end.

You know it.

He knows it.

Your eyes meet for an instant—a silent farewell, as it could only be.

Both of you are upside down—you, inside the car; him, plummeting from the sky—so for a brief moment, the world seems upright to you both.

And that’s when it hits you:

The world had always been upright for the two of you...

Because you were both upside down.

He made you feel upright when everyone else seemed upside down to you; he was the only person who ever made you feel like you fit in, in life.

Tears falling down your cheeks.

And then, through blurry vision—you spot a familiar vanilla-colored Beetle.

You don’t know if it’s fate, a miracle, or if James just has really bad luck—or maybe all three at once—but by some divine intervention, Art’s trajectory is heading straight for the car.

The only sound you hear is your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

BUM bun… BUM bun… BUM bun…

And then—

CRASH.

Art slams into the car, crushing it like a falling meteor.

The roof caves in under his weight. Twisted metal. Shattered glass.

A final, agonizing screech before—

Silence.

A rough landing… But a perfect one.

Absolutely perfect for you.

(Ironically, the car seemed like the only sensible character in this story—the one that wanted to leave from the very beginning—and yet, in the end, it took the worst hit.)

The moment Art lands, Bruna and you climb out of the wreckage, stumbling.

The two of you stand there, watching the totaled car in anticipation.

“Did he make it?”

There is no honking, no movement at all…

And then—

A figure slides down from the car's roof.

Art starts walking forward as if nothing happened, casually dusting off his shoulders, glancing to the side with an expression like:

“Easy”

The car explodes behind him, a massive red fireball towering several meters high, casting his silhouette in a frame of great greatness.

The ultimate swagger.

All he’s missing are sunglasses.

But—oops—Art is always prepared. Of course, he has them. He casually pulls them from his pocket:

His sunflower sunglasses.

BUM-CHAKALAKA.

He wanted to make it epic… but he made it legendary.

Bruna’s car explodes.

A flower pot explodes too (because why not?)

Michael Bay-level cinema.

—See? I told you: the stunt double for action scenes. He is good, huh? —you laugh—. This is going to be a blockbuster!

Bruna is silent, her gaze lost through the shattered lenses of her broken glasses.

Not only is she not going to be able to sell the house, but now she has to buy a new car, and take James to therapy… because she needs it too.

You run toward Art.

You’re covered in blood, wounded, dizzy, filthy… but none of that matters.

For a brief moment, you feel a twinge of sadness, thinking about how many adventures Art must have lived—stories he’ll never be able to fully tell you.

(But on second thought… maybe it’s better if you don’t hear them.)

You throw yourself into Art’s arms.

He catches you, lifting you off the ground, spinning you around like a princess.

—Art, that was incredible, —you say, tears in your eyes—. For a moment… for a moment, I thought you were going to die. —You place your hand on his heart.

The fire reflects in his stupid sunflower sunglasses, creating an image that is as ridiculous as badass.

Art simply lowers his sunglasses slightly, just enough for you to see his eyes, and looks at you over the rim.

"Woman, please."

You look at him as if he’s beyond saving (he is), but that’s just who he is—and you can't help but smile.

Art gently takes your chin, tilting your face upward so you can kiss him—your lips meeting his once again after what felt like an eternity. —After being kidnapped.—After watching your love get run over.—After almost witnessing his death.

It tastes like blood and soap… it tastes like victory.

But this isn’t over yet. In fact, the hardest part is still ahead.

How the hell are you going to get out of this situation?

—Art… how is this going to end? How are we going to get rid of them for good? —you ask, watching the world burn around you—. This is… a mess, a disaster, a—

Art presses a finger against your lips, silencing you.

"I have everything under control."

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

Fear not, brave reader, I know exactly what I have to do, (I actually don’t), but check this out in the future.

Here it is part 1:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

Of course, there is gonna be part 3.

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/778840861948755968/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt-3-happily-settled?source=share (Part 3)

#art the clown #terrifier #art the clown fanfiction #art the clown x oc #art the clown x reader #terrifier fanfiction #art the clown x you #slasher fandom #slashers #david howard thornton #damien leone #lauren lavera #slasher fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3

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ominous-faechild · 4 months ago

Text

MODERN EXISTENCE

CHAPTER 1: MORE OF THE SAME

CHARACTERS: ✦ Beck Molleur ✦ Dahlia Molleur

story intro moodboard table of contents < last chapter next chapter >

(if it's possible for you to read and listen to lyrical music at the same time, please listen to the music provided ❤️)

NOTE: this story is centered on two characters in a codependent, toxic marriage. Exact content warnings about the relationship will not be given for plot reasons, so if you have ANY possible worries about that subject matter, I beg of you to be cautious before reading this story. Thank you.

Most topics are implied—haunting the narrative rather than being displayed openly—and this story depicts how one can be trapped in that sort of relationship. It has portrayals of depression, self-hatred, and implied abuse... although I would still like and encourage you to read it.

Countless images flashed through Beck's mind.

Flooded streets, loose wreckage of destroyed buildings, and rows and rows of suffering people.

It was always like this. Beck was constantly tormented by these kinds of visions. Visions of pain, destruction, and death. Anything and everything going wrong around the world was stuck in his mind, constantly playing again and again and again.

Whether he closed his eyes or had them open, tried going about his day normally or not, he was tormented by visions of misery.

Still, Beck now had his eyes closed, cheek pressed up against the back of a couch, and noise-cancelling headphones over his ears playing soft, calming music.

With his senses stifled, it was easier to focus on the visions. It was easier to see what he shouldn’t be able to see, hear what he shouldn’t be able to hear, and move what he shouldn’t be able to reach.

The soft music coming from his headphones calmed Beck. He’d seen so much suffering in his life that he’d long-since grown almost numb to it, but… that didn’t mean he was okay with it.

He still wanted to help.

So, when he could, when things were “a little too bad”, Beck made an effort to use his powers for good. He’d make small changes where he could—fill in a pothole that’d been untouched for years, trip up someone on the attack, make a stray noise to draw someone’s attention near danger, or manipulate information that could otherwise destroy people’s lives—and try to help people.

… for once in his life.

“Sometimes I for-get… the world doesn’t want me…”

A whole roof had been torn off its building by the vicious winds of a hurricane. It tore through the air, flying toward another home—and suddenly steered away, crashing into the street instead.

“And I won-der where… all of my friends are…”

Hundreds of miles away, cars were bottlenecked at an aging bridge… one that had long-since been shut down for repairs. Not that it’d ever been repaired—but still. It was supposed to be closed.

People were desperate to escape the hurricane, though.

They risked the bridge, and if it hadn’t been for Beck watching over it? It would’ve cracked under the weight of their cars, plunging them all into the hungry waters below.

“But then I remember… I’d pushed them all a-way…”

So much destruction, so much panic, so much chaos—and Beck did his best to help everyone he could in small ways.

To avoid detection.

For plausible deniability.

Few people believed in magic, so what else were they going to believe? That a god walking among them—one they’d otherwise blame for their misfortune—was looking out for them? Or that the wind moved just in time? That the bridge was just a little sturdier than the architects and scientists believed? That Their God, whichever one or ones they believed in, was looking out for them?

Yes. Far better for people to assume those than the truth.

They’d all agreed on that thousands of years ago.

“So where am I? Who am I?” the song continued, melancholic.

“And what will I do… when I don’t ev-en have me?”

The couch shifted under Beck, tilting him to the side, as something landed on his shoulder.

Beck flinched, mind abruptly returning to his body.

Snapping his eyes open, Beck quickly turned to look at what had disturbed him—

A pair of bright green eyes—on the most beautiful face he’d ever seen—met his.

Despite her soft smile, Dahlia's eyebrows were furrowed slightly in concern as she stared at him expectantly.

“Who will I be?” the song continued.

Dahlia was a woman Beck knew well, though her face had changed countless times over the years. Now, she wore one of a brown woman with angular features and a mane of long, curly brown hair. She sat against the couch with one knee, her hand still on his shoulder, and the scent of her lilac perfume washing over him.

Beck swallowed, then cleared his throat awkwardly as he looked away to stare down at the cushion creased under Dahlia's knee. Every fabric of his being screamed against it, but Beck hesitantly grabbed the earpads of his headphones to slowly take them off.

“Where will I g—?” the song lamented, before getting cut off for overpowering silence.

“Beck?” Dahlia's voice interrupted, warm and gentle. “Everything okay?”

A wave of relief flooded over him.

Relaxing and smiling weakly, Beck hesitantly looked back up to meet her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said awkwardly, “just… was working on some stuff.”

Dahlia's soft smile grew faintly teasing. Then, she shifted to sit in his lap, her knees propped up against the cushions outside of his legs. Her hand moved from Beck's shoulder to his cheek as the other went to the backrest over his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” Dahlia asked, her tease leaking into her voice. “Like what?”

Beck felt his face flush as he pressed his cheek into her hand.

Letting out a slow, shaky breath, he turned his face away as he placed his headphones to the side and awkwardly wrapped his arm around her. It pulled her close as he stared hard at the headphones, still faintly emitting sound.

“Just… helping out around the hurricane,” Beck said, his voice subtly thick. “You know… without making it too obvious.”

He let out a small, pained laugh, then closed his eyes as he sank his cheek completely into her hand.

Beck's exhaustion leaked into his voice as he added: “not that anyone would question it, anyways. They just thank whatever god they believe in… or consider it ‘miraculous’ and move on…”

The entire couch shifted as Dahlia moved.

Beck tensed slightly, his breath catching in his throat. He quickly opened his eyes and turned his head to once again look at Dahlia.

His wife shifted to fully sit in his lap, leaning her forearms into his chest, cupping her hands around his cheeks, and meeting his eyes with a warm, loving smile.

“Awe, that’s sweet of you, Beck,” she said, voice slightly teasing still.

Then her eyes closed, and she leaned forward.

Beck took a deep breath before following her example.

Dahlia's hands dropped from his cheeks to rub against his chest as she kissed him gently, then slowly deepened it.

Beck struggled to breathe, but carefully kissed her back. Wrapping his arms around her lower back, he lifted her just enough to cross his legs under her and pull her close.

Dahlia paused the kiss—and Beck opened his eyes, though hers remained shut—to speak lightly against his lips.

“Did you know that?” she asked.

He swallowed awkwardly, looking down, not knowing how to answer.

She didn’t give him the time to figure it out. Instead, she quickly went back to kissing him, moving her hands up his chest and to his cheeks, where she rubbed his jaw with her thumbs.

Taking a slow, unsteady breath through his nose, Beck pulled her even closer and tried to just enjoy the kiss.

I love you, Ver, he wanted to say.

But he bit it back, giving her the moment to do whatever she wanted.

Instead, Dahlia pulled away after kissing him for a few more seconds. Her hands moved from his cheeks to his chest again as he met his eyes with another warm smile.

Beck was too caught up in watching every subtle shift in her expression to recognize his own relief.

“I reserved a restaurant for us to eat at tonight,” Dahlia said, a slight, sly smile on her lips. “Bistro Minuit is your favorite, right?”

Face flushing again—hotter this time—Beck hesitantly tore his eyes from hers to stare at the floor, past her hip. At the same time, he moved a hand from her lower back to place it over one of hers on his chest.

“Yeah,” Beck said awkwardly, his voice thick.

Then he gave a weak, dry chuckle, closing his eyes.

“It’s still open?” he asked, his voice weakly amused. “With how fast time goes by—”

“Uxi,” Dahlia interrupted gently. One of her hands—the one not trapped under his—moved to cup itself around his cheek again.

Beck froze, his breath catching in his throat as he quickly returned his eyes to hers.

But Dahlia still had her warm, slightly-teasing smile on her lips.

Her tease leaked into her voice as she answered: “of course it’s still open. I just told you I made reservations, didn’t I?”

Beck's heart twisted, but Dahlia's face was still soft, easygoing.

“—And, besides, I make sure of these things, you know that,” she finished warmly.

She seems fine. Nothing to worry about.

Beck forced a weak smile in return, but then sighed heavily as he closed his eyes and sank his cheek into her hand again. At the same time, he moved his hand from the one on his chest to cup it over hers on his cheek, lovingly sandwiching it between his cheek and hand.

“Yeah,” he answered, voice thick, but level. “You’re right. Sorry, I’d… I’d like that.”

Feel free to share your thoughts below, regardless of what they are.

Unless, yknow, they're "wtf are you writing; stfu". Or "men can't be abused." Keep that kinda shit out.

This is a very heavy story, and will touch on heavy topics... even if only through implication.

(Also to those of you who recognize their names... 🙂)

story intro moodboard table of contents < last chapter next chapter >

taglist

@honeybewrites @the-golden-comet @illarian-rambling @ashirisu @urnumber1star

@the-letterbox-archives @48lexr @aalinaaaaaa @thecomfywriter @an-indecisive-nerd

@seastarblue @rae-butter @mythicalmagical-monkeyman @corinneglass @friedmiu

@caffeinated-starsailor @overwhelmedfernfrond @write-with-will @theink-stainedfolk @industrialideafactory

@waflof @apenasumlug4r @thebookishkiwi @casualtriumphinfluencer @pluppsauthor

@homeforinsomniacs

(interact with this post to join the taglist)

divider by @cafekitsune

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afyrian · 10 months ago

Note

AAA OMG THIS WRITING EVENT IS SO COOL WYR!!! I'M GOING TO TRY TO REQUEST THIS CORRECTLY BUT IF I NEED TO CLARIFY PLEASE LMK <3

i'm calling natasha romanoff bc there's a cat in a tree and we need some detectives with osamu please!!! <3

greasy dinner for two osamu miya x gn!reader (fluff) m.list | wc: 721 | prompts: private investigators + forced proximity

your knuckle taps against an old sedan's window, the driver's side window tinted. a brown bag is held carefully in your hand, the top rolled up as a little bit of grease makes its way to the bottom. your other hand keeps a hold of a drink carrier, two coffees resting diagonal of each other. you tap your foot incessantly against the asphalt as you wait for the window to slowly roll down.

it cracks open at first, taking a moment to get halfway down. pulling down your sunglasses partway (resting on your face far too late in the evening), you look into the car and at the driver. "shot of espresso and a splash of cream, sir?" you rest your weight on one leg, your other foot pushing against the curb.

osamu looks up at you outside of the car window, eyebrow raised. it's been a few months since you started working together. quickly, the two of you are starting to get used to the other, their coffee routine to what items they tend to leave on their desk. pursing his lips, he nods, "yeah, now get in the car before the suspect sees us."

"right, right, like this doesn't look like a sweet partner getting their boyfriend a cup of joe?" you joke, walking around the front of the car to enter the passenger seat.

the street is empty besides a few parked cars, neon lights shining off of potholes filled with old rain water. harsh overhead lamps illuminate the majority of the streets. yet in your spot, there's an odd darkness emanating from the alleyway. taking in a deep breath, you open the door, handing off the drink carrier before sitting down.

the old undercover car sports cracked leather seats, the cup holders filled with crumbs. looking over at your partner, he's already opening his lid, taking a sip of the blazing hot coffee. rolling your eyes at his kiddish impatient behavior, you unroll the bag, uncovering the freshly fried karaage chicken. along with a few extra side items that were added.

"how many you want? there's like seven of them, decently sized," leaning back in his seat, osamu looks over at you, his eyebrows raised.

"probably like four or three, depending on how many you want. i'm not super hungry if you want something," he shrugs his shoulders, trying to get a gauge on your preferences.

grabbing out the container, you purse your lips, staring it down. the grouping of comfort food sits slightly queasy in your stomach. "yeah, just like three of them. feel free to snack away, i know how much you love food. especially because that's the only thing you ever tell me," you look over at your partner, grabbing one of them.

you've known osamu for a few months, the 'hardened' detective persona weighing heavily on his reputation. he cracks a joke here and there, but never, ever, will he talk about his personal life. the only thing he ever told you (on one drunken night in the bar) is he harbors of love of food and cooking.

"the only thing i ever tell you? we're coworkers, what else are we supposed to know about each other?" he smiles, his outer shell that he presents to you slightly cracking.

propping your leg up, you finish swallowing a bite, giving him your own smile. "but we're also responsible for saving each other's lives.. i think that's a bit more extreme than 'just coworkers'. so, anything you like to do outside of stakeouts?" your gaze returns to the nightclub, searching for the same annoying blonde mullet.

"outside of the riveting stakeouts? cooking-"

"and outside of cooking! osamu, you've already told me about that, give me something to work with."

unable to look at you, he looks forward. gaze scanning every moving car, every door opening to reveal some other patron. swallowing his nervousness, he leans forward, hands dropping to his sides, "well, sometimes i play pickup volleyball games with my brother. he still plays, so it's something we can do together."

"volleyball? would've pegged you as more of a rugby guy or something," you smile, nodding your head, making sure not to let him feel embarrassed or judged for his interests. especially when the thought of him in a jersey isn't such a bad thought... "but that's definitely a start, now, what team did you play for?"

a/n: ahhh thanks for requesting ness!! this was so fun to write 🗣️ gen. taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fanfic #hq #hq x reader #hq fanfic #osamu fluff #osamu miya #haikyuu osamu #miya osamu #osamu x reader #osamu miya fluff #hq osamu miya #osamu miya x reader #☆ fics #☆ writing event

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antaxzantax · 9 months ago

Text

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 56

Summary:

Sergei Vladimir becomes commander-in-chief of the UBCS. Spencer discovers that he is suffering from a degenerative disease.

The helicopter landed next to the hangar of a ramshackle airfield. He was told that the airfield would be refurbished after the construction of the UBCS headquarters in the heart of Rockfort, a remote and lonely island that belonged to the Falklands archipelago[1].

The helicopter's rotor stopped and a forty-something man with dull features and a nondescript suit greeted him with a thick British accent. This individual, Walter as he insisted on being called, was to serve as the secretary.

Walter had been personally selected by Spencer from among his contacts, he informed him, and assured him that he would be a good fit because of his proficient knowledge of the Russian language and his tolerance for the former Soviet enemy. Despite Spencer's good intentions, however, he detected that the man was discreetly casting sly glances at him. Finally, a sort of diversion.

Walter escorted him to a clearing where the Jeep awaited to take them to the main house. He was informed that the island was owned by the Ashfords until Alexander transferred ownership to Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. The Ashfords did little with it other than erect a vacation mansion and exploit the tiny local population of Hispanic origin as servants and labourers. This local population had remained in a state of anarchy after the family forgot the island's existence following Arthur Ashford's death. But the libertarian utopia was short-lived with the return of the old order at the hands of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, for the local population had been forcibly conscripted to work in construction and in sustaining the growing column of mercenaries that Umbrella had hired to take care of the kind of business that only bad men would gladly accept. The eternal return of historical materialism manifested in paradise lost.

The Jeep raced along a rain-dampened dirt track. As they approached the mansion, it smelled of freshly poured cement and gunpowder. Walter, in the back row, shifted in his seat a couple of times because of the inability of his small body not to jump when the wheels hit the numerous potholes that riddled the battered path. The commander-in-chief, for his part, anchored himself in the front seat of the vehicle, aided by his colossal stature and corpulence. A damned Russian bear, the driver's joker remarked as they arrived at their destination.

The mansion was located at the top of a gorge. To cross to the other side, where the barracks were located, one had to descend a flight of stairs to cross a steel bridge that allowed one-way traffic for a single vehicle. Walter informed him that a tunnel would be cut into the gorge wall to connect the mansion with the barracks.

The mansion in question had lost none of its lustre as a luxurious stone building. The style of the property comprised an ecliptic combination of the typical English cottage with the Victorian neoclassicism of Buckingham Palace.

“Commander Vladimir.”

A uniformed man greeted him with a raised arm and introduced himself as his bodyguard. Sergei Vladimir returned the greeting and asked Walter to open the house for him. The secretary took a bunch of keys from inside his jacket and unlocked the intricate locks that had kept the place sealed and protected from the intrusions of the outside world.

The hallway was empty. The wood screamed with every footstep. Cobwebs ornamented the high ceiling and termites had devoured the door frames. Dead insects and rat droppings littered the floor.

“The Ashfords never sent anyone to maintain it,” said Walter, “but you have a room upstairs that has already been fitted out and provisionally furnished for you. The kitchen and housekeeping are also in operation, but we have waited until you were present before proceeding with the refurbishment, and according to your instructions.”

“Very well. At ease.”

Walter bowed goodbye and disappeared through the front door. Sergei wandered into the bowels of the former holiday home. In the ground-floor living room he discovered a tattered Scottish flag and yellowed conservative newspapers congratulating the Allied victory in World War II and railing against the Communist threat, while praising the free market and the Pope and complaining about the debauchery of youth. On one of them, a black and white photo of Stalin during the Potsdam conference had been defaced in biros. Imp horns had been drawn on it, and a handwritten notation had been included in the caption: ‘Thou shalt not destroy us’. He definitely understood instantly why he was hired by Oswell Ernest Spencer.

The Ashfords did not interest him. Spencer, on the other hand, fascinated him. He never knew of his existence until an officer friend told him that a British businessman was looking for mercenaries to form a militia against bioterrorism. Sergei signed up without thinking because of the limited job opportunities that awaited a disaffected Red Army man in Russia. He thought the employer would turn him down, but to his surprise, he found Spencer to be a very nice gentleman who was happy to hire anyone, regardless of their background or political ideology.

He met the old man at his Luxembourg mansion and saw in him a man atypically interested in Sergei's military and political past. Spencer was a classical capitalist and nostalgic for the British Empire. However, this did not prevent him from ingratiating himself with Sergei and listening to a brief lecture on Leninism. But what fascinated him most was not the Englishman's good nature, but the fact that they both shared the impression that the world was in a state of upheaval, the climax of which was hard to guess. In this climate of accelerating change and disorder, loyalty to a greater cause was the only transcendent quality to ensure victory. Sergei was loyal to the Soviet Union, which ended up being a lost cause. Umbrella would not be, because Sergei would be loyal not to the company but to Oswell Ernest Spencer.

Spencer needed his loyalty to carry out his plans for the future. He did not tell him what they were, but assured him that he would benefit greatly from them. Sergei took the job for the simple fact of finding out what those supposed benefits would be, for the money and for the privileges Spencer had promised him as part of Umbrella's paramilitary staff. He just had to be loyal to a greater cause. Semper fi as they used to say in America.

“Albert Wesker.”

“Alex. I am Mr. Spencer's daughter.”

They shook hands. She didn't mention his last name. Nor did he read that Spencer had a legitimate daughter. Her American accent gave her away.

“Your father has appointed me as security chief at this lab. I start today.”

“Your office is near mine. I'll walk you there.”

She was nervous. He could see it in her brusque gait and gesticulation. Who was that woman. She really wasn't even Spencer's biological daughter. Her posh American appearance contrasted too sharply with Spencer's old-school manner. A bastard daughter? Had Spencer ever even married? In any case, he didn't give a shit about his private life. What he wanted was to use Alex to continue his creeping rapprochement with Umbrella's executive circle.

Spencer had trusted him. Whether it was because of his previous job as chief researcher or not mattered little to him, what was relevant was that he was there and one step away from the corporate core. Of course, his new job as security chief for a clandestine lab would be temporary. It would take some time, but he promised himself he would rise to the top. There was no fallback plan, no second options: he would take over as much of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals as he could and start running on his own.

He abhorred being a subordinate.

Oswell received the medical report. He read it with trembling hands. The results had been positive: he was suffering from a congenital degenerative disease. His life expectancy, at best, would be barely more than ten years in 1992. To survive any longer would be miraculous.

He had inherited the disease from his father Abraham, and Alexandra, his bastard daughter, had inherited it from Oswell. If he did not quickly overcome his addiction to tobacco and alcohol, his life expectancy would be reduced by five years. Like all diseases of genetic origin, it could not be cured, and his was a rare disease with only one effective treatment to improve the patient's well-being while dying.

In conclusion, he had only one option left: the Progenitor virus. The virus resurrected the dying and turned them into nightmarish monsters. So what if the virus could be used to reverse ageing and strengthen the body? What if he could use it to defeat death? He needed Alexandra and all the resources at his disposal to undertake the task of continuing to discover Progenitor's limitless potential.

He would not die in bed consumed by his lack of ambition. He had the opportunity to aspire to be so much more, and he would be so much more. With Progenitor, he would be much more than Oswell, the son of Abraham.

He would be like a deity.

Notes:

[1] Canon info from the official Japanese guide for Biohazard CODE: Veronica Dreamcast.

#resident evil #oswell e spencer #albert wesker #alex wesker #sergei vladimir

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