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rustedhearts · 2 months ago

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the one where rafe shows his true colors…

rolly’s blurbs

“get in the truck.”

the slow crunch of gravel follows you at snail’s pace down the road. flanked by heavy willows and the fading hum of young-adult-debauchery, you feel safer on the one-way road back home than you do in small confines with rafe.

the truck headlights beacon over the dirt, and he has the windows rolled all the way down to hang out from. his signet ring glints in the corner of your eye when his hands twitch, but you don’t look over. you glare straight ahead and keep a steady, nonchalant pace. arms crossed, sweater wound tight around your waist.

you refuse to let him know he’s rattled you, though everyone at the house now thirty paces behind you knows he did.

and despite the blowout between the pair of you in the corner of the laundry room, rafe seems more concerned with finding the right song. beats start only to abruptly end as he bangs on the skip button.

“honey. just get in.”

he sounds bored. he sounds expectant.

he sounds like what just happened is going to happen again.

and something about that thought wires your mouth shut. it sends a cold shock through your chest and in the cool autumn evening, you shiver.

you thought he loved you. you thought you loved him. but you couldn’t love a man like this.

rafe settles on a song and it pulses through the truck with heavy bass. he turns it down until it’s nothing but a low buzz.

“jesus, just—just get in the truck.”

he’s losing the steadiness to his voice. he’s getting impatient, and you just saw what happens when he gets impatient.

“i want to walk home, rafe,” you tell him, and it’s far too kind.

much too quiet for what he just did to you.

“what? no. no, get—honey, just get in the truck.”

you speed up a little. truly, you didn’t mean to. you just want him to go away, leave you alone. you need to breathe and even in all the open air of the night, you can’t fucking breathe.

the tires give a little whir when he speeds up to match your pace.

and now you’re running away. from him?

rafe leans further out of the window, and you jump when he bangs his hand hard on the steel door.

“get in the fucking truck!”

your eyes begin to burn, blurring with wetness. you sniffle and wipe your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, feel your chin quiver. there’s so much aching in your chest and it hurts.

the truck comes to a hard stop, and you’re a few paces ahead when rafe disrupts the yellow glow of the headlights. it’s dark for only a split second before he’s on the road behind you, a big and heavy force of heat.

“goddamn it, stop,” he barks sternly.

his hand stops you himself, latching onto your elbow to whip you around. you instantly plant your hand on the center of his chest for distance.

“rafe,” you gasp.

that’s why you were here. for this exactly. his hand around your arm, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes like small slits under angled brows. that distant look he only gets when he’s coked out—but now, you realize it’s how he looks when he’s upset, too.

it’s a quick but miserable realization.

he’s high. he gets angry when he’s high.

he hurts you when he’s high. shoves you into the washer of his friend’s house and yells so loudly that people start poking their head into the room to check on you. towers over you until you cower. grabs you so hard it stings. growls at you like a spoiled child until your heart hammers.

“don’t look at me like that,” he demands, pulling you closer and forcibly bending your arm between your chests. “you have to learn your place here.”

the tears burn intensely on their way out. a scoff shoots from your mouth and it’s thick with disbelief and the onset of a cry.

“my place? what—“

“d-don’t what me. don’t what me. i’m in charge here, alright? i am.”

you give your arm a tug, use the other to push as hard as you can. “let go of me.”

“get in the truck.”

your hand stings when it makes contact on his cheek. “no! no, you’re fucking crazy. let me go, rafe.”

you’re crying now, whimpering out words you can’t tell if you mean. you love him, it aches so horribly in your heart. but he isn’t supposed to love you like this.

this wasn’t the rafe four months clean and doing well. this wasn’t the rafe that brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. this wasn’t the rafe that asked where you wanted to go to dinner, that listened when you rambled from across the candlelit table.

this wasn’t the rafe you knew.

it was the rafe you’d been warned about. the rafe you promised no longer existed.

the rafe he promised no longer existed.

“you’ll leave,” he mumbles and he was stepping closer again, his cheek flaming red and white in the shape of your fingers. “if i let go, you’ll leave.”

a snotty sniffle answers him. his fingers loosen on your arm.

“you can’t treat me like this, rafe.”

his touch softens to a cradle. his hands move down to your waist, molding to the divots above your hips.

“i know,” he coos. “i know, baby. i-i didn’t mean to.”

“you’re high.”

he sighs, head falling to your shoulder. he tips it, nose dragging along your neck. his shoulders are hunched, knees a little bent to fold into you.

“jus’ did a bump. one time, baby, promise.”

you close your eyes, squeezing a tear loose across his neck. your hands ball together tightly at your sides. he runs his hands up and down your waist under the flaps of your sweater. his thumbs massage into your stomach. his breath is hot on your neck.

“i love you,” he whines. “i love you, i do. i’m sorry.”

you bring your hand to his back, letting your fingers unfurl. they splay flat across his t-shirt, and soon you find yourself petting him. comforting him.

“i know. i love you, too.”

you find yourself asking—as he stands to his height and laces your hands together—just how much.

he hoists you into the passenger of the truck and clicks your belt on. takes your head in his hands and tugs you down to kiss your head. he turns the radio dial and boosts the bass of the music as the truck zooms down the road toward his house.

you’ll stay the night in his bed, in his clothes, and let him kiss the bruise from the corner of the washing machine like it was meant to be there.

evidently, you realize:

a little too much.

#rolly!#rolly’s blurbs #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron x reader

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musings-of-miss-j · 5 months ago

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no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part eight: in which you're forcibly removed from your comfort zone by none other than the resident ginger, and you meet a certain someone's alter ego(s)

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will not be romantic interests)

notes: surprise surprise, the burn is still slow!! mentions of blood, gn reader with a dosage of snark that probably exceeds the recommended value

series masterlist

author's notes: *daddy's home plays faintly in the background, slowly but surely increasing in volume as i approach you on a hoverboard with a comically large witch's hat on my head and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses on*

word count: 4725

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚*

It was, by all accounts, supposed to have been a completely normal lab session. You were planning the reaction route you’d take to test the enzyme you’d synthesised and the various ways to ensure its effectivity other than the rate of the reaction and the yield as you waltzed through the door (the inscriptions were glowing a pretty purple-pink hue reminiscent of sakura blooms that day). The redox apparatus from two days prior was sitting exactly where you’d left it, nothing out of the ordinary there. The abnormality came in the form of a segment currently in the process of detaching the round-bottomed flask where your product had accumulated from the condenser; the first thought to register was the sheer audacity for anyone to even contemplate touching your experiments, while the second, this is my chance to study the constitution of these ‘segments’ up close, wasn’t far behind. Glancing up sharply, your flask still clutched in his un-gloved hand, (a voice in your head shrilly protested his lack of adherence to safety procedures) the segment began moving away, no doubt to disappear to wherever him and the rest usually stayed. With more agility than you thought you possessed, you rounded the workbench and grabbed him by his sleeve.

“You. What are you doing with my condensate?” You demanded, grabbing the flask from between his fingers and setting it down on a stand. Now that the imminent danger of your work going to waste was neutralised, you took the time to analyse this segment of your supervisor’s while you had him cornered. This version of Dottore was at least five years younger than the one you were familiar with, probably from his late Akademiya years. And he wore no mask, leaving two brilliant scarlet eyes on full display, rimmed with pale blue lashes and dark shadows beneath them. The segment coughed and fidgeted, trying to find a way to escape your clutches.

“Hold still,” you ordered, reaching up to touch his face. You were startled by the smoothness of the skin, having expected something cold and metallic. How in Teyvat did he pull this off? You tilted the segment’s face this way and that, looking for hidden wiring or steel plating or anything else that would belie machinery, yet you found nothing. You gave his cheeks an experimental squeeze, and were further surprised when your fingers dug into what seemed to be soft skin, then dropped your hands, stumped.

“Huh. You look very human.”

“Prime did tell me that was the intention,” the segment agreed, flushed in the face and still trying to discreetly push past you.

Even his voice didn’t sound robotic in the slightest, riddled with natural dips of tone and perfect inflection for the context. Your eyes took in every detail, every movement, still failing to spot anything that would’ve given him away as a machine.

“Incredible. Did he give you a name?”

“No. Prime wouldn’t waste a second thinking about something so inconsequential.”

If you weren’t mistaken, the segment sounded almost bitter, staring blankly down at the wall with those striking eyes. You felt a twinge of pity; being a clone for Dottore was probably a thankless task. “Would you like one?” You offered, not unkindly. “If your system permits that sort of input, of course.”

“I- I have no use for such things.” It was strange to think that your Doctor, impenetrable and unmoving as he was, had been capable of stuttering to the point where he himself recalled and implemented the trait.

“How about Theta? I’ll need to distinguish between you lot somehow.”

“It’s of no difference to me,” the segment- Theta- mumbled, before shooting you one last look, then disappearing in the split second it took to turn your head in his direction. You wondered where he’d gone, and why he was so wary of you.

Oddly enough, you didn’t see the Doctor for the entire morning and well into the afternoon. It was far from ordinary for him not to be in the lab the moment you arrived, (you suspected he slept there, if he even slept at all) muttering under his breath as he worked and occasionally ordering you to hand him the wrench or scalpel or graduated pipette in a tone so entitled it tempted you to bash him in the head with the very equipment you handed him. Still, you couldn’t deny his usefulness. Having two pairs of hands was always easier than one, especially when the other pair was as experienced as they came; you could bounce any question off him and receive a convincing answer, even if he could never resist throwing in a mocking remark about ‘how shameful it must feel to have such a rudimentary fact slip your mind.’

However, you had much better uses of your time than fretting over the location of your boss, such as extracting a sample of noradrenaline from the brain of a body so fresh you half expected the eyes to open in the midst of your operation. Even after such a time-consuming procedure, the Doctor had yet to make an appearance. You wrote it off, assuming he wouldn’t be present that day, and ate all the fruit tarts you’d brought while boring holes into your notebook with your eyes and trying to determine what exactly had gone so wrong amidst your calculations that the percentage error was at an unforgivable fifty seven percent.

“One hundred cubic centimetres of sulphuric acid sounds unreasonable,” a voice from over your shoulder remarked. You blinked, refocusing on the sheet of paper. A whispered curse slipped past your lips as you registered where you’d went wrong; the decimal point of the volume of acid was indeed one too many zeroes to the right. You twisted to see who’d given you the hint.

It would’ve been incredibly easy to mistaken this segment for Dottore himself, but he lacked the jagged scar spanning from above the mask to his chin and cutting right through the corner of his lip. This segment’s face also wasn’t as harrowed, unlike Dottore’s hollowed cheeks and deathly pale complexion. You probably would’ve missed the difference yourself, if you weren’t so accustomed to the tiny details of the Doctor’s countenance. The segment grinned lazily.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?”

Oh, for the love of-

You shoved him away with a roll of your eyes. Not quite as Dottore-like as his appearance suggested, then.

“You segments are rather friendly today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Since Prime isn’t here to hassle us about disturbing you, we thought we might as well make use of the main lab.”

A frown formed between your brows as you mulled over his response, absent-mindedly scratching out the mistakes in your calculations.

“Main lab? There’s others? And why would the Doctor forbid you from utilising it on my account?”

The segment leaned over, resting his elbow on the workbench and his cheek in his hand as he watched you. “What do you mean why”- a delighted expression crossed his face, and his resounding cackle made you look up apprehensively from your notes. “Oh, what a scream. You mean you don’t know?”

The notion of ‘not knowing’ made the scholar in you bristle. “Don’t know what?” You snapped, crossing your arms and turning to subject him to the full force of your glare.

“You’ll find out soon enough, lovey,” he replied with another laugh. You scowled.

Patronising piece of-

“I heard you even gave one of us a name,” he said, interrupting your furious train of thought. “I didn’t think you were so besotted.”

You clicked your tongue dismissively, waving him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s counterproductive not to know the names of one’s assistants.”

It was the segment’s turn to bluster. “I am no one’s assistant!”

“Mhm. Be a dear, Gamma, and pass me the dichloromethane so I can make some aspirin for the inevitable headache you lot are going to give me.”

Muttering and grumbling and secretly preening over his namesake being a highly dangerous electromagnetic wave, he slid you the bottle and even a measuring cylinder and pipette to boot. You rewarded his extra efforts with a small smile, and Gamma suddenly understood every nonsensical thought that Prime had experienced since you arrived in Snezhnaya.

Throughout the day, more and more of the segments appeared from Archons-know-where and took to hovering around you while you go about your business, or chattering and doing a fine job of distracting you from whatever you were reading, or even rushing to assist you. You didn’t complain; it was fascinating seeing these different facets of the Doctor. Most of the older segments are rather similar to him, although Gamma had a rather prominent flirtatious streak, while another you’d named Omega was more snappish and impulsive. The younger ones were unfailingly comical; Theta was so easily flustered and a little more apprehensive about explosive compounds than the rest, and Pi, whose name referenced the pastry that was such a direct contradiction to his character, was rude, arrogant and reckless.

(“Since you’re such a bitter pill to swallow, I’ll call you Pi.” You grinned at your own joke. “No other aspect of you is remotely close to sweet, after all.”

Pi scowled animatedly, shattering the beaker in his hands from how hard he’d gripped it. “I won’t answer to a name given by a simpleton.”)

“Pi, clean the mess you made in the fume cupboard! Some of us have organic lungs that can’t handle toxic fumes, you know!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” he snapped back, then slunk off to do as you’d told him when you weren’t looking.

The youngest of the segments, who barely reached your waist and had yet to even speak in your presence, had taken to trotting after you wherever in the lab you went, weaving between your legs and staring up at you with wide eyes half-hidden by a mop of messy blue hair. You’d come immensely close to tripping more than once, but you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him at all, instead nudging him out of the way like a cat sitting in the middle of the hallway. The segments were helpful enough, even if you’d been talked back at more times that day than your entire career as a lab technician in the Akademiya supervising young recruits, and by the time you were contemplating the prospect of heading to the dining hall for a bite to eat everything was in order; reagents alphabetically stored in their cabinets, counters wiped and glassware washed, even the enormous, curved windows were polished to a high shine. You spared them an approving look as you walked past, arms laden with bottles of (carefully separated) acidic and basic waste, admiring the aerial view of the snowy forest below, draped over the mountainside like a shaken-out blanket. The young segment was still tailing you, a lollipop you’d fished out from one of your pockets in his mouth; his utter disregard for where he was stepping had put you on your last nerve, but every time you sat him down in a safe corner he’d stare dolefully up at you before reappearing in your peripheral vision a few moments later. It was a wonder you hadn’t lost your temper, really.

“Epsilon, I can see your reflection in the window,” you pointed out in an unimpressed tone to the segment who’d been on the verge of grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to startle you. He huffed and grumbled, shaking the hair out of his eyes and cheekily tipping the neck of one of the bottles you were carrying as though to let the acid milkshake within, so to speak, spill, then pranced away from your scathing glare with a merry tune on his lips. You didn’t know how the segments seemed so familiar with you, as though they’d known you all their lives; Pi somehow knew how much value you placed on your leather gloves, as he’d threatened to use them for chromium extraction when you didn’t let him take one of your fungi petri dishes, Gamma had off-handedly mentioned how it was a shame your ear piercings had closed up years ago because you couldn’t match with their fluorescent blue test tube earrings, and Theta wordlessly handed you a pile of the expensive cider wood parchment you preferred to use and hurried away before you could say anything. It was baffling, to say the least, but you appreciated the extra help. It meant you could skip off to have a rather overdue lunch without fretting over something or other you might have mistakenly left over a Bunsen burner, even if it was strange leaving the lab without the Doctor’s voice criticising your lack of commitment to your education as the door swung shut behind you.

You weren’t even surprised to find Childe outside, leaning against the doorframe and tossing a dagger through the air, letting it flip over itself before catching it once more. When you opened the door, he stumbled into you and the dagger slipped from his hands as he nearly knocked you backward; but in a rare moment of swift reflexes you jumped to the side to snatch it from mid-air before it could stab either of you in the leg, only for Childe to latch onto your cloak as he fell and subsequently landing you on top of him. For a long, drawn-out moment, you just stared at each other; one of your hands pressed to the floor near his head while the other gripped the knife a safe distance above you. You quickly noted two things. One: Childe was bony and being draped over him was overall an uncomfortable experience; the apex of each of his ribs dug sharply into your chest, and two: his eyes were a peculiar, beautiful shade, less like the sea and more like heavy velvet thrown over something that glowed bright and blue, dimmed by the weight of the fabric.

Childe was finding it difficult to process anything other than your closeness. Yes, you were even more breath-taking up close and yes he would’ve given anything to place his hands on your waist and pull you closer still, but he was even more enamoured by the dips and points of your knuckles where your hand gripped the dagger, the creases in your leather gloves around each finger and the oddly calculating look in your eyes as you appraised him. You could stab him, he realised with a rush, staring up at you. You could drive the blade down and lodge it between his ribs and he probably wouldn’t be able to react fast enough because it was you, and his blood would stain your cloak and blouse and a coppery taste would fill your mouth. He wondered if Signora was right, and whether you really would look better in red.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell, and Childe suddenly noticed all the other tiny little things he probably wouldn’t get close enough to see again. The notion that such things would remain secret almost made him panic, and it took considerable effort not to clutch at you as you rose to your feet and dusted yourself off. You extended your hand to him, and he allowed himself a split second of self-indulgence, the liberty of seeing your outstretched hand reaching towards his collapsed body as something more than it was; he let himself believe that you, so bright and resplendent in your every trait you might as well have been the moon, were offering him, a creature writhing in the darkness, salvation or even just a moment’s respite.

You hauled him up from the floor with a grunt of effort (he couldn’t possibly be as bony as he felt. All that weight had to come from somewhere), then took off your glasses and held them to one of the wavering white lamps, handing him the dagger.

“Hello, Eleven.” You frowned at the new scratches on the lenses and started rubbing them with the hem of your blouse, even if you knew it was a fruitless endeavour. “How long were you waiting out here?”

“Long enough,” he all but whined in response, slinging an arm around your shoulder and ruffling your hair. Your only protest was a half-hearted grumble as you shoved your glasses back on, and his chest warmed with the thought that you no longer instinctively rebuked his touch. “C’mon, Trixy. I didn’t think you were the type to ghost someone after a date.”

“What are you talking ab- oh, for heaven’s sake,” you said exasperatedly, shooting him a look as he walked towards the stairs with you in tow. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

He beamed so widely you nearly stumbled on the steps, blinded by the intensity of his glee.

“So you’re not denying it was a date?”

You sighed out an incredibly inappropriate curse, drowned out by Childe’s hearty laughter.

“You are an incorrigible man.”

“Well you went on a date with this incorrigible man,” he countered cheerfully and not without a healthy dose of smugness. That earned him a withering look, and you detangled yourself from his side as you walked down the corridor.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” you said with a shrug, laughing slightly when he let out an indignant splutter. Childe bristled, trailing after you with an exaggerated pout.

“You should apologise for hurting my feelings, Trixy.” “If I were to apologise every time I bruised your fragile ego I’d never have time to say anything else,” you teased, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. “Now come on, they serve an exquisite pumpkin soup on Wednesdays.”

You wondered at what point you’d become so friendly with the Harbinger, to feel relaxed enough to so casually poke fun at him. Maybe your self-preservation instincts were decaying. Maybe it was worth it.

“I don’t want to see that… Arlie again,” Childe protested. You looked at him sidelong.

“Oh?” You asked, feigning surprise. “Why not?”

Because she outranks me and I don’t like having to share your attention, he thought. “She beat me in a fight once,” he admitted grudgingly. It wasn’t even a lie; that bitter defeat was indeed part of the reason he felt less than ecstatic around her, though the atrocities she’d carried out to become the fourth Harbinger were impactful too.

“Infighting between members of the same organisation should not be the norm,” you stated, shaking your head. “You Fatui are ridiculous.”

Childe laughed, tugging you closer by your linked arms to elbow you in the ribs. “You’re one of us ridiculous Fatui now, remember?”

“I am not!” You protested, affronted, before sighing at the self-satisfied expression on his face and changing the subject. “Tsk. So you refuse to speak to her just because you lost to her once? That’s immature, even for you.”

“No, no, defeat is all part of the battle. I don’t like that she refused a rematch.”

You hummed thoughtfully, chewing over his response.

“So you believe you’d win this time?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a shrug, steering you past the dining hall’s entrance. “It doesn’t matter though, does it?” He continued, as though the idea of combat for the sake of combat was the most normal thing he could possibly conjure. “Sparring with a strong opponent is the real goal. Say, Trixy. Are you any good in a fight?”

You snorted. “I’m a scholar, Eleven, not a warrior. And even if I was, I wouldn’t spar with you.”

His face took on an almost comically wounded expression. “What? Why not?”

“Because I know when I’m outmatched,” you replied dryly, letting him drag you along. A dejected expression you felt compelled to ease fell over his face. “Although I do have passable aim with a bow and arrow,” you reluctantly offered, and the change in his demeanour to unadulterated ecstasy was laughable.

“Really?! You’ve got to show me.”

“What? No, absolutely not.” Your reply was swift and decisive, but Childe was nothing if not meddlesome and persistent.

“No, no, no, you’re not getting out of this,” he jubilantly exclaimed, tightening his hold on your arm as if to prevent you from running off. “We’re going to one of the training grounds right now, and you’re going to do some target practice.”

“I’ll use your bloody head as a target if you don’t drop it, Eleven,” you threatened.

“Great idea, let’s try that too!”

Even as you lamented his utter insanity, Childe steered you to the west wing of the palace where you’d never been before. Upon looking around, you concluded that all forms of combat training happened there; the sound of crashing steel and muffled gunshots, interspersed with the occasional crackling, sloshing or rumbling from what was probably from Vision holders practicing how to utilise their elements in battle. The silver in the walls was twisted into different patterns from what you’d become familiar with, abstract depictions of battles long-past and a whole wall of solemn, important-looking text gleamed almost menacingly, commanding the attention of any who walked past it. From your passable fluency in the Snezhnayan tongue, you deciphered it to be an oath of sorts where the reader swore to carry out a myriad of jovial things such as turning the snowy landscape into a ruby’s facet with the enemies innards or their own, and wreaking havoc within the heavens until it rained scarlet. All in the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.

Wow. Bloodthirsty much?

You eyed the oath distastefully, missing how reverently Childe mouthed it as he led you into an empty archery range. Rows of targets stood on the other side, pockmarked and their paint scratched, with a few of them sporting an unfortunate red-brown stain. You were grateful that there was no one there, at least; if you were a little rustier than you remembered then there was no one to witness your mediocrity other than Childe, who was presently looking through the extensive selection of bows and chattering about the various advantages and disadvantages of different models. You riffled through one of the many quivers of arrows scattered haphazardly about, admiring the high-quality steel of the heads. Some of them even had meticulous patterns along their shafts, no doubt hand-painted, and you appreciatively traced a particularly striking golden dragon with tiny, methodical scales spanning the entirety of the arrow, ending at the head where the dragons jaws were open in a roar.

“Well, Trixy? What bow are you going to use?”

You glanced up from the quiver, twirling the dragon arrow between your fingers, eyes skipping over the countless bows laid across the stands. You noted the ones tossed carelessly across them with a disapproving glance, and eventually picked the one that was the most similar to what you remembered using, long-limbed with a straighter taper and made from wood you recognised as Yumemiru from the distinctive diamond-shaped whorls.

“Why that one?” Childe asked, mesmerised by the sight of you in his element with a weapon at your fingertips. What were you thinking about when your hands reached for that particular bow? Did you have any specifications, preferences in regards to size or even the type of wood it was made from? Were your eyes drawn by the faded blue leather wrapped around the handle? Would you prove to be better, smarter, quicker than he was? The thought sent his heart racing and his brain spiralling with the prospect of having you as a competitor, an opponent.

“Does it matter?” You replied with a shrug, testing its weight in your hands. “I’m no expert when it comes to the craftsmanship of weapons. The bow I learned to shoot was probably older than me with a string practically on its last life.” You frowned slightly, looking up at him. “Why do you ask? Is there some sort of technique or guideline I should follow?”

“No, no, don’t worry about doing something wrong,” he reassured, his back to you as he assembled a quiver of arrows. You lowered the bow to stare at him, flabbergasted that he’d so quickly and accurately read the involuntary hesitation in your answer.

“Usually we have beginners start with a compound bow, but you probably have your own inclination by now,” Childe continued, oblivious to your astonishment. “What you’ve got there is a longbow,” he added, tossing you an archery glove. “They’re generally more difficult to master and harder to use.”

You pulled off your glove after making sure his back was still turned before replacing it with the one he gave you, and then picked up the bow again with new interest.

“I see. And yours?” You asked, nodding towards the one he had picked, white wood gracefully curved and narrowed at the tips.

“This one’s a recurve bow. They’re better at close range and generally need more strength to draw.”

Childe couldn’t help but be entranced by your contemplative expression, all furrowed brows and a distant gaze as you took in the new information. He had to agree that you really were a scholar before all else; the pensive look you so often sported might as well have been made to be worn by your features. In your eyes, even an archery range became an experiment, a mystery to untangle. You sighed and turned to face the targets, nocking the arrow and drawing the bowstring back to touch your chin. Childe watched as you adjusted your aim, mentally evaluating your form, then let the arrow fly. He let out a low whistle of appreciation when it hit the centre with a satisfying thunk.

“Clearly your aim is more than just passable,” he remarked with an excited glint in his eye that you didn’t quite like.

“Accuracy is all I have,” you replied with a shrug, lowering the bow and gently pressing your fingers into the indent the bowstring left in your chin, perfectly aligned with the barely-visible scar there. You’d forgotten how tender the skin could get. “I doubt I can still hit a moving target, for one.”

“But you can get the bullseye every time?”

“Not every time,” you corrected, making your way to the target to pull the bow out of the wood. The painted dragon really was a masterpiece, and you took a moment to admire it before heading back to the archers’ stand. Childe grinned and followed after you, bow temporarily forgotten.

“So most times then?” He pressed, trailing closely behind you.

“Where are you going with this, Eleven?”

“I still think we should spar,” he replied brightly, so close he was practically breathing down your neck. “We’ll make it so that if you manage to shoot me even once, I go down, or we could”-

You twisted around to poke his chest with the fletching of the arrow, cutting him off. “No.”

“Please?” He implored, rounding on you whatever direction you turned to avoid him. “Please, please, please?”

“No!” You repeat, louder and with the full force of your irritation. “I’m not dying before I get this damned certificate!”

There was a beat of silence as he stared at you, slightly aghast. “You think I’d kill you?”

“…I don’t think you’d do so on purpose, no,” you conceded, taking out your pocket watch. “But your strength exceeds mine to the point where fearing for my life in a duel wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable to assume I’d ever hurt you,” Childe groused, continuing to block your path every time you tried to move past him. “Stop trying to get away,” he added, bending over to pinch your cheek. You stared at him, utterly at a loss for words, then quickly smacked his hand away with an irate grumble.

“I need to get away, I still have lab work to do.”

Childe flapped his hand as if physically shooing away the idea. “You work too hard, Trixy. Take a break.”

“And what do you think this little exercise was?”

“A chance to impress me with your archery skills, of course,” he replied without missing a beat, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. You rolled your eyes with a quiet huff of laughter, pushing past him, and he dutifully followed after you.

“You’re not very difficult to impress, are you?” You teased back.

Only when it comes to you, he thought wistfully.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚*

taglist:

@viridian-coffer, @vvzhyxx, @darifes, @whore-of-many-hot-men

@aenishas, @lovel3tter, @randomidk-123, @autistic-deer

@luvenus702, @zoriaisasimp, @ra404, @crownohomo

@diamondcookie45

if i missed you somehow please message me directly, bold means i’m having trouble tagging you! to be added or removed please comment on the masterlist post of this series <3

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smutstationchoochoo · 5 months ago

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A little John Price x FemReader drabble because I think about John Price far too often for it to be considered healthy and my mind always comes back to this: he always seems so in control. Not just of his people, or whatever environment he is in, but of himself. He’s cool calm and collected and honestly?- I don’t think that aspect of Price would shift too much during sex. Actually, I think it would kick into overdrive. I think that cool calm collectedness would shift into a calculating tenderness.

You see, he knows you. Knows how you take your coffee in the morning, knows what makes you laugh, knows your favorite movie, he even knows what kind of toothpaste you prefer. And he knows what makes you shake and cry and beg and plead beneath him.

John Price has had you pressed into his bed for what feels like an eternity now, one of his strong arms holding your hips down as the other is busy working two thick fingers in and out of you as he eats you out not like a man starved but like one who knows how to savor a good meal, how to taste a fine whiskey, how to suck in the smoke from a cigar and discern every single note.

Your legs are trembling, your hands grip onto the back on his head and you try to grind your hips against his molten tongue, chasing the release he has denied you since kissing his way down your body and planting himself between your legs. He of course pulls away, as he has done every single time you finally got close to falling over that edge. Price prides himself on his patience.

Your throat is raw from the sounds he has been wrenching from you and your mind struggles to catch up from another stolen orgasm yet you still try to form his name though it comes out slightly slurred as you lift your head to look down at him.

He lovingly kisses the inside of your thigh, running his rough bearded cheek against the soft skin before glancing up at you. His hair stands up at all angles from your hands desperately clutching at it. His eyes glint like sharpened steel but crinkle beneath a lazy warm smile spread out over reddened cheeks. He blinks at you, your hair wild, a sheen of sweat glistening across your body, and offers a low rumbling hum as if deep in thought.

“What’s that, love? You need to speak up.”

His eyes never leave yours, your gaze just as locked beneath him as your body in his arms. You drag in a breath, trying to fill your lungs with as much oxygen as you can muster and you begin to beg.

He patiently listens to your pleading, nodding his head with your every demand, that grin on his face never wavering, until you are finished.

He shakes his head and sighs, “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And god bless him, he lets go of his hold on your hips and moves his looming frame until he is kneeling on the bed just below you.

His huge thighs shuffle until they are flush with the backs of your own. His cock is flushed a vicious red, precum glistening from the tip, as he takes it in hand and rubs himself against your clit. You shake, your body body a live wire of pleasure beneath him, and your fingernails dig into his thighs.

“Look at you,” he huffs with a smile.

When he finally lines himself up with your entrance, you can feel your arousal dripping down between your cheeks and creating a small wet spot on the sheets but you don’t have time to care as John’s huge rough hands grip onto your waist and pull you onto the hardened length of himself as he pushes in. You’ll never get used to it, you think for a split second, before the stretch of him inside of you catches up to your brain making your back arch off the bed so harshly that you grit your teeth in pain.

Those hands of his soothingly rub your hips and one slides up to cradle the small of your back.

“There we go,” he praises, his voice low and sticky in your mind, “Such a good girl for me.”

This has you clenching around him so hard that your vision nearly whites out, and even gets you a little huff from John as he closes his eyes and relishes in the feeling of you around him. Then he begins to move.

John’s thrusts are not fast but they are not gentle either. He grinds into you, cock hitting a spot that has you gasping, clawing at his arms as he watches you. He watches as you fall apart beneath him, that smile still there, though his mouth now hangs slightly open in awe. His eyes are hard and focused as he completely gives himself over to the task at hand. Tears begin to gather in your lashes, slipping down your temples, as you blink up at the man breaking you apart. It’s only when his hand shifts to where the two of you meet, and his thumb begins an onslaught of circles against your clit do you begin to grasp the enormity of the cliff you are about to fall over. You sob out his name, the sound of it wretched from your chest, and you shake your head as your hands try to push him away, or drag him closer you have no idea which at this point.

“C’mon, just let go for me,” he urges, “I want to see it.”

And you do. You immediately fall over that cliff and you let go. You can’t even cry out his name, the ability to form any words seemingly lost as you grind yourself into his thrusts and brokenly sob incoherent nonsense as pleasure ricochets through your body electrifying every nerve in your system.

“There it is,” his voice comes to you amongst the waves of your orgasm, proud and praising, as he continues to grind into you, carving himself into your pleasure until he finally gives one last thrust, burying himself deep, before emptying inside you.

You stay there like that, him inside of you, as you try to will yourself back into your own body, listening to the sound of his breathing.

The feeling of those hands softly rubbing against your thighs helps bring you back, eyes blinking up at him. He grins back at you, all tousled hair and flushed faced, before leaning down to kiss you. You sigh into his mouth, but then you feel him twitch inside of you.

“Now give me one more.”

#john price smut #captain john price smut #captain john price x reader #fem reader #call of duty smut #cod mw smut

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whereserpentswalk · 3 months ago

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There was a church who started worshipping a god built of machine.

They started out as a normal church. Culty and strict for sure, one of those tiny American high control protestant sects. They were just kind of doing their thing for awhile, but than some of the elders said that an angel had come to them, an angel made of steel and wire and plastic, and that he told them how to build God on earth.

The first thing they did was connect every church they had in North America with these massive underground wires. The wires were large and thick and made from this unknown red material. The stats tried to stop them, but once it was built nobody seemed to be able to remove it without causing worse damage. So the wires stayed.

And in every church they owned they brought in big machines to hook up to the red wires. Nobody saw the machines, everyone other than the high ranking priests were forbidden from seeing them, they always kept them under cloths. Nobody knew what they did either, they just knew the priests were constantly interacting with them. But they heard them. It was an awful noise. Sometimes it was like a great churning or screeching, but most of the time it sounded like singing, a horrifying and strange song like nobody had ever heard the likes of before, in a language no one knew.

They showed the world a map of the network and the machines, and told them that that was their god. They believed that if their god had come to earth before as a mortal man, now he had come to earth as a network of machines. And now the entire church bore the bloody hands of Saint Maria.

As time went on they started replacing normal church images with ones that fit their vision of God. Security cameras, computer screens, factory engines, headlights, and the hard and glowing things. And when they depicted angels, they seemed like beings of mechanical creation.

Then they started putting machines inside of people. Little computers. More advanced than anything that humans had made before. Some of them seemed to be to watch their followers. Others to effect their mood, or the hormones, or other subtle things. Others to tell them things. And still others were to do things nobody could figure out the meaning of. Soon all the followers had little computers in their body, and the church knew everything about them. They were entertained, the songs were always with them now.

Then the angels came. Strange mechanical creatures, they looked like something from outside of humanity trying to imitate it. And the angels told the church things, about other planets, and other planes, and war amoung gods and spirits. Some of the church leaders went mad or became disturbed, but they all disappeared, and the ones who stayed were the most loyal. They handed them a map of many universes, and told them to keep it secret.

Soon the angels began demanding sacrifices, though they wouldn't call them that. They wanted humans, to take, nobody knew where. Though they would take anyone, and the church could make anyone with the machines inside them go. Children who didn't follow the pure lifestyle of the church, those who doubted their doctrin, loose women, unmasculine men, those who knew too much that they couldn't be trusted with, all went to the angels, never to be seen again. It's not even like there were bodies to find, they looked but it was like they just exited the universe.

The church left soon after that. The state never cared about them, but journalists broke the story, and the church became too hated to continue. And when their crimes were found, most of the leaders were arrested, tax fraud, embezzlement, crimes more boring than they deserved. The angels left, but warned of darker things from further places and stranger masters. And the god from wires and machines was pulled apart, it didn't even get to be seen in full condition, it just seemed to fall apart and than they had to clean it up.

They say there's still something lurking out there with interest in our world, something that was kept quite, but can now listen thanks to new technology. There is something living in the wires and the glowing machines.

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visit-new-york · 1 year ago

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The Williamsburg Bridge remains a beloved and functional part of New York City's infrastructure, offering more than just a physical connection between boroughs. It weaves together the social, cultural, and economic fabric of the city while serving as a reminder of the city's enduring spirit and resilience.

Accessibility for Bicyclists: In recent years, the Williamsburg Bridge has become increasingly popular among cyclists. The addition of dedicated bike lanes and paths has made it a key route for those commuting between Brooklyn and Manhattan by bicycle. This has contributed to the city's efforts to promote sustainable transportation options.

Emergency Services: The Williamsburg Bridge, like other major bridges in New York City, is equipped with emergency evacuation plans and protocols. It is considered an essential route for emergency vehicles and personnel during crises or natural disasters.

Cultural Influence: Beyond its practical role, the Williamsburg Bridge has had a profound cultural influence, particularly in the Brooklyn neighborhood it connects to. Williamsburg, with its vibrant arts scene, has become synonymous with the bridge's name, and it has featured prominently in local art, music, and literature.

In Popular Culture: The Williamsburg Bridge has appeared in numerous movies, TV shows, and music videos. Its distinctive architecture and picturesque views have made it a favorite location for filmmakers and artists looking to capture the essence of New York City.

Connecting Diverse Communities: The bridge has played a crucial role in connecting diverse communities in Manhattan and Brooklyn. It has been a conduit for the exchange of cultural influences, economic activity, and social interactions.

Historical Preservation and Restoration: Various organizations and government agencies have been involved in preserving and restoring the bridge to ensure its longevity. Efforts have included repainting the bridge, restoring its architectural features, and maintaining its structural integrity.

Design Features: The Williamsburg Bridge's towers are constructed of steel, and its suspension cables are made of wire rope. The bridge's overall design showcases elements of the Beaux-Arts architectural style, with ornamental details and decorative flourishes.

Maintenance Challenges: Maintaining a bridge of this size and age is an ongoing challenge. The bridge requires regular inspections, repairs, and upgrades to keep up with modern safety standards and the demands of urban transportation.

Future Developments: As New York City continues to evolve, the Williamsburg Bridge remains a vital part of the city's infrastructure. Future developments and improvements may include further enhancements to pedestrian and cyclist facilities, as well as ongoing efforts to reduce environmental impacts.

Centennial Celebrations: The Williamsburg Bridge celebrated its centennial in 2003 with various events and activities to mark its 100th anniversary. This milestone offered an opportunity for New Yorkers to reflect on the bridge's historical importance.

Artistic Expressions: Over the years, the Williamsburg Bridge has been a canvas for artistic expressions. Street art and graffiti have adorned its support structures and pedestrian walkways, contributing to the bridge's cultural identity.

Traffic Congestion and Alternatives: Like many urban bridges, the Williamsburg Bridge experiences traffic congestion during peak hours. This congestion has prompted discussions about transportation alternatives, such as improved public transit options, to ease the burden on the bridge and reduce environmental impacts.

Hurricane Sandy and Resilience: The bridge, like other infrastructure in New York City, faced significant challenges during Hurricane Sandy in 2012. The storm surge resulted in flooding and temporary closures. In response, the city has explored ways to enhance the resilience of critical infrastructure, including the Williamsburg Bridge, to future extreme weather events.

Iconic Landmark: The Williamsburg Bridge is not just a transportation link but also an iconic symbol of New York City's skyline. Its unique silhouette and the way it frames views of the city have made it a subject of admiration for photographers, artists, and tourists alike.

Community Engagement: The Williamsburg Bridge has been the focus of community engagement and activism. Local residents and organizations have advocated for improvements, safety measures, and the preservation of its historical and cultural significance.

Economic Impact: The bridge's role in connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn has had a significant economic impact on both boroughs. It has facilitated the movement of goods and people, supporting businesses and industries on both sides of the East River.

Night Illumination: The Williamsburg Bridge is often illuminated at night, casting a stunning glow over the East River. The changing colors and lighting schemes have been used to mark special occasions and holidays, enhancing the bridge's visual appeal.

Symbol of Progress: Throughout its history, the Williamsburg Bridge has symbolized progress, connectivity, and the spirit of innovation. It reflects the dynamism of New York City as it continues to evolve and adapt to the needs of its residents.

The Williamsburg Bridge stands as a testament to both engineering innovation and the enduring cultural significance of infrastructure in urban life. It has served as a lifeline for generations of New Yorkers, connecting people, neighborhoods, and opportunities across the East River.

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brineoffire · 20 days ago

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Next day of my schedule is a fic update! BTW I'll pin my posting schedule after my poll finishes!

Chapter 3 of Wings and Wires!

Previous chapter link

vvv

Around you many of his guests stare and you all but ignore all of them. You keep your chin up, staring at the rafters once again. Do exactly what you were trained to do. Grit and bare the looks you get and the hands of your owner that trail over your knee and thigh absentmindedly. You've dealt with this over and over again, and you'll continue to deal with it as long as you're here. As long as you belong to Alphonso.

The worst part of it all was still when he allowed his associates to touch you. When he let them line up to get their hands on you. Greedy hands brushing through the fur on your wings and tail. Those closer to him he allows more intimate touches. Those more important guests are able to see you as you strip off your fancy silks and satins. Left in nothing but your tight underwear, lacy tank top and short briefs that lay low on your waist.

He usually leads them, pulling you down to your knees by the chains on your muzzle or collar. Keeping you between his legs he allows them to run their hands over your exposed body. They rub over where scales meet flesh, too many fingers tangling in the streak of fur that follows your spine. A select few would slide eager fingers over and into the edges of your underwear. Those touches still sent a chill down your spine and the sting of bile up the back of your throat.

It's easy to recall the time you first fell into Alphonso's hands. The first few months he kept you all to himself, breaking you in as you fought back. Heavy chains and straps always kept him just out of reach of your claws. In those times he kept your mouth fully covered with muzzles made fully of steels and metals, your teeth would snap behind them uselessly. For two months you fought him, each time your punishments getting worse and worse.

Bindings tightened. Dark rooms where he kept you isolated and hungry. When your fits had been at their worst he'd have you pinned down, your limbs immovable. He knew the slowest and most painful way to remove scales, claws, and fangs. Always pulling from the same spot after they'd regrow, relishing in your extra pain from the fresh growth. It broke you down after the third month. Three months of blood and tears. Three months of sobbing and anger. Three months of being forced into a mold to become the perfect pet for the mafia head.

You had no one to get back to after all. Your family would be the first ones to pay the price if you ever actually escaped. There was no love lost there, but you understood what happened. Understood the bleakness of all of your futures if Alphonso didn't get exactly what he wanted. So you played the role he forced you into. Became his attack dog, his lap cat. Followed every order to the letter ro win his praise.

Now here you are, sitting in his lap like the pet you've become. Answering every one of his demands no matter how outrageous just to avoid his wrath. It's easier now to ignore the eyes, the hands, the cold voices talking about you like an animal. You've spent so long tuning it all out while he totted you around, just like you do now, staring up at the rafters as if they were bars to the cage your life has become.

When everything from your sleep to your exercise has been dictated it's easy to fall into an autopilot. You've gotten to a point where you can tune out all voices but his, can focus only on his scent, but today is different. Somewhere on the edge of your consciousness you feel a pull. A little tug that threatens to pull your focus back to your surroundings and onto something other than Alphonso’s call. More than a scent, or a voice, it's something that tugs on your mind itself, pulling you to look in the direction of the other dragon and his harpy.

Your vision comes back into focus and you can't help but slowly glance that way. When your eyes finally settle on them again it confuses you to see concern from the bigger man, his brow furrowed even more as he watches you carefully. The harpy conceals it well, no one else would notice, but you see anger, though it's not directed at you. Following the line of his vision you know he's looking past you, at Alphonso. You know that sense is somehow coming from both of them, and you're about to give into it, about to turn to look at them directly, when Alphonso clears his throat and has your full attention.

Your eyes shift back to his face as you watch him talk. He thanks the crowd for attending and rattles on about his plans. Letting them know a vague outline of his manufacturing, subtle details and hints mean those who know the plans are reassured and those who shouldn't are kept in the dark. He has your full attention as he talks yet you feel that same odd sense again. That same pulling desire to give your attention to the two men across the dining room. For now you keep yourself in line and focused on Alphonso.

His speech finishes and the crowd claps lightly. In your peripherals you catch a blur of movement, and you know exactly what it is. Snapping your head towards the source you react in a split second. Launching yourself off the seat, using your wings to lift your weight off Alphonso before springing into action. A gunman rushes forward, shotgun in hand as they sprint to get a good shot.

You’re used to these attempts by now, though what you’re not used to is a smaller blur of movement. The gunner stumbles forward, their speed broken as one of their knees buckles forward, a gasp of surprise leaving their mouth as you continue to bound towards them. Grabbing the gun’s barrel you knock it upwards, kicking at its wielder's chest with enough force to drop them backwards. They cling onto their weapon desperately but you slam the butt of their gun into their face hard enough for them to lose their grip.

As they fall you press a knee to their chest, your wings flaring backwards as you drive your weight into them. Your clawed hands dig into their shoulders and they cry out in pain as your thumbs dig into their neck hard enough to draw blood. You hear Alphonso laughing loudly and clapping as you glare down at the would-be assassin.

“Well now ladies and gentlemen! Isn't this nice? Dinner and a show!” You hear mummers mixed with a few chuckles around you as your focus stays on your quarry. They struggle in vain under you, calloused hands gripping at your wrists as they squirm fruitlessly. Out of the corner of your eye you catch something falling from behind the leg they stumbled on. Something thin and pointed, made up of several brown shades with a slight glint of red.

Behind you Alphonso's footfalls ring out as he gets closer to you, his hand falling on your head, patting you.

“Good boy.” He raises his arm, a signal for his regular guards to approach as he laughs again.

“You fucking idiots never learn do you?” Your grip only loosens once the guards have their shoulders, yanking them to their feet roughly. Your tail subtly slides over what you now see is a feather. While the attention is on the assassin you deftly slide it under a scale on your tail, hiding it just under your fur. You can almost feel its owners' eyes boring into you, but you keep your focus on the task at hand.

#task force 141 #141 x male reader #141 x reader #141 x trans male reader #poly 141 #tf 141 #141 #poly 141 x male reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #brine scratch #141 hybrid au

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docgold13 · 5 months ago

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Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Live Wire

Leslie Willis was a popular radio shock-jock who made a habit of ridiculing Superman. Leslie's outspoken and polarizing style garnered her as many supporters as disputants, all of which made her show quite popular. Hoping to further her fame, Leslie produced an outdoor show demanding that Superman come and answer her hard-hitting questions.

Superman did indeed show, but only because there was an approaching electrical storm and Willis’ out-door antenna was putting her and those who gathered to see her all in danger. Before Willis could be coerced to call off her show, a bolt of lightning struck. Superman stepped forward to shield Willis, absorbing most of the bolt; yet the current bounced off of Superman and electrocuted Willis.

The lightning coupled with Superman’s alien physiology had a strange impact on Willis. It transformed her into an energy being possessing vast electrokinetic powers. Now calling herself ‘Live Wire,’ Willis became a super villain. She blamed Superman for what had happened to her and has attempted on several occasions to take her revenge by killing the Man of Steel. Fortunately, Superman has been able to fight off these attacks and Live Wire has been detained until a cure for her condition could be found.

A discovery at Wayne Enterprises looked as though it could prove promising in potentially reversing Willis’ transformation. When Live Wire was being transported to the Wayne Enterprises facility in Gotham, however, she broke free. She found kindred spirits in the fellow vilenesses, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn, and the three of them went about a destructive crime spree.

Live Wire and her allies were eventually defeated by the combined efforts of Batgirl and Supergirl. The villainess was subsequently returned to incarceration in Metropolis. She would later escape once more and joined both The Superman Revenge Squad and later The Legion of Doom.

Actresses Lori Petty and Kari Wahlgren each provided the voice for Live Wire with the electrical menace first appearing in the fifth episode of the second season of Superman: The Animated Series, 'Live Wire.'

#superman the animated series #batman the animated series #Live Wire #DCAU #Lori Petty #Kari Wahlgren #Legion of Doom #cut-out #paper art

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dreadsuitsamus · 1 year ago

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Anytime | Kensei Muguruma x Reader |

author's note: this hurt a little bit to write lmao and i apologize in advance if it hurts you too

pairing: kensei muguruma x fem!reader

warnings: reader and kensei are divorced, a little bit of angst and jealousy

"I'm on my way."

It rings in your head, over and over, as you sit on the side of the road and wait for your ex-husband to come save you. Stomach a pit and each and every nerve wired and frayed, tears nearly brim in your eyes at the anticipation of his arrival. Being stuck on the side of a road you're sure hasn't seen a single driver on it in at least a week is one thing, and it's another when you've got three flats and an ex-husband with a hefty I told you so locked and loaded.

Your divorce with Kensei was finalized over two years ago, but the sad fact remains that he's the most important person in your life, and vice versa— which is why you informed him of this last-minute road trip, only to be warned against it.

"I don't think your car can handle that trip. Put it off until I can make sure everything is functioning properly."

And like a fool, you neglected to take it seriously and off you went to the festival. Perhaps it's why you had as great of a time as you did— karma was evidently waiting with a dish best served cold.

Your heart jumps at the sight of a black Silverado truck pulling up. He hates that damn truck, much preferring his fuel-efficient Elantra, but you've left him with no choice today. You're so distraught you can't even take much time to appreciate those long legs of his as he steps out of the truck; sometimes you wonder how you could be divorced from the most handsome man you've ever known.

Dressed in jeans with the platinum chain you'd gotten him many moons ago attached, boots and a black button down shirt, your gut tells you he was busy when you called. Looking so fine… He was on a date, wasn't he?

It burns.

With a resounding sigh, you meet him in the halfway distance between your cars. Kensei's never been particularly talkative and mouthy unless angry, and though there's certainly some simmering beneath the surface, he's calmer than you initially expected. He passes you a bottle of water and a protein bar before going to inspect the damage, subsequently sighing and rubbing his temples with his long fingers. "I'm amazed that your luck is so shit that you only got three flats so your goddamn insurance wouldn't cover it."

"I'm still trying to figure out how I only got three."

"Divine intervention." Kensei mutters bitterly and starts to roll up his sleeves past the delicious forearms that once would hold you up against the inferno that is the rest of his body at night. "When's the last time you even got these rotated, let alone changed?"

"I don't even know what having them rotated means."

Kensei sucks in a sharp, irritated breath and steels himself; it'll do no good to get upset this early into the project. He just… Wishes you fucking listened to him. About anything, at this point. "New rule. Get it done every time you get an oil change." And thank God your car is one that will bug the hell out of you about your service interval— he doesn't want to consider what your oil and other fluids would be like otherwise.

"Okay." You mumble and crack open the water, taking a long pull from the cold drink. It's refreshing and perfect, pulling your spirits up just a tad as you start to feel a little bit better physically.

"Eat that protein bar." Your ex-husband demands, heading for the bed of his truck and lowering the tailgate. He's got everything he needs for the swap— including time. "I know you, you little shit. You're running on a refresher from six hours ago and had a hearty helping of hopes and dreams to eat, didn't you?"

You scowl as you chew the protein bar. It's terrible, like every protein bar you've ever tried, but at least he got one that doesn't make you want to vomit. "I didn't call you here so you could lay into me about my eating habits."

Kensei's brown eyes cut to you as he lowers a tire to the ground. "You rather me go off about the rest of the shit you got yourself into now, then? 'Cause I was saving it for later."

Rolling your eyes, you look away from the man you married six years ago. He huffs and resumes himself, setting up a workstation and prepping your car to start swapping the new tires on. You find a spot nearby him, settling down onto the lawn chair you took to the festival as he begins cracking off lugnuts. Sparing a glance your way, Kensei feels a bit of a tug at his heart despite his rage. You may be his ex-wife, but you've never been bad to him a day in his life. "How long did you sit here before you called me?"

"About two hours." You sigh, finishing the water after forcing the protein bar down. "I tried to get my insurance to help me. They wanted to charge even more because it's a Sunday and I just don't have the money for all that. I considered just camping out for a night and having them come out tomorrow, but…"

Kensei shakes his head. He was waiting for your call or text announcing you were back home; that plan would never fly as long as he's in your life. "We gotta get you a new insurance policy, babe. You're done paying for one that would leave a woman stranded like that."

"Yes sir."

Silence settles in for a while as you watch Kensei work. A light bead of sweat trickles from his temple to his neck, and then he tosses his tools down to carefully slip the buttons open and take off his shirt. If it's somehow possible, his biceps are bigger than they used to be. Leaving himself in a white tank top, he tosses the shirt your way. "Keep that clean for me, yeah?"

"Mhm." You slip into the oversized shirt, his handsome smelling cologne flooding your senses. He's not slick at all; it's chilly out in this wasteland, and rather than simply ask if you're cold, he'd rather ensure you won't be.

His unstoppable air of authority wraps you up, even now.

"Were you busy?" Tumbles out of your mouth after the beat of silence lasts too long. He's finished one tire already and it's really hit you how much you relied on him during your marriage.

It's no wonder he didn't fight to salvage it.

"No." He lies through his teeth and it's easy. Just a little too easy.

It's no wonder you served him divorce papers.

Huffing softly, your brow draws together. "Yeah, right. You got dressed all nice just to come bail me out? Bullshit. I'm smarter than you give me credit for, Ken."

"And yet, you went on this trip without getting your car checked out." Kensei snaps right back, irritation creeping up and warming his neck and ears. "If you didn't wanna wait for me, fine! Why not take it to Abarai's place?" He's got a point— You've known Renji for years now, and he'd always make time for a friend, his business needs be damned. He'd have it done in a day, easy.

Still, the embarrassment of being scolded like this lights your temper. "I told you, Ken, this trip was not planned. I had a friend up north mention the festival and we decided to go to it and meet up."

"Even if I accept that answer, which I don't, there's no reason for you to let your car get this bad! I don't even wanna look under the hood! Why do I always have to take care of your shit for you?? Time and time again, you fuck up and then you call me to bail you out!"

Your eyes widen with a series of blinks. He doesn't sound pissed as much as he's simply… Tired. Upset. Kensei being angry or frustrated is not foreign to you— on his surface, it's the only emotion he knows. But as his wife, you saw the softer side of his feelings. He does get sad, he does cry and he does have bad days like anyone else. And as you take in his tirade… The realization hits that those glimpses of his belly showing were almost entirely gone by the time of your separation.

That marriage was already doomed by the time you attempted to save it. Serving the papers to him wasn't supposed to do anything but show his true colors— he'd fight for you, or he'd give up. And Kensei chose the latter.

"Ken." You murmur carefully. "What were you doing when I called you?"

Kensei throws the tools down, rubbing his hands over his face. "I was on a date."

You'd rather have been left on the road to die than hear him say those words to you. The sinking feeling in your stomach threatens to send that protein bar back up just at the thought of him sitting at a restaurant with another woman, treating her in the same ways he'd treated you way back when. Kensei dating isn't unusual, per se. He's a single man, attractive and still quite young…

But he's yours.

"And you came for me?"

Kensei's hands drop to his lap. "For better or worse, babe: that's the promise I made you."

"The wedding vows don't particularly mean shit after the divorce." Tears of shock and hurt fill your eyes, though you refuse to blink and let them fall. He will not make you cry again, ever, but… The turn of your head to look away from him sure does accidentally force them out.

Kensei drops his head— he hates it when you cry, and hates himself for being the reason. He should've just lied again, brushed it off and moved onto the next flat. It wouldn't have worked though; the guilt he shoulders when he lies to you eats him alive, and it triples due to the look on your face when he does lie. You know he's not telling the truth, every time he tries it.

"I don't know why you think I'm the type of man to leave any woman stranded, much less you. You're the exception to every rule I have, always have been."

Your lip wobbles. It's true, you've always been the one to break Kensei's rules. He said he didn't date coworkers. But he dated you. He said he wasn't after a serious relationship. He married you. He said you shouldn't see each other after the divorce. Yet, he was calling and asking how you were doing not even a week later.

He's always loved you.

It's quiet for a while, and eventually Kensei gets back to the entire reason he's here. Clouds are rolling in, and he'll be damned if he gets caught in the middle of a rainstorm right now. His chest cavity feels empty and he wants nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep these horrible feelings away.

"Why?" You ask after a while, your few tears mostly faded now.

Stop, stop, stop! Stop asking questions, stop crying over your ex-husband moving on!!

"Why what?" Kensei mutters as he torques the lugnuts on the second tire.

You sigh to yourself, a beat of silence taking over again. Kensei's amber eyes flick over to you, snuggled into his shirt and avoiding his gaze as you curl into your chair. You're at war with yourself, that mental battle clear as day on what he can see of your face. His heartstrings tug, and next thing he knows he's wiping his hands and kneeling in front of you, cupping your cheek in his hand so you'll look at him.

His thumb swipes away a small tear. "Babe. Talk to me. You're not gonna feel better otherwise."

Your chest heaves at his touch, at his sincere eyes and warmth that keeps you so in love with him even now as a shudder wracks your entire body. "You keep your promises to me. You're always there when I need you. But why didn't you fight for our marriage?"

Kensei's silver brows raise before knitting together. "You wanted to leave. I wouldn't force you to stay if you weren't happy."

"I wanted you to care! I wanted my husband to tell me he still loved me and that we could work it out, but you didn't! You let me leave without so much as asking why!"

Kensei withdraws his hand. "Of course I cared! Does this—" He gestures back to your car. "Look like I don't care?? You had my whole heart in your palm, and you broke it! But I still come for you! All I want is for you to be safe and happy, and if it's not with me, so be it! You matter more to me than I ever have!"

"I've never wanted anybody else." Your eyes burn with fresh tears. You've never so much as entertained another guy for a potential date, let alone go out with someone after the divorce. There's nothing but your love for Kensei stopping you, but foolishly you hoped he would do the same; how unrealistic and unfair of you.

How many dates has he been on with this woman? Has he kissed her yet? The entire idea makes you want to scream and cry and cuss an innocent woman out for banging your husband. Ex or not, he's still so much of your heart that to lose him would ruin you.

"Then why divorce me?" He murmurs, standing and stepping back. The clouds are darkening, and he feels a hefty drop on his shoulder. "Why put me through a divorce if you wanted to stay together?!"

Anger boils inside your stomach, blood churning at an incredible pace as you rocket out of the lawn chair and fill the space he's created between you. "Why not fight?! If you love me as much as you keep saying, why didn't you fucking try?!"

"I already told you!" Kensei yells right back. "You wanted to go! So I let you go, because it's what you fucking said you wanted! You ended our marriage over a goddamn test, like the six years we spent together were some kinda fucking joke to you. You can't accuse me of not caring when you ended a four year marriage over petty shit!"

"I gave you a choice, Ken! I served the papers, but you signed them." You poke his chest harshly as two raindrops bounce against your forehead.

"I'm not having this argument with you; the shit's been said and done with for almost three years." Kensei turns his back to you as the rain starts a steady fall to swap out the last tire and get the hell away from you.

"Is she pretty?" It's beyond petty, so stupid and childish but you've got to know. If he likes this woman, or God forbid loves her, you'll never call him again. You'll die cold and alone before even considering reaching out to him, as an ex-wife to an ex-husband should.

Kensei stops in his tracks. "Yeah."

"Do you love her?"

"Never."

"Why?"

Kensei looks up at the sky, the gray clouds swirling as the rain descends. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and it's the same as always every time he's left to gaze at the back of his eyelids— you and him on the night of your wedding, laying together in bed and giggling like teenagers at the prospect of your happy life together starting.

He turns, white tank top half soaked as he comes back to you and holds your face like porcelain. This beautiful face drives me crazy… "Nobody's ever gonna be able to be you."

You whimper and a fresh set of tears mixes in with the rain as Kensei leans down and kisses you, his passion so pent up that he's picking you up and pressing you to his truck before you can make heads or tails of anything. His shirt is swiftly bunched into your hand as the surprise subsides and the gratification fills you to the brim, your lips and tongue sliding with Kensei's in a messy reunification. Too long, it's been too long since you had this, since you felt his warmth on you and reveled in it.

His silver hair is silky between your fingers and he groans as you massage his scalp with your nails. He's always been a bit like a cat in that sense. Your legs around him and his arms around you tighten as you urge your bodies closer, leaving no room for even Jesus now. The rain pours around you, leaving you drenched by the time you've got no choice but to pull back, lest you die making out with your ex-husband.

All in all, not the worst way to go.

Kensei kisses your cheek gently, his lips lingering as he maneuvers to open the door to the passenger seat and shield you from the onslaught of rain. Peppering small kisses while he wipes the rain from your face, he turns the truck on and sets the heater up to keep you from getting sick.

He strips himself of his tank top once he's left you safely in the truck, tossing it in the truck bed before running to finish up the last tire change with this lucky break in the rain. Your fingers come to touch your tingling, smiling lips and you close your eyes as the space of Kensei's truck encompasses you.

By the time Kensei's back, his tools and your old tires all loaded up, you're beyond sleepy. Scooping you into his arms, your husband walks slowly and kisses your temple as he carries you to your car. "C'mon. Time to go home."

You steal a kiss off his lips, and by the time you're back in town, you weigh every option as you sit at a red light behind Kensei. Taking the next turn leads you home, but going straight will bring you right to Kensei's apartment building.

The light turns green.

#kensei muguruma x you #kensei muguruma x reader #kensei imagine #kensei x reader #kensei x you #bleach imagine #bleach x reader #bleach x you #x reader #reader insert #it's open ended but i'm sure y'all can guess what route i'm personally taking!!

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utilitycaster · 9 months ago

Note

you got me. i binged all of midst in two days and it was great, but now i dont have a lot of other podcasts to listen to. do you have other good fiction podcasts you like?

DO I. I am not the Most Podcast Person I know but I definitely follow a lot because I drive a lot and walk a lot and put them on in the background while I do chores. Also, I'm sticking to scripted/plotted fiction here and not actual play but I can provide some actual play podcast recs too, though none are terribly obscure.

Wolf 359 is a completed podcast but a great binge. It also is science fiction and deals with capitalism and corruption and complicated characters and weird space stuff; it regularly makes the "great fiction podcasts" to check out and I think is closest to Midst in that it's also a tightly plotted work that goes to a natural end point.

I frequently talk about and recommend the Silt Verses and the thematic nature is remarkably close to Midst, but the vibe is very different. It has a lot of folk and body horror elements (audio-only, but they are absolutely present). Also covers the "man what if capitalism and religion were working explicitly in tandem" element of Midst with the added dimension of "what if there were many many gods and and they all demanded literal, physical sacrifices". Sister Carpenter is cut from a similar cloth as Lark and I love her dearly. To draw other comparisons would be to spoil it. It's on season 3, which will be its last. It is extremely intense in that when I fell behind I found it tough to binge without taking breaks, but it's really fucking good. (I also recommend this to people who like Candela Obscura, though that's more for eldritch horror vibes).

The Penumbra Podcast is great because it has two separate storylines (it was originally intended to be an anthology, but people fell in love with Juno Steel specifically). I like both, but Juno Steel is the more popular one - it's set in the future, in our solar system but in space, and follows Juno Steel, a private eye. It's extremely weird neo-noir. There is a homme fatale and a fantastic cast of characters, and it's also an interesting ongoing plot. The Second Citadel is more fantasy rather than sf though it's also kind of in that general New Weird bucket and is even harder to describe but I think it's underrated. It's also on its final season but it's been going on a while so it will take a bit for you to catch up.

Within the Wires is also a podcast I've recommended in the past. It's by the people who do Welcome to Nightvale which isn't listed here both because I assume you are aware of it, and because that's an ongoing slice of life sort of thing; there are plots but there's sort of that sitcom-esque "nothing really changes the status quo" element though the earlier era had some more structured stuff. Anyway, Within the Wires is found audio, so each season is different - the first is relaxation cassette tapes, the second museum audio guides, the third voice memos, etc. There are callbacks/connections between seasons at times, and I would recommend listening to at least the first two seasons in full (which are very strong) to get a sense of the world before hopping around later. The reason I recommend it here is because the worldbuilding is spectacularly done in a way that reminds me of the elegance of the worldbuilding in Midst, and because it's found audio, while it's one narrator per season you will get those weird asides and interesting tonal choices.

Tentative rec for Camlann, a roughly modern day post-apocalyptic take on Arthurian legends and the folklore of the British Isles only because it just started and has 3 episodes. I like it, but I don't know what plot it's building to (nor how long it will be; they have funding for one season but aren't sure about future ones.)

#answered #Anonymous

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gaiuskamilah · 7 months ago

Text

my brother's keeper

crimes of passion | M | 1.1k words

relationships | vasili thorne & sebastyan thorne, background f!trystan thorne/nb!main character (will rose, he/him)

warnings | character death, graphic depictions of violence

In which Vasili Thorne kills a brother in the name of Drakovia.

[read on ao3]

—

Duty was the one word that rang through Vasili’s head, has been almost all his life. The garrote felt like a dead weight in his gloved hands. There was a slight tremor in his fingertips as he mindlessly fidgeted with the weapon, thoughts preoccupied with the price he was about to pay.

Sebastyan. Duty now demanded for his darling little brother, Sebastyan.

Eight years ago, duty demanded for Juliana. Vasili’s beautiful Juliana—taken from him by none other than one wretched Trystan Thorne. Trystan never was satisfied. The gift of the crown in her lap, the world at her fingertips, and she could never see it as the blessing that it was, as the opportunity to serve and fulfill duty in the most honorable of ways. It was a competition ever since Vasili was born, and Trystan did nothing but take and take and take. In the end, even Juliana, Vasili’s Juliana, Trystan took for herself.

Juliana’s death had been incidental. The glitter wasn’t for her. But duty worked in mysterious ways, and in a haze Vasili awoke to find himself with the syringe at his beloved’s throat. He held Juliana as she died. Her eyes, once full of love and admiration for him, only held accusatory betrayal.

But her death was a gift, a promise.

It was easy to frame Trystan. The death of Juliana Georgescu, a beloved Drakovian countess, at the hands of Princess Trystan? The same Princess Trystan who refused to keep herself in line, who neglected her duties? Not even their father’s favor could save her from something so scandalous as murdering Juliana.

Or so he thought.

One pesky cult and Detective Rose had the king and queen recalling his sister back to Drakovia. The trial for Juliana’s death recommenced, and Vasili’s luck was starting to run out.

Nadja had failed in where Vasili needed her. In turn, he sliced Nadja’s throat open, stabbed her for good measure, and left her in Trystan’s room for the spoiled princess to find. But the work was sloppy, and the only thing that happened next was the start of an investigation by Trystan’s run-of-the-mill American detective. The crown wouldn’t even allow for a Drakovian’s death to be investigated by a Drakovian, no, it had to be Will Rose and his ragtag team, because Princess Trystan always got her way.

Pfaugh! It made Vasili sick.

He wanted to humiliate Trystan, wanted to take everything from her, wanted to make her bleed. In due time, he will, but as of now—

Vasili hid in the shadows of the opera box where he’d soon meet Sebastyan. Vasili steeled himself as he waited. This was different from the previous two—Juliana’s murder was a true crime of passion, a spur of the moment. Nadja’s took longer, but Vasili felt little sentiment for the lawyer that wasn’t disappointment. She was a means to an end, and since she failed once, at least her death could be used for something.

The doors swung open and it was with bated breath that Vasili watched Sebastyan walk into the opera box. The younger walked up to the open balcony and leaned on the railing. It was always a habit of his, ever since they were children—Bas would take in the sight of the world below him before coming down and taking his seat.

With Sebastyan’s back turned, Vasili quickly strode over to the other side of the opera box. He pressed Sebastyan’s body against the rail, holding his brother in place with his own weight and the metal and concrete. “I’m sorry, Bas,” said Vasili, just loud enough for Sebastyan to hear.

“Vasili—”

Vasili cut Sebastyan off as he wrapped the garrote wire around his brother’s throat and strangled him with expert hands.

The wire dug into the exposed skin of Sebastyan’s neck and cut right through his carotid artery. Blood spurted from the wounds and it was with both agony and sick sense of satisfaction that Vasili strangled the younger. Sebastyan thrashed under him, but Vasili was stronger. He held Sebastyan in place and pulled—the wounds on his neck were deep, and Vasili was certain there was no going back now. It would be only a few minutes before Sebastyan would leave him forever. With quick hands, Vasili untangled the garrote wire from around Sebastyan’s neck, and turned the younger man around to face him.

Sebastyan stared back at him with a look not unlike Juliana’s all those years ago. The younger prince spasmed in his older brother’s hold as blood continued to flow down from the wounds on his throat. His white tux, almost always pristine and proper, was stained red by the blood. Holding Sebastyan flush against himself, Vasili pushed Sebastyan’s hair out of his eyes.

“Shh, Bas, shh,” Vasili hushed, his voice soft in an attempt to soothe Sebastyan, much like he did when they were children. Sebastyan’s blood and spit spurted from his mouth, specks of it falling onto Vasili’s face. “This is for Drakovia. Drakovia will thank you, she will remember you. We will remember you.”

Vasili cupped Sebastyan’s face with a gloved hand and silently lamented the fact that he couldn’t feel his brother’s skin under tips of his fingers, that this had to be done with the blasted latex just to make sure Vasili wouldn’t leave too much of a traceable mark. He wanted to hold his little brother properly, wanted to let Sebastyan know that he was treasured and adored by the same person who spilled his blood out on an opera box floor. He wanted to let Sebastyan know that his death would mean something.

Sebastyan let out a choked sound as Vasili pressed his fist against Sebastyan’s neck. The gloves were just thin enough to allow an indent of his signet ring. “I will see our plans to fruition, I promise. Drakovia loves you, and she will love you even more, sevenfold.” Vasili pulled his fist away and ran a thumb over the new indent on Sebastyan’s skin, one in the shape of the Drakovian royal crest. Drakovia’s — Vasili’s — mark. Vasili pressed a kiss on Sebastyan’s forehead. “I love you. I will love you, forever.”

Vasili watched as the last light left Sebastyan’s eyes. With a shaky breath, he shut Sebastyan’s eyes closed when the younger finally fell pliant in Vasili’s arms. Pure grief washed over Vasili as he held Sebastyan in a hug for what would be the final time. Then, he steadied himself, careful to not let his emotions get the better of him. The voice of his brother’s blood cried to him from the ground, from their bloodstained clothes, from Vasili’s gloves—there would be time for it later, when the prince’s death would be revealed to the rest of their kin.

For now, Vasili placed his brother’s body on one of the opera seats, wiped the blood off of Sebastyan’s mouth, and disappeared before Trystan could find him.

—

tags: @choicesficwriterscreations

#playchoices #choices #crimes of passion #vasili thorne #sebastyan thorne #trystan thorne #my writing #ive had this in my drafts since november might as well just post it lol

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 1 month ago

Text

One Way Out

Dick Grayson knows what it’s like to be used as leverage. To be a bargaining chip rather than a competent player. He was one of the first sidekicks, after all. “Boy Hostage” was his least favorite nickname, but it wasn’t always inaccurate.

But Dick moved on from that. He became Nightwing. He’s more than just the kid that followed Batman around. But try telling that to the Crime Syndicate. Because Dick is feeling a lot less “Nightwing” and a lot more “Boy Hostage” right now.

---

“You don’t need to do this.”

“Hush,” Superwoman orders.

“No, really.” Dick shifts in the giant metal device, trying to look past the mini operating team in front of him. “Owlman, you won’t let-”

“Hush,” Superwoman demands. A golden lasso appears out of nowhere, cutting off Dick’s airway. He gasps and struggles in his restraints until black spots crowd his vision. Then the lasso disappears, and the prepwork continues.

The surgeon (or whoever he is) messes with a jerry rigged heart monitor. A few others in scrubs prep trays of glinting steel instruments. But Dick can’t pay attention to the instruments, because he’s distracted by the blue scalpels wrapped in plastic.

Dick swallows hard. Feels the metal cuffs tighten around his hands. Tries to ignore how he’s trapped, he’s trapped, he’s trapped. He can feel every cut and bruise and burn and break in his body. He can feel the days (Weeks? Months?) of torture. They weigh him down too much. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, so he silently endures the anticipation.

But then someone places something cold and wet on Dick’s bare chest. He flinches, but with no room to move, he only slams his back against the metal device he’s strapped to. The whip marks on his back scream in agony.

“Just disinfectant,” the person in scrubs explains.

Disinfectant for what?

“Disinfectant for-?” The lasso finds Dick’s throat. By the time he can breathe again, the surgeon has already started cutting through his skin.

Dick yelps, but once again, he has no room to flinch away. “No anesthesia?” Dick asks shakily, voice tight with pain. “Li’l barbaric, dontcha think?”

“Silence,” Superwoman orders. And considering she’s the one with the lasso in her hands, Dick doesn’t want to upset her. He grits his teeth, grunting and gasping as scalpels slice through muscle and wires are placed in the incisions. The surgeon is efficient, stitching the cuts with the wires still inside. There is no excessive pain. Nothing beyond whatever the goal is.

Dick hates him anyway.

Once the surgeon steps back, snapping off bloody gloves and wadding up his blue gown, another scrubbed person steps forward with the heart monitor. They position it on the ledge just below Dick’s chest, and it clicks into place. Then they connect the wires on Dick’s chest to the heart monitor.

Instantly, the monitor begins beeping out a cheerful rhythm. Except the rhythm is racing, desperate and confused and in pain.

Once Dick’s breath returns to him, he dares to ask, “What did you do? What is this?”

But the surgeon and the scrubbed people are already leaving, and they don’t turn back. Superwoman steps forward, and Owlman watches behind expressionless goggles.

“It’s called the Murder Machine,” Superwoman explains.

“Oh. That sounds… pleasant.”

“It was designed to hold Doomsday,” she continues. “But I think it will serve our purposes just fine today.”

“Oh.” He really doesn’t have the strength to probe further. Fortunately, Superwoman seems eager to monologue.

“The Murder Machine is a bomb. It’s set on a timer. But it also monitors your heart activity. As long as your heart beats, the timer counts down. Unless you flatline - asystole - the bomb will go off.” She tips her head, lifting Dick’s chin with a finger. “It’s been fun, but you’ve nearly outgrown your use. You’ll keep Batman busy. That’s the important part.”

Dick can’t even pull away. He’s forced to look at Superwoman’s cruel smile. She looks like a tiger, playing with her food before going in for the kill.

“O-Owlman…”

He’d promised. Owlman had promised. If Dick went with him, if Dick agreed to help, Owlman would set him free. And Dick had agreed to help, so why isn’t Owlman doing his part?

Owlman says nothing. He stays rooted in his spot, arms folded.

“Batman… Batman won’t bother with me.” Dick is sure. Bruce has always had an analytical, cost-benefit view of vigilantism. If Bruce has the choice between trying to save Dick and saving the world, he’s going to pick the world every time. And in this instance, it’s a non-issue. Dick will die no matter what.

“I’m doubtful, but if you say so. Don’t worry, Nightwing,” Superwoman soothes. “You’ll see Batman again. That, I am sure of.”

Dick’s stomach sinks. He’s bait, once again, dangled in front of his former partner. Of course. And there’s… there’s really no getting out of this one.

By the time Superwoman and Owlman leave Dick alone, Dick has already come to terms with the truth:

One way or another, he will die tonight.

---

The world is fuzzy when Dick comes to. He feels hot and cold at the same time. Lights burst across his vision. His head spins, and every square inch of him aches.

“Dick? Everything’s going to be alright. I’m here.” There’s a cowl in front of him. Two white eyes, one tense jaw.

“Batman…?” When did Bruce get here? How did Bruce get here?

“I’m sorry I shut you out.” There’s a gloved hand in Dick’s hair. Bruce is murmuring apologies and regrets and atonement like he’s got somewhere else to be. “All of you. I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

Hurt. Hurt?

… the bomb. The bomb, the bomb, the bomb-

“No…” Dick gasps. Bruce doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Bruce promises. His fingers fly as he tugs on the wires and messes with the heart monitor.

“You need to… leave.” Dick can barely get the words out. His lungs feel like deflated balloons. “You need to go.”

Bruce ignores him. He’s an expert at that.

There's an explosion from outside the door. Everyone - because there are other people here, though Dick isn't sure when they showed up - quiets. The room is so still that the heart monitor is audible.

Ba-deep. Ba-deep. Ba-deep.

It's slower than before. Even being stressed about Bruce and the bomb isn't enough to speed up his heart rate. Not anymore. Now his heart sluggishly chugs on.

“What is that?” a woman asks. Dick can't see who's asking. He decides it's not worth worrying over.

“It's a countdown.” And this voice is a man’s, but it isn't Bruce. “This isn't just a fancy pair of handcuffs, Catwoman. It's a bomb.”

And the voice is right. It is a bomb. Dick is a bomb. Dick’s heart is going to kill them. And why is Bruce still here?? Why hasn't he left yet? Is he… Does he not get it?

“You don't understand,” Dick wheezes.

“I’m going to disarm it and get you out of here, Dick.” He’s being suspiciously chatty. Almost like he's talking to himself. Like he's trying to convince himself that Dick can be saved.

There's crashing and rumbling. Dick feels lightheaded. The world shifts in and out of focus.

“Is the countdown monitoring his heart?” Catwoman.

“Yes. The detonator is hooked into it.”

Dick tries to push through the fog. Tries to will away fatigue and dehydration and severe blood loss. “Batman… The… The bomb…”

Bruce’s expression hardens, furiously cutting and prying pieces off the monitor.

“It only disarms…” God, has it always been this hard to breathe? Everything is just spinning, spinning, spinning. “... only disarms if my heart stops.”

Bruce stiffens. He pauses for a second, and Dick capitalizes on the moment.

“Please,” Dick begs. Sweat rolls down his temples. Blood drips from his nose and mouth. “Listen to me. You… You still have time to… to get out.”

And Bruce's voice turns to sharpened steel. That's his really angry voice. The voice that a young Dick Grayson would do anything to avoid. The voice he listened to without question. “I’m not leaving you, Dick. I am not abandoning you.”

Oh. This.

But Dick won’t let Bruce die because he thinks he's a bad father. Dick won’t let Bruce die over stupid principles.

“You aren't, Bruce. And you never have.”

Bruce shakes his head, returning to the wires. “The only way we’re getting out of here is together,” he growls. He desperately disconnects and swaps and twists, but his voice rises in pitch, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. “No…” he mutters to himself. “No, the wires…” He bites back a snarl. “Every time I disconnect a relay, it fixes itself.”

“Then there's only one way to disarm this bomb, Batman,” the mystery voice says.

There's a loud buzzing and a whoosh. Bruce collapses, disappearing from Dick’s line of sight.

“What the hell are you doing, Luthor?” Selina is shouting. Dick’s vision is too blurry to see it, but he can hear the crack of her whip. There's a scuffle.

And then Lex Luthor steps over Bruce and glares down at Dick like he's gum on the bottom of his shoe. “I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman. I’m saving our lives by ending his.”

And then he clamps his hand over Dick’s nose and mouth.

Dick can't struggle. Even when survival instinct kicks in and the last of his energy is used to fight for air, he's still trapped. There's no room to struggle.

On some level, Dick knew that he might be killed to save the others. And he was okay with that. He is okay with that.

… maybe.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson,” Luthor says. But his eyes aren’t sorry. They look like the eyes of a murderer. Angry and hurt and decisive. Not truly apologetic because otherwise, he wouldn't do it.

“LUTHOR!!” Bruce roars. (Roars. Bruce is roaring, he’s so livid.) “If you hurt him, I will kill you!!”

There’s more crashing, but Dick can’t pay attention to it, because the world is getting dark, and he’s struggling to turn his head to the side. To get away from Luthor’s hand. To breathe.

(Even if he knows he has to die, his body won’t give up so easily.)

“It’s the only way to save us, Batman,” Luthor laments.

Dick’s eyes roll up into the back of his head. The last thing he hears is Bruce screaming his name.

And then, he’s gone.

---

“Dick??”

Bruce wants to believe that he’s mistaken. But then the heart monitor lets out a never-ending whine. The final nail in the coffin.

The air catches in Bruce’s throat. He doesn’t know whether to feed into his grief or apathy. So instead, he falls headfirst into a roiling tidal wave of fury.

“No. No… No!” Bruce tackles Luthor to the ground and starts throwing punches.

One punch. Split lip.

“Batman,” Luthor gurgles. “Wait.”

Two punches. Broken nose.

“You murderer!!” Bruce bellows.

Three punches. A hand around Luthor’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“I have this… under control…” Luthor chokes. “Grayson- kkk!”

“Shut up,” Bruce growls. “Shut up.”

“Batman!” Someone is pulling on Bruce’s shoulder. “Batman, stop!”

Selina.

“He killed Nightwing,” Bruce hisses, still staring at Luthor’s cruel, traitorous eyes. “He… He killed Dick, Selina.” And just saying the words steals the breath from his lungs.

Luthor’s suit expels a heavy dose of electricity, and Bruce shouts as he’s knocked to the side. “It’s not too late, you idiot,” Luthor seethes, rubbing his throat. He climbs to his feet, keeping Bizarro between himself and Bruce.

Bruce recovers quickly, but it’s still not fast enough. By the time Selina helps him up, Luthor is standing in front of Dick again, ripping away the wires stitched to his chest. Blood wells up at the incision points, but Luthor ignores it all, digging something out of his own belt.

“Get away from-!”

Luthor silences him with a hand. “I made him swallow a cardioplegia pill.”

“A what?” Selina’s hand rests heavily on Bruce’s shoulder. It might be her way of providing support. But it’s more likely to keep Bruce from attacking Luthor again.

“It paralyzes the muscle surrounding the heart,” Bruce explains. But Luthor’s admittance doesn’t make things better, because how is killing Dick with a drug any better than smothering him?

Luthor pulls out a syringe and removes the needle cap. “If this boy’s heart doesn’t get a shot of adrenaline right this very second, he’s going to stay dead.” He stabs the needle into Dick’s chest and depresses the plunger.

For a long, long, long moment, nothing happens. Luthor throws the needle to the ground and shuffles his feet. He’s nervous, and he should be. The odds that a single dose of epinephrine will start the heart three minutes after death are astronomical.

But this is Nightwing. This is the Justice League. The odds have always been astronomical.

Bruce still doesn’t expect it to work. At first, he thinks Luthor is the one that makes the pitiful little cough. And then he sees Dick shaking, and his heart jumps to his throat.

“Dick?”

He’s running before he realizes it, pushing past Luthor to embrace his son.

“B-Batman?” Dick whispers, vocal cords rough and spent.

“I told you I had it under control,” Luthor sniffs. “There was no need to worry about him.”

But Bruce has stopped paying attention. He’s too busy holding Dick to his chest. And Dick… Dick grips Bruce’s cape like a lifeline. And for a moment, everything is right. Dick is here. Alive. Okay.

For this moment, that’s enough.

#whumptober2024 #no.8 alt #used as bait #batfamily #fic #canon character death #surgery #needles #scalpels #blood #murder #dick grayson #bruce wayne #nightwing #batman #cross posted on ao3

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shadowphoenixrider · 2 months ago

Text

The Rescue Gambit (3/5) Rescue the Cajun

(Previous: Break In)

After a quick check of the hallway, Shadow and Drifting quickly scurried to the door Ebak had indicated, pulling it open and quickly slipping inside. The stairway looked fairly normal for an administration building, until they took the stairs down, and it soon gave way to bare concrete and large industrial lights strung from wires.

"I don't like this." Drifting whispered.

Shadow didn't reply, raising her hand for her friend to stop. Straining her ears, she finally heard it; a quiet, high-pitched whine coming from below.

"He's here." She spoke lowly. "And hurt."

Drifting nodded, and the two women continued their descent, carefully placing their feet down so not to make a noise. They paused by a heavy steel door, peering through the window.

The guard glimpsed on the footage was standing further in, his back to them, staring into the makeshift prison. He cradled a big gun that was the most dangerous they'd seen by far, keeping an eye on the lone prisoner.

"I don't see a key." Murmured Drifting uncertainly.

"It'll be on a chain somewhere on his belt." Shadow chewed her lip. "How you feeling about pickpocketing?"

"I've never stolen anything in my life!" Was the indignant response. "I know being able to vanish might suggest I do that, but I prefer to use it to leave social situations, not commit crimes!"

"Okay, then we're going to have to commit violence instead." Shadow glanced down at the floating pipe wrench her brother had gifted her friend. "Ready?"

Drifting took a steeling breath.

"As much as I'll ever be."

They moved to either side of the door, Shadow taking hold of it and pulling as hard as she could. It was heavy, and she just about resisted the urge to grunt with the effort.

A good thing too, as the guard whirled around as the door swung open, raising his weapon.

"Ey! Who's there!" He demanded, Shadow crouching down behind the door and Drifting flattening herself against the wall. "Paul! That better not be you starting shit again!"

A pause, before a very nasally, tired, yet familiar voice sounded out.

"Jumpin' at shadows, Kenny? Told ya to take a nap."

Shadow's eyes widened, her heart briefly stopping her chest. She briefly rose up to catch what she hoped was Drifting's eyes, nodding vigorously. That's him!

"Shut up!" 'Kenny' retorted, spinning back around to the cells. "It's Kenneth, mutie! Knew we should've gagged you."

"Still could." Was the reply, a ribbon of danger flowing underneath the fatigue. "Why don'tcha come on in?"

"They want you alive, but I could still put a bullet in your head, pansy."

Drifting darted through the doorway at that, and Shadow peeked round the door to watch. Kenneth was pointing his gun in the prisoner's direction, full absorbed in the argument. He was completely oblivious to the pipe wrench floating up near his head with deadly intent.

"Really? Ya gonna start dat? Might as well just call me a f-"

THONK!

The wrench came down hard on the back of the guard's head and he crumpled like a tower of cards, gun clattering to the ground beside him.

"Mais. Dat's a way to solve it." The semi-familiar voice spoke.

Shadow moved around the door, pulling it closed behind her and stepping into the prison.

It had been hastily constructed, nothing more than concrete and steel bars that denoted each prison cell. And in the closest was a very familiar man, the sight of which caused Shadow's heart to skip.

Gambit sat in the middle of the cell, bloodied and bruised, with his white shirt and blue trousers dirtied and torn. One black and red eye was purple and swollen shut, whilst his nose was deviated in a way that was definitely not normal, dried blood trickling out of his nostrils, smeared over his shoulders and face with his attempts to wipe it away.

His hands were completely encased in steel manacles in front of his body, preventing him using or even touching anything with them. And, worst of all, a suppression collar had been fastened around his neck, its active blinking almost mocking. Her heart cringed to see him in such a state, a burning fury kindling deep inside her belly. How dare they...!

Gambit brightened immediately as he caught sight of her, a broad grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

"Shadow!" The Cajun almost fell over himself as he clambered to his feet, staggering over to the bars. "Oh chère, you such a welcome sight! You came to rescue Gambit?"

"Of course." Shadow jumped over Kenneth's body, moving over to the cell. She pushed her hand through the bars, gently cupping Gambit's cheek. "I couldn't leave you behind."

He leant into her touch, his single open eye filled with such adoration it almost hurt. A sad smile replaced his grin.

"Sorry I couldn't get back to ya, petite." He murmured. "Was almost away, but got jumped at de last moment."

"I figured something like that had happened." Replied Shadow, retracting her hand and turning to the collection of clothes that was currently rummaging through Kenneth's pockets. "So I went to get some friends to help rescue you. This here is Drifting. Drifting, this is Gambit."

The mutant's invisibility flickered off for a moment out of politeness, and she uttered a soft 'hi'. Gambit's reaction was to make a short whistling sound through his teeth.

"Mais, chère, if Gambit knew ya kept company as beautiful as yaself, he'd've asked to be introduced a lot sooner!" He commented, grinning.

Drifting gave the Cajun a flat, bored look, her power immediately flicking back on.

"Hey now, no need to be like dat!" He cried.

"Whilst I'm glad you seem to be no less dour from the experience, can you please not rizz my friends up." Shadow sighed, folding her arms. "Especially the one holding the keys to your freedom."

"Don't mean anythin' by it, mon amie." Gambit smiled weakly, looking over to where Drifting was, his manacles jingling as he tried to gesture with his sealed hands.

"Well, I got the keys, but slight problem." Drifting held the chain up, to which was clipped about six very similar silver keys, only distinguished by their different teeth patterns.

"It's de second from de left." Gambit spoke. "De one dat looks like it has a step tower in de middle."

Although she remained invisible, Shadow could tell Drifting was staring at him.

"How'd you know that?"

Gambit shrugged.

"Previous guard kept touchin' it when I were talkin' to him. Almost got him in here when dey got wise an' changed up to dat couyon." He nodded to Kenneth. "Not as nice."

"Yeah, considering the slurs he was throwing at you." Shadow frowned, watching Drifting unlock the cell door.

"Ah, Gambit been called much worse." He shrugged again. "Can't believe he went for 'pansy' after 'mutie', who he think he foolin'?" He bowed his head graciously as the door unlocked, Drifting pulling it open. "Merci, belle."

Shadow swept in, ducking under Gambit's arms to hug him tightly, pressing her face into his chest to feel his warmth, his scent. It came very suddenly, an overwhelming feeling that crushed the breath from her lungs; Remy was here, and he was alive. He couldn't hug her back, but the way he pressed her close, he felt exactly the same notion occur to him.

So caught up in their embrace, Shadow had completely forgotten their predicament until someone cleared their throat, startling them. They tried to pull away, forgetting that Gambit's hands still were sealed together in front of him - slamming Shadow right back into Gambit's chest. This caused the taller mutant to tumble backwards with a shout, only stopped from hitting the ground by a strong pair of hands.

"So I'm guessing this is Gambit?" Ebak said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

"Dat be de name, oui." Gambit replied, looking up at him with a wide grin. "An' who be dis handsome fella Gambit have de pleasure of talkin' to?"

"That's my brother." Shadow replied, wriggling out of Gambit's arms. Ebak gave Gambit a flat, disapproving stare, and dropped him onto the floor with an 'oof'!

"Tough crowd." Gambit grunted, pulling himself upright. He frowned slightly, his good eye glancing between the two.

"Adopted." Shadow and Ebak said in unison, the former coming to crouch at Gambit's side whilst the latter stood over him, watching.

"Let's get this off you." Said Shadow, leaning over and deactivating the collar. It sprang open with a beep, and Gambit breathed a sigh of relief, a ripple of pink energy flowing over his iris.

"Merci, chère. Startin' to get a headache." He smiled ruefully. "Bad enough dey leave me like dis without dat thing makin' everything worse." The manacles around his hands began to glow pink, humming loudly. Gambit turned his body as they flared a bright white, sheltering them from the shrapnel of metal as they ruptured with a loud screech. "Ah, much better."

He flexed his now free if bruised and bloody hands, stretching and rolling his shoulders.

"You didn't tell me he makes explosions!" Drifting exclaimed from her watch on the doorway.

"It's technically a bit more than that, but yes." Shadow replied, grinning weakly. "Didn't know if it'd come up, sooo..."

"Alright, so we found him, what's next? Getting out?" Ebak asked, returning to business.

"Well first, lemme patch him up. If things go sour, it'll be good to have someone who can actually fight beyond Ber." She sat next to the Cajun. "Then we'll collect up him and Myst and get outta Dodge."

"If you don' mind chère, dey stripped Gambit of everythin' he had - jacket, cards, staff an' a sample of dat formula. Like to 'least get de staff back 'fore Beast starts thinkin' to bill me for losin' 'em."

Ebak rubbed his chin.

"I did see a lockbox back in the security office. Let me go check." He vanished in a blink, Gambit craning his head around.

"How does he do dat?"

"Quantum teleportation." Shadow explained. "Ebak can teleport almost anywhere he desires. The only caveat is that he cannot be observed doing it. So he's 'held' in place if you look at him, and he can't appear in any place being looked at, by eye or by security camera."

"Huh." Gambit's eye flicked back and forth, searching his memories. "So he have de power of jumpscares, then?"

"That's one way to put it." Ebak said, now right behind him again.

"Merde!" Gambit cursed. "You gonna do dat every time?!"

"Yes." Ebak smirked. "Also, a thank you might be nice," he dropped a bundle of items into Gambit's lap - the telescoping bo staff, two decks of playing cards (one significantly slimmer than the other) and a beige scarf. "I guessed that was yours too?"

"Yeah, it is," Gambit nodded, glancing back to give Ebak a genuine smile. "Thanks."

"Alright gents, enough stalling." Shadow spoke, her tone all business. "Ebak, I need to borrow you. Sit." She pointed to the space next to her.

"Oh? How so?" He asked, doing as he was told and ignoring the way Gambit's eye followed him warily.

"Well, as you can see, Gambit's nose is broken." Shadow gestured to the acute deviation in main trunk (the dorsum nasi, her mind supplied). "I can fix it, but it does mean I need someone to reduce it first." She looked between the two men. "As in I need to pull it back into position before I can heal it in place."

The two men glanced at each other. Ebak took a breath, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

"O-Oh, okay. I...think I can do that." Said Ebak haltingly.

"It's okay - if you let me briefly connect with your hands, I will do the reduction. All you'll need to do is hold them in place whilst I seal the cartilage back together." Shadow explained, looking to Gambit. "It is going to hurt. A lot. I can suppress the pain as soon as I move from Ebak's hands into your body, but until then it's going suck, and I need you to hold your head as still as possible and preferably not explode anything. Can you do that for me?"

The Cajun smiled.

"Can certainly try, mon amie."

"Why doesn't he stuff that scarf in his mouth?" Came Drifting's comment from outside the cell. "As something to bite down on."

"That's not a bad idea." Shadow nodded. "Gambit?"

"Oui," he said, balling a section of the fabric up. "Shall Gambit...?"

"Yes. We've dawdled enough and this'll take time." Gambit nodded, stuffing the scarf between his teeth. A smirk pulled at Ebak's lips, but he said nothing, holding his hands out for Shadow to take. She took his right hand, splaying hers across the back of his, whilst she shifted closer to Gambit, resting her other hand on his cheek. He leant slightly into the touch.

"Okay El, relax for me." Shadow murmured, light rippling into her hands as she reached out to the cells beneath, gently delving under them into the muscle fibres beneath. Ebak's fingers twitched as she tested them. "That's good. Okay. Try to relax for me, Gambit. I'm going to be as quick as I can, but it's going to suck regardless."

He offered a reassuring hum in response, before closing his eye. Shadow couldn't blame him - she wouldn't have wanted to see the incoming pain either.

She and Ebak reached as a pair to Gambit's nose, pausing for a nerve-steeling second before grasping it tightly. Gambit winced immediately, biting down, and Shadow felt Ebak's muscles spasm against her control as his instincts tried to pull away. Her power flared to silence them, stretching just a little further into the cells beneath Ebak's large fingers. The 'voices' were muffled, coming through two layers, but a faint visualisation of the original cartilage structure came to mind. Following this 'blueprint' and gritting her teeth, Shadow wrenched the broken spur back into position, wincing as Gambit bit down harder, trying to muffle his cry of pain.

"Okay, hold still until I give you a signal to release." She commanded, pulling her awareness back into herself. "Do not move."

"I'm staying here." Ebak replied.

With nary a moment to spare, Shadow dove into Gambit's body; a process she was so used to it was almost like passing through a door. She immediately silenced the cacophony of pain that greeted her, moving straight to his nose and commanding the tissue to regenerate as fast as it could, pouring her power into it to speed what was a very slow process into something that took seconds.

She felt Gambit relax almost as soon as she finished, the rush of air from his mouth below. It took her a couple of seconds to collect herself after that display - her powers gently siphoning off Gambit's eternal kinetic hum to restore themselves. As soon as she felt ready, she flowed down to Gambit's hand, pulling gently at the fibres to announce her presence before she lifted his hand, curling his thumb and index finger into a circle and raising his other fingers.

Shadow held it for a couple of seconds, until Ebak released the pressure on Gambit's nose, the Cajun rumbling something she couldn't hear.

Content, she moved up to the second place that definitely needed her attention - Gambit's swollen eye. A small hairline fracture had cracked his orbital rim, the resulting damage filling his eyelids with enough fluid to essentially seal them shut. Thankfully the eye beneath was fine, moving freely - she squashed her natural curiosity at finding out how his might differ to hers; that was for another, more peaceful time.

Shadow pushed her power forward, calling to the osteoblasts in the bone and watching them knit it back together as neatly as it had once been. Moving to the softer tissues, she urged the lymph ducts to swell, draining the fluid out and away into the broader circulation. Almost immediately Gambit's eye opened as soon as it could move, blinking hard to readjust.

His nerves called her from his other, more minor injuries, but someone grabbed her wrist, digging in just enough to start tugging her awareness back into her body. Shadow acquiesced, letting herself be yanked back in. She blinked hard, greeted by Gambit gently pulling her back into the darkness of the cell.

"Sorry to disturb ya, chère, but we gotta problem."

(Previous: Break In)/(Next: Escape)

#sprs writing #x men #x men oc: shadow #self inserts #shadow/gambit #x men oc: drifting #x men oc: ebak #gambit #remy lebeau #multipart fic #slow burn #rescue mission #yea i beat the blorbo up again #otp: heart of the cards #self insert/canon #self insert x canon

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