imagine dannys reaction to getting summoned by cultists who use sacrifices.
he’d be pissed (not to mention absolutely broken)
his ghostly obsession is to protect people! and because of the desire to summon him, someone died. he’d feel so incredibly angry and guilty. idk i feel like it could be some good angst.
This one was a suggestion over in my AO3 comments.
Hope you like it:}
AO3
There was something off with Scott. It was obvious as soon as Jimmy landed in Rivendell. The Scott he knew would instantly come to scold him, be it for being later or dressed to light for the mountain chill. Certainly not run away after blushing like Jimmy never saw him blush and he saw Scott's first reaction to seeing fWhip not covered in soot and dust and five coats. Seeing the elf turn around and run without even trying to keep his usual poise and dignity might have been funny if Jimmy wasn't worried. He could not help but wonder if maybe he did something to offend him.
He still ran after him. If to try and apologise for whatever he did.
First he had to catch the elf which wasn't easy. Mostly because even if Scott wasn't that short, Jimmy was much taller than any elf and had a bit of trouble with some of the tight passages and doorways but he managed to corner Scott after nearly an hour of chasing him. Where did Scott get so much stamina? He usually needed to sit down after just half an hour of walking.
"Scott? Whatever I did I'm..." Jimmy started but stopped when Scott hugged him out of nowhere. "You okay petal?" the merling prince asked, gently petting the elf's wings.
"I'm a bit confused..." Scott said and Jimmy maybe kind of got it. Maybe.
"Oh... You're not the Scott who's usually here, right? Some weird magic?" he asked but did not push him away. No matter who was in there they still had Scott's face and besides, they were clearly distressed.
"I suppose so..." 'Scott' sighed and sat down on a small bench in the room Jimmy finally caught him in. There wasn't much other than a table and two benches in there. What was it even for? He might ask Scott when he's back.
"Umm, who do I have the pleasure of talking to?" Jimmy asked and gently as to not break anything took the other bench almost entirely. "Wait, I should introduce myself first. Sorry, I'm Jimmy, the Cod Father of the Cod Empire. We're currently in the elven empire of Rivendell, and you're currently ummm, possessing the body of its second prince and my fiance, Scott S. Major," he explained as well as he could.
The guest hummed, taking a moment to think about his situation. "Well," he finally spoke up. "It's funny since I'm also Scott, Scott the necromantic witch... I'm kind of trying to bring y... a very important person back," he introduced himself with a cute smile. Jimmy never saw this kind of smile on his Scott. "And me not being quite myself would explain why instead of zombies I made snow piles. It's kind of annoying since I know this annoying ice witch, he's a total douche who can't tell a malicious curse from a prank," he sighed, face resting on one hand, and sighing again. "I just hope this will pass soon, I have things to do and I'm sure your fiance wants you back too."
Jimmy hummed and wondered if there was anything he could do to help. He knew little outside summoning thunder and waves. And it was probably bad to involve anyone else. Just in case.
"Scott!?"
Xornoth yelling out had Jimmy almost hitting his head on a rather low for elves ceiling of the room. "Xor... My Scott's older brother," he explained in a hushed whisper. "Stay here, I'll get him to leave," he said and slowly left the room.
"Oh, Jimmy, hi. Um, have you seen my brother?" the older prince asked. Visibly unhappy Jimmy was in the castle. Or anywhere near his brother, the overprotective prick.
"No, but I'm getting a surprise ready for him so..." Jimmy started but a heavy sigh stopped him.
"Okay, okay, that's enough, I'll go and check the gardens," the older prince said and left.
Jimmy sighed in relief and came back into the room.
"Well hello," Scott greeted with a more than familiar grin. "Care to explain what we're doing here? Or how we got here?" he asked.
Jimmy's Scott was back and had no idea he was somewhere else. "Well..." Jimmy sighed and explained the whole situation.
At the maybe same time, in a different land, a necromancer woke up in his bed. Very confused by his dream of a handsome fish prince.
I wish you would write a fic where... a bunch of chocobo hatchlings spot Mimble and decide this is their mother, who they will now follow around constantly
Maybe I will! It's the kind of thing that could easily happen to Mimble :)
General #7? it's radiating Chickles energy at me 8)
“Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”
Wow, this one is good! Thanks so much for suggesting it :)
Warning: violence; drinking; swearing
There was a mix-up with the orders, and instead of three shots of whiskey each, they ended up with Tequila, and although Pickles’ tasted the smooth, flaming simmer of agave pouring down his throat, couldn’t be bothered to stop Nathan until he had his fill. By then, the lug had conquered all three and then some, and was feasting on their shared plate of jalapeño poppers. He ought to have said something then, called a gear over to inform them of the incoming storm, but there were only two poppers and one fried potato skin left, and there was no way in hell Pickles was going to wait another ten minutes for some bacon and heavily processed cheese.
As was per usual, the tequila reached the intestines and the shit soon hit the fan, and Pickles found himself on the floor, crawling on the elbows and trying to reach for the door before things got any bloodier. There was a swarm of civilians already racing out the door, fear-driven and eager to flee from an overly aggressive Nathan, and in that attempt to escape, got lodged between themselves. A violent ripple effect initiated, and before long everyone was throwing fists at one another. By that point, Pickles had given up on trying to be reasonable. Some douchenozzle stepped on his hand, and another knocked off his hat. Though it would only cause a bigger ruckus, Pickles started throwing punches, knocking teeth out with a few slugs as he slowly made his way towards the parking lot.
He didn’t consider the lack of keys an issue until their murdercycle came to view.
Pickles tried to double back, but bumped into some drunk asshole, who took their accidental contact as a personal challenge. Guy was almost as big and broad as Nathan, but that didn’t stop Pickles from ducking and tossing a few blows to the stomach before attempting to retreat from his stunned enemy.
A light fell upon Pickles right as a massive arm came swinging towards him. It grazed his chin, pushing bottom teeth straight into the top row, and sent Pickles back with an ailing ring across his brow. Someone large approached him while he stumbled and fell. His right arm took the brunt of the impact, elbow scraping from the drag. Jaw reeling, Pickles wondered if diplomacy was still an option, but when he raised his head up, saw someone hanging from the hellicopter’s ladder.
Pickles waved a hand. “Charles!”
Light focused on Pickles and the drunkard, uncontrolled onslaught surrounding him. The aircraft lowered, and Charles jumped from the bottom ladder, landed with a roll, and with calculated grace, brought himself to a stand at the tail end. He reapplied his glasses, pushed them up the fine bridge of his nose when the same drunkard from before attempted to land a blow. Charles caught the man’s hand in his own, pulled him forward, and slammed his neck against his kneecap.
As the attacker fell, Charles observed the violent scene. Clusters of brutes, truckers, and other fine examples of society were all busily engaged in some brawl. Towards the center, klokateers surrounded Nathan.
Charles returned to Pickles, kneeling over to help resituate him. “How many bottles?”
“Just three shawts,” Pickles answered, right eye wincing as Charles wiped away bits of gravel that collected across his cheek.
“Ah, right then.” Relieved at the number, and feeling quite confident of his prospects, Charles took his time to help Pickles up, dusting off his right side before returning to slam a fist into the center of another man’s gut.
“Gawd damn,” Pickles said, licking his lips as Charles took down his second victim. Freckled lanky arms crossed his chest, clutching their opposites while Pickles sucked in a charge breath of adrenaline soaked air. From a pocket, Charles pulled out a pocket knife, aimed, and threw it in the general direction of a group trying to overwhelm some hoods. A scream signified a successful attack, and Pickles let out an airy, excited exhale. He watched Charles trek deeper into the chaos, suit perfectly fitted to form and hair fixed in place, calling our orders for gears to settle around Nathan, and to prepare for rescue and pick-up.
Then, Charles turned, and his eyes opened wide in sudden panic. “Pickles, look out!”
Pickles heard the warning amid the groans and firing squad, and when he looked over his shoulder, saw someone racing towards him. Reflexively, he brought his arms in, defense pose poised for the beat-down to come. Then he noticed the lengthy knife in the bastard’s hand, and turned pale.
“Shit,” he muttered, breaking a fist and swearing at himself for not paying better attention to his surroundings. He didn’t want to end up with a blooded hand, but a few weeks without playing was better than a stab wound to the gut. Pickles raised a hand up, readied to grip the end of the blade. The knife raised high above him, vanishing under the sweat fog and flashy club neon lights, and when Pickles tried to defend himself, was pulled aside. He fell back, stumbled and returned to the rough concrete flooring.
When Pickles looked up, Charles was there, gripping the knife. Mouth agape, Pickles watched Charles’ controlled expression harden, wrinkles centering as he bared the edge of the blade with one hand, brought his other to the man’s cheek. It takes three quick swings for the bastard to draw back, and a rough kick into his side to drop the knife and to his knees.
Charles returned to Pickles once he was sure his third victim was no longer a cause for concern. He offered his good hand to Pickles. “Are you alright?”
Pickled homed on the cut hand dangling by the side. “Is that blood?” he asked, though he could clearly make out a fine stream of red flowing down Charles’s middle and ring finger, dropping and collecting into a puddle.
Charles shrugged. “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-”
“You are literally bleeding.”
Charles glanced at his left hand, eyes filling with indifference at the wound now soaking his cuff of his shirt.
“Sorry. I didn’t want you to, ah, damage the goods,” he said, hiding the bloodied arm as he pulled Pickles up. The smaller man fell into a semi embrace, his arms wrapping greedily around Charles, one hand in search of the wounded one.
Wet, warm slippage. The ends of Charles’ eyes wincing from the intimacy, nerves searing with obstructive pain. Pickles had to settle for the wrist.
“Ya dumbass,” he hissed into the man’s chest, then drew his other hand back just to hit Charles a few times against the chest.
“Sir, we’ve secured Master Explosion!”
Charles gave a firm nod, then with his good hand, snatched Pickles’ attacking appendage. “Hurry. To the hellicopter” he said, looking deep into Pickles’ wary eyes, calming them with a plea to follow.
Looking at the ground, and finding several droplets of red speckling the floor, Pickles knew they had to hurry.
“Right.”
Most of the attackers were now on the floor, either subdued by klokateers, or done in by another stranger’s aggressive force. Hand in hand, Charles and Pickles maneuvered around unconscious or dead bodies, leaving behind their own trail of red as they gathered near the resting aircraft. As they got near, someone stumbled forward. The guy was a mess, head covered in gravel and drying blood, and hardly worth the challenge, but Pickles knew he had Charles’ good hand in his own, which meant the handsome fool would try to attack with the bloodied one. Pickles refused to let it happen. Without warning, he let go of Charles, slid forward, and lunged.
“Pickles!”
Thankfully, there was plenty of time for Pickles to make an impact. With the weight of his body, he brought the man down. The head slammed into the concrete, but Pickles went and formed two fists and threw in a punch to the cheek, another straight at the nose for good measure. A nice, wet snap certified a job well done, but Pickles rested dutifully on the lug chest until Charles arrived to pick him up one final time.
Charles brought his bloodied hand up to his forehead. “Pickles, you-”
Catching the wounded hand and stained suit, Pickles snickered.
“Didn’t want to further damage my goods,” he said, brows giving a suggestive wiggle.
A light shade of pink dared to shine across Charles’ otherwise controlled face. Pickles laughed, watching Charles excuse himself and cover the fleeting blush with the good hand pointlessly rearranging his glasses. Gears called the two forth. The aircraft’s engine roared alive, and from within, Pickles saw Nathan seated, half-alert and covered in a blanket.
Pickles grabbed the ladder rope, waiting on Charles who fired a few warning rounds before grabbing Pickles’ hand. He caught the slightest of whimpers, withdrew quickly and aimed for the wrist one more. Just as the aircraft lifted, Pickles used his strength and pulled Charles into his arms, breaking into a lopsided smile as the older man huffed, convinced the injury he endured wasn’t that big of a deal. Not willing to argue, Pickles merely rolled his eyes, and as the aircraft lifted into the skies, thanked him with a kiss on the cheek.
