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tswwwit · 7 days

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Cipher's Personal Portable Portal

'How they meet' won the poll!

So just to make things fully contextualized, as far as they're gonna be - here's the full first chunk of this stupidly long fic I'm writing.

I hope you enjoy!

Standing in the wreckage of the burnt-out building, Dipper wishes he didn’t know who did it.

Anyone else would have left some trace sign. A scrape of blood, a hint of burnt hair. A friggin’ decent eyewitness report, even.

But here, like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that - there's absolutely zero traces. No video footage, nobody around at the time of the crime. Not even footprints.

Dipper kicks one of the remaining supports, sending a puff of charcoal up from the impact.

If he knew the bastard’s name, he’d curse it all to hell.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Dipper sits on a chunk of scorched foundation. He pulls his shoe off to tip the ashes out of it; there’s enough that the resulting cloud leaves him coughing.

Around him, the scoured west wing of the museum is silent, still, and empty. A grey-black skeleton of its former self, filled with dust and charcoal.

This arson is yet another one in a very, very long line of crimes. They’re not just ‘unrelated incidents’, or ‘bizarre coincidences’. Dipper’s not ‘being paranoid’ or ‘coming up with some pretty weird conspiracy theories’.

There’s only one person who could manage this. The same guy who turned a bank upside down - literally - and the same one who impaled a mob boss on an oversized silly straw and gave tails to half of a household last week.

It’s all connected.

Each crime is marked with the same style, mostly by how remarkably weird they are. Along with a thread of magic, distinct in its composition. One so distinctive that it's almost a flavor. Though admittedly, without certain magical analysis, it’s pretty hard to detect.

And if other freelance magicians would take the time and look at Dipper’s notes, maybe one of them would help find this asshole.

Dipper stalks through the burned building, fists balled in his pockets. He stumbles over a fallen support column, and nearly trips before he makes a hopping retreat back.

Though the culprit has been at his game - whatever ‘game’ that is - for a good half a year now, this is the most destructive ‘incident’ so far. Nobody was hurt, since it happened in the middle of the night. The one relief from a terrible crime, that only objects were obliterated in the process -

But the ashes speak for themselves.

Here, there’s nothing left.

He breathes in slowly. Then regrets the attempt at calming himself as he coughs again.

Whatever the culprit’s initial motive was, it hasn’t lasted. He’s grown not only in ambition, but also in his abilities. Things are escalating at a rate Dipper doesn’t like to think about.

Someone has to get to the bottom of this. Before it’s too late. Dipper’s got his number, metaphorically speaking, so. Well, might as well be him.

And when he proves that all of this chaos was created by the same person -

Well. A little boost to his meager reputation couldn’t hurt. Maybe a few medals and accolades. There isn’t a trophy for best monster hunter, but he can imagine standing on a podium and -

Dipper waves that thought off, swearing under his breath. Stupid. He has better things to focus on.

He’s the only freelancer on the case. Definitely the only one taking this seriously, the only one who thinks it’s the same person to begin with - and even he’s starting to have some doubts about ever finding the bastard.

Six months of tracking this guy down, and what does he have to show for it? A ramshackle compilation of incidents, a vague feeling of magic, and a description that could fit any bottle-blond actor with bad fashion sense. Scraps. He might as well pin them up and connect them with red string for all the good it does him.

Another kick sends Dipper hopping back, clutching his foot with a swear. He winces at the hole in the tip, he nearly punctured his foot on a nail.

Just his luck. Wrong place, wrong time, always just barely avoiding disaster. Dipper shows up whenever there’s an event, he’s got the means to follow the guy - but he’s always just a little too late.

Even worse, lately the guy’s been picking places… not at random, exactly. More like he causes trouble wherever it’d be the most annoying to follow.

The culprit must know someone is on his trail. But he’s not making it impossible to keep up, or even majorly difficult for a determined pursuer. Just really, really irritating, like making moves at three in the morning, or pausing just long enough for someone to catch up, then heading right back where he came from. At one point Dipper had to trudge through a literal swamp, only to find that bastard had sauntered in by baking himself a neat little trail right through the damn thing. There wasn’t even footprints to follow.

It’s a repeated point in Dipper’s notes. Whoever this is, they’re a total, absolute dick.

With a sigh, Dipper runs his fingers through the ash on the museum’s floor. Not a single thing is left beyond the shattered glass of some display cases, and the charred remains of the building. Even the enchanted metal tools have been melted into slag.

The day before yesterday, he could tell something was up. Building energy, something that felt like it was made by the culprit. Something with the twinge of a powerful curse, coiled and being wound up like a spring.

Dipper spent that evening convincing - okay, maybe also bribing, thank you Stan for the idea - the museum to let him borrow materials. The day after that, he spent all night, morning, and most of the afternoon running around slapping up anti-curse emblems. The entire south of the city warded, in a fine careful net of spellcraft. The work was exhausting. Both in running around, and in the amount of magic he’d needed to use.

But it was worth it. That evening, in the quiet and very uncursed city, all the emblems activated. Dipper would have sworn he sensed someone in the distance, cursing his own name. That night he went to bed with a smug sense of satisfaction, floating on a cloud of triumph.

Which is probably why the bastard burned down the museum next.

With another sigh, Dipper tucks his notebook back into his knapsack. He’s gleaned all he’s going to for today; in the fading evening light, searching more is pointless.

So much for all the magical artifacts. Most of those had come in really useful in messing with the guy.

…How the hell did the culprit know where they came from, though? He’d need a near encyclopedic knowledge of artifacts to know which ones Dipper used, then track them back to their origin.

Or maybe he just searched on the internet. It’s hard to tell.

Dipper just wishes there were more clues. But just like every other incident, the guy up and freakin’ vanished.

No human can disappear like that without some very irresponsible use of power. That hope is one Dipper’s hanging his hat on. After six months? He has to be reaching his limits. He’ll burn himself out before he can manage too many more incidents. Maybe Dipper will find him by stumbling on his withered, dissolving corpse.

Whoever this is is pretty strong, but no power is infinite. He can’t hide forever.

It can’t be too much longer. Won’t be. Dipper has a plan, he’s gotten really close, and - He’s good at his job, damn it. He knows he is.

Taking a deep, slow breath, Dipper lets it out. Patience is the name of the game here. He’s just gotta keep moving.

One day, he’s going to catch up with that bastard. He’ll see the guy in the flesh. Then he’ll grab that stupid dick before he can escape, again, and wipe that presumably smug look off his probably ugly face.

Turning around one last time, Dipper surveys the destruction, stuffs his hands in his pockets - and pauses.

A speck of light glints in the pile of ash. The last bit of evening sun, shining off a metallic surface.

Alert with surprise, Dipper scrambles over to the pile. Kneeling down, he brushes the dust carefully aside, careful not to disturb anything fragile that might shatter if handled wrong.

One thing did survive. Thank fuck, it’s not an absolute total loss. Just, uh… Ninety-nine percent of it.

He scuffles through the still-warm ashes, cupping his palms underneath the lump and lifting it from its bed. The motion sends white puff rising up as ash slips away from the artifact.

A small black, squarish thing rests on the pile, a bit larger than both his palms put together. The material is faintly warm from residual heat, insulated by the ash it laid in - and there’s not a mark on it. Not even a scratch.

Dipper turns the artifact over in his hands with a frown. The shining black surface reveals no obvious buttons or secrets. Just a kind of phone-ish shape, though more square and squat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say a guest dropped it on the rush to escape.

The fact that it’s still intact though. Nearly glowing with magic, a tremulous feeling under his palms - this is not dropped by some clumsy tourist. Not even Ford could put this together.

Wiping at the object with his sleeve, Dipper manages to clean off most of the smooth surface. On one of the sides, dust clings to the thinnest of engravings. The very faint outline of an equilateral triangle. No runes or other magical scribing, just… a shape.

Dipper thinks back but - no, he doesn’t remember seeing this in the collection. A quick check online reveals…

Basically nothing. There are - were - a bunch of stone and metal slabs in the archives, all described so poorly as to be useless. Some are even bunched up in groups. ‘Magical slab 1-24’ and ‘Metal artifact 1-78’, no description involved.

Not surprising. Probably dug up in some mass excavation site, transported here, then never really looked at again. The bulk nature of the shipment means it was overlooked, its magical properties never discovered.

After today, he’s just glad that even one item escaped this onslaught.

The other artifacts must not have had much to them. But some magical property in this artifact’s making must have saved it from the blaze. Fireproofing, perhaps? Against weird fire? That’s unusual. Maybe even unique.

As the only survivor, it really needs investigating.

Dipper glances over his shoulder, then around. With everyone evacuated, it’s quiet in the rubble. Nobody here would notice if, say… a clue wandered off.

The artifact slips easily into his pocket. The shape conveniently looks just like a phone, even if the shape’s a bit off. Not something that would attract any attention.

Whistling nonchalantly, ducking out of the way of local law enforcement and any onlookers - Dipper makes his escape.

Another day of pursuit. Another scene of disaster, the culprit there and gone in the blink of an eye.

He’ll be up to something new, next. Never the same thing twice, never in the same place.

Dipper will follow in his evil tracks, of course. But for tonight - his fate is another crappy hotel room.

He ditches his backpack by the door, slumping against the wall and its chipped paint. He could start going through his notes, and the pictures of the arson. Put in more work, find further connections -

But it’s been a long day, and he’s tired. He might be magical, but he’s only got so much to work with. A reasonable night’s sleep, if he can manage, will make the task loom less horribly over his tired brain.

With a sigh, he drops back on the mattress. There’s some bounce to it, springs squeaking like they’re full of mice. Hell, maybe they are. The type of room he can afford isn’t exactly decadent.

That, though, should be temporary. Dipper’s career is only just starting; freelancers in the ‘solving magical problems’ scene don’t get great rates. Especially as a beginner. Definitely without a partner; it makes him look super young. Like he’s just starting out, fresh-faced and not having any inroads.

Because this field is really stupid, and doesn’t pay attention to results. Dipper’s been fine on his own for years, and he’s done really cool things without that ‘networking’ crap.

All by himself. Totally cool with that, because Dipper’s a cool guy, sometimes. If Mabel hypes him up enough on one of their phone calls, he almost believes it too.

Though it would be nice to have some backup, it’s hard to find someone who really gets the job. Or does it in the way that Dipper goes about it. The number of people who are willing to take long treks in hyper-magical territory to search for an obscure clue, or set up really complicated traps for dangerous monsters, or talk over high-level magical theory while sitting in the rain all night just to get one body-snatcher are…

Well, besides Ford, who recently retired, there aren’t any. Only Dipper himself.

One day, things are going to change for him. All his effort will pay off. If he keeps solving mysteries, and fighting monsters, he’ll forge a reputation as someone who always gets the job done. No matter how hard it is, he can handle it. The work is picking up, too. The last six months have shown the biggest series of magical incidents in decades.

And he’s gonna be the one to get to the bottom of it.

Dipper Pines, the guy who proved it’s all connected. He’ll have it laid out in facts and math, all the evidence. They’re all gonna see that he was totally right.

Once he finally gets this guy, everything’s going to start looking up.

The sheets rustle as Dipper settles back, holding the artifact up over himself. He stares into the black surface, and a slightly distorted reflection narrows its eyes back at him.

A good mystery always intrigues him. This one should take his mind off the other, irritating one for a while.

The only remaining object from the fire is clean and smooth. A mysterious creation, of unknown purpose. Clearly riddled with magic, too; Dipper feels it running just under the surface like a rapid current. It gives the artifact a weight that has nothing to do with mass.

Power.

Did the criminal see this artifact, still intact after all the other magical objects were gone? Did he try to destroy it too, and fail? Or simply not notice he’d missed one out of thousands?

Whatever it is, it’s got a lot more going on than meets the eye.

Dipper casts a quick identifier, which comes back with nothing. He’s not surprised. That’s the first thing anyone would try. If it was that simple, he’d already have the full description off the site.

With a shrug, he traces another set of runes, his own version, adding a little more oomph behind it -

And the magic leaps back instantly, with the bizarre sensation of a bouncy ball hitting concrete.

“Huh,” Dipper says, thoughtfully. He sits up, hunching over the slab in his hands. “Now that’s new.”

A more subtle approach, then. Tracing the lines of energy with the barest brush of magic upon magic reveals something deeply complex. Thin layers twist together deep under the surface, building an entire circulatory system. Dipper has to put it down for a moment, suddenly worried that it is organic.

When a cautious prod doesn’t get a response, he relaxes. Not fleshy, just complicated. Which also proves he was right earlier - the artifact’s just as powerful as he’d thought. The spellcraft is unlike anything he’s ever seen.

Dipper rubs his hands together, starting to smile.

Even if he doesn’t find the guy he’s after, figuring this out could be a heck of a win.

Several attempts later, he’s beginning to get why this bastard brick got tossed in with all the other junk.

Nothing here is working. It simply deflects. Standard spells poing off of it like rubber, while giving his magical senses an odd, back-of-the brain afterimage of a circle with a slash through it; a firm ‘nah’.

Dipper nearly chucks the thing across the room in frustration, before shutting his eyes and taking several, calming breaths.

Okay, weird thing, weird enchantment. The ordinary stuff won’t work. The magical logic is… twisted in a way that leaves it incompatible with most everything. He’ll have to find a different approach.

“What are you?” Dipper says, low and frustrated. He gives the artifact a shake, as if he can knock the secrets out like a rock from a shoe. “What secrets are you hiding in there?”

No response, not that he expected one. With a wry smile, he taps the sleek surface with a finger, twice. “C’mon, man. Talk to me.”

Huge yellow letters flash onto the black surface.

HEY

Dipper throws the artifact, a bit awkwardly since he’s lying on his back. It sails in the air in a high thin arc, landing with a thump between his legs. He scoots rapidly backward, sheets pulling up behind him.

The artifact lies where it landed, an unmoving brick. There’s magic in the air now, but no sense of any spell building, ready to unleash power to blow his face off. The latent spellcraft of the artifact has just been activated.

More text displays on the surface, bare except for the glowing letters.

To the jerk that’s swiped my private stuff: You got some nerve! I expect this back by interdimensional mail in a week, or trust me - there will be consequences.

Dipper waits a full minute before he lets go of the headboard. Tentatively, he kneels near the…

Is this a phone?

Clearly it’s a communication device of some sort, with the freaking text messages. A phone is the obvious equivalent, only - he thought it looked far older than that, something way before mobile phones. Possible ancient. Is that a coincidence, maybe, or is it secretly modern?

Dipper taps the ‘screen’, just below the glowing words. To his surprise, there’s actually a keyboard, what the hell. This thing keeps getting weirder.

Since it hasn’t already thrown a horrible curse at him, or burst into flames - it’s reasonably safe to assume that it’s simply ‘on’. Not ‘explosive’.

With hands that are definitely not shaking, he picks it up, and types,

Who is this?

His own text pops up in blue. A strange contrast to the yellow, but he’s guessing it’s for convenience - there’s no bubbles to tell who’s said what otherwise.

A few seconds of nervous waiting later, there’s a response.

Oh hey, you answered! Well, human - You’re talking to the one and only Bill Cipher, Dream Demon, all-powerful master of the Mindscape! I’d say it’s nice to meet ya but you’re not supposed to have a direct line to me!

Dipper raises an eyebrow.

Now that’s one hell of an introduction. It might even have been interesting, if it didn’t smell of complete bullshit.

Complicated spellwork, sure. Incomprehensible architecture? Maybe. Dipper can admit it; he’s never seen anything with a web of spells on it this complex, in such small of a package.

But the idea that Dipper just stumbled onto a demonic artifact of all things. One that wasn’t instantly detected, recorded, then ritually destroyed is…

Someone’s fucking with him.

Dipper rolls his eyes as he types back,

Really? Demon? You can’t expect me to believe that.

What, you calling me a liar? ‘Cause I am, but not about this! I got better things to mislead mortals about. This is my property, not something for your grubby mortal mitts.

Dipper snorts. Guess this person’s sticking with the bit. Obviously whoever created this would want it back - but too bad. Whether they’re delusional, stupid, or just a flat-out liar, they’re really good at enchanting. It’d be a waste not to study their work.

He lies back on the bed as he replies.

Sure, have fun roleplaying, or whatever, it doesn’t make a difference. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

ARE YOU CALLING ME A LOSER. MORTAL.

Hmm, I’m detecting a certain amount of ‘crying about it’, so. Yeah. Suck it, loser.

Smirking, Dipper settles back - then his half-smile drops, as he holds the ‘phone’ a little further away from himself.

Though the blue fire building up in the screen looks like a bad sticker effect, the artifact’s also getting a alarmingly warm. It vibrates in his hands - then suddenly stops, cooling down.

Ha! Alright, alright, I admit - you got some balls.

Maybe you’ll change your tune once you REALLY know what you’re dealing with! Might wanna check the connection, if you’re even capable of it! Mortal magic doesn’t reach across dimensions!

With a grimace, Dipper taps his fingers on the phone. It’s slightly cooler now, but still worryingly reactive to… whatever happened on the other end.

Damn. Whoever this is, they’re not only really really good at enchanting, they’re also pretty confident that tracking them down won’t spoil their game. The confidence exuding from this ‘Bill’s’ words feels genuine.

Honestly, though, the suggestion is a good one. Dipper should have tried to trace the call the second he knew someone else was on the line.

Maybe ‘Bill’ thinks he won’t manage to find him. Joke’s on him, though; Dipper’s amazing at finding stuff. He’s the best tracker of magical anything in years. Maybe decades. With a solid, stable connection right in front of him? Hell, he could do this one in his sleep.

Time to call the bluff.

He casts the tracing spell, though it takes longer than usual. A few gestures and muttered ritual aren’t gonna cut it; he has to improvise around the strange construction of the enchantment. Even trailing along the magic seems harder than usual, like it resists mixing with his own, and it takes him a few attempts to match the signal.

Once he finds the right way to tune it… the lead snaps along the already-existing connection, and zips away to find its source.

The line extends out from the shabby hotel room, a plucked string in Dipper’s senses. It twists around the phone, rising slowly. Invisibly passing through the walls and the -

Ceiling? Dipper looks up on instinct, even though nothing is visible.

From there it swirls around in the air like a silly straw on steroids, and then - out, very far, in a way that isn’t up or down or left or right, just

Away.

Dipper has to cut off the tracing spell before vertigo has him reeling. The swirling sense of standing on top of a skyscraper is followed by a flip in his stomach. That he’s using a device he barely understands that reaches out into something even more incomprehensible.

He drops the phone-artifact, trying to clear his head by shaking it rapidly.

That’s not nearby. Not on this planet. Possibly, genuinely, not even in this dimension.

Shit. Bill wasn’t bluffing.

Dipper wipes sweating palms on the sheets. To pick up the phone again takes an effort, willing himself to grasp it in unsteady hands.

A demon.

All the monsters he’s fought, curses he’s broken, years of work tucked into his belt, and he’s never seen one of those.

Demons are dangerous, evil, and very, very powerful. Consorting with them is by all accounts a terrible idea. He should never have picked this up. He should hang up, and throw the damn artifact out the window, hoping that nobody else makes as dumb a mistake as he just did.

On the screen, there’s a long long scroll of yellow letters, filling the entire surface. ‘HA HA HA HA’ over and over and over again.

Before he can think better of it, Dipper starts a response. He’s halfway through a sentence - what the fuck, that’s not funny- before he pauses.

Terrible evil monster. Stupid powerful. Probably Bill sensed the tracing of the connection, like he did with Dipper’s other testing. Bill wanted the result startle him. Because he thinks it’s funny.

Dipper grits his teeth, and glares at the screen.

Actually, screw this guy. Dipper’s keeping the stupid phone. If for no other reason than spite. This ‘Bill’ guy seems pretty full of himself, like he’s totally above some human. He’s in for a bad time, then, because Dipper’s not going to let one little surprise scare him off.

Besides. The average guy would get into horrible, even deadly trouble, whereas Dipper… sort of knows what he’s doing. No, he is good at his job. Finding secrets, solving mysteries, thwarting evil jerks who think they’re oh-so-hilarious, the whole shebang. He does it all.

Taking another breath, hissing through clenched teeth - Dipper lets it out. Losing his temper isn’t going to help deal with an extradimensional being. He has to be careful.

He thinks for a long moment before he responds.

Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Maybe. Then you should know I didn’t steal your… whatever this is. I found it lying around, and I just. Got kind of curious.

HA HA HA! Of course you were! Careful with that impulse, kid, it kills more than just cats!

A jerk who definitely thinks he’s hilarious. Dipper rolls his eyes, then, rather pettily, decides to ignore that statement.

More pressing questions take the lead. Like what the fuck he’s holding right now, and if there are any other nasty tricks in store. A little bit of him, bubbling under the surface, wonders what being a demon is like. What they get up to, common habits. Ways they could be tracked down and, y’know, defeated, maybe.

Theoretically, he’s got a line to a bunch of innocent, totally not-thwarting-related information that could be super useful to someone trying to, maybe, be a super cool monster-fighter.

Dipper backspaces a bunch over some poorly thought out questions. First things first. Like what the hell he’s holding right now.

So. What is this?

Good question! The gadget you’re poking at with your sweaty meat-paws is paired to the one I have here at my place. A little one-on-one communication assistant, if you will. Once you started groping around with your magic, it wasn’t hard to tell someone had picked it up!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. Though he already has an idea… a little confirmation never hurts.

Like, you got a notification? Or literally felt?

The latter! Kinda like smell, but by touching things with your eyeballs. And with all your prodding around you might as well have been stinking up the place! Your spells aren’t real subtle!

Hey, they’re subtle! Having weird extra senses is just cheating.

Sucks to be human, then! In that you suck at everything! What’s a LOSER like you gonna do about it?

Dipper nearly throws the stupid artifact again - but he holds back, gripping it tight. Instead he sits up, leaning down and hauling his backpack up from the side of the bed.

Maybe Bill thinks he can’t do anything. That he’s some ignorant nobody, who doesn’t have any real skills or talent or doesn’t have any friends - but he’s got that wrong. Dipper’s not a loser. Bill’s not getting away with that bullshit.

One quick unzip and a bit of rifling around later, he finds what he was looking for. Carefully, Dipper bounces the heft of a flashlight battery in his hand. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on crafting a quick working.

Magic is all about energy, and its direction. Focusing power, conveying it from one place to another. Pushing anything across dimensions would take impossible amounts of energy, stuff Dipper doesn’t have. If it weren’t for a very convenient connection, already in his hand.

Dipper has nothing on hand to actually exorcise the guy - he’s not sure that’s even possible when Bill’s where he should be - but retribution is in order.

More text lines appear on the artifact. He ignores them. Changing this up to work with the demon device is a challenge, but after figuring out how to alter the tracking spell changing this one up isn’t hard. He adjusts the flow of magic this way, into the tangle of not-veins in the device that way, finishes the chant-

Then touches his tongue to the battery.

The jolt passes through him painlessly, following the spell. It zips along his nerves, down into his hand and from there - into the artifact itself.

Where it should, theoretically end up right at that bastard.

Dipper tosses the battery back into his backpack. Picking up the ‘phone’, hunching over to stare at the screen.

That worked. He felt the energy move… unless he got the math wrong. Or a detail of his spell. Or maybe demons are immune to electricity, and he just did something totally pointless.

God. It might even prove Bill right, and wouldn’t that be the worst -

The next line of text comes in.

What the hell? A joy buzzer? That’s some real petty prank stuff! You seriously pulled that bullshit? And across dimensions?

A tense pause. Dipper taps the phone, checking for it heating up again - but another line pops up after a few seconds.

Y’know what, kid? I think I might actually like you! You’re FEISTY.

Dipper nearly does a double-take.

But no, that - what? Aren’t demons supposed to be vengeful? He was half-sure he’d have to chuck the phone out the window before it exploded in his hands.

In fact, you’re in luck! ‘Cause I’m pretty bored, and I can totally show you how to improve that jinx of yours! If you can keep up with a little theory, that is.

Because that’s not suspicious or anything. Conversation with a demon can only lead to ruin and disaster. He should absolutely, definitely stop this right in its tracks.

Still, Dipper shrugs, and types,

Try me.

#billdip #I should probably make a tag for this 'series'#Let's say the tag will be #Portal AU #I say series but my plan is to complete it then post it in One Big Post on AO3 eventually #I just wanted you all to know I really am working on stuff and I hope you enjoy these two idiots #This is ~5k of the now 21k document I have going #Truly I am caught in a trap of my own making #Suffering is writing and writing is suffering #I also realized while putting this on Tumblr that I can totally change text colors!#I might apply that formatting trick later if I can find a shade of yellow that isn't totally obnoxious to actually read #Little nervous about this since it's not Familiar AU but they needed not to know each other for the Premise to work #I'm excited to get to later stuff because I can make SO many dumb jokes

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illyrian-dreamer · 1 year

Text

Overwritten – Part 10

Azriel x Reader

Summary: After months as his prisoner, Hybern has hijacked your mind, turning you into an enemy of your home, your family, and your mate, Azriel.

Words: 1,889

——–

Part 10 ∇

You waded through the depths of the woods, the crisp air consuming you.

The ground was damp, the tree’s mossy and the cold bit through your clothes. But at least you felt something, allowing the sensation to blanket what writhed within.

Silent tears streamed down your face as you made you way further into the woods. Hybern had won, he had turned you to a weapon born in a cell, insidious enough to even hurt children. Months of treatment and the strides of progress were revealed now for a certain truth – it was not enough. You weren't enough. Not strong enough, no loving, or caring, or kind enough to overcome what he had made you. Not good enough for your family. And certainly not good enough for Azriel.

So you walked and walked, cyclical thoughts swirling in your head as you stumbled through the thicket, leaving the faint sound of the city behind, uncaring that you were lost.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the faint glow of dawn peeked through the branches, that you realised exhaustion was quick on your tail. Stopping at a clearing, you slid your back against a mossy ash tree, blinking through crusted tears and heavy lids that begged for sleep. Your vision reeled, the ground now uncertain and you wondered when the last time you had a drink of water was. Blinking faster now, you tried to steady your vision on the open grass in front of you.

And Hybern, who stood at the centre of it.

You choked on your own breath, scrambling to your feet.

His wicked grin shone through the dim light of dawn, at contrast with the climbing dark trunks that surrounded the clearing. Strapped to his body was a plethora of weapons, the silver of swords and knives almost as bright as his smile.

“Impossible,” you gasped, your hands clenching to fists as you began to shake.

“Possible,” he responded, his eyebrows raising as he fingered the handle of his sword, the large weaponed sheathed at his waist.

You were quick to think to grab a rock from the ground, throwing at directly at his head. Hybern’s figure rippled like watery smoke as the rock shot straight through him.

“Liar,” you snarled, anger brewing in you. This was the first moment of peace you had found since you could remember – how dare he disturb it.

“I may be of your mind Y/N, but that does not mean my strikes will hurt any less.”

“Leave me alone,” you seethed, making to leave in the direction you had come.

“I will follow you,” he called, stopping you in your tracks. Turning, you found amusement written on his face. You wanted nothing more than to take his own sword and spear it straight between those smug eyes.

“Do it,” he provoked.

“What?”

“Kill me. See if you can.”

You shook your head. Perhaps if you shook hard enough, he would disappear.

“I’m surprised you’re yet to try,” he drawled, slowly pacing towards you. You watched silently, fuming, readying for when he might attack.

“Or perhaps it’s because you know you’ll fail.” His taunt earned a snarl from you.

“Why not try, dear Y/N? You’ve already lost everything important to you, what else could there possibly be?”

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“Ah, there it is,” he smiled, his eyes narrowing and focusing on you. “Fight.”

“No.”

“No? I suppose I forgot how wonderfully stubborn you are. After all, you were near impossible to break in my dungeon. Have I truly changed you that much?”

You glared at him, and he watched you back. “Pitiful,” he spat, turning in his tracks to leave you to brew in your own insanity.

With a deep breath, you tried to control the shake in your voice. “I’ll kill you when you’re brave enough to appear in the flesh.” Hybern stopped then, turning back to face you with a quirked brow. “Mark my words, you pathetic excuse of a male. I will kill you – the real you.”

Hybern tipped his head back a laughed. “Oh Y/N. You truly are as broken as you look.”

Red flashed before your eyes, your anger bubbling to the surface.

“You won't last to ever find the real me.”

You frowned, dissecting his works. This version of Hybern, a figment of your mind, was hinting to you, warning you. It was clear then – you needed to fight him, beat him, kill the plague he planted in your mind if you were to ever truly recover.

You didn't need to be told twice.

Launching into a sprint, you speared for the King, a cry ripping from your throat. He merely grinned, unsheathing his sword, swinging directly where you dove. You slid to your knees, narrowly missing the strike, the silver of his weapon glinting before your eyes, impossibly real.

With a grunt you rolled to your side, dodging again and Hybern stuck his sword in the ground, intending to have speared you. You glared back, the sheer audacity of a grouse death making you see red. This was not a fair fight, or at least not yet.

Darting behind him, you swung a low kick to his back, sending him off balance with an opportunity to swipe a weapon. You secured a hand knife, the closest item in your reach. Shrugging, you raised cold eyes to Hybern who had now steadied himself. This would have to do.

“Thief,” he spat.

“Cunt,” you replied.

Hybern growled, raising his sword high before launching for you, the loud swoosh of his weapon sounding above his yell.

And so began the dance between you two. You were light on your feet to avoid his strikes, circling and calculating for your own opportunity to attack. Your innate skill and tactics surprised you, and you realised there were years of training that innately prepared you now. You would have to thank your family for that if you made it.

“Don’t be a coward, Y/N. Remember, I don't exist, I’ll never grow tired.”

You gritted your teeth – Hybern was right, you were only exhausting yourself. Trembling with adrenaline, you kept your distance, your heart pounding in your ears as you tried to decide what to do.

“Pitiful, the lot of you,” he spat again. “Your court is weak, your family too. And your mate, willing to die for his true love? How utterly pathetic.”

Primal anger flushed within you, boiling your blood and you tossed the knife to your dominant hand, gripping it’s handle. “Don’t you dare speak of him like that.”

“I enjoy watching him come undone because of you, Y/N. I knew all along the Spymaster was the weakest link of the Night Court. Always putting others first, always suppressing his own needs and desires. All I had to do was push him right to the edge.”

A different kind of strength found you then, like a lone prized trophy in a barren cavern. You may not be worthy of love, but Azriel was the most deserving of all. You would die to defend that.

And so you launched for the evil King, arm raised with the blade pointed straight for his heart. Airborne, you careened towards him, you vision narrowed as the pathway to freedom honed in your vision. He wasn’t real, this wasn't real. You would overcome him for the sake of your mate, love and determination fuelling you as you launched to kill the King of Hybern.

It was a reeling shock to feel the King’s sword pierce clean through your middle. Your eyes widened with shock as you looked down, the handle resting at your stomach, Hybern’s hand already soaked with the red of your blood.

He grinned famously, your widened eyes finding his as your head swirled and you let out a strangled sound. There was no pain to be felt, yet your blood poured, warming you as your breath stuck in your throat.

“It’s as I said,” he smirked, lifeless eyes holding yours. “Pathetic.”

And perhaps because he was talking, or perhaps because he underestimated you, but he was unprepared for the short knife that quickly stuck in the side of his neck.

You delighted in watching Hybern’s artery generously bleed as much as your stomach did. And there was an odd moment where you clung to each other, neither of you willing to be the first to fall, both of you nearing closer and closer to death.

“Y-you b-bitch,” he stuttered with fury, gasping for the air that never reached his lungs.

You could feel him slipping from your mind – the roots that infected even the deepest corners beginning to wither and rot. He was dying, leaving your reality, flushing from your system after the months of poison and torture that had fixed him there. A sickness that finally had a cure.

You laughed, cackling as you watched those hideous eyes glow red for a final time before a white casting fogged them over. He let you go then, crumpling to the floor, his body withering before your eyes. A gust of wind blew over, sweeping his figure to ash and taking the remaining of his body with it, leaving you alone in the clearing.

Falling to your knees, you clutched at your own stomach, Hybern’s sword no longer lay within, the remnants of the weapon turned to dust along with the King. But your blood covered your hands, it’s warmth pooling around you, gushing at an alarming rate.

“Stop. Stop!” you begged to no-one, pressing on your own wound. You would surely die any moment now.

So you cried – cried for the loss of your love, cried that you never had the chance to remember the life you had, or to ever recreate the joy and love you knew surrounded you. There was so much that could have been, and grief would be that last thing you ever felt in this world.

Through the blur of tears and the closeness of death that begged your eyes to close, it was Azriel’s scent mixed with that of your blood that told you he was near. In fact, he was not alone.

“Real or fake?” your voice quivered as you body began to give, falling slowly to the mossy ground. Azriel caught you, pulling you to his lap quickly as he scanned over you.

“Real, my love. As real as can be. Where does it hurt?”

You frowned. “The blood–“

“What blood? I see none.”

You trembled in your mates arms as he cast an urgent look back to his family. Rhysand shook his head gently, tapping his temple to show Azriel your injury did not extend past your mind.

Azriel sighed in relief, stroking you hair as he held you close. “There is no blood my love, its not real.”

“My stomach! He– he–”

Azriel soothed you, rocking you closely. You were too delirious, too confused and exhausted to comprehend what was real or not.

“I killed him Az, for you,” you whimpered, your body convulsing with heaves of exhaustion. “We’re safe now.”

Azriel cradled your face, kissing your forehead before pulling you closely to him again. “Rest now, my love.” he soothed, and that was the last thing you heard before slipping into numbing darkness.

--------

Part 11>>>

AN: Thank you so so much for your patience with this chapter lovelies!! And of course for the ongoing support ❤️❤️ I sincerely hope you liked it!

I always love hearing what you think, so don’t be shy to drop a comment. And also if you’d like to join the tag list :)

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madschiavelique · 1 year

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Mads babe I have a v self indulgent request 👀

What if Miguel is self conscious about all his scars from Manning those Spiders and reader traces them and kisses them and he's just so in love with reader and how they make him feel and AUGHHHHHHH 😫😫😫😭😭

AAAAA BESTIE you read my mind because this is literally one of my favourite things to read generally WE KNOW THE GOOD STUFF

I FINALLY feel good enough to write so i am BACK BESTIES HEHEHE

summary : reader kisses miguel’s scars and reassures him about it

content warnings : mentions of scars miguel had during fights, self conscious miguel, reader comforting miguel, mention of reader's scars (had during missions), other than that SO much reassurance, genderneutral!reader, no use of y/n word count : 1,4k

tag list : @fandom-ash

Depixelating his suit at the end of the day was often, if not always, a difficult step. He was well aware that worrying about things as superficial and ephemeral as looks was pointless, but knowing that the marks that ran the length and breadth of his body would stay with him forever was a constant reminder of what he was: a hunter, a tracker of balance, control left on him handcuffs drawn into scars different from those administered to the anomalies under his care.

He sighed, his brown eyes roaming his body in the reflection. So many enemies, so many traces, so many marks eternally etched on his skin.

Costumes are all well and good, because like a carnival mask, they hide enough of oneself not to appear whole, but they also reveal enough to others. It's almost impressive, the way a single thickness of pixel covers the deep lacerations, the acid stains, the ancient fissures when he was cut.

He tucks in his chin as he observes his arms. Long trails of scratches, burns and other poisons erased in his blood but not on his skin ran across them like randomly scribbled textures and patterns.

Only doodles are much more pacifist in idea, he thought. Maybe... maybe he could find a way to reconstruct his skin tissue? Arranging a new technological prototype. He'd heard of an Earth-199999-style device for reconstructing skin tissue. Perhaps he could make use of it? Find a way to get rid of all this... filth.

He wasn't proud of it. They represented his violence, his willingness to put himself in danger and endure brutality just to get the job done.

A sword is said to be good by its marks, its nicks, its scratches, all proving its durability and the fact that no matter the enemy, it holds. How long could his sword last?

You had just entered the bathroom, coming face to face with Miguel, looking at his hands. How many irreparable, eternal scars had he left in his wake? How many bodies had he marked with his claws and fangs with such rage and zeal that the gesture had permanently altered skin and minds?

"Is everything okay, amor?" you'd asked as you approached him, placing your hand on his back.

He had shuddered at your touch, how could you let the softness of your hand reach out to touch the evidence of atrocities that littered his body?

"Yeah," he assured with a deep breath, "yeah I'm just..." he pursed his lips, "I was thinking about doing something about my scars."

The idea made you frown for a moment, was Miguel worried about his appearance? He was always the first to tell you that your body didn't matter, that he thought you were absolutely gorgeous no matter what you looked like, so the fact that he was saying this for himself caught you off guard in the moment.

"What do you mean?" you asked, coming to guide your hand to his shoulder where a gash resided.

He remembered every cut, every pain he'd felt when he'd received new marks. He breathed in, watching your eyes in the reflection of the mirror as he bit the inside of his cheek.

"I want to remove them."

Your lips parted, mixing surprise and tenderness. You probably only had the surface of Miguel's ideas, for he was still occasionally secretive about his thoughts. And the realization that Miguel might be ashamed of his scars had struck you right in the heart.

"Why?" you questioned anyway, caressing his skin.

"Because they're... ugly," he said, bobbing his head and lowering his eyes to your hand placed on his shoulder, "they're proof of some of the things for which I'm not the proudest."

Your eyes sought his tenderly, you saw them lowered, ashamed, as if the mere possibility of meeting your gaze made him feel like a child who had broken something, dreading the scolding of his parents.

You lowered your eyes to your hand, your thumb lightly tracing the scar on his shoulder. Your other hand came to rest on his arm, and you placed a kiss on the tanned gash.

He took a shaky breath: nobody had ever kissed him here, his skin exposed. Only to the sun had kissed him there. Only the sun.

"Those scars do not represent you, Miguel." you affirmed as you took a step to the side to face him, tilting your head up to see him. He was so tall, his vast torso covered in oscillating traces of colours and shapes.

Your hand trailed from his shoulder to his chest, which was cleft by three large marks, no doubt a claw. You wondered if he'd come close to death when he'd been scratched here.

"They're not admirable," he sighed, his breathing almost ragged as the travel of your hand over all those areas he hated so much made him shiver.

The contrast of the softness of your touch against the obscure reality of him was electrifying. It was as if, with your simple touch and your pure words, you'd managed to right a wrong you hadn't committed, evils of which you weren't the author.

"Not all scars can be considered to be admirable," you said as you traced his cut skin, "we just consider them to be a proof that we survived no matter how little or great the menace was. It's nothing you should be ashamed of." Your eyes settle on his face. "There has never been any shame in surviving, has it?"

He breathed, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were soft, almost melancholic.

"Maybe..." he murmured, his voice almost inaudible as he listened to you.

You kissed his scratches on his collarbones gently, your hands caressing the tender skin of his completely lacerated back.

"Scars are not us, they're not our identity. It's terribly complicated to forget the pain, but I think it's even more difficult to remember the softness. After all, we don't have any scars to show for the joys we've had... "

Your fingers illuminated the darkest parts of him. Those sensitive places that held so many crimes of sorrows and screams, you covered them with colours and creams. He felt so soft under your hands, under your touch, under your mouth.

He couldn't get over the fact that you were kissing the most monstrous parts of him with those same lips full of sweetness and sweet words.

You learn so little from peace.

You pulled back.

"I'll show you mine."

You looked up at him, and your hands came away from his body to take hold of your T-shirt. You took it off, pulling it over your head to let Miguel rediscover the multiple gashes in your skin.

You'd been on many missions, some less successful than others, and since it's part of the spider's panoply to always get up no matter how heavy the blow, your body had experienced great agonies that had left marks all over you.

His eyes were riveted on you, shifting from one scar to another. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them, but he'd never looked at them from the angle in which the discussion was taking place. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, his fingers gently tracing one of your cuts with tenderness.

"We're not always proud of it," you asserted, "but sometimes scars bloom no matter where we plant them, and we don't decide what garden our bodies become when we do the job that we have."

"Mine don't bloom," Miguel whispered, his eyes returning to yours as his hand traced down your arm.

"Why not?" you questioned.

He shrugged, his hand continuing its path until it reached yours, caressing your fingers.

"They're weeds," he whispered, taking your hand in his.

You smile, little stars forming in your eyes as he looks at you questioningly.

"I like weeds."

He pouted confusedly. "Why?"

You came and kissed the three gashes on the centre of his torso, resting your chin on them as you looked at him, clasping his hand in yours.

"They always survive."

He could almost feel the tears welling up. He brought you against him, hugging you gently.

You drew stars around his scars, and he felt more loved than ever.

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nerdieforpedro · 8 months

Text

Let ‘em hear Puddin’

Joel Miller x plus size female reader (nickname Puddin’)

This Fanfiction is 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 1171

Main Masterlist / Joel Miller Masterlist

Summary: Joel Miller has finally come by your place as your ever watchful neighbor observes. Joel feels like giving him something to listen to.

Warnings: exhibitionism, Joel is a menace, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), cockwarming, breath play, a few swats of on ass

Notes: I actually meant to write about another Pedro character when I started teasing @lady-bess along with @for-a-longlongtime and this happened. It’s a bit rougher than what I normally write. Staycation Nerdie seems to have different ideas 👀

“Come on now, don’t be so shy. Just relax.” Joel tells you. You’re still so nervous and you’re still dressed. It’s not like you didn’t want him to come. You were counting on it. It meant that you’d be safe for the night from the weird QZ soldier who stays across from you, always leering at you. He stops for a moment, not one to rush things, he likes to take things slow. Joel is a man of little pleasures save for a few.

“Joel, just give me a minute, let me-” You try and explain that if you just had a minute to gather your thoughts, you might be able to relax. He’d been on you since you’d open the door, much to your neighbor across the way’s dismay. His kisses made you moan and put your hands in his hair. He smelled of ash, wind and death. All of it excited you. You normally dealt with life at the clinic, patching what you could and using your medical training pre-outbreak to aid those in the QZ that the FEDRA would allow at least. Your job disgusted you at times, but made you happy on others. It was where you met Joel, giving him some supplies that the soldiers wouldn’t miss.

His large hands held your hips and pressed his into them, his large erection made you gasp. “Good Lord,” you mumbled and you swore Joel smirked.

“Not the Lord, just me darlin’. Clothes off and on the bed. I’ll do the same. We’ll make your friend across the hallway know who you belong to.” His flannel shirt dropped to the floor and it was followed by his undershirt and jeans. His boots, socks and boxers were next, leaving Joel in his naked glory for you to see. He knew what he had, a third damn leg almost. Your clothes came off much slower, peeling off your t-shirt, jeans, bra and panties. You stood naked before each other, taking your bodies in. “I see why he keeps after ya, with breasts, hips and a pussy like that, I’m going to need to keep a close eye on you too.”

It was sudden as he stepped toward you, placing his hands behind your knees and lifting you onto the bed. You squealed as he dropped you and had you bounce as he climbed on. He was soon covering your body with his lips roaming your stomach, making a small trail of marks on your soft belly before taking one of your nipples into his mouth. You called out his name and felt him smile as he sucked, his hand kneading your other breast as you pressed your legs together. With a small pop, he released your nipple and took your lips, smothering you with his lips, hands parting your thighs so he would have room to settle between them. “Darlin’ are you ready?”

You nod and he presses his wide, hot head at your entrance, He shakes his head and lifts your legs by your knees, apologizing for not preparing you properly.

“Besides, you’ll need to scream more fer me. I love hearing it. Makes my dick twitch Puddin’.” He dives into your core, his nose pressing into your mound before poking your clit. A shrill noise comes from you as you feel yourself starting to tighten, his tongue hasn’t entered you yet. It’s when it licks a stripe down your slit when your release comes, wetting his beard while his laugh permeates your canal. His fingers enter next into your sensitive cunt leaving you to cry out his name once more. “Ah, Puddin’ I knew you had a set of lungs on ya. You gonna be my sweet Puddin’ and ride me?” Joel asks, but is pulling you up into his lap, after removing his fingers from your core. Your hands wrap around his neck and you press your thumbs into his windpipe, cutting his air for a moment. “Fuck…” he croaks, lining himself up with your dripping cunt. Your hands let go and press into his throat again, this time a little harder before releasing. You take hold of his shoulders, smiling as you kiss his lips.

“You like that Joel?” You inquire, as Joel takes a hand and slaps your ass. Your yelp is soon drowned out by him thrusting his hips upward, and pulling your hips down on him. He lets you sit, warming with his cock as he pulls your hair, pushing two fingers into your mouth. You suck on them as he watches, feeling yourself constrict around his swollen shaft. Miller bites his bottom lip and you feel him twitch inside of you.

“You’re the only one who can do that and not get cut, Puddin’ remember that. You’re going to milk my cock in your own bed tonight and not mine. Excited aren’t you?” Joel thrusted up once while pressing down on your tongue and from your affirmative whimper, he removed his fingers and dug his calloused fingers into the flesh of your hips, as he began in earnest, pumping himself into your tight cunt. Between the creaking of the bed and your calls of Joel’s name, you were sure that everyone on the floor of your building heard you in addition to the soldier. “He’s probably using his fist listening to ya moans sweetheart, I know I’d be.”

Your feet press into the matress as you try to match Joel’s pace. He ends up falling back on the bed and you both stop for a moment, panting. Your hands wrap around his neck again as you begin rolling your hips. To see Joel Miller with his mouth slightly agape and his eyes squarely fixed on you while you controlled his air supply was exsillerating. When you let go this time, he placed his hands on your thick thighs and rutted upward into you, forcing you to have your palms back on your chest to steady yourself. You may have pushed the breath play a bit far, but the result was worth it as both you and Joel reached your peaks simultaneously.

Falling onto his broad chest, you sighed as his fingers trailed down your spine, his hand resting on your asscheek before giving it a strong slap. “J-Joel!” You squealed, looking up at the wide grin his face held.

“Thought you were slick with using those delicate hands of yurs a second time didn’t ya Puddin’?” His drawl was slow and playful as he kissed your forehead. “I saw the look on your face. My depraved darlin’. I’m staying the night. We’ll keep your neighbors up a bit longer before I pack ya’ shit and take you home where you belong Puddin’.” you shifted a bit so you could plant kisses across his chest before laying your head on it, listening to his heartbeat. Steady, strong, even.

“Alright Joel.” His other large hand cups the back of your head before you drift off to sleep to rest before he begins the second round.

Joel’s Darlins’ 💕: @yorksgirl @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @guelyury @goodwithcheese @morallyinept @ilovepedro @maggiemayhemnj @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @megamindsecretlair

#pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller #post outbreak joel #QZ #A Nerdie fic

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gabessquishytum · 8 months

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Mobster!Alpha Hob mates with In-the Dark About The Criming!Omega Dream.

Hob runs one of the largest crime families on the Eastern seaboard. He is not a nice man, surrounded by not nice men and women. He allows for no dissent or stepping out of line. And he will (violently) protects every omega that makes it to him who requests protection.

Dream is Hob's pretty princess omega. He dresses for Hob's pleasure & desire. He's beautiful and the hottest arm candy in Hob's social circle (of scary men).

Hob has money and is obesssed with Dream - his happiness; making sure he has everything he wants; making sure no one makes him uncomfortable or scared. They are traditionally mated, but actually in love.

More to the point, Dream doesn't really know what Hob's business is - Hob purposefully keeps the seedier side of things away from his princess; and Dream doesn’t care about anything be loving his (masterful) Hob.

An upstart gang makes a move against Hob - injuring Hob, killing some of his people, and kidnapping Dream. The last thing Dream sees as he's grabbed and knocked out is Hob bleeding and unconscious; last thing he remembers before he wakes up again is screaming Hob's name. Dream might not know the full extent of Hob's "business," but when he wakes up naked in a glass cage, what he does know is that Hob will come for him --- as long as there is breath in his lungs(; as long as he's still alive).

I really like this set-up!! Spoiled princess Dream who knows that his beloved husband is rich and powerful and maybe not very nice, but he's nice to Dream, and that's what matters. Dream doesn't ask questions. He's busy with his own stuff, dressing pretty for his alpha, doing his art projects, taking Hob’s knot. He loves Hob so much, and he loves the life that they have together.

Well now Dream is forced to confront the reality of who he's married to. He's in this cage, he's being threatened with torture and terrible degradation. When the gang ask questions about Hob’s business, Dream can't even answer because he doesn't know anything! But he wouldn't say a word even if he did know. All he thinks of his Hob, if Hob survived the attack, if he'll come soon. His captors expected Dream to be broken and begging by now but all he does is murmur Hob’s name hopefully, tracing the letters on the glass.

Hob had to physically fight to get out of the hospital when he woke up. They kept trying to sedate him, saying he was risking his life if he left the hospital. But Hob is an alpha with a goal. He's getting his omega back, by hell or high water. And he is NOT in a good mood when he and a few trusted companions bust into the basement where Dream has been kept. The gang members are gunned down and Hob’s team quickly work to free the omega.

Hob is in a bad state but he can still pick Dream up and carry him up the stairs, soothing and licking his bond mark the whole time. He holds Dream constantly for the next few hours, even at the hospital. And he bites anyone who tries to separate them. Dream is traumatised but happy to be in Hob’s arms. For a little while he thought he might never be Hob’s princess ever again. Now he's sure they can put the whole thing behind them.

Hob practically wraps Dream in cotton wool from that day on. Although he's completely open about how he makes his living now, he never lets anyone from that side of his life near his precious omega. He has Dream under strict protection. He even gives Dream his own little weapon of choice, of course the prettiest and most expensive he can find. Only the best for his darling.

Dream is far tougher than he looks, and Hob knows that. But that isn't the point. He's sworn to love and protect his omega, and to provide for him. So he's going to spoil Dream in every way that he can. Seeing him in that glass cage confirmed what Hob already knew: he'd burn the world to a pile of ash, if it meant making his Dream happy.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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skepsiss · 11 months

Text

His People - Eddie Munson

Wrote a small piece for the October 13th prompt "Monster" for Eddie Month! @eddiemonth. This is a short fic about Eddie coming back as some kind of monster after the events of S4. I might explore this idea more if people like it. (If I continue it, I'll probably make it Steddie, lol). Believe it or not, this is fluff. This is extremely soft and a look into Eddie's mind when he himself doesn't know his own mind anymore. He is more like a stray cat than something scary though.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

CW: Descriptions of gore/violence, body horror (minor), discrimination, mention of blood.

For as long as Eddie could remember he had felt like a monster. You were made to feel that way when you grew up poor without parents to rely on. You learned how to shroud yourself in mystery and grow teeth and nails to defend yourself with. How to be a viper and snap at anyone that dared provoke you. They made you feel like a monster, so the only way you could behave was monstrous. The only defense against the venom of humankind was to become something so grotesque they’d leave you alone.

They’d made him a monster, a creature like from Frankenstein’s lab; just an amalgamation of parts that had never really belonged to him. Animated in the likeness of man, but deemed as cursed and obscene. How he’d been driven from town with pitchforks held high; a monster despite never being asked to be here. Despite never lifting a finger to harm anyone. Despite how little or fragile he really was.

Eddie had always felt like a monster. It was how you grew up to keep yourself safe. My daddy was a demon and my mother was a mutant and they cursed this planet with a boy so terrible that no one would dare love him. That was how he had lived. That was all Eddie had to assume his future held.

How was it then that when Eddie had become a monster–a real one with fangs and claws, whose heart didn’t beat and skin didn’t bleed–how was it that he had found peace? How was it that he felt more loved now than he ever had when he was simply human?

At his return, his mind was a jumble, and scents and thoughts wafted through the air around him as he tried to recall everything to do with his previous life. He could remember things as if he was looking through a foggy window, grasping at the thoughts, but not always truly remembering. It had been hard not to fall silent in a room of people, to feel included, wanted, and safe. But these people–his people–they had celebrated his return.

Eddie had come home to Hawkins stinking of death and polluted with tar. The places he had been wounded were marred with obsidian and tacky like dried blood. It didn’t hurt, but it had been disorienting. He hadn’t remembered anything–he hadn’t remembered anything but feeling like a monster. A freak. A bigger threat than he’d ever been… and he had curled up in his tub until he was found. Until warm water was sprayed on him to wash away the filth and a gentle hand had soothed his confusion.

Scents were the first thing that had helped him remember.

The way people smelled and the grounding odor of cigarettes. How Dustin, and Robin, Mike and Steve all had such specific scents that helped provoke feelings. The memories attached to those feelings came afterward, but he remembered feeling joy, concern, pride, and love. Good things. Good feelings. But even with the goodness he had shrunk in on himself, fearful that he’d frighten these people away even as they stared at him with glassy eyes and quivering lips. But he hadn’t scared them. He hadn’t scared them at all–he was a real monster and he had never had more people rally around him before in his life.

With time the obsidian marks faded and his skin looked unmarred by the events of the Upside Down. He couldn’t fully remember what had happened or how he had crawled out of hell, but there were instincts ingrained into him that hadn’t been there before. Food curled his nose and tasted like water or ash in his mouth; the pleasures of sugar and salt felt like torture when he ate them, but meat had never tasted so good.

Raw, bleeding, hot or cold, muscle and sinew, meat. He had craved it like a starved animal but had cringed away from the idea of killing something to feed his hunger. A fragment of humanity made him shiver and twitch with concern over the prospect. The idea made his mouth water, but it also flooded his guts with anxiety. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Even like this. Even as a caged lion.

Eating was what had finally cleared his skin and Eddie had learned that abstaining from food for too long marked his flesh with the black substance once again. It made him look ghastly and Eddie had grimaced at his appearance as his body shifted under his gaze. He ate often and hid his unrest.

Still, the food had not been able to hide the secondary row of teeth that were wedged under his gums. It was as if he was a shark or a leech, but you could only really see the teeth when he curled his lip or smiled wide. They were weapons made for tearing and Eddie tried not to eat around his friends in fear the scene would mark him a beast. It was easy to talk around the fangs so long as he remembered.

The claws were harder to get used to and Eddie had struggled with picking things up and not accidentally destroying everything he touched. They were sharp and he had refrained from touching any of his people in fear that he would wound them. Nothing seemed strong enough to trim his nails, but they didn’t grow either. It was like he had knives attached to his fingers and when he had remembered what his guitars were he had wept over the idea that he’d never be able to play the instrument again.

Nancy had been the one to come up with the idea and Robin had helped implement the plan. Acrylic nails to cover the tips of his fingers–they wouldn’t apply a full nail but the acrylic could be rolled into a bead and then applied to Eddie’s hand to cover the razer points. Eddie hadn’t known to feel foolish at the time, but he felt self-conscious about it now–even if there didn’t seem to be any way around it. Still, the girls had painted his nails black and he’d be free to touch things unbiasedly for a few weeks until the acrylic chipped off. It worked and he had encouraged the girls to make his claws look jagged or imperfect instead of nice and polished. He’d wear them as a costume, even though eventually he hoped he could figure out how to do the work himself.

People had rallied to him and Eddie had felt meek in their wake. He had slunk around the party and shrunk into corners quietly like a scared animal, the onslaught of love and care too foreign and overwhelming to him. He didn’t even have his mind to joke and tease, it had just been too much even if he was inexplicably drawn to the attention still. He wanted it, but he didn’t. He needed it, but it felt like he was dying every time he got it. His energy had shifted eventually and he had learned that he liked compliments, so long as he could joke. He’d fain shyness and squirm, obviously touched but hamming up his reaction.

Before he remembered that it was strange he had warmed up to everyone in quiet, affectionate ways. He had leaned and rested his cheek on Dustin’s head, relishing in the softness of his curls. He had tugged at Nancy’s shirt sleeves and followed her around while she worked, watching everything she did with the utmost interest. He had curled up beside Steve on the couch and slowly stretched across his lap like a cat looking to disrupt their owner, soaking in the warmth his body provided.

Everyone had tolerated his oddities until slowly aspects of his humanity returned to him. Memories and social norms struck him at inopportune times and then flooded him with shame or nervousness. He felt like a toddler or enfeebled at times and it was difficult to keep up with everyone as they chatted around him. Still, whenever someone noticed him struggling they had softly explained in an aside or given him a reassuring touch. It was more than he could ask for and Eddie had fallen in love with every single one of his friends again and again. His people.

It felt like he was bursting at the seams with platonic affection for every single one of them. He was taken care of and adored, not just tolerated. People wanted him for the first time, monster and all.

He had been shamed into submission amongst the horde for his whole life, made to carry the mantle of vandal, plague, and devil whether he wanted it or not. Branded a problem–a defect. Branded a freak. He was everything he had been told he was his whole life but he did not fear it any longer. If being a beast earned him Lucas, and Jeff, Max, and Gareth he didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him because he was celebrated for remembering things and he felt safe just lingering close to his friends.

He was grotesque now; built from spare parts and left for scrap, but his people wanted him anyway and Eddie had never felt more loved in his life.

Chapter 2

#I want to snuggle and hold this weird little monster Eddie #he really sounds so fucking adorable to me #Eddie munson #stranger things au #my_writing #eddie month #Eddiemonth #Stranger things #Stranger Things Fic #stranger things fanfic #also I'll pledge my soul to whoever draws Eddie with acrylic nails

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wheresfury · 1 year

Text

Use Me

~Pairings: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix

~Warnings: cheating, a little bit of mommy kink, choking, f/f oral sex, vaginal fingering, marking, grinding, dirty talk, drinking, smoking, pre-widowmaker (sorry if I forget to tag something)

~Word count: 8,596

~Summary: Amélie joins her husband on a business trip hoping to spend some time together. Unfortunately business comes first so Amélie makes her way to a shady bar where she meets Ashe, the legendary leader of the Deadlock Rebels. Can this outlaw show Amélie what it’s like to be free?

~Authors note: heyy, it’s been a while 🥹 I apologize for being gone for so long and I’m also sorry this isn’t a marvel update. I haven’t abandoned any of my works but at the moment I am a little obsessed with this pairing known as ouihaw from overwatch 2. They gave me inspiration to write something and actually finish it. I’d like to think of this as a step back into writing more frequently. I know this is a mainly marvel blog but I’d like to make it variety as well with this pairing. I’d like to thank @moonixyy for being my beta reader, you’re amazing! 🩵 I do hope you enjoy and please let me know what y’all think! ♥️

~I will soon have this added to my Masterlist :3

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The boiling heat of the summer in Arizona made Amélie sick to her stomach. She leans against the railing of her motel room walkway as she surveys the view. She heard Phoenix wasn’t too bad being a bigger city but Deadlock Gorge wasn’t on the radar in a good way. It was almost desolate with only one bar, one motel, and one gas station. Her husband, Gérard, was called here on business. What kind she wasn’t sure, she never really asked what he did as an Overwatch agent. He always said it was formed to handle a terrorist organization called Talon. Personally she didn’t give much thought to Gérard’s work. Amélie wonders what kind of business one can make out here. Her husband warned her not to stray far from the motel room, as it wasn’t safe. He didn’t even want her here but she made an argument about never seeing him and well, now she's still not seeing him. Her skin sticky with sweat brings Amélie’s attention back to how awfully hot it is. With a sigh she makes her way back inside to take a cold shower. When washing up Amélie got the urge for a nice glass of red wine. The only place here that might have that would be the biker bar right across from her motel. Gérard told her to stay put but she was her own woman. What’s the worst that could happen?

Amélie takes out a short blue silk spaghetti strap slip dress and slips it on. She forgoes a bra and sticks to a black thong to not show any lines. She puts on some black 6-inch heels and gives a little pirouette. Amélie smiles at herself in the mirror, ballet in any form gives her a breath of fresh air. Besides Gérard, it was her life. Amélie decided to leave her dark long locks down and sprayed a little anti-frizz spritz into her hair. She didn’t want to put anything too heavy in because of the heat and she was just getting a drink, nothing too crazy. She puts on some light makeup, eyeliner, a little smokey eye shadow and a light pink lipstick. The motel phone rings and Amélie perks up at the thought of who it could be.

“Bonjour.” Amélie pauses and realizes she’s in America and probably should have spoken in English but she shrugs it off.

“Bonjour, mon amour.”

“Gérard, why are you calling? Are you on your way back?” Silence is heard on the other side making Amélie bite her lip in anticipation.

“I’m sorry, Amélie. I’ll have to stay here overnight. The Talon leader gets in extremely early and it would be easier for me to already be here.” A chill makes its way up Amélie’s spine. Once again work came first.

“Of course, have a nice night.”

“Am-”

*click*

Amélie hangs up the phone before she could hear what he had to say. She wasn’t in the mood. She needed that drink now. Trying not to think about how her husband is miles away and not with her, she grabs her small over the shoulder bag. It contained the essentials, her credit card, identification card, a pack of French cigarettes, a lighter, her room key, some cash and a small caliber pistol, for self defense. Amélie locks up the room and begins her short walk to the bar. Once she hits the road she looks both ways before crossing. With it being a deadbeat town there were no cars or anything like that. The bar was ominous and derelict, Amélie pushed open the door and was immediately hit with the stench of stale cigarettes and beer. Definitely a place she wouldn’t be caught dead in, her family may actually disown her if they knew where she was right now. Amélie’s nose scrunches as she walked in further to the actual bar and takes a seat at one of the little red leather stools. She reminds herself to not speak French so she’s ready. An omnic bartender makes their way from the back.

“Howdy, miss. What can I get you?”

“Do you have any red wine?” An electronic trill indicating a yes emanates from them.

“Perfect, I’ll take a glass of the driest one you have.” With a slight nod they make their way to the back to grab her some wine. Amélie looks around the place with a look of disdain. The few tables they had were scuffed and stained. A couple of billiard tables were along the back wall as dart boards hung on the wall adjacent. It had some character to it, Amélie will give it that much. The doors to the back flail open as the omnic makes their way back with a full glass of wine, much to Amélie’s amusement.

“Here you are, miss. Shall I keep a tab open?” Amélie smiles and retrieves her card out of her purse.

“Please do, thank you.” She hands them her card and reaches for her glass of red. It’s dark and just from looking at it, Amélie’s mouth waters. She brings the glass up to her nose and gives it a healthy sniff. Her cheeks heat up already at the absolute delight she has at the moment. She brings the glass to her lips and takes a nice sip. It’s very dry and it makes Amélie’s mouth pucker. It’s perfect. Amélie slowly sipped at her glass. About an hour passed and she was almost done with her drink when a thunderous sound reverberated throughout the bar. The red liquid produces waves in the glass as the bottles behind the bar clink together. Amélie sits up straight in alarm, expecting the bartender to come out in a panic. When she didn’t see them she looked around as the sound got closer. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, she reached down to grab a hold of her pistol. Within seconds it stops right outside the entrance of the bar. Her grip tightens on the handle of the gun. The door opens and a large omnic with a little hat makes its way in followed by a few others. Another tall omnic and a pair of triplets follow but what caught Amélie’s eye was the woman who was after them. A large cowboy hat sat atop stark white hair a bit above shoulder length, the other side being slightly shorter. Her outfit was very…Wild West if what Amélie could remember from cartoons she happened to catch at a young age taught her. Her lips were painted dark red and she had a beauty mark towards the corner of her mouth, the large cowboy hat putting a shadow over the top of her face. Amélie was shocked when bright red eyes captured her own golden eyes in an enchanting stare. Amélie was still slightly shaking from the unknown and her grip loosened on the gun. She didn’t feel as if she were in any danger anymore but the hair on the back of her neck still stood. The woman makes her way to the bar, right next to Amélie who is looking at the glass of wine with an intense gaze.

“Hey, Ted, can I get a round for the gang and a whiskey for me, neat.” The woman leans her back against the bar as the omnic, Ted, chirps his acknowledgement from the back. Amélie can feel the woman’s red eyes on her as she continues to stare intensely at her glass of wine. With a slightly shaky hand, she reaches out to take another sip. As she does this the woman next to her hums.

“You’re not from around here.” The deep southern drawl made Amélie shiver, not in a bad way.

“What makes you say that?” Amelie’s thick French accent easily gives her away but she pays it no mind. The woman smirks as she eyes Amélie who is now looking at the cowboy herself.

“Is that a French accent I hear?” Amélie looks away from the woman and takes another sip of her wine. She swallows and leans her arms against the bar, her hands holding her chin up as she looks at the woman once more.

“Non, I grew up here actually.” The woman laughs a full bellied laugh and it makes Amélie’s heart jump.

“Is that so? That must make me…Russian.” The woman smiles at Amélie and winks, making the French woman give a soft smile in return. Ted comes back through with a tray full of beer and sets the woman’s whiskey right next to her elbow on the bar.

“Thank you, Ted. Oh and when you’re done with that please get this lovely lady another glass of whatever she’s drinking.” The people that came in with the woman cheered as they were passed their beers and gave Ted pats on the shoulder. The large omnic stayed standing near them, unable to drink himself. Amélie finished off her first glass and pushed it to the other side so it was easier for the bartender to fill. Within a few minutes it was once again full.

“Thank you, Ted.” Amélie takes a sip and relishes in the bitter taste, her eyes close as she takes it in. When her eyes open she’s met with glaring red orbs. The eye contact startled Amélie and she quickly looks away as she feels her cheeks begin to heat up. From the wine or this astonishingly attractive stranger, she doesn’t know. The woman brings the glass of whiskey to her red painted lips and takes a heaping sip. Amélie faces her once more as a drop of whiskey slips past her lips and down her chin. Before she could process what she’s doing, her hand reaches up and wipes the liquid away with her thumb. Amélie brings her thumb to her mouth and sucks the liquid off, the burn of the hard liquor making itself known. The red eyed woman was stunned to say the least, her jaw had dropped slightly as she tried to gather herself.

“Top shelf stuff, I’m impressed.” The woman finally composes herself and clears her throat as she gets up from leaning against the bar to take a seat on the stool next to Amélie, tipping her hat a bit.

“Well, I’m not one to care much for which shelf my whiskey comes from but Ted knows my favorites.” Amélie takes another sip of her wine as she takes the time to look the stranger over. She noticed a forearm tattoo peaking out of her long sleeved shirt and wondered what it was. The two women sit and drink in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the soft country tunes from the radio and the rowdy gang with bellies full of beer. Curiosity gets the best of Amélie.

“Are you in a gang?” The blonde woman snickers as she takes another sip of her drink.

“Now what makes you think that?” Amélie looks at the woman and makes eye contact with her, her red eyes mesmerized the French woman to a degree she couldn’t understand.

“You came here on what I can only assume are motorcycles with how barbaric it sounded,” the stranger chuckles at this, “and you called them gang when ordering drinks.”

“Wait, is that all you have to go on?” Amélie blushes at how intense the woman’s stare is on her. Amélie points at the woman’s forearm where a tattoo peeks out.

“You also have a tattoo and seem to be in charge.” The woman smirks and leans the tattooed arm across the bar, her hand nearly touching Amélie’s that’s resting on the bar top.

“Well you got that right, ma’am.” The woman reaches with her right hand to roll up the sleeve on her shirt to reveal the tattoo in all its glory. Turns out it was a couple tattoos. A rose adorns the wrist as the thorns wrap around her forearm encircling a skull logo of sorts with the words Deadlock Rebels. Amélie reaches out her right hand and traces along the tattoos. The woman shivers but lets the ballerina touch her. There was something about this strange foreigner that got to her and she loved it.

“I’m not sure if I should be scared or not. I’m told it’s dangerous around here.” The woman hums as Amélie continues to trace along the tattoo, transfixed by it.

“Who told you that?” The woman leans in closer, so close Amélie could feel her breath on her face. The stench of whiskey and cigarettes present. Amélie found it charming.

“My husband.” This didn’t deter the woman from pulling away, much to Amélie's surprise.

“He’s right, you know. It's a dangerous place, the Deadlock Gorge.” It hit Amélie now, the connection of names.

“Is this your town?” Amélie’s golden eyes catch the red ones that were already looking at her. The woman smiles and reaches into her pocket to produce a cigarette. With her left arm still being in Amélie’s grasp she uses her right hand once more to fish out the lighter in her shirt pocket. She lights up the cigarette and takes a deep drag.

“I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.” Amélie shakes her head and reaches into her bag to grab her own. The woman smirks around the cigarette and brings her lighter up to light the French woman’s cigarette. Amélie takes a big inhale and continues to trace along the woman’s tattoo with her right hand.

“I’m French, I came out smoking.” This makes the woman laugh wildly, making Amélie’s stomach do jumping jacks.

“I knew you were French.” At this Amélie smirks.

“You caught me.” With another drag of her cigarette the woman clears her throat.

“My name is Ashe.” Amélie takes a hit and slowly exhales taking in the woman, Ashe, like it was the first time. Ashe fits her perfectly.

“Amélie.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Tell me, Amélie, what’s a girl like you doing in a shithole like this?” Amélie reaches for her glass and takes a sip before answering.

“My husband is here on business and I wanted to tag along.” Ashe looks at her with her head cocked to the side.

“Yet you’re here alone, I’m guessing he didn’t want you coming along.” Amélie shakes her head and takes another drag of her cigarette. Ashe does the same as she takes Amélie in.

“No, he didn’t.” Amélie sighs and exhales a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t really care what he does but what do you do, miss Amélie?” Amélie looks a little taken aback, it had been so long since someone’s asked her about her own life. Her husband was so interesting she was always on the back burner.

“I’m a ballet dancer. The best in my company.” Ashe smiles and taps some of the ash off of her cigarette.

“Now that is incredibly impressive and I just know you’re the best.” Amélie laughs and shakes her head.

“And how exactly would you know that?” Ashe smirks and takes a drag from her nearly done cigarette. Ashe’s eyes look up and down Amélie’s figure, not at all hiding the fact she was checking her out. Amélie raises her brow and lightly scratches her nails over Ashe’s forearm.

“Well darlin’, you have a dancer's body. What else are those long legs made for?” Ashe’s smirk grows wider as her mind deviates from the subject for a second. Amélie must have the same exact thought process as her nails dig in softly making Ashe hiss slightly.

“Aren’t you being a little bold with a married lady?” Ashe chuckles and takes one last drag before putting the cigarette out in the ashtray at the top of the bar. Amélie takes a long drag as Ashe puts hers out. Amélie’s being a bit longer; she has some time left.

“Forgive me, ma’am, it’s just the way you haven’t been able to take your hand off of me makes me think you want something too.” Amélie hums and blows out a puff of smoke, twirling the shortened stick in her fingers as her other hand is still attached to the woman’s arm.

“Tell me this, Ashe. Are you dangerous?” Ashe scoots closer to Amélie and takes her cigarette out of her hand. She offers the cigarette to Amélie and she leans forward to take a drag. Once she finished Ashe pulled the cigarette away and brought it to her lips. She inhaled the French product and was pleasantly surprised with how good it tasted. Ashe pulls it away and before she puts it out she notices it has a slight pink hue at the top where Amélie’s lips meet the stick. Ashe exhaled the smoke and licked her lips, it tasted of strawberry. Ashe deposited the butt into the ashtray and faced Amélie once more, her eyes darting to those pink luscious lips, which she now knows tastes of strawberries. How she wanted to taste it straight from the source.

“I’m an outlaw.” Amélie moves closer as her hand that was practically attached to Ashe’s arm moves up, over her strong bicep and shoulder to rest on her neck, rubbing slightly.

“Is that a yes, cowboy?” Ashe inhales sharply at the name, it sounded too good coming from those lips with that delicate accent.

“Yes.” Ashe shakely breathes out. Her thighs squeeze together as she begins to heat up, her arousal growing exponentially. Ashe leans further towards the ever closer Amélie. The scent of strawberry invades Ashe’s senses as their lips brush against the other. Amélie’s eyes darted down to Ashe’s red lips, they were right there for the taking and she wanted to take them so bad. She knew her life would change if she did what she wanted to. Before she could back out the outlaw closed the gap between them, capturing Amélie’s lips in a passionate kiss. Amélie’s mind goes blank and immediately fills with thoughts of this outlaw. Ashe’s tongue pokes Amélie’s bottom lip and she opens her mouth. Ashe’s tongue pushes in and Amélie’s tongue dances around hers. The large hat Ashe was wearing bumps into Amélie’s forehead making Ashe chuckle. Amélie smiles and swallows the outlaws laugh in her mouth. Ashe’s right hand comes up to hold onto the hat as the kiss gets messier. Amélie moved her head to the side a bit and deepened the kiss. Ashe tilts her head to the side as well and once again her hat pokes Amélie in the forehead. Ashe chuckled and decided to take her hat off, putting it on the bar. Now that her right hand was free Ashe places it at the back of Amélie’s neck. Their tongues move in a well coordinated dance as their hands wrap in the other's hair. It’s passionate and it lights the fire in both of them that they long since thought they lost. Amélie can’t remember the last time she was kissed like this and actually felt something. Ashe heard Ted place another glass of whiskey by her side and she starts to pull away from the kiss, as much as she didn’t want to. Amélie captures Ashe’s bottom lip and suckles at it slightly as she pulls away, her bottom lip being pulled slightly until it was naturally let go by her movement. Ashe had to contain herself so she didn’t whimper out loud in front of her gang. Amélie wipes at her bottom lip, surely she has smudged lipstick and grabs her wine to down the rest of it. Ashe clears her throat and grasps the glass of whiskey taking it in one quick shot. Ashe reaches into her pocket and produces a handful of gold coins to place on the bar.

“Thanks, Ted. This should cover ours and the nice lady here.” Amélie quickly shakes her head.

“It’s okay, I have a tab. You can close it now, Ted.” Ashe hums and raises an eyebrow at Ted, pushing the coins closer to him.

“Do we have an understanding here?” Ted beeps and nods his head. He makes his way to the back and comes back out with Amélie’s card.

“Here you are, miss. Have a nice night and thank you for choosing us.”

“Thank you, Ted. The wine was lovely.” Ted bows his head and turns to Ashe as Amélie puts her card away in her bag.

“Have a nice night, Ashe.” Ashe tips her head in acknowledgement and grabs her hat.

“You as well, Ted,” Ashe turns to Amélie and the latter grabs the hat out of her hand and places it atop her own head, “why doesn’t that look mighty fine on you, Amélie.” Amélie smiles and winks at the outlaw.

“When I get too old for ballet, maybe I’ll become an outlaw too.” Ashe laughs and throws her head back as her cheeks burn in pure joy.

“I’ll tell you what, there’s always a place at the Deadlock Rebels for you. Being the boss has its perks.” Ashe says with a wink. Ashe slides off the stool and stands up to offer her hand to Amélie. Amélie smiles and takes her hand, standing up from the bar stool.

“Where exactly do you think I’m going?” Ashe pauses and brings her hand down, Amélie’s secured in her grasp.

“I was hoping you’d show me where you’re staying so I can walk you home, make sure you’re safe.” Amélie raises her brows in slight surprise at Ashe not out right saying she wants to have sex with her.

“How chivalrous of you, cowboy. Here I thought you only wanted to take me to bed.” Ashe smirks and tilts her head to the side.

“I mean, if that’s what happens after I walk you home…who’s to say I wouldn’t say yes.” Amélie releases her hand from Ashe’s grasp to push her shoulder back. Ashe laughs at the motion and grabs the offending hand to wrap around her own shoulders. With Amélie being a bit taller, Ashe has to lean up to capture the ballerina's lips in a kiss. Before Ashe could deepen it, Amélie pulls away with a small smile.

“You’re not my type.”

“I’m everyone’s type, darlin’.” Amélie rolls her eyes at the very obvious ego the outlaw had.

“I’m married.” Ashe rolls her eyes in return.

“Are you happy?” What Ashe said made Amélie pause. She hasn’t been happy in her marriage for a long time, in fact the Gérard she knew wasn’t the same man anymore. The only thing that made Amélie happy was when she was on stage dancing her heart out. Yet tonight with this outlaw she feels…happy and free.

“I am right now.” Ashe smiles at this and pecks Amélie’s cheek placing her arm around Amélie’s waist.

“Me too, darlin’. I think you should leave with me, now let me walk you home.” Amélie nods and starts to walk to the door.

“It’s just the motel across the street, it was the only place available.” Ashe hums in acknowledgement.

“Pretty much all there is around here so I kinda figured,” As the two made their way to the entrance Ashe stopped in front of the large omnic “hey Bob make sure everyone gets back to the hideout safe. I’ll make my way back later.” The omnic, Bob, nods his head and signs back to Ashe in acknowledgement. He looks at Amélie and then back to Ashe, he signs something else to Ashe and she nods before undoing her arm around Amélie to sign back. Amélie wonders what they were talking about, she figured it was about her since even Ashe wasn’t speaking aloud. Once Ashe finished replying her arm went right back to Amélie’s waist. She begins walking to the exit and Amélie follows alongside her. Once outside Amélie turns her head to face Ashe.

“Is everything okay?” Ashe turns to look Amélie in the eyes.

“Oh you mean with Bob? He was just telling me to be careful is all. He cares a great deal about me and I do for him as well.” Amélie nodded and looked around, the sun was beginning to set and not a single soul was outside. The motorcycles that belonged to the gang were parked alongside the front of the bar. A red one stands out among the black painted ones.

“Let me guess, yours is the red one.” Ashe smiles wider than Amélie has seen that night, must be pride or even that ego of hers.

“Isn’t she a beauty! Do you want to take a ride, darlin’? She purrs like you’ve never felt before.” Amélie has no doubt in her mind it does just that, if the loud sound it made coming in was any indication however she wanted something else between her legs.

“Maybe next time, I kind of just want to get inside out of this heat.” Ashe hums and squeezes Amélie’s waist.

“Sounds like a plan to me, darlin’.” With that being said the two made their way across the street to Amélie’s motel. Her room was on the second floor and the two didn’t release their hold on the other until they were standing right in front of the door. Amélie takes her arm from around Ashe’s shoulders to dig for the room key in her bag. The clunky key ring is grasped into her palm. With a small spin Amélie leans against the door, the hand holding the room key behind her back. Amélie’s other hand grabs Ashe’s hat that sits atop her head and lifts it off. Ashe is within inches of Amélie so it doesn’t take much to place her hat back in its rightful place, on Ashe’s head. Amélie pulls the brim down slightly and smiles.

“Thank you for walking me back safely, cowboy. You were wonderful company.” Ashe blushes slightly and breaks eye contact to look at the ground, suddenly shy.

“Oh it was nothing, darlin’. Glad I could be considered wonderful company, you weren’t so bad yourself.” Ashe smiles and places her hands in her pants pockets, rocking back on her heels. Amélie offers a sly smile.

“If you’re willing, I could still use some company.” Ashe perks up at this and Amélie reaches out to grab her red tie to pull her closer. Ashe leans up to kiss Amélie firmly on the mouth, she then pulls slightly away.

“Then use me.” Ashe whispers into Amélie’s mouth and before she could say more, Amélie envelopes her in another kiss. Amélie’s tongue explores Ashe’s mouth as Ashe’s hands find purchase on Amélie’s waist. Ashe squeezes her sides and begins to get handsy. As Ashe’s hands move lower to roam over Amélie’s ass, Amélie brings her free hand up to tangle in short blonde locks free from her hat. Ashe let’s out a little moan as Amélie pulls her hair. Amélie smiles into the kiss and pulls away to moan when she squeezes her ass.

“Fuck.” Ashe laughs and moves her kisses across Amélie’s cheek and down to her neck. Her tongue pops out and trails down to her pulse point. Ashe nips at the spot careful not to leave a mark, as much as she’d love to.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, darlin’. Let’s get inside.” Ashe’s hands don’t leave the spot they have claimed on Amélie’s ass as she turns around to open the door. Ashe’s lips finding their way to the back of her shoulder. The door opens up quickly and they stumble their way inside. Ashe closes the door behind them and locks it up. They break apart for a second to get situated. Amélie takes her bag off and throws it on the table next to the door that served as a dresser and entertainment center with a big boxy television straight from the 90’s. This place really needs an update. Ashe gives the room a little look around and decides to take off her hat, placing it next to Amélie’s bag.

“Nice place you got here, I feel underdressed.” Ashe says in a teasing manner. Amélie rolls her eyes in adoration and grabs the outlaw by the flaps of her leather vest.

“I think you’re overdressed. Let’s fix that shall we?” Ashe smirks as Amélie begins to unzip her vest.

“No foreplay? Why don’t you dance for me.” Amélie tosses Ashe’s vest to the ground and begins to unbutton her shirt, Amélie begins to get visibly frustrated with all the complicated things on Ashe's outfit. Ashe brings her hands up to cup Amélie’s own.

“Let me handle it, darlin’.” Amélie huffs in slight frustration as Ashe begins to finish undressing herself. She does it slowly, not out of nerves but because she loved seeing the impatience in the other woman. Her ego inflames at the sight. This woman wanted the outlaw so bad and the feeling was incredibly mutual. Amélie’s hand go to undo the straps of her dress when Ashe clicks her tongue in response, Amélie took it as a sign to stop what she was doing. When she placed her hands back down at her side, Ashe visibly relaxed. Ashe finally stepped out of her pants and was left in her white bra and underwear. She was absolutely stunning to Amélie. Her body was tight, slightly visible abs on her stomach. Shoulders broad as ever and her arms were just mouth watering, apparently being an outlaw gives you muscles. Must be the running away part so as to not get caught. Her breasts were bigger compared to Amélie’s own. Her thin frame matched the barely there breasts she had.

“You’re so beautiful, Ashe.” A deeper shade of red makes its way to Ashe’s already red cheeks. Ashe was incredibly turned on and she couldn’t wait to get Amélie out of her dress. Ashe steps closer to Amélie and proceeds to get down on her knees. Amélie inhaled deeply as Ashe’s face comes face to face with her most sacred area. The silk dress was short and only made it half way down her thighs. Ashe looks up at Amélie after lazily trailing her eyes along her body. Her hands lift up her left leg and Amélie quickly finds herself grabbing onto Ashe’s shoulders to keep her balance. Ashe removes the high heel with ease and proceeded to do the same with the other. She left little kisses along every ounce of skin she could find. Amélie shivers as Ashe makes her way up her thighs, gathering the silk dress in her rough hands. She slowly drags it up, over her thighs, her stomach, Ashe’s lips leaving nothing untouched. Ashe barely pays attention to her breasts, knowing she needs to see all of Amélie first. Amélie raises her arms as Ashe takes the dress off the rest of the way, leaving Amélie in just her black thong. Ashe stands up fully and is happy to see she’s not too much shorter than Amélie anymore. Her eyes take in everything Amélie has to offer, her hands making their way onto the ballerina's body.

“You are absolutely gorgeous, Amélie.” Instead of answering, Amélie brings Ashe in for a kiss by burying her hands in the outlaws hair. Tongues dance as Ashe explores Amélie’s body. Her hands grab Amélie’s breasts and squeeze them firmly, twisting her nipples slightly. Amélie moans into Ashe’s mouth at the feeling.

“Harder.” Ashe smirks at this as she pulls away, Amélie’s mouth moving to Ashe’s neck, kissing and nipping lightly.

“You like it rough, baby?” Amélie moans at the term of endearment.

“I do, unfortunately it’s not something I get.” Ashe looks offended at this as if Amélie is insulting her personally.

“What else do you not get, that you want?” Amélie pulls away from Ashe’s neck to look her in the eyes. Her right hand comes up to trace Ashe’s lips. Two of her fingers prod at the slit and Ashe obliges and opens her mouth. Ashe’s tongue swirls around the long slender digits as Amélie takes the sensual sight in. The urge to gag her takes over but she restrains herself. All these desires she was unable to do before come crashing down. Ashe‘s tongue continues to swirl as she sucks on Amélie’s fingers, never breaking eye contact.

“I had a girlfriend in high school who loved going down on me. I haven’t felt it since.” At this Ashe’s eyes widen then grow thin in anger. Amélie takes her fingers out of Ashe’s mouth so she could answer.

“You’re telling me that your dead beat husband doesn’t eat you out?” Amélie shakes her head.

“He told me he tried once when he was with a previous partner and it did nothing for him.” Ashe’s mouth drops open and she scoffs.

“Men are disgusting. Lucky for you, I reckon, I’m an expert and eating pussy is quite literally the best.” Amélie’s fingers, that were still wet from Ashe’s mouth, grasp Ashe’s chin in a firm grip.

“Expert? Are you trying to make me jealous thinking about all the previous women you’ve done this to?” Ashe smirks and maneuvers Amélie onto the bed. Amélie scoots up so her head is on the pillow and Ashe climbs on top of her til she is face to face with the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen.

“Is it working?” Ashe smirks as Amélie glares at her.

“If you think you’re the one in charge, you’re wrong. I’ll punish you for being a brat.” Ashe bites her lip then plants kisses along Amélie’s face, down to her neck.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do? Spank me?” Amélie’s hands find one of their favorite new spots in Ashe’s hair, pulling the luscious locks.

“Wouldn’t you love to know.” Ashe groans as Amélie’s thigh finds itself in between Ashe’s legs, pressing up into her cunt. The heat Amélie finds is absolutely mesmerizing, she just knew Ashe was completely soaked underneath. Glad to know she was in the same boat as her.

“Remind me to misbehave sometime.” Amélie giggles at this.

“It could be a reward too, cowboy.” Ashe blushes and nuzzles into Amélie’s neck. Ashe’s right hand moves down Amélie’s body and rests atop her covered pussy. The move made Amélie moan and Ashe groans at the heat radiating off of her. She was soaked and she couldn’t wait to see for herself. Ashe trails kisses down Amélie’s body, stopping at her breasts. She takes the right one into her mouth as her left hand finds Amélie’s other breast, squeezing roughly. She nibbles at her nipple and bites down a bit too much, to Amélie’s pleasure. After a few minutes Ashe switches to the other breast to give it the same amount of attention.

“Baby, please.” Now it’s Ashe’s turn to melt at the name. Amélie’s nipple slips out of Ashe’s mouth and she blows cool air onto it watching as Amélie squirms at the feeling.

“I wish I could leave my mark on you,” Amélie’s eyes roll back as Ashe trails kisses down her taught stomach “but what if your husband sees? That’ll be just awful, hm. Seeing how much of a slut his wife is.” Amélie moans as Ashe’s hand peels off her thong, moving it swiftly down and off her legs. Amélie’s pussy lay completely bare and Ashe can see the slight sheen of her wetness at the base of her mound. Ashe's hand glides along her bare cunt as Amélie spreads her legs some more, giving Ashe room to cup her pussy. The heat made Ashe bite her lip. Ashe kisses Amélie’s mound and looks up at the disheveled woman.

“Did you expect to be fucked? Is that why your pussy is waxed?” Amélie groans as Ashe squeezes her cunt lips.

“N-non it’s all the tight shapewear I have to dance in, makes it easier.” Ashe hums and kisses Amélie’s hips.

“I’m not so cleaned up, miss ballerina.” Ashe licks a stripe down to Amélie’s mound, moving her hand in the meantime. Ashe scoots a bit further down the bed and situated herself between Amélie’s thighs. Ashe grabs Amélie’s legs to bend them at the knees for easier access. Ashe looks up to see Amélie looking right back at her.

“It’s just body hair, I don’t mind.” Ashe smirks and kisses Amélie’s pussy lips. Amélie throws her head into the pillow with a moan. Ashe pushes Amélie’s legs further apart to help spread her pussy and keep it nice and open for Ashe to devour. Amélie’s pretty pink cunt glistens in the low light of the motel room. Ashe was in awe, it truly was the best she’s ever seen. Not that it’s a competition because everyone is different but she could stare at it all day.

“Fuck, please Ashe. Do something.” Ashe bites her lip at the need dripping from Amélie’s words and moves to lay on her stomach. Once she was comfortable Ashe licks a broad stripe up her pussy, making Amélie moan louder than before. Ashe groans at the taste of Amélie, she already knew she was a goner the minute she saw her alone at the bar but now, now she’s obsessed. Ashe kisses Amélie’s clit and with a smirk comes up with a plan.

“Alright I did something, my turn.” Before she could move to sit up Amélie’s thighs locked Ashe’s neck in place. Ashe’s face squished into Amélie’s pussy. Ashe would happily die right now.

“You’re such a brat. Do what mommy says.” Ashe’s eyes widen as Amélie slowly releases her with a smirk on her face.

“Mommy huh? You just might get me to call you that someday.” Amélie rolls her eyes and nudges Ashe with her thigh.

“You just did, foolish girl.” Ashe chuckles and plants kisses along Amélie’s thigh.

“That was a freebie, baby.” Before Amélie could retort she suckles Amélie’s clit into her mouth. A loud moan emanates from the back of Amélie’s throat, her head thrown back once more. Ashe’s tongue flicks over the hardened bud as her hands reach up to grab Amélie’s breasts. They were small but Ashe loved them, her nipples a light shade of pink, slightly red from Ashe’s rough treatment. As her fingers twist Amélie’s nipples, her tongue begins rapidly flicking her clit. Amélie’s back arches, making it harder for Ashe to palm her breasts. The sight was breathtaking in Ashe’s eyes. A light sheen of sweat glistened on Amélie’s alabaster skin. Ashe gives Amélie’s nipples one last twist causing Amélie to groan in pleasure. Ashe smirks with Amélie’s clit snuggled in her mouth. Ashe pulls away from her clit and before Amélie could say a word, Ashe grabs Amélie’s thighs and holds them open as she moves lower to lick at Amélie’s entrance. Amélie’s wetness trickles out at a steady pace, Ashe’s face wet with her juices. Ashe licks her lips and sucks the folds into her mouth, lightly nibbling them. She pulls away and kisses the petals as she spreads Amélie’s thighs wider, her pussy now on full display. Her arms encircled Amélie’s thighs holding them steady as she dived in to slurp up the wetness, her tongue moving fast yet steady. Amélie makes more noise when she brings her teeth into play so Ashe nips her folds lightly after every few licks.

“Ashe, please.” Ashe looks up to see Amélie staring at her intensely. Ashe pulls away slightly from Amélie’s pussy to answer.

“What do you want, baby?” Amélie moans as Ashe moves her right hand from Amélie’s thigh to rub at her dripping folds, puffy from all the action it’s getting.

“I need you inside me, cowboy.” Ashe groans as Amélie brings her hands down to grasp at Ashe’s hair, pulling slightly at the blonde strands. Ashe kisses Amélie’s thigh and goes back to her previous position. Her right hand, sticky with Amélie’s juices grabs her thigh once more. Ashe’s tongue lashes out and prods at Amélie’s entrance. Ashe pokes her tongue inside and grips Amelie’s thighs tighter. Amélie’s pussy pulses around Ashe’s tongue causing her to roll her eyes back at the feeling. Ashe’s head begins to slightly hurt from Amélie’s grip but she didn’t mind, it shows just how good she was doing. Ashe closes her eyes and her nose bumps against Amélie’s clit as her tongue pumps in and out of her wet cunt. Amélie hasn’t stopped moaning and Ashe is determined to make her scream. Amélie’s thighs begin to quiver, telling Ashe she was closer to release. Ashe opens her eyes and moves her tongue back up to Amélie’s clit much to her dissatisfaction.

“Ashe-” Amélie was cut off by Ashe’s right hand moving to her entrance, sliding two fingers in easily. One of Amélie’s hands leaves Ashe’s hair to grab at her own breasts. Ashe takes Amélie’s beauty in as her fingers pump steadily in and out of Amelie’s cunt. Her walls clinging on as if she never wanted to let go. Ashe needed to be closer to see the pleasure on her face. Ashe pulls her mouth off of her clit and immediately replaces her tongue with her thumb. Ashe leaves a trail of kisses up Amélie’s stomach, across her breasts, her neck, til she reaches her face taking her lips in a kiss. It was sloppy and downright disgusting. Ashe’s face was covered in Amélie’s slick and it made them both insane for the taste. Ashe’s tongue enters Amélie’s mouth as a third finger makes its way into her pussy. Ashe straddles Amélie’s thigh grinding slightly to lessen the pain in her own pussy. Amélie notices and applies pressure as best she can. They both swallow a moan as their pleasure grows exponentially. Amélie pulls away from the kiss taking a deep breath in, she was close and she was struggling to keep up with Ashe’s kisses. Ashe sloppily kisses Amélie’s cheek and moves to her ear, nibbling the lobe softly.

“You’re taking my fingers so well, tell me who fucks you so good?” Amélie hiccups as Ashe’s fingers pick up their pace, her thumb rubbing circles over her clit. Amélie’s eyes roll as her head seeks out Ashe’s lips, leaning against the woman’s mouth.

“Only you, cowboy. You fuck me so go-od!” Amélie ends her sentence with a screech as Ashe bites down on her neck. That’s sure to leave a mark to deal with later. Ashe licks the new bite and kisses it softly, she pulls her head back to look at Amélie’s face. Her eyes closed in pleasure, mouth slightly open; the most beautiful sounds falling out.

“Look at me, Amélie.” Amélie’s eyes open and dark red meets pleasure filled golden orbs. Ashe smiles as her fingers begin to cramp. Ashe keeps her pace steady knowing Amélie is incredibly close, her forearm burns slightly.

“Cum for me.” Amélie’s hands find a home on Ashe’s back as her body begins to vibrate in pleasure. Her nails drag down Ashe’s back as her hips lift off the bed. Amélie slightly screams out a moan as her orgasm hits. Ashe takes in the sight of Amélie’s face in pure bliss as she reaches orgasm. Ashe winces a bit at the scratching of her back but she can’t wait to see the aftermath. Ashe slows her pace helping Amélie ride out her high. Amélie whimpers as she slowly pulls her fingers out. Ashe lifts them up and takes them into her mouth, Amélie’s own mouth slightly drops open at the sight. Once she deems her fingers clean she pulls them out with a pop.

“Made you scream, darlin’.” Ashe smirks and Amélie rolls her eyes at her cockiness. Ashe's newly saliva stained hand reaches out to rest on Amélie’s stomach. Amélie hums and closes her eyes as Ashe begins to massage the area in small circles. A few minutes pass by like this with Ashe lazily kissing her cheek that’s closest to the outlaw and Amélie almost feels like she could fall asleep until she notices Ashe begin to rock on her thigh. Amélie opens her eyes and rests her left hand on the one making circles on her stomach. Ashe pauses her ministrations and looks at Amélie, her face slightly puffy and her lipstick smudged to bits. Amélie intertwines her fingers with Ashe’s, bringing them up to kiss the back of her hand. Ashe squeezes Amélie’s hand in return. It was very intimate for two strangers to be and yet it came so naturally to them. Ashe looks into Amélie’s eyes and sees something switch in them when she looks back. Eyes once again filled with pleasure. Ashe is more than ready to give Amélie another orgasm, she would happily do it all the time in fact. Ashe begins to crawl her way back in between Amélie’s legs when she’s stopped by a squeeze on her hand.

“Non, it’s your turn now.” Ashe smiles crookedly and looks at Amélie’s slightly pouting face.

“We don’t have to worry about me this time, I’m okay.” Amélie raises a brow and lifts the thigh Ashe currently has between her legs making Ashe moan at the sensation. Ashe looks away in a rare show of shyness and Amélie brings her right hand up to cup her cheek, her thumb rubbing across the top of her cheek.

“Take your underwear off and then sit right back down on my thigh.” Amélie left no room to argue and Ashe broke away from her to stand up and unclip her bra, her generously sized breasts now on full display bringing much joy to Amélie. Ashe tosses the bra onto the floor and slides her underwear down her legs, the shine of her slick present on her thighs and fair colored pubic hair. Amélie bites her lip and takes a deep breath, she sits up and scoots back to sit up against the headboard, her legs still splayed out. Amélie pats her thigh that’s slightly sticky from what Ashe could do covered up and it was seconds before Ashe straddles her thigh sitting herself on the bare skin. Ashe moans as her soaked pussy meets Amélie’s muscular thigh. Amélie leans forward and takes one of Ashe’s nipples into her mouth, her left hand taking the other in its grasp. Her tongue swirls around her nipple and sucks the bud harder when Ashe brings her hands up to tangle in Amélie’s long black hair. Amélie switches to the other breast giving it equal attention as Ashe begins to rock her hips along Amélie’s thigh. Once Amélie was done showering Ashe’s breasts with attention she sucked deep bruises on her neck. Ashe moans loudly as she’s marked up, she loves it.

“What’s that popular saying of your kind?” Ashe is taken aback as Amélie sits back to look at her.

“My kind?” Amélie tilts her head as Ashe looks confused.

“I saw it in a show once…about riding a horse, save a cowboy.” Ashe chuckles at Amélie’s revelation.

“I think you mean…save a horse, ride a cowboy. Which technically speaking should be when you ride me, not the other way around.” Ashe smirks as Amélie’s cheeks heat up.

“Yes, well, maybe next time.” Ashe grins at the thought of a next time and brings her hands up to cup Amélie’s cheeks bringing her into a soft kiss. Amélie moans into the kiss as her hands grab onto Ashe’s hips, she slowly begins to guide the cowboy to pick up a pace against her thigh. Ashe pulls away to moan as she speeds up her movement.

“I like the idea of a next time, darlin’.” Amélie smirks at the visual in front of her. Ashe’s juices covered her thigh in no time, making her movements become harder to be consistent.

“Me too, cowboy. Now ride me, just like that.” Ashe groans as her clit hits her thigh at this perfect speed. She needed something more. The thought of spanking definitely helped but she grasps Amélie’s left hand and brings it up to her throat. Amélie’s eyebrows raise at the gesture. Her hand encircles Ashe’s neck and squeezes slightly. Ashe whimpers at the feeling.

“You can squeeze harder, baby. I trust you.” Amélie’s eyes droop in pleasure as her hand squeezes a bit harder making Ashe struggle a bit to keep her movement up.

“Such a dirty little slut, wanting to be choked out like this. Come on, cowboy, you can ride faster,” Ashe picks up her pace as her hands come up to grab onto Amélie’s arm that’s currently around her throat, her eyes begin to water as her release inches closer, “rub your clit for me, baby. I know you’re close, crying like the whore you are.” Ashe’s eyes roll back as one of her hands drops down to rub circles at her clit. The hand around her neck tightens more but not enough to cut off any air, Ashe is in heaven. Ashe’s moans become slightly muffled due to the fact Amélie has quite the hold on her and it’s fueling the air, hot with pleasure. Amélie brings her right hand up from Ashe’s hip to tug at her breasts.

“Cum for me, cowboy.” Within seconds Ashe’s back arches as she struggles to let out the moan her orgasm makes her feel. Her cum leaks out over Amélie’s thigh and Amélie quivers at the sight. Ashe’s chest heaves as she tries to breathe in deep. Amélie releases her throat and Ashe takes a deep breath. Her hands slump forward by Amélie’s hips and her head nestles itself into Amélie’s neck. Amélie brings her hands up to run her fingers through blonde locks and traces them up and down her back, careful of the scratches from earlier.

“You did so well for me, good girl.” Amélie kisses the top of Ashe’s head as Ashe makes a cute noise. Amélie smiles and peppers small kisses across any area of Ashe she could. A few minutes pass and Amélie almost thinks Ashe fell asleep.

“So good.” Amélie giggles as Ashe lifts her head up to kiss her. They kiss lazily for a few minutes, enjoying the afterglow once more. Fully satiated and content to relax in the other person. Ashe pulls away from Amélie’s kissable lips to unstraddle her. Ashe almost looks embarrassed at the mess she made on Amélie’s thigh. Amélie runs her hand down Ashe’s arm, the one with tattoos and hums.

“Why don’t you clean up your mess, cowboy. Then we can sleep.” Ashe bites her lip at the thought of falling asleep next to the gorgeous woman and bends down to lick up her cum that was beginning to dry on Amélie’s thigh. She licks it all up and nibbles at the flesh, much to Amélie’s delight. Ashe makes her way back up her body and sits next to her, bringing Amélie into a kiss. They both scoot down and rest their heads on the pillow as the kiss deepens, Ashe’s tongue exploring Amélie’s mouth. Amélie pulls away and Ashe opens her eyes to see Amélie admiring her.

“Good girl.” Ashe looks away as a blush rises to her cheeks and Amélie smiles at the adorable cowboy and brings her in once more for a kiss. Maybe, just maybe, Ashe has a thing for praise. The two get underneath the covers as Ashe switches off the light next to the bed. After a few more lazy kisses Amélie turns around in Ashe’s arms. Ashe kisses her shoulder as she sighs in contentment.

“Goodnight, darlin’.” Amélie twists her head back slightly to accept one final goodnight kiss from Ashe.

“Goodnight, cowboy.”

━━━━━━━━ ◦: ✧✲✧ :◦━━━━━━━━━

Forever tag list: @cheethos , @kello-unknown , @domromanoff , @stuckys-whore , @marilynroselleprentiss , @captainwonderwidow , @wndamaximov , @awrykai , @tribblemakingalicorn

I know it's been a while and I remembered I had a tag list, I hope y'all don't mind. If you would like to be removed just let me know and if you’d like to be tagged in non-marvel works as well (or even my marvel works), don't be shy, I'll gladly add you! ♥️

#ashe x widowmaker #ouihaw #overwatch #(n)sfw #overwatch fanfiction #widowmaker x ashe #overwatch 2 #widowmaker #ashe #super soft #and gay #🩵

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the-whumpening · 2 months

Text

The Pet Tiger, #11 [nsfwhump AU]

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CW: Dehumanization, pet whump, brainwashing/magical hypnosis, gaslighting and manipulation, noncon bathing, victim blaming, reference to past whump and SA, forced nudity, noncon kissing, mention of injuries and bodily fluids, mild body horror for dream sequence

11: Rested

“Good morning, sweetie.”

Gentle fingers brush Ash’s cheek, sweeping his sweaty hair behind his ear. Their scent is sweet and light—just like their voice. Who . . . ? Ash cracks his eyes open against the bright morning light and winces at the headache it spurs.

Faye rubs his temple with her thumb, cooing sympathetically. “Oh, you poor thing. Still hungover a bit, aren’t you? That’s okay, pet—come with me, and I’ll get you feeling better in no time.”

She unhooks Ash from his bindings and helps him sit up in the bed. Ash glances anxiously to the other side—right, Ozmund made me sleep in his bed—finding only barely-disturbed bedding where Ozmund would have been. Although he’s certainly glad for the moment apart, something about his absence almost . . . stings.

Ash shoves away that confusing pang, too distracted with the much more present pain radiating through his body. The throbbing in his head, the stiff ache of his joints, the bruise in his ribs—his frayed nerves scream in protest as he’s forced to his knees to crawl behind Faye. Each “step” of his hands tugs at the bright weal of Ozmund's mark across his heart, and he struggles to keep up his pace.

Once they reach the steamy, oversized bathroom, she’s kind enough with her gentle cleaning of his ruined body. She winces sympathetically at his blooming bruises and treats his wounds—not all the way, not magically; he guesses Ozmund wants to see them as they slowly heal and develop into scars. But at least her touches are soft and careful, nothing like the rough hands of the previous night.

He lets his mind wander elsewhere during it all. If he allows himself to remember, to catalog each injury and its source, to slip into the pit of his memory . . . he fears he might never claw his way back out.

Before long, Ash is startled back to attention by the cool dampness of a washcloth over his stinging entrance. A gasping whine slips from his control, and Faye tuts in disappointment.

“Oh, pet. Look at this—you’re a mess! What am I going to do with you?” She carefully scrubs the dried blood and cum from his skin; the sensation awakens the constellation of tiny cuts and abrasions inside him, reigniting the inflamed nerves. His breath hitches at the pain, but he stays silent. “I heard you were naughty last night. I expected better of you, kitty. What happened? Hm?”

He can’t find his voice to respond. Instead, his face simply flushes with shame. Does she know? Does everyone? He’d screamed till his voice was hoarse—surely the whole manor had heard. As he stares unfocused at the ceiling, Faye leans into his field of view. She looms over him, her soft hand curling to cradle his bruised cheek. His stomach turns; all he can think of is Ozmund’s face above him as he—

Ash shunts the memory as far back in his mind as it will go, slamming the door behind it. He can only hope it holds.

“Pet,” Faye murmurs, still stroking his face. “He wouldn’t have to be so rough if you’d only be a good boy. You know that, right?”

It’s the same thing Ozmund had repeated all night: Ash made the wrong choices. He acted out. He disobeyed. He forced Ozmund’s hand. It’s his fault it had to be this way. It could’ve been nice, gentle—Ozmund could have made him feel good. They had a deal, remember? If Ash could only behave, if he could only keep up his end of the bargain . . . But he couldn’t. It didn’t matter how fair or unfair the deal was to start—Ash agreed to it, and he fell through.

He did this to himself.

Faye’s persistent touch pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t want to see you like this again, sweet pet. Don’t make him hurt you, okay? Be good. For me?” Her thumb grazes over his lip, split in the violence of the previous night, before she closes the distance between them. She sneaks a soft kiss, humming contentedly as she pulls away. “Maybe if you’re good enough, he’ll let me play with you, too. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

He nods absently, but she’s already moved on to resume cleaning his body. Protests form in his throat and fall away as quickly as they came; no one here cares what he has to say, anyway. No one is listening.

Once he’s clean, Faye leads him by the leash to Ozmund’s chambers again. He’s still gone—Ash sighs internally with relief—but a tray of food has been delivered. Faye commands him to sit and open his mouth; he follows her orders silently, thoughtlessly. If she’s willing to feed him, he’ll ignore the rolling nausea in his stomach and the indignity of his position—after so long subsiding on nearly nothing, he can’t shun the opportunity when it arises.

“There we go, dear.” Faye replaces the fork on the nearly-emptied plate. “I think that’s enough for now. Any more and you might get sick. Have a little water, then we’ll be done.” She tips a goblet of water into his mouth, and he greedily accepts; giggling, she cleans the dribbles on his chin that escaped his reach. “Isn’t that better?”

Finally satisfied in her tasks, Faye returns him to his crate. He can’t help but feel a wave of relief as she locks the door—at least for now, for a moment, he’s safe. How long can that last? he wonders through a hazy fog of drowsiness. How long before Ozmund changes his mind or finds some new loophole to his own rules, some new way to use this one safe place to torture Ash?

Faye kneels down to his level, petting his hair through the bars of the cage. “Rest for now, kitty-cat. The Master will call for you later today when he’s ready to see you. For now, you should sleep.”

Ash isn’t sure he can muster any more dread at this point. Instead, he simply nods and curls up to fall into an unwelcoming dream.

It was a thunderous night on the ship heading north. Ash clung tightly to the slender body in his bed—storms always made it hard for him to sleep. Half-awake, he nuzzled into his partner’s hair, breathing in the scent to calm his racing heart.

Evius smelled as lovely as he remembered: bergamot, herbs, and the faintest whiff of smoke. Ash pressed a kiss into his silvery curls. But as his lips came away, another scent lingered in the air.

Leather and boot polish.

He struggled to open his eyes, fighting against the cinching grasp Evius had around his waist.

“Where are you going, love?” Evius murmured, somehow forcing Ash onto his his back and straddling his lap. He pinned Ash’s hands on either side of his head; his silky lips traced feather-light kisses along Ash’s jaw. “I’m not done with you yet.”

His teeth sank down into the firm flesh of Ash’ neck as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. As the thunder rose to meet it, Evius lifted his head, finally allowing Ash to see him.

Except, it wasn’t quite him.

Evius’ features morphed and shifted with each flicker of light. Devilish, then Elven. A halo of shaggy curls, then a river of dark silk. Warm golden eyes, then . . .

Ozmund’s.

“I said,” he repeated, this time in the voice of his captor, “I’m not finished with you, pet.”

As the lighting crackled once again, a shadow formed on the wall opposite the window. A tree branch? No, not this far out at sea. Then, is it—? Yes, it has to be:

Antlers.

A thin sheen of cold sweat covers Ash’s bare skin as he awakens in his cage. Although he can’t recall much of his dream, both the image of the antlers and the deep sense of unease in his gut still linger. I’m sure I’ve seen those antlers before . . . but where? What could this mean—what is my brain trying to tell me? He rubs at his still-aching head and shifts to a more upright position.

He barely has time to shake off the stupor when the matching oak doors of Ozmund’s chambers glide open and Faye arrives to retrieve him. Soon, he finds himself kneeling on the ornate Elven rug covering Ozmund’s study; the rough fabric digs into his knees and calves, and he shifts fruitlessly to find any relief.

“Master Greenthorn with be with you soon,” Faye reminds him. She pinches his cheek teasingly, but he doesn’t miss the threat in her voice as she warns him, “Be a good kitty for me.”

For a moment, as Faye closes the door behind her and leaves him unsupervised, Ash has a fleeting thought of escape. He’s alone in an unlocked room—surely he can break free of these chains and brute force his way out of the manor, right? But his resolve sinks in the next breath. They caught him before, didn’t they? And now he has no equipment or allies to aid him, no money to get back home, and no idea how much powerful magic protects this place. He pulls against the manacles, noting the faint green shimmer and a scent like a lightning strike. His head drops; it’s useless. There’s nothing he can do against Ozmund’s magic.

A flicker of movement catches Ash’s eye from the far corner of the room: a bookshelf shudders, swinging inward on hinges like a door. Ozmund steps through the opening and seals the passage behind him. Without even a glance to Ash, he takes his seat at his writing desk, immediately sorting through a jumble of letters and notebooks. Ash realizes something about this room in particular he hadn’t noticed throughout the rest of the estate—unlike every other room, this one is disorganized and chaotic. Yes, the furniture is tastefully arranged and clearly well-made, but Ozmund’s stacks of research and books are haphazardly strewn about in what appear to be arbitrary piles. The shelves overflow with trinkets and papers, and framed paintings lay propped against the wall rather than hung on display. Looking closer, Ash is almost certain one portrait has silvery-white curls and copper skin—

At the creak of Ozmund’s chair turning to face him, Ash jolts back to his stiff, submissive posture. A wall forces itself into place in his mind, blocking back the memories that threaten to push to the surface. As it shutters closed, numbness washes over him once more.

Survive. Just survive, he chants to himself.

“Hello there, pet,” Ozmund purrs. He crosses his legs and leans languidly in his chair—unbothered, unconcerned. “I do apologize for leaving you alone in bed this morning. It’s quite unlike me, but alas”—he shrugs with a knowing smile—“I am a busy man. But don’t fret, my love; you have my undivided attention now.”

Ash holds his expression steady and still—Ozmund’s attention is the last thing he wants. His muscles shake with effort as Ozmund leans forward and gently lifts his chin.

“No need to tremble, darling; your punishments were finished last night. All is forgiven.” For all the warmth in Ozmund’s smile, Ash only feels the cold creep of ice up his spine. “I’ve only called you here to talk. In light of last night’s events, I think it’s time to explain things more clearly to you: what your role here is, what’s expected of you, what you can expect in return for your obedience—or lack thereof. I’d write it down for you, but”—he laughs darkly to himself—“a pet has no need for reading and writing, do they? I’m sure you’ll learn best from experience.”

Hatred and relief battle in Ash’s core; as much as he seethes at the insult to his intelligence, he’s equally grateful to at least be told how to avoid more pain and indignity. Rules, he can work with. He might scream and thrash inside his mind at the thought, but a clear path is better than wandering aimlessly.

“I’m not a monster, you know.” Ozmund’s quip pulls Ash’s attention back, and he fights a scoff in response. “As much as I love to see you off-kilter and squirming, I am a fair master. Look at me, pet.” He holds Ash’s face—still, so strangely gentle—and forces him to make eye contact. A sick, dizzy swirl builds in Ash’s gut, but the sensation is quickly replaced with a warm, comfortable tingling. “Have I ever lied to you, my love? Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

Of course he has, Ash’s lethargic mind immediately retorts. But as he stares deeper and deeper into Ozmund’s hypnotic eyes, his thoughts become foggy and distant. Or, has he? I can’t . . . remember.

“That’s right, darling,” Ozmund murmurs. The hairs on Ash’s neck raise at the sound of his voice and the soft breeze of his breath. It’s sweet, like mint and honey and—lightning, again? “I would never lie to you. I would never lead you astray. You remember yesterday, don’t you, love?”

Yesterday . . . They made a deal. If Ash was good and did as he was told, everything would be . . . easy. Gentle. And if he was bad . . . Ash shakes his head, tiny beads of wetness forming in the corners of his eyes. No, that’s not how it happened. Ozmund threatened him—he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want any of it, gentle or not.

“Have you forgotten already, kitten? I told you exactly what to do: obey.” The sweet concoction of his breath makes Ash’s head spin; maybe he just remembered wrong? He was drunk last night, after all. Maybe I'm confused.

Ozmund traces a finger over his emblem burned into Ash's chest, a flicker of pride quickly replaced with something almost akin to sympathy. “You didn’t obey, and that’s why I had to punish you. I never lied—I did exactly as I promised. But look at you now: fed and clean and rested. I told you I would care for all your needs, my love. You need only let me.”

Ash tries to shake off the numbness in his brain. This can’t be right. Something’s wrong with this—all of this. But try as he might, the fog remains. How can he pay attention and remember all the rules like this? Is this part of the game for Ozmund?

No, of course not. He wouldn’t lie. He hasn’t lied so far.

“Good boy,” Ozmund purrs, one last wave of blissful fog rolling over Ash as he pulls away. “Now, come with me, pet. I’ll explain more on the way.”

Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba

@tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515

Author's notes: I'm back! After a hellish couple months! I've already got most of Chapter 12 done as well so that should be on track for next week. I'm hoping to stick to this 2-2.5k word count each chapter because I feel like those are the most easily readable, but of course there's bound to be variability. Regarding the taglist, I seem to be having some trouble with a couple names not linking? I'm not sure if I'm doing it wrong, but if you're on the list but not getting notifications, please let me know so I can try to fix it.

Oh, also! I know with the content of this story and my naming scheme, the use of an R word in the title might be a bit ominous, but I promise that none of the words I have in mind are triggering or NSFW. Just like the last chapter, I will always tag and warn if I intend to use that word so no one will stumble on it accidentally.

#whumpblr #whump writing #whump #writeblr #dnd whump #tigerverse #the pet tiger #rublewriting #pet whump #magic whump #intimate whumper #carewhumper #creepy whumper #manipulative whumper #tw gaslighting #tw mention of blood #tw noncon kissing #tw injury

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vendetta-if · 2 years

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December 2022 Progress Update

For the past two weeks, I've been working really, really hard on Chapter 4 (one of the reasons I've not been too active on Tumblr lately, and I probably still wouldn't until Chapter 4 is done 😅). As of the time writing this update post, the word count is 23.6K words.

The talk with Yvette took quite a long time to write and it is indeed pretty long. Almost 12K of 23.6K words are dedicated to the talk with her. It's not only long, it also has a lot—and I mean a lot—of variations in responses depending on what your MC feels about her.

The last time MC decided on their feelings on Yvette, it was ten years ago during the comic book store incident. Now, your MC will be given an option to change what they think about her ten years later, before their very first conversation with her in their entire life so far.

The four different feelings MC can have on her are:

Hate Hate is straightforward; your MC still hates and is bitter about what she did and her neglect (not visiting MC for a decade).

Love-hate This is a more complicated feeling and I think it's a pretty good addition that makes MC feels a bit more unstable and add a bit more layers of complexity. Your MC still kinda hates her, but also yearns for her affection and mourns for the missing connection and relationship with her, and these feelings in turn feed into MC's hatred, anger, and bitterness against her.

Apathy/Indifference Pretty straightforward as well; your MC just doesn't really care about her and considers her a stranger.

Pity MC feels bad and pity for her and can sympathize with her plights. This might be the most positive feeling MC can have regarding Yvette, the second one being love-hate.

I spent a lot of time writing four different reactions and inner thoughts for MC based on these feelings they have about her. I hope I'll be able to showcase one of the variations in the Sneak Peek of the talk I'm planning to release tomorrow 😄

Also, in this chapter, you'll finally be meeting Skylar and Santana for the first time. Right now, I'm in the middle of writing the talk between MC and Skylar. After that, it'll be time to focus on Santana's talk instead.

These talks also take a long of time to write because I have foolishly decided to give six different options of responses every time MC talks with any of the ROs, half for different romantic responses and half for non-romantic ones 😭

I also did a lot of tweaking on the previous chapters (grammar & typo fixes, coding fixes, and adding some stuff).

First, by popular demand, MC can now choose their clothing style to be the same with Uncle Luka's style. The style is called "all-black".

Second, I tweaked and added some stuff with the Police Commissioner because it seems I missed the mark in trying to portray him as a grey character. Now, his involvement with the Nemesis Project will be more explicitly pointed out in the narrative than just implied subtly previously. Also, his other bad qualities, such as nepotism and hypocrisy.

Third, I tweaked MC's reactions when executing the commissioner—I think it's either your MC turns away and not wanting to witness the execution or your MC and Ash looking at the execution together in awe 😆 Now, instead of Merciful MC looking away and Ruthless MC spectating the execution, it'll depend more on your MC's choice in Chapter 2 regarding the mission (Ready to kill, reluctant to kill innocent, or don't want to kill).

Well, that's all I have to report for the month. As always, I just want to say thank you for all your support and enthusiasm for my story 🥰. I might not be able to answer a lot of asks in the coming days because I'll be hyper-focused on finishing Chapter 4 as quick as possible 😅

If you guys are interested in supporting me, getting some extra side contents on the side, including an early access for this upcoming chapter, please check out my Patreon!

[Patreon Link]

#writing updates #if: vendetta #vendetta if #chapter 4 #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript #cyoa #hosted games #choice of games #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #interactive games #interactive side story

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sebastianstansqueen · 1 year

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Lost In The Shadows: Part Five

A/N: Sorry for the later up date, but this might be what happens more often than not because of my schedule now. If you want to be Tagged, either send an ask or comment on this or click on Taglist open.

Wordcount: 1,405

Warnings: were getting Fluff finally, Angst, drinking, mentions of death, past abuse, but I think that is all actually

Masterlist // Series Masterlist // Taglist open//

Tags: @cherryblossomsky - - @babylooneytoonz - @wonderlandfandomkingdom - @miraclesoflove - @amelia-song-pond - @leyannrae - @avengerlex - @pineprincess - @nik2write - @dorothea-hwldr - @rosie-posie08 - @scxrletrecsmarvel - @sebsgirl71479 - @missvelvetsstuff - @hadesownhell - @casa-boiardi - @winterslove1917 - @hallecarey1 - @ash-craze - @barnesxstan - @unaxv - @bethexo07 - @itsmytimetoodream -

Throughout the trip Bucky learned what he could about Y/n before they left, the two of them in the few weeks, had a few drunk knights, together, but Y/n would come up with a way to block him out if he got too close. That was until the very last night of the trip the two of them had been drinking and watching a movie. Bucky wasn’t really paying attention, he was more interested in the tentative smile playing on Y/n’s lips as she watched the movie. The two of them slowly moved closer together, until soon his lips touched hers she looked at him with doe eyes, but then that hard mask began to creep up, but she downed another drink leaning into the kiss.

Y/n began to tug at his shirt, she ignored the part of her brain telling her it was a drunk mistake, and followed the part saying that this man was her husband. “Are you sure?” Bucky asked, pulling away for a second.

She looked at him with a frown arched on her face. “James, my ex-husband was like sixty, I haven't had good sex in a long time, so I think I’m sure.” She said it so uncaringly, before she continued, Bucky went along his own drunk mind telling him this was great progress for the two of them. Bucky began to unbutton the loose cardigan Y/n wore, with only shorts underneath, as he began to undo the buttons, Y/n seemed to catch up with everything, she just said and allowed to happen, she pushed him away before setting her glass down and running off to the room she’d been staying in the whole trip.

Bucky sat there as the movie continued playing in the background confusion consuming him, that was the last night they would have in a house alone probably, and he just knew about little pieces of her other marriage. Bucky was trying as hard as he could, to make it work, he thought tonight she was ready to give herself to him, and let him know her, but instead he felt like he might have ruined everything.

Y/n walked back to her room holding back her tears, just trying to feel numb, she got through the door, locking it behind when the first drops came and then the storm. She threw her clothes off her body as she looked at herself in the mirror, her father knew how to make it so her whole life would be spent in misery, he’s the who mangled her body, as a form of punishment one holiday season when she was a child, and then the deep cuts Henry left on her after the glass table incident, and then when he stabbed her after an argument leaving her to bleed out until the very last second. They made it so she wouldn’t be able or want to show anyone herself, she cried as she stared at the skin of her stomach filled with burn marks from the fire, that was when Peggy learned the truth about her father. Y/n had crawled into bed, closing her eyes not able to wait for the morning to come and be back and working, letting James do whatever he wants as long as he stays out of her hair while she is working.

Bucky was woken up by a knock at his bedroom door saying that it was currently six in the morning and that the flight leaves in an hour and a half. He dragged himself out of bed and got into clothes, for the flight, while he walked through the winding hall he noticed that people were swarming the house currently looking for anything the two could have left behind, he made his way into the kitchen that, Y/n stood in her long h/c hair was styled in waves down her back as she wore a pantsuit, the whole look made her look gorgeous, though he hadn’t seen her face but he doubt that it looked any less perfect, as she was looking down at her phone her heeled foot tapping against the tiled flooring, in impatiens or irritation.

He moved towards the coffee maker where each mooring Y/n would usually leave enough for him but when he noticed it was empty. “One of the guys snagged it a bit ago.” She explained, seemingly unapologetic, as she still looked at her phone. Bucky had enough time to make his coffee and drink it before they were on the boat taking them back to the mainland.

Y/n relaxed as she noticed James was asleep. She saw James as a sort of friend now, but last night she knew that was probably a mistake on both ends, but she blamed herself. Well, the really annoying part that she had to go to therapy for was blaming herself for it fully. She sighed, rubbing her palms against her eyes, when they got home she just wanted it to go as smooth as possible with her and James attended a few gatherings together. She got up walking to the back of the cabin where a small room with only a bed and a mirror against a wall sat. She laid down taking off the pantsuit and pulled out a t-shirt and shorts combo before she was falling asleep.

There was a knock on the door in the back. “Mrs. Barnes, it’s Andy.” Something was muffled out, Andy let himself in, closing the door behind him. “Y/n are you alright?” He asked as he moved to the bed.

“I’m fine, just tired.” She stretched out as she woke up. “Where’s James?”

“He’s already on his way back to the compound, you’ve been landed for a half hour.” Andy informed her.

Y/n’s eyes widened. “Shit, uh okay, let me get ready, again and then you can update me on what’s been going on.” By the time Y/n got to the compound that day the sun was long gone from the sky, as she walked through the dark halls her brows furrowed in confusion, she didn’t mind paying high power bills just to come home with lights on. She walked into the main living room, straight down from the foyer, she found James sleeping on the couch with a thin throw blanket on him, her brow furrowed wondering why he hadn't gone to a bedroom, she sighed. “James.” Her voice echoed on the walls, she shook him lightly, his crystal blue eyes opened.

“Y/n, what time is it?” He hummed out, in a low murmur.

“Late enough we both should be in bed, come on.” She began walking away, with a slight sway to her hips.

Bucky followed her up the stairs, confused. While he was at the compound earlier, he couldn’t find any bedrooms, that was until Y/n showed him a completely different wing of it. “I’m gonna assume they didn’t bother putting ourstuff into separate rooms so, I guess you can sleep in mine tonight but tomorrow, we’ll get you situated.” She seemed to have rabbled this out, she led me to a room, that had large dark curtains covering bigger windows, and then in the center of the room was a large Alaskan King size bed with black satin pillows and black bedding to match, the bed frame had flimsy thing tulle curtains around it, that seemed to move easily with grace as Y/n tied them to the towering canopy type bed frame, the bed itself over looked a conversation pit with a large TV where you could Watch it form the bed or the couch down below, Y/n, came out of the closet clearing her throat. “I’m gonna change in the bathroom, feel free to use the closet.” She said before making her way to a door next to the bed. Bucky found his suitcase along with all of his clothes mixed with Y/n’s in the closet.

Y/n changed into a simple pajama set instead of sleeping nude usual, when she walked into the bathroom she sighed, now realizing she’d forgotten to instruct the cleaners to put James’ stuff in a different room, so now all of his belongings were scattered throughout her room. It was nearing three in the morning and she just wanted to get tonight over with and tomorrow started.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #marvel #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #mob!bucky x reader #james buchanan bucky barnes #mechanic!bucky x reader #bucky x mob!reader #mafia!bucky x reader #mafia bucky x reader #mafia sebastian stan x reader #mafia!bucky #mob!sebastian #avengers mob au

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 7 months

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Greensleeves Chapter Nine: In A Week

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings: Description of a dead body

The party must explore a cave to earn passage through the blighted village on the path to the goblin camp. Shadowheart and Xaph share their opinions on the gods

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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Conflict resolution is, admittedly, not one of Xaph’s strong points. Not with people, anyway. Historically, she hasn’t been a smooth talker or a particularly good liar. Luckily for her - and more importantly for Astarion - their companions are surprisingly understanding about there being a vampire amongst their numbers. For now, at least. As long as he stays away from their necks. Shadowheart grabs Xaph’s chin and wrenches her head to the side to examine the bite there, but in doing so breaks the skin and makes it bleed again. Xaph bats the cleric away and presses her thumb to the wound, her other fingers loosely around her neck,

“It’s fine. And now we know, yeah? Breakfast, anyone, before we move on?” she asks. Reluctant, the group disperses to strap on armour or find a place to sit for breakfast. Gale warns Astarion that he would taste simply awful, and Astarion says something quippy and smart that Xaph doesn’t hear but makes Gale laugh. Lae’zel watches with narrowed eyes as Xaph lifts her bloodied thumb to her mouth and licks it clean, but says nothing. Shadowheart digs out their map and sets it on the ground, pinning it down at the corners with rocks. Over sausages - burned black as charcoal for Xaph, Lae’zel wrinkling her nose at the idea of purposefully burning food you intend to eat - the party plot their next move. They haven’t been fortunate this past week. They know where the goblin camp is, or in Wyll’s words they’re pretty damn sure, but there’s a village occupied entirely by goblins in the way. For the last few days, the party has been split in two. Wyll, Gale and Astarion have been negotiating safe passage through the village and to the camp if possible and however uncomfortable Wyll might be with goblins and lying, they’ve almost cracked them. Xaph, Shadowheart and Lae’zel have been scouting the woods around the village in case there’s a way around but they’ve had no such luck. Their one lead is that the goblins have offered them safe passage if the party retrieves something from a cave they’ve marked out on the party map.

“And they won’t say what’s in the cave?” Xaph asks around a mouthful of bread. Table manners had not been a key lesson in her mountain education. Wyll, however, chews his food and drinks his water before he answers,

“No, they just kept saying there was a bird monster, but there’s a lot of things that could be. A strix, for example.”

“A hippogriff.” Gale suggests.

“A cockatrice. Or a boobrie.” Xaph adds.

“Oh, say those again.” Astarion smiles. She doesn’t indulge him, pushing herself up onto her knees to lean forward and see the map better.

“Could be the owlbear that killed that man, the true soul,” Shadowheart points out, though she waves a mocking hand at the phrase true soul, “It’s close enough.”

“You may be right,” Wyll admits after chewing the thought and his breakfast over, “Edowin and his siblings believed in the Absolute. Perhaps they were looking for the same thing the gobbos are.” The derogatory term doesn’t suit his mild-mannered tongue, and Astarion notes the twitch of Xaph’s tail.

“Goblins.” She corrects. Again.

“May I ask,” Wyll starts, “Why you insist on that?”

“It’s belittling,” the sounds of the word pair delightfully with her pointed teeth, “You don’t call me hells-touched, and there are as many tieflings with misguided morals as goblins.”

“I take your point.” Wyll says, but that’s all.

Their fast is broken, their camp collected and the ashes of their fire scattered. The map indicates that they should go north, so north they go. Xaph puts herself at the back of the pack, bow strung but not drawn. Astarion is badgering Wyll at the head of the party and Gale has once again put himself between Lae’zel and Shadowheart. Their tadpoles curl quietly in their heads, swimming leisurely in time with one another as various members of the party fall in and out of step. The suspected cave is back by the bridge where they’d encountered Raphael, and he’s either teasing Xaph with the smell of sulphur or she’s imagining it.

“Xaph? Take a squint at this?” Wyll asks. The party have reached the mouth of the cave. At Gale’s soft touch at her elbow, Xaph pulls her attention away from the bridge and towards the tracks Wyll is indicating. She crouches and then lets her knees sink into the mud. Mud is good for tracks, they hold the shape well and then bake hard in the sun. These are like bear tracks, but the fingers of the paw are too long.

“Feather.” Lae’zel presents Xaph the thing. It’s the length of her forearm and holds a very distinct pattern, white on one side and striped brown on the other. Xaph swipes the thing under her nose and something undeniably sweet pushes into her nostrils. Owls smell weird.

“Owlbear. Definitely.” Xaph states, sliding the feather into the quiver at her hip.

“Oh, I’m not going in there,” Astarion proclaims, and the entire party turn to look at him, “Owlbears love elves, everyone knows that. We’re disgustingly tempting morsels.”

“Coward.” Shadowheart snorts.

“Alright then, you go and deal with it.” Astarion sits himself on a rock as a secondary statement. He will not be moved.

“An owlbear. It is what I think, isn’t it?” Lae’zel asks, “Not some tongue twister that isn’t what it means?”

“It’s what you think it is,” Xaph tells her, “But I need you to stay out here with Astarion.” Intruding on an owlbear’s space requires delicacy, and Xaph has learned that ‘Lae’zel’ and ‘delicate’ are not words that belong in the same sentence.

“Tchk. You think my sword unworthy of such a foe?”

“We’re not going to kill it,” Xaph tells her, “We go in, we get this trinket, we get out.”

Lae’zel complains about being left elf-sitting, and Astarion bites back that she’s not exactly his choice of company, but the rest of the party are fairly sure they won’t rip each other’s throats out. The cave is surprisingly dark, sunlight winked out less than twenty feet in. Gale is not quite as sure-footed as the warlock but when he raises a hand to summon some light, he’s beaten by Xaph mumbling fiat lux as she rubs the locket around her neck. Swirling sprites of light dance in a circle above Xaph’s head. The motes burn orange, bright as flames.

“You didn’t say you could do magic.” Gale says, his words echoing even though he whispers. Sure, he’s seen her talk to animals but he’s never been awake early enough to see her perform the ritual every morning and thought she took potions. Xaph smiles at him, and the dancing lights make impressive shadows of her horns,

“My family are descended from the devil Mephistopheles,” she reminds him, “All tieflings of his line have latent arcane abilities. It’s up to the individual whether to pursue it or not and my mother, being a sorceress,” Gale had guessed that much, not just anyone could craft multiple rings of sending, “Encouraged us to pursue it.”

“Lead the way, Sunset Ranger.” Wyll says, indicating more tracks that are on the ground. Xaph moves forward slowly, and the others follow. She keeps her knees bent, just a little, and keeps her hands on her bow. Shadowheart swings her mace back and forth in a preparatory motion. A waterfall splits the rocky chamber of the cave in two, and it flows in the direction of a time-smoothed statue surrounded by glowing purple rocks. They’re too far away to tell who the statue is dedicated to, but if it was Mystra Xaph’s pretty sure the wizard would have something to say. “I’m not a betting man, but I dare say that’s where we’d find our key to the goblin camp.” Wyll whispers.

“You don’t say.” Shadowheart kicks at the corpse of a goblin. The body rolls and intestines spill out of the hole where the mesentery and ribs used to be.

“That’s unpleasant.” Gale’s words are muffled by the hand over his mouth. Xaph looks back at him,

“Not a fan of innards?”

“Not a common thing to come across in libraries.”

“You’re going to want to get used to it.” Shadowheart tells him. She has no reservations with dead bodies, taking the goblin’s pack and searching it for anything useful. Xaph reaches out and pushes the cleric back when she tries to step over the body,

“Wait. Wait…” she moves a hand over the dirt. Gale has to look away when she picks up the intestines to move them, “Ah, shit. Look,” she brings her dancing lights closer and Shadowheart’s braid swings as she leans down to see tracks. Similar to those outside but a fraction of the size. “A cub. She was just trying to protect her cub,” Xaph looks up at Wyll, “She’s going to be very angry.”

“What’s our move?” Wyll asks.

“Stay behind me. Don’t touch your weapons. Let me talk to her.” With each sentence, Xaph turns her gaze on a different companion. She’s met with little resistance, so she stands. She even gives Gale her bow again, leaving herself unarmed. Reluctantly, Shadowheart tucks her mace away. They cross the stream of the waterfall, feet sloshing in the shallow water. There are more bodies on the other side, and the stench of death and rotting meat wrinkles Wyll’s nose. The ground quakes with the impact of, announcing the arrival of the owlbear before she emerges from the shadows. Xaph opens her hands and holds one behind her back to signal that the others should stay back. Not that they were particularly keen on getting any closer to the beast anyway. It’s at least three times the size of the tiefling. She keeps her hands up and open, her tail still. She looks tiny, but she shows not an ounce of fear. The owlbear is covered in feathers, like the one they’d found outside the cave and the claws on its paws are long, their sharpness rivalled by the beak that opens to let out a bone-shaking growl. Xaph is the only one who can interpret the words that underline the sound,

“What’s this? Something weak, something tender…Won’t even have to chew you before I feed you to my son, softmeat.”

Xaph lifts her tail to catch her companion’s attention, and Gale and Wyll follow the direction it points in to see a nest just behind the owlbear. A young cub cowers in the branches of it, curled into a ball next to a huge, smooth egg. Xaph communicates twofold, silently by moving her tail and vocally by mimicking the friendly calls of birds of prey,

“We’re not here to hurt you. The man who attacked you is dead. I wanted to ensure you and your cub were unharmed. I see that you’re injured,” Xaph lifts a hand slowly, slowly, to her head to mirror where the head of a spear is lodged in her eye socket, “Can I help you?”

“It’s a splinter. I’ve gutted bigger threats than you with worse.”

“I understand. We would not have come here if we didn’t have to. If you grant us passage, we can find the artefact we were sent here for and you and your cub will be safe from the goblins. I give you my word, however much you believe that’s worth.”

There are several moments where it looks like the owlbear might still lunge at her. The cub squawks and it doesn’t translate, baby-talk. The wing-like ruffles of feathers on each of the mother’s forelegs calm.

“You may pass. But you make one wrong step, and I’ll rip you to shreds.”

Xaph doesn’t push her luck. She returns to her companions, relays their conversation, and lets Wyll lead them over a pile of rocks that makes way to a clearer path to the statue than trying to follow the waterfall. Shadowheart recognises the deity carved in stone first, with a derisive edge to her voice,

“A Selune statue? In a stinking cave? Hardly a place of honour.”

“Some gods don’t care where you worship, as long as you do it.” Xaph remarks, disregarding the statue in favour of a small gilded chest that shines blue.

“There’s magic at work. Be careful.” Gale warns. Xaph steps to the side to let him inspect the chest more closely, encouraging her lights to dance his way so he can see better. Shadowheart stands with her arms folded and her hip popped to the side, staring at the statue as though she can crumble it through disdain alone. Xaph wouldn’t put it past her. Wyll, on the other hand, is trying to find a way across the gap in the rocks between them and the statue. There’s a book on the ground, warped with moisture. The language inside is inscribed in rune-like shapes, but not one that Xaph can understand.

“Gale?”

“Yes?”

“Book.”

“Ooh,” He leaves the chest to stand behind her, tall enough to read the book over her shoulder, “Celestial.” His eyes stick on the bite mark still visible on her neck before the allure of the runes takes him.

“Celestial?” Xaph echoes as a hand slides under hers and she lets Gale take the book.

“It tells the story of Shar and Selune. Twin gods, forever locked in combat along with their followers.” He explains. He mouths a few of the Celestial words. It’s not a language he’s had much cause to use since-

“Something over here.” Wyll says, loud enough for them to hear but not so loud as to irritate the owlbear mother. He jumps back across the gap, grabbing hold of Xaph when he teeters a little too close to the edge. She’s effectively reacquainted herself with being touched, as she must when joining a group after travelling alone for a period, and it’s second nature to catch him. A piece of parchment is clutched in his hand, which holds a prayer to Selune.

“Prayers are often keys, in a way.” Gale muses. Encouraged, Wyll approaches the chest and recites the prayer. The shining blue case of magic falls away into sparkles.

“You should leave it. Or even destroy it.” Shadowheart says even as Wyll makes to lift the lid of the chest.

“Now why would you say that?” he asks, good eye squinting in confusion.

“This rubbish is an offering to Selune. At best, it’s worthless, at worst…who knows? Could be cursed. Do not trifle with that moon witch or her trinkets. Only trouble will follow.”

“Why do you care that it’s for Selune?” Xaph asks, suspicious, “It’s what the goblins want, and if she takes issue with us trying to help refugees and druids I’m sure she’ll let us know.”

“Why do I care? You want the truth?” Shadowheart asks. It’s not out of character for her words to be said so archly. She feels accused, and maybe she is. She likes her secrets, but she can’t keep them forever.

“You’re among friends, Shadowheart. You speak the most of how much we need to trust one another.” Gale points out.

“I worship Shar,” the cleric admits, “The Mistress of the Night. Selune’s twin and foe. Now that you have the truth, please don’t make a big fuss about it.” Well. Xaph can’t say it doesn’t make sense. Shadowheart has made no secret of her worship, but she’s never tried to impart her patron’s wisdom on the others. Never even said their name. But Shar is a goddess shrouded in darkness, in secrets.

“Shadowheart, I don’t give a shit who you worship,” Xaph tells her, “Each god matters equally little to me, but you can’t let this get in our way.”

“You’re right.” Shadowheart hesitates, then looks at the men with a mildly surprised expression. As though she’d expected them to evict her from the party. “Perhaps I should have told you sooner.”

“We thank you for sharing.” Gale nods.

“Don’t thank me. I’m breaking Lady Shar’s teachings just by telling you. But sometimes you have to be practical.”

“Can I open the chest now?” Wyll asks, and he waits until Shadowheart nods before he flips the lid open.

Astarion and Lae’zel are, thankfully, still waiting at the cave mouth when the rest of the party leave the owlbear family and Selunite shrine behind. Wyll shows the pair his prize, a pendant of moonstone that Gale has confirmed is magic. They can return to the village and give the goblins the amulet. Xaph tells Wyll to take the lead so she can walk beside Shadowheart. She is silent for the most part, clearly having a little trouble coming to terms with sharing the object of her worship.

“We won’t ask any more questions, you know. One thing about this lot, they err on the side of respecting privacy. Everyone has things they don’t want to share. Astarion’s secret just happened to be a little more pressing than yours.”

“I appreciate that. I do trust you, you know. Might not seem like it, but your kindness has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated,” she hesitates again, but Xaph’s pretty sure she’s not going to say anything else about Shar, “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“What did you mean, when you said the gods don’t matter to you?”

“What I said,” Xaph shrugs, “All the gods do the same thing in the end. They use you as a toy while you live, then kill you and chew you up and use you as a tool when you die. Not to shit on your faith personally,” she assures her friend, “But I’m as entitled to my disbelief as you are to your devotion.”

“I see.” Shadowheart nods. Her eyes slide past Xaph and towards Wyll who has stopped their procession, “Is that a dog?”

***

With the Selunite amulet, they are granted entry to the village. Moonhaven, a sign proclaims it, though the goblins use a far more vulgar word for it. It’s desolate. Abandoned for several decades at least, probably longer judging by how the buildings have fallen apart. And yet belongings unclaimed by the goblins are scattered everywhere, rotting wicker baskets and opened crates of clothes. Something bad happened here. Unease settles over the entire party, drawing them into a tight knot as they pick their way through the rubble. Just beyond a well from which the smell of dust rises, there’s the sound of screaming.

“Bleeding heart, please don’t-” Astarion starts, then groans when Xaph redirects the party towards a windmill.

“Must we stop for every creature in distress?” Lae’zel asks.

“We stopped for you, didn’t we?” Shadowheart taunts.

“I asked you to.”

“Demanded, more like,” Astarion counters. An opportunity to be dramatic, and he’s going to take it, imitating Lae’zel’s gravel tones, “Get me down, I need you.”

“I did not say that!”

“Are you sure, darling?”

#rae's writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #greensleeves #rae's ocs #baldur's gate 3 oc #bg3 oc #xaph [tav]#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #astarion #astarion ancunin #shadowheart #lae'zel #wyll ravengard

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agirlandherquill · 4 months

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heartless

Edeva tried to fashion a bandage to support her leg, she thought the pressure around the wound might distract her from the pain, but her gown was too filthy to warrant using more of the material for scraps. Edeva flinched as something hit her lap. She looked at it, surprised to find it was a piece of Fenley’s shirt, he was tucking the remains of it into his trousers when she looked at him. “You…” “I’m only going to burn it when we return to the manor, might as well get something good out of it before then.” Edeva bit her lip and nodded, hoping the small gesture would convey her gratitude while her hands busied themselves with wrapping the scrap of his shirt around her leg. She tried to pull it tight but her arms were too tired from pulling her body up the side of a cliff. She glared at the material until a shadow fell over her, Fenley. He gripped the two ends of the material in his fists and pulled sharply, tying the material into a sturdy knot. Edeva touched his arm before he could pull away, he went rigid, eyes watching her with a gaze as sharp as the blade his fingers were a hairsbreadth from - for a heartbeat, she thought he would pull it on her, but he remained still. “What is it?” Her words had deserted her. She felt the breath burning in her chest, not only from the ash, and pressed her fingers harder into his arm. His eyes darted from her eyes to her fingers, his lips pressed into a thin line. “What is it?” Fenley repeated, a hint of alarm growing in the storm of his eyes. “You’ve come a long way from the heartless man I met in the woods, all those days ago.” “I saved you, then. Was that heartless?” “You tried to make it seem that way.” Edeva drew back, guiltily noticing the marks her nails had left on his arm, she hadn’t realised her touch had been so strong. Her hands settled in her lap and she continued to hold his stare. “There’s very little point living without a heart Fenley, then you might as well just give up.” The smirk he gave her then meant more than most. More than words. “Now that, Edeva, is something I’ll never do.”

~ Ruin's Reprisal, Chapter Twenty

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #fiction #novel #writer #spilled ink #spilled words #spilled writing

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clickerflight · 1 year

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Burned at the stake - Part 1

Well. I have done it. 14K ish words. I'll put this out in about 5 bits me thinks. Anyways, enjoy!

Content: Vampire whumpee, out of body experience (?), mention of vampire trafficking, burning flesh

Let me know if you want to be on a tag list

.....................................

Fanatic was a word often tied to cults, to religious nuts, to conspiracy theorists, which really is quite narrow minded. The word fanatic more often applies to a wider range of people, more specifically known as anthropology students. After all, who else would spend outrageous amounts of money and time to go to some remote jungle that could most certainly kill them in a thousand different ways for the remote chance that they might find some ancient temple that some random drunk dude swore till he was blue was there, and also very haunted.

So, yes, Joanna was having just about as much fun as a human being could experience as she hacked her way through the brush ahead of her slightly less enthusiastic colleague, Kyle. Because he had more of his wits about her (more but not much more as he was a student of ancient languages and only here in case they found the temple and something needed to be translated) he was slowed by making sure they marked the path back clearly.

“Joanna, when was the last time you looked at the map?”

“Kyle, you know as well as I that time does not exist out here,” she replied, pausing to get a sip of water before pushing forward again. “But we do not need a map! All we need is our hearts and our minds!”

Kyle laughed as she flashed him a grin while reaching to pull out the map and check the compass. “Yeah, we’re on track.”

“Good,” Kyle replied. “Do you know how much farther we need to go?”

“Well, probably another 2 or 3 miles but…..”

Kyle paused, looking at Joanna who’s movements became more purposeful and smooth, like she was completing a ritual. Kyle felt it as well. There was a tension in the air. Something that said they would discover something interesting soon, like the forest was holding its breath while it waited for their reaction.

And now that he thought about it, the birds had all gone silent.

Joanna had noticed as well, and she slowed down so he could catch up with her. His shoulder brushed hers as she paused, leaning to see past the foliage ahead. It almost seemed as though there was a man-made clearing, and the tension in the air went from intriguing to nerve wracking. Kyle glanced past Joanna who tightened her grip on her machete and pushed forward. The foliage around the clearing was dense, and the effort to get through it left Joanna and Kyle exhausted as they took turns cutting the vines. Kyle was so exhausted, in fact, that when he broke through the foliage with one last swing his tired arms and legs didn’t expect the lack of resistance and he fell through into the clearing.

A cloud of fine particles filled the air around him, coating his mouth as Kyle took a surprised breath. Kyle coughed hard, stirring up the ash around him as he forced himself up and out of the cloud he had stirred into the air, trying to find fresh air as Joanna came out behind him.

Kyle continued coughing out a lung or two as she stood there silently, and as his voice came back to him, he choked out, “I’m fine, by the way.” He coughed, listening for Joanna’s apology or joke or-

He blinked hard, eyes watering as he turned to look at her. “Joanna? I-”

Joanna was pale and staring at something behind him. He turned quickly, ash swirling up around his feet. The ash was everywhere in the clearing. The clearing was huge, as well, as though it had been burned and razed. Or maybe the thick layers of ash were killing off life and keeping the plants from coming back in the clearing.

The immense expanse of ash, so strange and wrong compared to the jungle that refused to touch the clearing, was nothing compared to what was in the middle.

A pole jutted from the ground, silver chains nearly hidden in the ashes underneath the charred and blackened mass skewered on the pole. There was the faint shape of ribs in the mass, the whole thing smoking faintly in the sun.

“Uhhhhhhhh, what’s that?” Kyle asked softly, but his voice seemed to ring in his ears without the dense foliage to muffle it.

“I dunno, but I’m gonna touch it,” Joanna said, kicking her way through the ashes with a scared, though determined step.

“Joanna!? What do you mean you’re gonna touch it!?” he cried, reaching forward to stop her.

She dodged past him, turning grey as the ash melted into the sweat of her body. She reached the charred mass on the pole and reached out a hand, brushing over it. She screamed and jumped back as more ash and char crumbled through her fingers. Kyle reached her, nearly knee deep in ashes.

More of the black char crumbled away, and something pale peaked through what remained of the ribs. Something that pulsed and flinched.

Holding his breath, Kyle leaned forward as Joanna vigorously wiped her hand off on her pants.

“Er….. I think this was.. Is it a vampire?”

“What?”

“There’s a heart under here. Still beating,” Kyle replied, not removing his eyes from the heart which seemed to be fused to the pole which skewered up, just barely missing it. He was trying not to be sick, but his stomach churned right along with the pulsing of the vampire heart.

Joanna shoved him out of the way so she could look, and Kyle was glad for it as he hadn’t been sure he would be able to look away. He grabbed his water out and sipped on it, shivering slightly as he dealt with what he’d just seen.

“What do we…. What do we do with it?” Joanna asked, reaching in and touching the heart very gently, almost stroking it like one would do to the chest of a friendly bird. She watched as the heart fluttered and she touched it again gently. This time the heart pulsed in response and she found herself whispering, “It’s alright. We’re not leaving you here.”

“We’re not taking that thing, are we?” Kyle asked. “What if it was left here because it was, I dunno, a monster or something?”

“So we should just leave it here?”

“We… well, we shouldn’t leave it to suffer, obviously, but we could, er…. I’m sure we could find a stick…”

“We’re not killing it. That’s murder,” Joanna replied, still stroking the pale heart.

“We should call the government, then. This isn’t our problem!”

Joanna gave him a withering look, cupping the heart and shielding it from the sun as more of the chest cavity collapsed. “And they’ll kill it for sure. You know that this country doesn’t ‘waste’ resources on vampire recoveries.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Kyle said. He took another sip from his water and sighed. “Alright. Are we going to smuggle it back with us?”

“We have to.”

Kyle sighed. “Alright. We’d better take it back to the hotel and figure out how we’re going to get it back home. You’re carrying it.”

“Chicken,” Joanna said with a sharp grin. “Could you pass me your handkerchief?”

Kyle nodded and handed her a couple clean ones from his bag, most of them out of ziplocks and already damp to help with staying cool while they hiked, as he usually used them for.

Joanna gently wrapped them around the heart and cooed at it. “I’m sorry, love, this is gonna hurt.”

She gently pried the heart from the pole, which revealed itself to be made of silver and had burned the heart to the metal. The heart thumped irregularly as she pulled it away from the pole, leaving charred flesh behind. It nearly squirmed right out of her hands and she shushed it, pulling it more gently until she had the swathed heart shivering in her hands.

She stood up and turned, still cooing at the heart and stroking it gently, making sure the sun wouldn’t get to it by wrapping it in another piece of cloth.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kyle said with a heavy sigh. They turned back and made their way out of the jungle slowly and surely. With the heart tucked into her bag, they got a taxi in the rundown town to get back to their hotel room.

As soon as they had the door locked behind them and were all settled, she pulled the heart out. The wrappings were dried out now, though the heart looked a bit better for being damp. She went and made the handkerchiefs wet again, wrapping them around the heart, which still flinched when she touched it, but seemed to be beating at a steadier rate.

“We need a plan,” Joanna said.

Kyle sighed, sinking into the bed. “We can’t keep it here. There are only so many times we can extend the trip, and if it’s discovered it’ll be confiscated and destroyed…. Or worse.”

Joanna nodded faintly. The two of them were well acquainted with the fact that there were dark markets trading in pieces of vampire hearts, claiming them to be ancient creatures with fantastic knowledge of the past. Most of the time, the poor things weren’t allowed to grow and were just kept in a silver lined box and treated like an interesting old trinket. Or they were grown out, forced to tell all they knew, and then they had their hearts removed again so they could be easily stored or sold on. You didn’t get into anthropology without first dividing which side of that moral quandary you stood. Many of their peers were actually lobbying for even more rights for vampires so this sort of thing would be cracked down on a bit harder, though she knew that the laws they volleyed for were specifically ones that would put vampire hearts in the hands of people like them. Of course it would be in the name of helping ancient vampires transition with people who understand a bit of the world they used to live in before they were stripped of their bodies, but the motivations were the dreams of getting useful information first, and straight from the source.

Joanna would be lying if she didn’t have the same thoughts when they were riding back from the jungle.

“I guess that just leaves the matter of how we’re going to get it back,” Joanna said. “I used to know some guys we could have shipped it with, but they got arrested a couple of months ago….”

“It probably wouldn’t be safe to ship it. It might get eaten by rats on the way, or someone might hear it thumping,” Kyle replied, standing up to have a look at the heart. “I think you might have to hide it under your shirt or something.”

“Under my shirt?” She asked, annoyed. “Why my shirt?”

“Because you can use your bra to keep it from falling out,” Kyle said, sounding ashamed with having to even voice the idea out loud.

“Bold of you to assume I wear one,” Joanna said to get back at him. He spluttered in a very amusing fashion and she laughed, the heart in her hands picking up the pace for a moment.

“Alright,” she said when Kyle looked close to fainting with embarrassment. “I guess that’s fair. But someone at the gate will absolutely notice that my shirt is moving every time it does.”

Kyle sighed. “We have a few more days. Maybe we can find some way of making it be still for long enough to get through the gate. There has to be something.”

Joanna gave him a long-suffering look. “Fine. Hold this,” she said, passing the heart to him before pulling out her phone and typing ‘How to get a vampire heart to stop moving.’

………………………..

There had been pain for a very long time. How long? How does one count heartbeats when one does not have fingers to aid them? Does time even matter in the face of all of that pain? Reasoning certainly doesn’t. One learns to stop questioning the why of the pain, and try to adapt ways of ignoring it. Or using it in intervals to stay sane.

What was worse than the pain was when there was no more body to feel. Just a heartbeat to keep the time. The nothingness lasted…. Less than the pain? It was hard to tell. It was almost worse. There was no way to grow anymore, to try and escape from this place, so finding ways to stay sane became almost nonexistent. There was an occasional burning that would bring sanity back, but never for long, like the brush of a finger over a hot stone to remember what heat was like before it was doused out in a river.

Being a heart, you couldn’t properly muse. You couldn’t have proper thoughts. Just memories that played in an order of thinking. A mockery of it, like drawings of a sunrise to try and describe a sunset.

Still, it was all one had left when put in such a position. Playing memories over and over in a semblance of thoughts, hoping that the use of them in this way would not damage or destroy them.

The heart had given up on stringing memories into thoughts. It was tiresome and sad. Instead playing out favorites. The heart had grown quite good at this over time and had begun to use its infinite time to uncover new ones. Like digging. Brushing aside the sand of time like the sands in the -

“Maman! Can I dig in the garden?”

“Yes, Esial. Listen for me when I call for you!”

“Yes, Maman!”

Sand on the edge of the herb garden. Maman was a healer. Esial, the young boy with bright eyes and sticky fingers got to digging, using a nice stick he found. Usually, he would dig out lines and pull leaves off of plants and trees, shoving them in the dirt so he could have his own garden and he’d show his Maman, and she would always aww and coo at him and scoop him up. They would show father when he got home.

But just as he started this wonderful pastime, his stick scraped past a rock. He stopped and used his fingers to scoop away the dirt. The stone was small and rather round. The black color took hold of his imagination. It could be an amulet! It had to be! Why else would this small stone be so black and shiny? He giggled as he ran around, pretending to vanquish evil with every wave of the stone until his father came home and saw him.

His father had been very keen to listen to Esial describe the magic powers the stone had.

“I don’t know about putting flight and fire blasts into the same stone, but we can see what we can do.”

The workshop smelled like mint and sage and his father started painstakingly carving runes into the stone, whispering about what they meant and how they would protect his little Esial.

The Heart wished it could remember all the details.

“There,” his father said, putting a leather cord through the hole he’d drilled out with some sort of magic. “Try this on.”

Esial did, and was delighted. He loved his amulet more than anything! Except perhaps the blanket Nanan had made for him when he was born. He decided he would always keep it on him so he would-

“THERE! GET IT!!!”

Esial ran through the trees, heart thumping stolen blood through his body. He’d been so hungry. He’d needed something and it was better that it was an animal than a person, right?

“THIS WAY!”

Esial came sliding to a stop and ran in another direction, not wanting to be cut off by the hunters. He reached up to his chest to grab his amulet, but his pale fingers closed on empty air. His amulet? His AMULET! Where did he-

The Heart stopped that memory in its tracks. The Heart had control over the memories, and it didn’t want to watch that one again. Not again.

Instead, the heart reached for a memory of teenage years, pondering over them all to-

East blood.

There was a hand, pounding with east blood cradling the Heart. Why were there hands? Pain, burning, screams, flinching, fear-

The fingers smoothed over the Heart. Memories of Maman smoothing down hair lovingly surfaced and the Heart slowed, now more curious than scared. Something cool, moist, damp, was wrapped around it. The Heart relished in the feeling before the hands tugged. Sharp pain tore alongside the Heart as it was ripped from something and the fear came back as more cool, moist, damp was wrapped around it.

Time passed and the Heart got the sense of… movement. They were going somewhere. The Heart couldn’t sense the hands anymore, though. But it was moving

Eventually, the damp, cool, moist was pulled away and the East Hands stroked the heart directly. The Heart did not think, but it did hope.

The East hands placed the Heart in new ones. Rougher, bigger, Northwest blood. The Northwest hands held the Heart, though did not stroke it. The Heart grew nervous as it sensed the anxiety in the blood flow beneath it. Soon enough, though, the East hands were back and were stroking it again. The Heart relaxed just enough that, when the cold, dry, freezing touched its flesh, it was merely confused rather than afraid. That changed very soon as the East hands left and disappeared entirely. The fear became vivid and sharp as the cold enveloped The quickly beating Heart. But as the heart got cold, it grew tired. And even more so. The fear dropped to mild anxiety, then to malcontent tiredness. Then…. Nothing.

Part 2

@whumpsday

#vampire whumpee #rescue #carewhumper #having a hard time with tags right now #ancient vampire #What a good time this has been

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