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rookiesbookies · 1 year ago

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Monster AU

Thank you to @shotmrmiller for helping me idea generate for this

Hc under the cut for 141+ Konig, Krueger, Alex Keller, and Keegan

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, don’t forget to leave me a comment or a request in my inbox to let me know what yall want to see!

General background for the AU:

When the blood of monsters was first found at ancient sites, the first thought the humans was: Can we bring them back. And when they couldnt, the second thought was: can we make ‘hybrid’ humans with the blood and will it give them special shit?

Long story short? It did. And so the race for the best and most monster/human soldiers was born

Some side effects were wanted. The speed, strength, the aggression, the dexterity.

Some side effects weren’t. Like the voices in the soldiers heads, the loss of life from incapability between a monster and a human, and the ruts, heat cycles, & craving to breed.

So the government hires what they call Operation: Darlings - a group dedicated to their monster infected lovers to keep them docile and content no matter what when they’re on base. Each given a year's supply of: military grade birth control, spermicidal lube, and condoms and one goal - be a monster's mate.

When wind of this got to other military companies, they did basically the exact same thing.

Price

Griffin. His beard now looks like furr now and less like hair. His muscles which were once covered in thin layers of fat, are now bare. The fat melted away. His wrinkles are now much lighter. His has more energy and is much less motion sick.

His eyes now have a predatory gaze. His nails are sharper like claws, and he’s much faster and more agile. His reflexes were much sharper.

With his darling he has the urge to scent her all the time. He loves nothing more than her warming his cock, his tight balls sitting on some chair as he rubs her hips while filling out paperwork. Cooing at how well she takes his fat cock.

His room is now full of pillows and blankets and baby proofy, he cant have his lionese accidentally getting hurt? Even if its just small bumps.

Soap

Phoenix. He now runs hot as an oven, everyone swears his skin glows, and he has this bad habit of insisting he needs random sticks. Every time he dies his injuries and infection turn to dust and fade off into the wind minutes to hours after and he walks away.

His nails are now just a bit more tough like talons and if he drinks alcohol or gas he can breathe fire.

He has this craving to sit in high place too, always has to have almost a perch to sit on above everyone.

When he gets his darling he has this urge to preen all the clothes she’s wearing off her like they’re dirt in her feathers. He makes little clicking noises at her and will fluff out his mohawk to get her attention, almost dying it red and orange and other bright colors because the phoenix voice demanded they had to be flamboyant and bright to truly keep a mate. Loves to rub his nose against her like a bird rubs its beak on things it loves, nuzzling into her especially if she’s nude.

He also craves nuts and seeds as a snack.

Ghost

Barghest. A bug black bad omen of death. Also has a skull face in some depictions. A big fuzzy stain in Yorkshire mythos. Simon immediately noticed how his hair on his head stayed its blond color but the rest of it (pubes, chest hair, happy trail) turned thicker and black as the night. In the dark he can see much better. He’s less sensitive to cold. And he craves raw meat.

For other physical differences he notices how his cock swells differently. His whole body leaned and slimmer. He runs faster, and endurance is significantly better.

He growls deep in his chest and uncontrollably when people try to touch his stuff. When he’s around his team he lets out a purr similar to that of a rottweiler.

He also notices he finds it harder to stay away during the day, as he prefers now to exist at night.

Gaz

Aswang. His teeth are now much sharper. His eyes now randomly bleed but not in a medical issue. His skin mow ashier than it normally would have been but that's fine. He’s more worried about the blood. His tongue is now long and snake-like, too long for his mouth and flat.

His body is leaner than before. Shoulders becoming broader. And his ears are slightly pointed. He’s also off put but his fingers got longer and his hands got stronger.

He hates how it’s voice hisses and whispers so loudly in the back of his mind. Never quiet.

Konig

Cthulhu. Of all his comrades who were chosen, he had some of the most physical change. Tendrils sprouted from his spine, his skin turned cold and the texture closer to a shark. His teeth all got a bit sharper, and his eyes became slightly better suited for seeing in the night. The worse his anxiety got the more tendrils littered his face and wings threatened to sprout from his back. The voice made the madness grow in his head, loud and ringing. His body was an impermeable surface. His fingers had grown a bit longer, more claw like. His voice got even more booming and he was always cold.

When he got his mate, his skin warmed. The voice of the monster that infected him calmed for the first few days. She didn't mind the odd texture of his skin or the tendrils that littered his body. She let her warmth seep through his body.

Krueger

Amarok. As seen in his tattoo on his back. He notices small things like thicker and darker hair on his body and the need to spend more time alone.

He notices his body get meatier, the muscles taking up more space. His hair is growing longer than he’d like, and much faster. He’s much stronger and much more durable, the usual overwhelming stain of the butt of a gun to the face now just a mild sting.

He growls from his throat when he is annoyed now, and is very off put by it because he never realizes when its happening. He has also grown a bit, not taller than Konig still but he is a least an inch and a half taller than he was. His arms now much wider and beefier, with a soft yet flattering layer on top.

He can now hear much better and he doesnt know if he likes it. If someone is fucking on base he can hear it all so now he has to constantly wear his shooting range headphones to hear how he did before the change.

Keegan

Minotaur. His body now gets too hot when under armor. He craves to suckle a tit like a calf and hide in darkness. His eyes are not adjusted well to the lights at all, he now has to constantly wear sunglasses. His nose is now a bit wet and leathery. His body now more easily builds muscle and the skin of his feet and hands thicker. His nails are stronger, like the human equivalent of hooves he guesses.

His breathing is now heavier, his body much heavier. He now stalks around instead of a natural walk. He craves meat, the monster wants him to consume human flesh but Keegan is satisfied with a steak.

Alex Keller

Hydra. He can grow back any lost limps and heal quickly. Only limp he cant grow back is the leg he already lost because he lost it pre-infection. Physically it changed very little, his eyes turn to slits in bright lights instead of small dots, he occasionally gets scales if his skin is extra dry, and he now had crazy sharp fangs for canines but not much changes.

He also hisses at threats and keeps building nests in dark places (his room with the lights off) with stolen blankets and pillows, pulling women into his room to show them hoping they compliment it as a sign of agreeing to mate.

When he gets his darling the little hydra voice in his head goes wild. She compliments the nest, doesn’t mind his painful love bites to stake claim, and most importantly doesn’t mind staying in the nest until the nest smells like her and she smells like him.

Also he has two dicks (human ones, not snakes), one on top of the other, upper one is slightly smaller.

#cod x reader #call of duty #captain price #captain john price x reader #konig call of duty #konig x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mctavish x reader #soap call of duty #alex keller #alex keller x reader #kyle gaz x reader #simon ghost x reader #keegan russ x reader #cod keegan #sebastian krueger x reader #cod krueger #cod monster au

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diejager · 10 months ago

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Thinking about COD men putting their cigarettes out on my delicate skin 😵‍💫

Burn Cw: burn scars, DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, implied smut, burning, smoking, scarring, mean cod men, tell me if I missed any.

John likes his cigars, the thick-rimmed and earthy-scented cancer stick that smells more elegant and refine than the usual nicotine stick that Ghost smoked. He likes indulging in his office, cutting off the bottom and lighting it, a small flame licking his expensive brand, the wrapper turning to an ashen colour before he even smokes it. Lighting up a cigar is a whole art, to treat his precious sticks with the carefulness and respect it deserves. It helps him relax at night, to let the bliss overtake his mind, and the best thing about smoking was that he has the prettiest ashtray.

Kneeling between his legs, whining and whimpering while he worked on paperwork, signing off his signature on papers and reading through debriefs until the life of his cigar ended. When it does, he grips your jaw, forcing you closer to his chest and neck bared to put out his cigar, the end pushed against the scarred skin of your shoulder. He rarely burned the same place, around and overlapping at some ends, but never exactly over it. He kept to a side, a place promised to him alone. Sometimes he burns your thighs, the soft inner fat and stomach, giving him something to stare at when he ploughs you over his desk.

Ghost, much like Price, smokes often to relieve himself of the stress and tension, usually on the roof at night where he wouldn’t be bothered, but he occasionally enjoys a few smokes in his room by the window. He’s cheaper and less fussy than Price about what he smokes, content with cheap cigars he bought from the corner shop, a plastic box with white sticks that he can burn whenever he had the urge to smoke. Ghost isn’t picky, he’d take any brand he can get his hands on as long as it gives him the same nicotine bliss.

And when he smokes in his room, he likes having you cockwarm him, his tip pressed against your cervix, mewling and panting from the sheer size and girth of him. He doesn’t let you move and inch, ordering you to relax until he softens of he finished his cig, occasionally bucking his hips or growling out when you clench around him in a tight vice. He stubs his cigar on your thighs, his preferred area, where he could grip your hips and admire his mark on you, the red and pale scars that littered your hips and legs as a reminder of his possession on you. He might even admire the burn scars Price left on your shoulder and inner thighs.

Gaz doesn’t really smoke, he had one here and there, but unlike him, Soap does occasionally smoke, he steals a cig from Ghost’s pack. It’s a rare pleasure he indulges when Soap has time, one he got after he sneaked a smoke in the school bathroom because he wanted to look as cool as his cousin. It stuck after a while, but he doesn’t smoke as often as habitual smokers, one or two a month if he’s really stressed, but he usually deals with that through drinking or taking it out on the gym and shooting range.

He and Gaz sit together when Soap smoked, squeezing you between them and made to relax while they talk and watch the TV. He doesn’t always finish his stick, breathing out the smoke in your face or sharing it through a kiss, his tongue pushed down your throat before he passes you to Gaz for his turn. He’s happier, more jovial and reckless after a smoke, the nicotine easing the tension off his shoulder and that leaves him more handsy and eager. He puts out his cig - whether it was half way or fully done - near your collar, scars painting your flesh that trails up your shoulder and down your breast. His side had less burn scars than Price and Ghost’s, older and paler than the fresh ones.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts

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danibee33 · 9 months ago

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Part III of undercover!Ghost 🩶

ghost x reader (callsign: Hela)

word count : 4.7k

>>> [PT 1] [PT2]

You aren’t avoiding Ghost. Not really..

Ok, maybe you are.

The week since the undercover mission had been busier than usual, so it’s not like you don’t have an excuse for your absence- you did have other duties and responsibilities to attend to collaterally to the one-four-one. But were you using said collaterals to possibly steer clear of a certain person..? Well, that’s not important.

“Been awhile, lil’ LT..”

You return Soap’s grin, looking up at him as you both take tentative steps- him reaching out first, and you deflecting,

“D’ya miss me that much, sergeant?” You say, eyes skimming his form, looking for any weakness in it, waiting for the right opening.

It wasn’t a planned meet up, you just needed something to do- you’ve been so restless lately, like no matter what you do, it’s never quite enough to stem the relentless flow of thoughts. Which is how you found yourself on the sparring mats opposite the equally restless man at such an ungodly hour.

“Always miss ye, hen..” Soap grunts just before lunging for you, attempting to swipe your leg but inadvertently opening himself up for you to get your arms and legs wrapped around torso- using your body weight to bring him to his knees,

“Steamin’ Jesus, lil LT- worse than a fuckin’-”

Whatever insults he might’ve tried to spew are cut off when you suddenly readjust, but he recovers quicker than you expect- lifting up and bringing you along with him,

“If ye wanted to cuddle, ye could’a just said so..” Soap says, that flirty little lilt at the edge of his words, the same one you’ve heard him use at the bar a hundred times now. And the lopsided smirk on his lips is all too familiar as he tightens his grip around your waist–

God, he’s such a fuckboy…

With a breathless groan, you switch your hold again, crossing your arm over his face in order to put distance between you while still keeping him mostly trapped,

“Shut it, MacTavish. I’m still winning, aren’t I?”

You go back and forth like this until you’re both struggling to breathe and your muscles begin to quiver with fatigue- throwing jokes and jabs easily. It had always been effortless to talk with Soap, banter with him came naturally, but you think it’s only because you two are alike in that way. Never at a loss for words to fill a silence.

And by the time you’re both thoroughly exhausted, all sweat and panting breaths as you stick uncomfortably to the mat, does he roll to his feet, brushing his hair back in the same motion,

“Always a pleasure, ma’am.” He grins, dwarfing your hand in his own as he tugs you up, “And we’re, uh, we’re goin’ out tomorrow night- or well, tonight, I s’pose.” he fumbles over his words in that adorable way he does sometimes, like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher, “If ye’d like to come.. I can have LT text ye the details.”

At the mention of Simon, you feel the very tips of your ears begin to burn. The sergeant’s prompt too quickly bringing back all the thoughts and memories you had been trying to purge yourself of by coming here,

“Um.. Sure. No promises, though. It’s been busy, ya know..” You say, fighting to keep your tone flippant and casual- but John MacTavish is more keen than you might have given him credit for.

He walks by your side out of the gym, obviously searching for the right way to bring it up, until finally it’s almost like you can feel his own curiosity win over his better judgment,

“Ma’am.. Did somethin’ happen? On the last mission?” The next few seconds are filled with him trying, and somewhat failing but it’s amusing nonetheless, to explain why he’s asking- mostly due to your unusual absences since returning that night. The way you’ve been avoiding the entire team in favor of doing paperwork in your office-

Which you never did because you said you hated being back there on your own.

No, you always preferred to take care of those things in the common spaces, where the chances of having company were always high.

“Was it seein’ LT’s mug? I ken that’s always a bit of a shock for first timers, but-”

“What?” You interject, eyebrows raised in surprise, “No.. no, it has nothing to do with that..”

Well, that’s also not entirely true, is it? But you don’t think it’s for the reasons Soap’s imagining.. It’s more about the fact that everytime you even catch a glimpse of the giant man, you’re reminded of how handsome he was on his knees in front of you, how big his hands felt over your thighs, how his tongue-

“Well, just think ‘bout joinin’ us, won’t ye?”

The sheer amount of hope in Johnny’s voice pulls you out of your reverie, replacing the memory of amber eyes with bright cerulean ones, and that signature fucking smirk,

“Fine! Just chill out with the puppy dog eyes, MacTavish.. Begging like a damn dog.” You concede, waving him away and turning toward your hall without waiting for his reaction. But he doesn’t let you get far before you hear his chuckle, husky and chocked full of guile, bounce off the concrete walls,

“Woof, woof, lil LT..”

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

He doesn’t like being unfamiliar with his surroundings, because he spends too much fucking time being unfamiliar in nearly every surrounding he’s sent to. He doesn’t like leaving things up to chance, doesn’t like how much more stress accumulates around his shoulders and neck- it annoys him, the ache.

But Johnny and Gaz had just been so damn adamant about trying out a new pub. One on the opposite end of town, and he can admit it’s nicer than their usual hole in the wall, but still.

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

Well, that was until he caught sight of you. And then he found himself slightly more drawn to the low lighting that danced over your skin, the way it glowed in your eyes as your survey the bar-

“Hel’s ‘ere?” He asks, downing the last nip of bourbon in his cup.

Johnny’s head whips up then, spotting you in an instant- and there’s something about his response that causes Simon’s gaze to narrow at the shorter man. It’s too… giddy, too reverent for his liking.

“Aye! Invited her the other night.”

That ache in his neck returns but somehow significantly worse.

The other night? You had been with Johnny the other night? When this entire fucking week he hadn’t been able to get three fucking seconds alone with you-

Ok, no, he hadn’t worked up to trying to just call or text, that felt too impersonal. He was shit at all that anyway, he needs to see your body language, needs to analyze all the little expressions that give away so much more than words do. But you had somehow found a way to beat him at his own game. You turned into a ghost, only ever catching your silhouette from the corner of his eye, hearing your voice but never being quick enough to be within a few meters of you.

And possibly the worst was when he would enter a room you had been recently in, the smell of you permeating the air, causing his heart to stutter just so with every deep breath.

Fucking hell..

But here you are. And at Johnny’s request, no less.

Ghost despises new places.

Yet, he does think he could learn to like the overly enthusiastic beat of the music when he sees your hips sway to the rhythm as you wait for your drink. You’re in tight jeans and a black leather jacket that fits your figure like a goddamn glove- and he swears he can feel the silk of your skin by just memory alone, the curves of your body already etched into his mind.

“Gonna get a refill.” He grunts, already walking away from the table with the empty glass in hand.

The sound of a cup being sat on the bartop snaps you back to the present, followed by a heady rush of chills when you hear the baritone of Simon’s voice far closer to your ear than you expect,

“So, she lives.”

You let out a small breath, turning to find the burly breadth of his chest taking up nearly your entire field of view- clad in black from head to toe, which doesn’t surprise you one bit, but it’s not his usual hoodie and jacket. No, this time he’s in a black henley that fits more like a second skin, the fabric deliciously stretched over his pecs and shoulders, the top button left open to give you just a peek at the silver chain glinting underneath and… is that a tattoo?

“She does..” You say, meeting his eyes.

And you really should know better, with too many of your nights haunted by the deep amber of his irises- but the instant it happens, it’s like you’re back in that damned office all over again. The music grows faint, and the people around you turn into little more than blurs at the edge of your vision. He’s all you can feel, the heat of him, the intensity behind his gaze, the way his head tilts softly to the side, studying you as if he might be recommitting your features to memory- not that he needs to.

Because you’ve haunted him just as much. You’ve been the bane of his existence this last week, and somehow the only thing he can see when he shuts his eyes. The sole focus of his loathing and his desire-

“Ma’am, your whiskey sour-” The bartender announces from behind you, effectively breaking the spell you’ve been so wrapped up in right before you hear another small clink, “and a bourbon, neat.”

Without hesitation, Simon leans closer, big arm reaching around you to pull his glass from the bartop and the black surgical mask covering his mouth and nose down in the same motion. He keeps that same heavy gaze on you, your own eyes growing wider at the sight of his face, his crooked nose and scarred lip. You watch him take a short sip, but just as quick as it happened, his mask is back in place, and he’s stepping back,

“C’mon. Table’s over ‘ere.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt whiplash quite like seeing Ghost turn his back on you, easily carving a path through the patrons that fill the space-

But you are damn sure the infuriating Brit isn’t going to get the last word in this.

Ghost can feel your stare, feel how it’s directed right at the back of his skull. A perfect kill shot if he were a betting man. But he can also hear the quiet click of your boots following after him, the tightness in his jeans growing more noticeable with every step-

Fuck.

“Lil’ LT! Glad ye’ could make it out!” Johnny shouts over the crowd, blue eyes cast in mischief and that open sort of admiration that Ghost is sure the man couldn’t hide even if he tried.

You round the table, looking up at the Scot with a devastating smile on your lips before nudging his shoulder with your own,

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure your ego wasn’t too damaged after kicking your ass this morning, sergeant.”

“Ach! -”

Ghost can hear Johnny sputtering on and on in that terrible mashup of English and Scottish slang that’s always grated on the lieutenant’s ears- but whatever he’s saying doesn’t quite register. Instead, he can only really hear the way your laugh brightens the dim room, see the way your head tips back as you take another sip of your drink.

And it’s only then he realizes that he just wishes you would look at him like that. Wishes that he could draw the melodious sound from you, that he could be the reason you smile so brightly-

“Well, well, well-” the group looks over to see Gaz and Price meandering through the throng of bodies, the younger man with outstretched arms, “Hela! Thought you’d up and left our sorry arses!”

All Simon can do is grit his teeth as Gaz embraces you in a quick side hug, Price close behind with a warm grin even on his bearded face,

“And miss out on all the fun? You know me better than that, Garrick.” You say, raising your glass to the Captain in greeting.

So, no, Ghost doesn’t like new places.

But he can’t deny that as the next hour passes he’s smiled more than a few times at his team’s antics. And he certainly can’t say that he hasn’t missed the way you bring them all a little closer, your bubbly brand of forwardness allowing them to each get out of their heads, even if just for a little while.

“What’s this about you handin’ MacTavish's arse to him?” Price’s voice booms over the music, which has only seemed to get louder the later it gets-

Ghost watches you down the rest of your whiskey sour without so much as a flinch, your cheeks flushed such a pretty pink from the alcohol,

“I mean, is that really a surprise?” You shoot back, the man in question all but slamming his glass down on the table in rebuttal-

“Ooh- yer arse is oot the windae! I want a rematch!” Johnny’s words slur together just enough to give away how good he’s really feeling, throwing an arm over your shoulder, “Watcha say, lil LT? And this time we’ll have a proper judge, right Cap? No cheatin’-”

It really isn’t fair how you lean into him as you chuckle, that ache in Simon’s neck creeping up again at the sight.

Christ alive, why can’t he just get it together? Why does he care? You’ve never been one to shy away from physical touch… but fuck all if it doesn’t eat at him.

“Oi, who wants another round?” Gaz, thankfully interjects, drawing everyone’s attention with a collective and resounding sound off.

The others waltz away through the crowd in the direction of the bar, everyone but you- standing across from Ghost at the table, toying with the toothpick in your glass,

"Late night spar, huh?" You don't miss the added gruffness in his tone, or the fact that he refuses to look at you now, staring somewhere over your head.

And if you were a better woman, you wouldn't feel the need to play into his offputting display of jealousy- but you're you after all.. and he's Ghost. So, you give a little hum before plucking the tiny skewer from your cup,

"Couldn't sleep.." You shrug, looking up at him under you lashes, his eyes already on the maraschino cherry that drips down your fingers, "Figured I'd do something a little more productive since I was up anyway-"

Simon tracks your hand, falling right into your terrible little game as you bring the fruit to your lips- it's tooth achingly sweet when you finally bite into it, mixed with the burn of whiskey. And it's when the juice runs down your chin that you meet his gaze, swiping up the liquid on your thumb, he watches with a severity that sends a dangerous chill up your spine- not even daring to blink as you suck the digit clean.

You know he's keenly aware of exactly what you're doing, but that doesn't stop the lust and satisfaction from rushing through you at his deep growl- those coppery eyes darker than you've ever seen.

All too innocently, you flash him a smile, "I think I'll have one more.. you want anything, sir?"

Ghost thinks he can feel the crystal glass in his hand begin to splinter under his grip, unable to tear his eyes away from the red stain on your lips- it's enough to drive him mad.

He gives you a curt shake of his head, knowing that if he had another drink, he might lose whatever vague sense of self-control he's clinging onto so precariously.

And instead of watching you walk away, he turns toward the pool tables, needing something to do with his hands- because if he clenched them any fucking tighter he think he might draw blood with the way his blunt nails dig into his calloused palm.

Without waiting for the others, he racks the balls before picking up a cue stick and breaking the formation- moving around the table just as Johnny sidles up to him,

"Did’nae take ye for a billiards guy, LT.." He says, quickly working to chalk up his own cue.

Gaz and Price follow soon after, eager to join in on teams- and it works, for a short time anyway to distract him. If he can just stay focused on making each shot, then he won't have time to think about you. But, that's a rather silly notion, isn't it? Because sure enough, just as he leans in to take a shot, he spots you bump elbows with his Scottish counterpart.

"Here to give me some good luck, lil LT?" Johnny looks down at you with a lopsided grin, both hands wrapped around the cue stick as he leans on it.

You take a slow sip of your drink, just enough time to glance at Simon- sleeves now pulled up to expose the thickly corded muscles of his forearms and the faded black ball cap on his head turned backwards. He's calculated in his shot, efficiently knocking a striped ball into the nearest pocket-

"I don't think you want any of my luck, sergeant.." You drawl, eyes flitting up to see his deep blue ones already on you, "Can't say I have the best track record when it comes to that."

Soap's chuckle is warm and laced with silk in your ears, watching him copy his superior's movements, finessing his own cue to score a bankshot. Gaz is next, followed by Price, and you follow them ardently, moving around the table as they go until it's back to Ghost-

"Aye, LT-" Johnny calls, "Why don't you show Hela how to do a jump.."

You've managed to get close enough to the towering man now that he has to look down at you before glaring back at his sergeant,

"'m sure she can figure it out on 'er own, Johnny."

"I've actually never really played." You say before your better judgment can stop your mouth from moving- maybe you have had a little much to drink.

And the way Simon's jaw clenches, having taken off his mask as the other patrons slowly dispersed, makes your core tighten- biting the fleshy inside of your cheek between your teeth. You shouldn't push it. You’ve done enough of that already, haven’t you?

Yet, in one swift motion, Simon's hand is on your hip, the other taking the half-empty cup from your grasp before positioning your body in front of his. It isn't exactly gentle, there's a roughness to his movements that put you on edge, a stiffness in his voice that only stokes the the fire in your belly,

"Hold it 'ere.." You take the stick in your hand, the wood still hot from his touch, "and 'ere."

When you grab it this time, he covers your hand, easily repositioning it further down- "Like that."

Very suddenly, you're regretting putting yourself in this situation, so swept up in the feeling of Simon all but dwarfing you, his proximity far more intoxicating than any of the alcohol you've consumed tonight, that you don't notice the sly smirk on Gaz's face- nor the knowing looks shared between your teammates.

In your defense, Simon makes it hard to concentrate on much of anything with the way he slowly leans into you, urging you to bend forward- his hold light but still strong enough to make the slightest adjustments to your stance,

"Lift your elbow now." He mutters, his breath tickling over your exposed shoulder, your jacket left slung over the nearest chair. But it's his hand that catches you off guard, because unlike every other movement he's made with purpose and intention, a man simply doing a job; when he moves now, it's slow, his fingers grazing up your side before softly caressing the skin of your arm,

"Good."

You shift on your feet, your body feeling like it might combust at any moment, the one word spoken in his brassy accent threatening to unravel you on the spot.

The next few moments seem to pass in a blur, you feel him lean in just a bit closer, his left arm bracing over you on the edge of the table as his right hand lands right behind yours on the stick. Whatever he does after is more like a magic trick than logic, rushing the tip downward on the ball with enough force to nearly jerk you forward, but with enough finesse that the little sphere hops off the table- knocking what you assume was the intended target into its pocket.

It takes longer than you're proud of to recover, scrambling to put a bright smile on your face, moving when he does and hoping to whatever deities might exist that it's dark enough to hide the red hue of your cheeks,

"Look at that, a natural, ma'am!" Gaz shouts, clapping a wide palm over your back- and you try to force out a laugh, try to keep your eyes away from the dark form that's moved back towards the table now.

Away from you.

And you wish it didn't make your stomach twist, seeing him pull his mask back on and fixing his ballcap again so that the bill sits low over his eyes-

"Headin' out, Simon?" Price speaks up, an unlit cigar propped lazily between his lips now.

Simon gives his signature nod, which barely a perceptible gesture, but you're all used to it enough by now. The captain, already out past his bedtime, is happy to begin rounding up his own belongings as well, urging the sergeants to get it together and get to the truck,

"I call shotgun!" Soap calls over his shoulder, already barreling towards the exit, Garrick hot on his heels,

"Fuckin' hell.." Price grumbles, looking back at you, "Need a lift, love?"

"No, I'm good. See you tomorrow, Cap." You say, a tired smile reassuring him enough that you would get home-

And just like that, the once bustling pub is more like a ghost town when you step out into the crisp night air, watching the tail lights flicker away. You had gotten a taxi here, but you feel too wired to call for one now- your body felt like it was vibrating, still so lost in the fading memory of what happened inside. But maybe you were just imagining it.. maybe you had let those lines between reality and fantasy blur a little too close for comfort.

Simon climbed into the driver's seat, his hands hitting the steering wheel before ripping the hat and mask off and throwing them onto the dash-

"Fuck."

What was he thinking? He should have never given into it, never touched you the way he did, held you, gotten close enough to feel you against him again. Should have never fed the monster.

God-fucking-damn MacTavish and his annoying fucking antics, never knowing when to quit. Ever since the undercover mission, the man had been a hound with a scent. Testing and prodding and sticking his damned nose in places it didn't belong-

Simon loathes new places.

But there you are. Standing under the milky glow of the street lamp, your hands tangled in your hair and your cheeks puffed in frustration. And so fucking beautiful he can't stand it.

He should leave. He needs to go back to base, needs to take a shower so cold it hurts, needs to bury himself in work just like you did. He needs, he needs, he needs.

Yet, he doesn't do any of those things.

No, like the awful, depraved man he is, he steps out of the truck and makes a beeline right for you- which, looking back on it, might not have been the best course of action because the instant you see his hulking frame he watches how you go on the defensive. Your posture stiffening and your hand reaching for one of your many concealed weapons if he knows you like he thinks he does.

That's ok though, he imagines you could stab him right here in the parking lot and he wouldn't mind one bit. Hell, you could slit his throat and he would smile as he bled out at your feet.

Thankfully, you do neither of those things.

And as soon as you're within reach, he's got those big hands framing your face, crushing his lips to yours.

Shock is all you can register at first. Your mind and body flooded by adrenaline, ready for a fight when you initially saw the shadowed figure coming for you. But in those same few seconds, you recognized him, recognized every purpose driven stride, the steady sway of his shoulders-

Though him kissing you hadn't necessarily been on the list of things you had expected.

You're pulled to your tiptoes, and for a moment you think it might be a dream, the way he audibly groans when your lips begin to move against his. But he doesn't relent, and you don't want him to. So you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck as soon as your muscles can catch up to your thoughts.

You feel his tongue gently glide over your bottom lip, a gentle urging for you to reciprocate- which you're more than happy to oblige. The kiss turning somehow more heated, sloppy even, something you had never experienced yet something that you never want to end.

But all too soon, he does pull away, his fingers threading through your hair, "I'm sorry-"

Again, hearing Simon Riley apologise was just not on the bingo card for tonight.

He presses his forehead to yours, your heavy breaths mingling with his, remnants of whiskey and bourbon filling your nostrils,

"Sorry?" You look up at him, eyebrows tightly knitted, "For what?"

"The mission.. I shouldn't have- I didn't-" --he stumbles over his words, scarred lips finally pulling into a grimace, "Hel, is it true?"

The way his gaze bores into you feels intimate, like he's trying to peel you apart, "Gonna have to be a little less vague there.. I'm smart, but I can't read minds."

Your breathy chuckle helps to ease the tension, if such a thing were possible with how close he still holds you,

"That you've never been with anyone, like that.."

Oh. GOD FUCKING DAMN YOU, MACTAVISH.

When you take a step back, he reluctantly lets you go, his expression faltering for a moment- and you hate it. Hate that you had possibly hurt him- but you just needed space to put it all together, to try to explain.

"Yes.." his face falls even more, and it's like you can feel the shame that radiates from him, your hands reaching for him on their own, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt, "But I wanted it.. I wanted.. you. I want you- jesus, fuck- I'm so bad at this."

"You didn't say anythin'.."

You shake your head, a laugh huffing through you as you look to the inky sky above, "Would it have changed anything?"

"I wouldn't have-"

"You wouldn't have done what you did? Why?"

That seems to stump him, his mouth opening and then closing, opening again, "You deserved more."

"Simon, just because I've never had sex doesn't mean I'm completely naive.." You initiate the kiss this time, mimicking the way he had held your face, pulling him closer, "I'm under no illusion that it's suppose to be this magical moment-"

He eagerly returns your kiss, an arm wrapping around your waist as you continue, "And, let's be honest, having 'The Ghost' on his knees was waaayy better than sex."

You feel his smile right before he bends down and hoists over his shoulder,

"Simon!"

But, your shrieks and giggles fall on deaf ears, hands smacking at his back in a lame attempt to wiggle free, "Mm.. no, no, keep screamin' my name, sweet girl. I like the way it sounds."

a/n: this one got away from me… but your honor, they’re down so bad for each other 😭 thank you for reading!!

[PT 4] (coming soon)

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #it’s getting hot in here yall #haha oops #it’s a four parter i guess #sorry?#call of duty #cod fandom #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #task force 141 #kyle gaz garrick #john price #reader #fem reader #no y/n

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bazwriting · 1 year ago

Text

Prices turn to be jealous. A captain temporarily stationed with the 141 had taken a keen interest in Gaz.

(Price x Gaz, SFW, mentioned guns, explicit smoking and drinking)

A captain temporarily stationed with the 141 had taken a keen interest in Gaz. That wasn't a bad thing. Everyone can admit that Gaz was one of the best soldiers in the SAS and was headhunted for his position. It was a good strong man with even morals. Anyone would be a fool to think he got the job based on favortism.

All this to say, no one was very happy when said temporarily stationed captain kept chasing after Gaz. He wasn't even bloody interested, very happy with Price now that everything from the whole mentee fiasco was settled.

But the person just wouldn't stop. Price found it hard to get a moment near Gaz without him around.

They had a little standing date every other wednesday they aren't on a mission at the gun range - they shoot targets, talk between themselves about anything that comes to mind. So close to lights out, no one else is out there and it is nice and peaceful.

When Price went the most recent week, a gun was already firing. Odd, because Gaz typically waits but the week might have been extra stressful - two short back to back missions and their respective paperwork. Gaz was leaning against the wall, smoking quietly, while the temp captain was firing.

"Sorry, love," Gaz murmured, daring to kiss his cheek.

"Come back to my office?" Price just about begs. He missed his boy, and the captain wouldn't be leaving for another few weeks.

"You're turn, Gaz," the captain offers the gun to Gaz. "Ah, Price. Come to practice as well?"

"Needed my sargeant for a moment. You understand," Price hummed before he goes to walk off. Gaz smiled and began to follow.

"You're just scared he likes me better," the temp had the gall to say. Price stopped, an out of place smile on his face.

"The fuck is he talking about?" Price asks Gaz.

"He was asking about when i go home. Seemed real interested in joining me."

"Did he?" Price laughed. "Kyle," Price offers a hand to the sergeant. "I think i hear that bottle of scotch and a few cigars calling out names."

"I think you're quite right, John," Kyle smiles at him. "I prefer my captain. I've made that very clear."

Its not that John Price is an insecure man. Quite the opposite. If he wants or needs something, he tells Kyle, and likewise. He didn't need to have pissing contests with men who don't stick around, especially not over Kyle. They make it to his office without another word, glasses pours and cigar lite, sit by side on the couch. Kyle takes the cigar from John's lips, kisses him before smiling.

"Only captain for me, John."

"I better be."

#pricegaz #gazprice #gaz garrick #john price #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty

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toxicanonymity · 2 years ago

Text

The Dark Path (Rock bottom Ch 4)

6k | Corey x Michael, Michael x Reader. NSFW

Something for everyone! Pt. 1: Beefcake Corey pumps iron. Pt. 2: Corey & Michael kill Mulaney. Michael on Corey. Pt. 3: Michael fucks (Y/N). Corey can't contain himself.

Rock Bottom Index - All Chapters

If you don't want gifs, you might wanna read on AO3. Throw me kudos for being a slut while you're at it & subscribe to get the next chapter a lil early.

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Ch 4 Part 1

Outside (Y/N)’s house, Corey walks around to the backyard. He bends down to pick up his heavy wrench from the dying grass. The cold metal slides and clinks into place as he moves. He imagines what it would have been like to kill the sad sack if Michael hadn't gotten to him first.

He goes to collect his backpack and sees a shape in the woods. His heart skips a beat. It feels like Michael is close. The shape walks in the opposite direction.

Corey gets on his motorcycle. His huge hands make it look like a toy bike from certain angles. He cranks the gas with a twist of his thick wrist. It’s a cold ride, and his large knuckles turn red and white.

Instead of going home, he rides to the Allen family’s abandoned mansion. He keeps some things hidden there for whenever he needs to get away from Joan. He puts on clean underclothes and takes a nap before work.

His day goes by in a haze of want. His clothes are clean, but he can still feel the essence of Michael and (Y/N) enrobing his cock.

At work, he's distracted and lets the hood of a Buick slam on his masculine hand. It doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it makes him yell. Ronald is worried about him - he's barely been coming home lately.

Corey is assigned scrap duty for the rest of the day. He heads behind the shop to their secondary scrapyard with a clipboard. He trudges through a sea of cars, most of them with no tires, parked on white granite rocks that gleam and blind him and crunch under his boots. Hoods are open, doors are off. A lot of models are from the 90s or 00s but some are older. He updates the part inventory as he walks. It’s boring.

Corey prefers challenging manual labor to tedious paperwork. Being a mechanic lets him use his engineering knowledge and curiosity while getting to touch and explore and fix things. He’s very good with his hands, and his hands are made for the job.

Doing inventory is mind-numbing. He has too much pent up energy and has to pass the time. At the back of the scrapyard, there's a bumper leaning against a 90s Saturn. He puts his clipboard down on the seat of a picnic table in the shade and takes his sleeves off, tying them around his waist. His nipples say it's too cold for this, but he doesn't feel it.

He hauls the bumper on his sculpted shoulder with one massive hand bracing it. He mounts the table, ass-first and his thighs and groin press up into the fabric of his jumpsuit as he scoots back and stretches out into place. He lays back and rests the car part on his sturdy chest. He spreads his thick fingers to get a good grip, then bench presses it.

His stamina is impressive and it takes a minute to even feel the burn. It starts in his hard pecs and spreads to his thick arms. As the bumper grows heavier, he breathes harder, winces, and his feet start to move. His white undershirt rides up and he can feel the air on his lower abs and V. He pauses at the top to steady his arms and breathe, his cheeks puffing out with air. He does a few more reps and discards the bumper.

His biceps bulge out of his white sleeves. The sleeves have ridden up to show his paler skin. He takes a rest then grabs a tire. The veins in his hands pump.

He firmly plants his feet in the gravel and sticks his glutes out for proper form. He holds the tire in front, bracing it with his large hands on each side, his hard triceps flexing. His empty jumpsuit sleeves loosen around his hips as he squats, but the pants are held up by his ass. His quads burn as he digs his boots into ground for leverage and continues squatting.

From the shop, he hears, "Corey! Lunch is here!" He sets down the tire with a thud and lets it roll away. It comes to rest against a Ford Bronco.

Corey pulls on his sleeves and goes to the office. He devours a footlong meatball sub, holding it with both hands, bracing his elbows on the break room table, his forearms flexing, mouth full, jaw and Adam's Apple moving with each bite.

He spends the rest of his break in the garage. He sits with his big legs spread, an elbow braced against his knee and curls a heavy tool box with just three fingers because the handle isn't big enough. He squints with every bulge of his bicep as he pumps, until he realizes his glasses are fogged and his armpits are damp all the way down the sides of his jumpsuit.

After lunch, at the back of the scrapyard, he does lunges, holding a tire. He lunge-walks down a row of cars, turns the corner and comes back through another row. His jumpsuit strains at the seat each time he comes down. He keeps going until he feels his lower back sticking to his jumpsuit with cold sweat, potentially drawing attention to his prominent glutes.

His face is hot. His curls are damp and matted to his forehead. A bead of sweat rolls down his thick, tan neck. He catches his breath and picks up the clipboard again.

After work, Corey goes home and instantly regrets it. A few days ago when he didn't come home, Joan was beside herself. This time, she's unhinged. Her northern accent intensifies into a monologue that doesn't end until Corey leaves.

"Who's been taking advantage of my baby boy?! Who?! I can smell her on you, Corey. She doesn't love you! You know none of them care about you, Corey. You're handsome. You're sensitive. They should be so lucky. Your mother loves you, Corey! Come home to your mother! What's happening to my baby boy?!"

His deep, gruff voice interrupts her painful whine. "I'M FINE, MA," is all he says.

"OH MY GOD, COREY, YOUR NECK!"

Corey opens the fridge.

"OH, COREY, I'm so sorry. Let me go buy you some chocolate milk! I’ll be right back, you stay right here." She grabs her wallet and nods to herself like that’s going to fix everything. Then she remembers, "Oh, you know what? Do you want some custard? There's some custard in the fridge!" She puts her arms on his hulking back and arms.

So now boys who keep secrets get custard. Too little too late. “No thanks, Ma.” She grabs her keys off the wall, distressed.

Corey goes upstairs to wash. He plugs the drain and turns on the water. He looks in the mirror as the bath fills. His jumpsuit hugs his broad shoulders and chest. He peels it off, followed by his soaked undershirt. His muscles are still pumped up. His neck is still red from Michael choking him.

His large fingers graze the marks on his neck. It turns him on, but he's saving himself, and he can't relax with Joan like this. (Y/N) hadn't even mentioned his neck. She must have known. His eyes well up as her essence fades away in the bath. Being inside her felt like being sucked by an angel. They’ve barely explored each other. The things they could do.

When Corey pulls the plug to drain the bath, Joan yells right outside the door, "COREY?! Are you alright?!"

“I’M FINE, MA,” he says again. He changes into jeans and a button-up shirt. The stairs rumble as he lets his weight carry him down.

"I've gotta go, Ma." Joan grabs him and forcefully kisses him on the lips as he leaves. It's like she's afraid it's the last time she'll see him. Maybe it will be, he thinks.

Corey picks Allyson up on his motorcycle. Her small arms wrap around his ample torso. Part of him would rather feel Michael’s bulky arms, just to know what it’s like to feel small.

Corey didn’t have a dad growing up. By the time Joan met Ronald, Corey was becoming a man. It was all handshakes and pats on the back, an occasional brief hug if he needed one. He’s never known the true embrace of a man’s strong arms.

Being close to Allyson reminds Corey of what he likes so much about her. She has the energy of someone who has lived through hell. She's experienced Michael Myers in spree killer mode. It's clear she came away changed in some way. She must have a dark streak, Corey knows it. He just has to tease it out. The tinder is there. He just needs to light the match.

Allyson's arms feel good around him. He wants to have her as his own, but he also wants to feel understood. It’s not possible for Allyson to understand him the way (Y/N) does. The way he thinks Michael might. If Corey can tempt Allyson onto the dark path, she’ll understand. Then he can have it both ways - someone of his own, and someone who understands.

He longs to bring Allyson over, but the notion also feels dangerous for Michael, and therefore Corey, thanks to Laurie Strode. Laurie is Michael's most dangerous predator.

At the diner, Corey pretends to study the menu, but he always gets a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake. What he's really doing is weighing his options with Allyson.

Aside from the threat of Laurie, monogamy is Corey's other point of hesitation. He assumes Allyson would expect it. A few days ago, he would have expected it. He would have embraced it, loved it. It was his natural inclination. But now, he doesn't know if he can help himself.

It's not just Michael that he wants to stay open to. The idea of not being with (Y/N) again is physically painful. He's thinking about her more than he expected. Corey still wants Michael to own him – if that's what it takes. But Corey loves pussy, too. Why can't he have it all?

Corey wasn’t like this before, or if he was, he didn’t realize it. He certainly didn’t act on it. This uninhibited appetite all started with Michael's hands around his neck.

When Corey first met (Y/N) in 2019, that was almost a year after the botched transfer from Smith’s Grove, so she already knew Michael. Michael already knew her. For all Corey knows, she was a choir girl before Michael let her survive.

Corey decides he'll give Allyson a tour of the dark path, and whether she stays on it is up to her. He starts by baring his soul as they eat. He shares enough of his darkness to intrigue her and be truly vulnerable. His dark eyes fill with genuine tears.

He devours his burger, grease dripping down both of his strong, sculpted hands. He listens to Allyson, and she seems to feel the same. He sinks his teeth into the despair that underpins her story. Haddonfield has chewed them up and spit them out. As he slurps the last of his chocolate milkshake, things seem to be coming together.

They each have their own reasons, but it seems like he and Allyson want the same thing, in principle: to burn it all down. Destroy the town that destroyed them. She may not realize what this looks like to Corey, but it’ll come with time. He’ll make a bad girl out of her.

When Doug Mulaney tries to start some shit at the diner, Corey knows what he has to do, but he’s tempted to take him on man-to-man right there.

Corey’s always been equipped to handle himself, but there was a terrible irony. Before the accident, he never really needed to defend himself. Afterwards, he did, but he couldn’t risk appearing aggressive or even capable of harm.

Post-accident, he would cower all the time, and when he got bullied or roughed up, he’d take it like a punching bag. He was afraid of hurting anyone. It would feel bad and also be the talk of the town. Things would get even worse for him.

Physically though, he was always more than capable. God gave him a sturdy frame, and on top of that, he works out.

For as long as he can remember, he's been starting his morning with push-ups just to feel the burn in his pecs, then he flips over and brings his fingers to his curly hair and does crunches.

He has a pull-up bar on his bedroom door. He can watch an entire episode of the Regular Show while doing pull-ups and chin-ups. He doesn’t even keep count.

He likes to feel his shoulders and triceps harden; his biceps and forearms bulge. He bends his knees and crosses his ankles behind himself to fit in the door frame. Then, for a different burn in his ample thighs, he brings his legs in front.

He spends his downtime working out, and sometimes he doesn't even realize he's doing it. It feels good and it's an escape.

Doug Mulaney, on the other hand, looks like he probably sits in his patrol car all day. While Mulaney is eating donuts and writing tickets, Corey spends his work day lifting heavy objects and using industrial sized tools. His hands and arms are so powerful that he can lift a tire overhand, palm-down, like a tote bag. Doug needs a gun to protect himself. Pussy.

Corey could absolutely take Doug Mulaney one-on-one, but he has to resist. He’s been looking for prey to bring Michael, and he found it.

He drops Allyson off at home. They share a steamy kiss that makes Corey hard. She’s obviously keen to get him into bed, but Corey is too focused. Another dose of the warm and fuzzy hormones will help bring her over where she needs to be, but not right now.

Ch 4 Part 2

Mulaney makes it too easy by tailing Corey on his way home. It will take no effort at all to bait him into the lair. At the very least, Corey will get to watch Michael even closer. If Corey is really lucky, maybe he'll get the (Y/N) treatment - pinned to the wall by Michael's most precious weapon.

Corey is still trying to wrap his head around Michael as a sexual entity. If the kill is what turns him on, Corey needs to be the closest person in vicinity when he kills. He parks his bike under the overpass.

Corey baits Mulaney through the encampment and toward the drain and visualizes what the kill will be like. He reflects on Michael’s last kill - the one he witnessed - and realizes Michael never even stabbed the guy. It was boss the way he strangled him with the floor lamp, but when he finished him off from arm’s length with a single slash, Michael almost looked bored.

Watching Michael kill was exhilarating, but watching him really come to life and stab someone, blood splattering on Corey’s neck – the thought of it hardens him more. With Corey bringing the prey, surely Michael will let him participate in the kill.

Mulaney follows Corey through the sewer, into the cavern, searching with his flashlight and taunting Corey out loud. The bright light lands on devious Corey.

Michael emerges from the shadows but doesn’t pounce. He looks feeble, almost confused, like Corey is interrupting his nap. Or maybe, he's letting Corey take the lead.

Corey has never felt so alive as he prepares to slash with Michael. He weakens and disorients Mulaney, incurring only a bloody nose and mouth in the process. He’s tempted to go all-in, but it's Michael’s turn. Michael moves slowly. Corey can’t wait to see him work.

Michael’s shrunken posture makes Corey look even larger. He urges, "Get up, get up, GET UP!" Michael pulls a rusted knife from the wall and Corey's body tingles with anticipation from his nipples to his groin. "Show me how," he says. "I need you to show me!" There are so many things he wants Michael to show him.

Michael swings. Mulaney stumbles back against Corey's broad chest. They fall to the ground, Mulaney’s weight spread across Corey’s sturdy body. Michael lunges toward them. Corey curls his big arms under Mulaney's, which are thin in comparison. He braces for impact, breathing heavily as he watches the Shape’s every move.

Michael wields the old rusted knife like a dagger. He raises the blade then plunges it into Mulaney's chest. Corey feels the tense body relax into dead weight in his arms. Corey breathes heavily and rapidly, spellbound. He doesn't take his eyes off Michael as the blood drains from their prey. Michael yanks out the knife, splattering blood across Corey's face. His arousal swells.

Something comes over Michael. He tenses and adjusts his grip on the knife. The black holes of the mask seem to look into Corey like the first time they met. Corey understands.

He braces Mulaney against his chest, and Michael thrusts the blade into him again. And again. Corey's eyes follow the blade. He savors the vantage point of Michael shafting into him. It has the same energy as Michael’s final thrusts into (Y/N). Every time Michael plunges the blade into Mulaney, Corey's solar plexus shoots rays of pleasure into his whole body. He could not imagine a more erotic experience.

Michael takes one step back and slowly stands up straight. Corey lets go of Mulaney and the dead weight slumps to the ground. Corey's jeans tighten with desire. His ass tingles. His chest heaves and he wipes saliva and blood from the corners of his mouth as he watches Michael. Corey's cock is throbbing.

Michael rolls his shoulders back and seems to reach an even darker frequency. Corey's eyes gravitate to Michael's crotch, which appears to bulge, just as Corey expected. It's not just his crotch, though. His muscles appear to pump, too.

Michael's arms and shoulders flex and he begins to quiver with energy. The tired old man from moments ago is a distant memory. Corey takes in Michael's entire form. His sculpted arms are visible through his sleeves. The stabbing has reanimated his truest self.

Corey aches to be filled. There's a space deep in his core that can only be filled by Michael. He flattens his massive hand against his clothed erection and winces while he waits for Michael's next move. The base of his shaft contracts and a wave of pleasure blooms deep in his core. He's afraid he might come in his pants, but he's not ready.

The last time Corey was in the sewer, the mask penetrated his eyes. Michael injected something intangible and indescribable into him that day. Corey, who was on the verge of disappearing, was transformed instead. Now he’s dying for Michael to penetrate him deeper. Turn him darker, freer. He can almost feel it happening.

Michael turns his head slightly. The fingers of his free hand twitch. Corey tries not to take his eyes off Michael as he begins to unfasten his own belt, thrusting into his own wide wrist as he does it. He's so hard.

Michael steps closer. His breath is loud behind the mask. He raises the knife. Corey reflexively scrambles to his feet and backs away until his back is flat against the wall. His unbuttoned jeans are held up only by the excruciating swell in his briefs. Michael raises the knife to Corey's sculpted throat and closes the distance between them.

Michael presses the side of the cold metal blade against Corey's thick neck, from his Adam's Apple to his jaw. It’s angled upward, with Michael’s large, leathered hand near Corey’s ear. The blade follows the hickey-like bruises from Michael's fingers. Michael takes a final step, and his foot is between Corey's feet.

Michael's sturdy thigh presses into Corey’s rock-hard, pulsating arousal. Corey can't help but thrust against him. Michael presses the knife harder against Corey’s throat, making him cough.

Corey feels something move against the bottom right edge of his abs. He's overcome with arousal to realize it’s Michael's cock, straining the leg of his jumpsuit, spanning from Corey’s lower abs to his thigh. It's thick and hard, like a warm lead pipe. Corey thrusts his aching bulge into Michael's thigh and Michael further presses the blade.

Corey feels a sharp pang of pleasure in his taint. He dares to grind his hip into Michael's engorged length, but Michael presses his own hip swiftly and firmly against Corey so he can no longer move. Corey is aching for relief. If he hadn't come so much in the past day or so, he's certain the sight of Michael's bulging jumpsuit would have made him come already.

Michael shows no signs of wanting his own release. Maybe it’s true what she said, that Michael loves pussy, but that doesn’t mean anything, because so does Corey. And what’s more, here’s Michael pressing an enormous erection into Corey’s body.

Corey tries again to press his body into Michael’s arousal. He wants to feel its warmth, feel it move. Michael’s hardness grows and his body stiffens further. Corey tilts his pelvis in a few small pulses to create friction and stimulate himself. His pre-cum soaks through Michael's jumpsuit.

A car horn blares outside. Michael looks down and away then relaxes the knife slightly, but keeps it against Corey’s skin. With the knife relaxed, Corey gasps and catches his breath.

Michael steps back, separating his jumpsuit from Corey's jeans and observes the wet spots on both of them. Then Michael looks away slightly. Something is distracting him. He sniffs the air.

Dread sets in. What was Corey thinking? Michael let him live and was letting him get close. He trusted Corey, and Corey betrayed him. He must know it. Michael growls almost imperceptibly, as though in agreement, and steps back into him.

Corey feels the blade of the knife rotate and dig in beneath his jaw. Michael could kill him with the flick of his wrist, but he holds it steady. Then, the sharp blade begins to drag slowly, very slowly, but lightly, along Corey's jaw. Corey feels a hot, thin line of blood separate into multiple narrow streams and stream down his neck. This is real.

Corey pleads "no, no, no, not yet" and grinds into Michael’s hard-on as though to show what he can offer. He wants to become one with Michael before he dies.

Michael pauses.

A knock on the drain pipe echoes through the cavern. Michael jerks the blade, slicing Corey's neck as he flings the knife across the cave. Blood oozes out of the slit. It's more than a trickle but doesn't gush. It missed the jugular.

(Y/N)’s voice echoes through the drain pipe. “Are you in there?”

Michael releases him. Without looking back, Michael walks with a purposeful, upright stride to the drainage pipe, then drops to his knees and gets in. It’s the first time he’s seen Michael on his knees, which does something to him. Michael’s lumberjack body fills the drain more than Corey’s, despite Corey’s broad, muscular stature.

Corey suddenly feels cold and unclothed without Michael against him. He listens to the echo of huge, heavy knees on the metal as Michael exits the drain.

Ch 4 Part 3

Rather than follow Michael out of the drain, Corey quickly fastens his belt and tiptoes across the cavern. He hides in a crevasse. Water plinks down from the ceiling. His hard-on is still raging. He’s so high on the kill that he wonders if he’s dead. He can’t believe how well this night has gone, even with blood running down his neck.

Corey killed with Michael. He awakened a higher energy in Michael. It’s nothing compared to the transformation Michael gave Corey, but returning the favor to some small degree makes Corey feel even closer to Michael. Michael not only choked him tonight, but sliced him. Then, astoundingly, pressed his warm, lethal cock against his body.

Corey was lucky. Michael may not have sensed his betrayal after all. The sense of relief dissuades him from pressing his luck any further tonight. He shouldn’t have gotten greedy. He can always see if things escalate next time. Before things go south, he needs to leave.

Corey can’t exit through the main pipe or he might run into them. He doesn’t know what (Y/N) would do or say. He’s almost more afraid of her reaction than Michael’s. If she can’t play it cool, Michael will know.

Corey surveys the dark cave for any sign of another exit and makes his way down the main hall, pressing his wrist against his zipper against his aching want. He considers stopping to jerk off but doesn’t.

He walks quietly but briskly to the end of the cave. He approaches the area with Mulaney on the ground. It looks like a dead end, but once he’s all the way at the wall, a very faint, dusty beam of light catches his eye to the right. He goes through the crevasse with the soft blue light, and sees that it’s a grate up above, not an exit.

Moonlight shines down through the squares above, illuminating a round room. There’s a fire pit and a huge, iron spit in the middle. Bones are stacked up around the edge of the room. It’s like a catacomb. Many of them look old, almost dry, but a few look fresh with bits of tendon clinging onto them. Corey walks around the perimeter. There’s a bone saw against the rock wall and a tin of matchbooks.

He approaches the middle of the room. The fire pit is round and made of smooth, pale stones. The spit has scraps of burned meat stuck to it. Corey steps closer. It smells like barbecue. He looks down into the fire pit. Those aren’t rocks, they’re human skulls. The blood drains from Corey’s face. His heart races and he stumbles backwards but catches himself. This is Michael’s Ossuary and Grill.

Thumping and dragging noises begin to echo from the drain pipe. The thumps are irregular. A faint light begins to bounce around the cave. Corey scrambles to find somewhere to hide as the thumps get louder. He finds a nook between the ossuary and another room in the cavern. He can still see into the ossuary. He hopes the ossuary can’t see into him. The echoing thumps stop.

The artificial light brightens. Footsteps start, and the light moves in rhythm with the steps. There are two sets of footsteps. She asks, “Should I call it in?” Silence. Footsteps. Her voice is getting closer. “Okay. Hey, it’s okay. I just wish I knew who killed Nelson.” The vagabond, Corey realizes. He’s lying dead with a flashlight right outside the tent. That was part of his trap for Mulaney.

The lighter footsteps stop. “Wait, there’s already someone here,” she says. Corey’s heart races and he holds his breath. He can’t see them. He doesn’t know how she knows. Maybe she heard him breathing. Shoes scuff the ground and there’s a rustling sound.

“DOUG MULANEY? Jesus Christ, Michael.” Michael never stops walking. “I don’t even know what to say.” Corey exhales. The lighter footsteps quicken to catch up. "Did he find you?" They're very close.

Corey can see two shapes enter the ossuary, the huge one carrying another figure over its shoulder. Michael's breath is audible. There's a rustling and a loud thump. Duct tape rips off loudly, echoing through the cavern. Corey tries not to look, lest their light catch the reflection of his eyes. The light turns off.

He hears the snap of a match and the wind of a flame. A whoosh followed by crackling. The ossuary is gradually illuminated with a warm, flickering, orange light. It’s quiet for a minute. Too quiet for Corey to move. The warmth of the fire barely reaches Corey but is welcome. The room starts to smell like barbecue.

***

(Y/N) is sitting on the ground against the wall, catching her breath. Out of view, there’s a drag of metal on rock, probably the bone saw. She groans in disgust. "Yeah, think you’ve got this,” she says. “I should get going.”

The saw clatters to the ground. Heavy footsteps cross the room. Michael bends down and grabs her by the throat, then drops to his knees in front of her. He still towers over her, even with his knees spread over her legs. He doesn’t pick her up. Instead, he uses his other hand to jerk her toward him. With the hand around her throat, he forces her back onto the ground.

She chokes as he drags her closer, by the throat. Her torso comes to a stop between Michael’s knees. She manages to sit up on her elbows. She reaches out hesitantly, like she’s trying to catch a wild animal. Michael lets her touch his chest. His grip loosens and she gasps for air.

He sits back on his gargantuan haunches, which puts his clothed erection against her yoga pants. She gasps and looks straight ahead. The blood drains from her face. She reaches for his crotch as if her eyes deceive her. She runs her hand down the fabric, feeling his entire length. It must be the size of her forearm.

“Holy shit,” she says. Corey wonders if he's responsible for Michael's enhanced arousal. Blood rushes to his groin.

Michael cages her to the ground and yanks down her yoga pants. She looks apprehensive. She reaches for Michael’s chest. His hand snatches hers and brings it just below his upturned collar.

He slowly pulls down his zipper with her little hand. Corey's heart races. She tries to stop it but is no match for his strength. He grabs the sides of his upturned collar and thrusts his massive chest forward. The collar and jumpsuit fall back and a more precise silhouette of his back and arms emerge. He lets the long sleeves hang to his sides.

The firelight isn’t great, and the angle isn’t perfect, but from what Corey can see, Michael wears a dark, almost too-small t-shirt. His muscles are utterly unreasonable. His arms are the size of her thighs.

Corey looks around frantically but doesn’t find a better view. He desperately wants to see everything, but this is also his best chance to escape.

Michael's expansive back and empty sleeves obstruct the view of his crotch, but his back in itself is a vision, even under the dark t-shirt. He yanks the rest of her pants off and nudges her legs open with a giant knee, making space for himself.

Finally, Corey catches a glimpse of that monster cock. It’s commanding. Michael lowers himself over her before he can see it in more detail. She moans at the feeling of his naked girth hard against her. She rolls her hips. She must be so wet. But as Michael begins to position himself for entry, she begs, “please," she squirms, "it’s too much.”

Corey reaches for his pants and palms himself desperately with his massive hand. He shifts slightly toward the exit of his nook just in time to see her back arch as Michael shoves himself into her. She groans loudly and his enormous hand grabs her throat. His hulking muscles move gracefully under his shirt as he begins to fuck her. Corey can’t pull himself away.

Michael pushes slowly at first, like he’s letting her accommodate his even larger-than-usual size. She cries and paws at his chest. Every thrust is so powerful. Her legs are spread wide with her knees up. Michael never takes off his mask.

Her face hotly twists in pain. He persists. With time, her cries turn into soft moans and occasional gasps. She reaches up to his chest as she stares into the mask holes. His large hand swallows hers. They’re both sweating by the fireside as Michael's hips powerfully meet hers again and again.

Corey tries to ground himself. If he has any hope of moving things forward, he must make it out of this cave tonight. He backs away slowly. His arousal aches terribly, but he can’t indulge it, not right now. He needs his wits about him.

Michael just barely grunts, and it stops Corey in his tracks. It’s the hottest sound he never thought he’d hear. He steps back to where he was. He has to watch, come what may. He makes himself a deal. He can stay a few minutes if he doesn’t touch himself. Corey wants Michael, but he also wants to be Michael inside of her.

Michael grabs her hips and pulls her into him harder. Her feet come into the air and wrap loosely around him. Her legs are so small against Michael’s body. His rhythm quickens and he leans down closer.

Michael’s arms glisten and bulge out of his short sleeves. His strong forearms slide under her. With an emphatic thrust, he pulls her against him and scoops her up. He sits back on his haunches and holds her tight against himself. He grips her by the waist with her legs draped over his hips and continues to pound into her cunt.

He moves her rhythmically against his lap, jamming her down around his cock every time he thrusts. Her feet stick out behind him and bounce in the air each time she comes down on his shaft. She gasps throatily. Michael’s hands dwarf her. She looks like a doll getting bounced around. Michael breathes heavily and wraps his arms tighter.

Corey wants to fuck her like that. He also wants Michael to wrap his arms around him like that. He feels pre-cum seeping into his jeans. His cock twitches desperately.

Michael moves his hands to her ass and she hangs on around his broad neck, her arms grazing the bottom of his mask. He pulls back his speed, fucking her slower but with just as much power and pipe. After a minute, he slides his hands up her sides to her armpits. His thumbs cross her nipples, palms engulfing her breasts. He brings her down hard on his cock and Michael Myers audibly moans.

It’s too much for Corey. He brings his wrist down to his pants, unsure if he’s trying to stop it or get it over with. At the slightest friction, his cock empties itself in dramatic pulses. It feels like it happens in slow motion. A small gasp escapes his mouth.

She looks in Corey’s direction and her eyes widen just as he steps out of view. Michael keeps fucking her, unaware. Corey's heart pounds. His briefs feel full and warm.

It’s a challenge for Corey to move quietly. He's a big, burly guy. Every step he takes is heavy. He tries his best to silently slink toward the drain pipe. Sounds of animalistic fucking echoing through the cavern, masking his footsteps.

He hears breathing. Groaning. Rubber soles squeaking against wet rock. Fabric scraping the ground. She wails, he grunts.

Corey reaches the pipe and gently crawls into it. He goes very slowly, one big knee at a time, his large, filthy hands spread out in front of him. His knuckles are white. Moonlight is visible ahead. In the distance, behind him, he hears a whine, a choke, a slap, and a scream.

Then, he hears traffic from the overpass and feels cool, fresh air against his face. Just a little further and he steps out of the tunnel and collects himself. He uses his massive palms to brush off his knees. He jogs out of view of the drain. He sees the red truck, and has the passing urge to get inside and wait for (Y/N). But after such a close call, he's committed to not sabotaging himself, at least for now. She'll be sore anyway.

Continue with CHAPTER 5

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free-boundsoul · 1 year ago

Text

Okay, I'm sorry if this isn't good but I haven't written anything in months. But I had brainrot and this is what happened.

(Guy x Honey shifter reveal)

~~read on Ao3 here if you prefer ^^~~

They never thought they’d actually be thinking of this. It was one thing to get all that damnable paperwork done just on the safe side. That shit took months and was a huge headache. It was merely a precaution in case they’d slipped up, they weren’t perfect, they knew accidents were bound to happen dating an unempowered. At least that way Guy’s memories wouldn’t have to be altered because of their carelessness. It wasn’t because the thought of having someone routing through his chaotic mind had them feeling oddly (overly) protective.

But it was a long time ago that those forms had been submitted and approved. They’d done that once they’d moved in with him alone and his…confession. That fucking confession changed everything. Made them realize that their feelings weren’t just one sided, that they could actually have something more than just friendship with this bundle of chaos personified. He was so supportive, over their schooling, their career, their…less than social personality…

But how the fuck do you tell someone you can transform into a bear?!

Honey groaned, their head thunking down on the kitchen counter. How do I tell Guy that? They could already imagine the puns and that was the good outcome. The worst was he thought they were crazy and didn’t want anything to do with them. Though the gremlin had certainly proven he was crazy enough in his own right. But…the thought of his rejection still stung. It’s the only reason they’d been putting it off.

They wished they had a better relationship with other shifters with unempowered partners. They knew the Alpha of the Shaw Pack and his Beta had unempowered mates. But fuck asking something that intimate. Meeting David had…not gone horribly but they didn’t say much to the other, sticking by the wall of a Shifter function because the crowds had been too much for them. There’s no way they could just ask him something so personal.

As for Asher…he was nice. Too nice. They didn’t need to hear all the mushy shit he’d tell them. He was known for gushing about his mate like a lovesick pup, even after the years they’d been together. They just weren’t good at mush…not when it didn’t come to their little menace.

A frustrated growl rumbled out their throat. They could keep hiding it, keep Guy in the dark but…but they were still empowered and Guy had started to notice certain things. Their absences every once in a while in a guise of hanging out with ‘friends’ which Guy knew they didn’t have many. They had to shift sometime, it was a need, even if they could put it off. It was like finally getting your back to pop after having a knot that only got bigger and tighter the longer you ignored it. And then there were the Solstices. That pattern was a lot more obvious. He’d even asked them if it had something to do with a religious thing.

The last thing they wanted was for Guy’s overactive imagination to run wild and him mistake their absences and little white lies as something worse, like cheating. They would never, but they’d read plenty of testimonies of other empowereds online about their partners thinking that. It was so frustrating, they couldn’t stand Guy having that thought. Not even for a second.

“Honey! I’m home! Oh what smells amazing? Do you have another bake sale thing? Can I please taste test this time? You know, you can’t just drop stuff off without tasting it, you gotta make sure it’s scrumptious. Maybe not as scrumptious as me but then what is?” Their lips twitched at his humility, though they made sure to school their face as he walked into their kitchen. “Woah, holy shit, Hon. How big is the bake sale, and are you doing it on your own?”

They felt their face flush the tiniest bit as they looked around. Baking was a coping mechanism. And with their current stress…they’d baked a lot. Almost every surface had a sweet. They rubbed a hand on the back of their neck, “There’s no bake sale.” They admitted softly.

And like that concern sparked in his eyes and he was coming up to them, his hand reaching out to take theirs. “Everything okay? I haven’t seen you bake like this since…well ever. The closest I remember was when you were stressing about finals. Though I will admit, I did like being able to help make sure they didn’t go to waste.” He teased gently as he squeezed their hand, eyes brightening when they allowed a little squeeze back and a small smile to curl their lips. “Sooooo gonna tell me what’s up? I’m waiting and very willing to provide any sort of comfort you need. And I do mean any sort-“

“Guy.” He stilled at their tone, eyes widening a fraction at how vulnerable they sounded. He wasn’t used to that. Frustration, exasperation, grumpy with a side of light violence…yeah, obviously. He loved being able to press their buttons until they gave in to those impulses. But the way that their hand started to sweat in his was not something he’d come to familiarize himself with. “I have to tell you something…”

Still, he was quick to nod, not releasing their hand even as his heart started to beat erratically in his chest. Whatever they wanted to tell him made their voice tremble, ever so softly. Guy knew it wasn’t the time for jokes, though he really wanted to fall back on them just to make them feel better, to make them scoff and roll their eyes or smack him. He swallowed thickly instead, “Sure thing, Honey. Do you want to talk here or…or in the living room?”

Honey took a deep breath, their grip changing to entwine their fingers with his. They hated how their palms were sweating and they knew he could feel it but they didn’t want to let go. Not if this was going to be the last time they’d get to hold his hand. “We can talk here,”

“Okay, okay. Wherever you want…is it about your job? Or did something happen with your family?” His voice was gentle as he met their eyes, his other hand reaching up to brush some flour from their cheek. Usually he’d be teasing them about what a hot mess they were. And he had to stop himself from voicing the thought. Focus you fiend.

Another deep breath to try and steady their nerves. “There’s something I need to tell you…And you’ll probably think I’m nuts, that I need to be locked up in an asylum or some shit but…but I’m telling the truth. I just…please don’t think I’m crazy.” Their words came out slowly at first until their words rushed out at the end and they winced. I already sound crazy…

Guy blinked, his head tilting minutely to the side as he watched them. His lips quirked up a bit as he squeezed their hand. “Well you’re dating me, so you’re already pretty crazy. But I don’t think that’s asylum-worthy.”

They couldn’t help but roll their eyes at that, “I’m serious, Guy.” Still, that little quip had the tightness in their shoulders loosening a little bit. They took another deep breath before they spoke, as calm as they could “I’m a bear shifter,” They kept their eyes on his as they said it. Watching as he gave them one slow blink.

“Honey…are you sure you’re feeling alright? Like I know you’re a grump, but that doesn’t make you a bear-“ He tried to tease, his hand tracing up their cheek to rest against their forehead.

They huffed as they swatted his hand off their regularly temperatured forehead (thank you very much). “I’m not sick, you goon. I can transform into a bear. Magic is real. This town is full of empowereds- magic users-.” They winced at the term, knowing Guy wouldn’t understand it. “I knew you’d think I was nuts…”

Guy furrowed his brow, it was probably the most serious they’d seen him. “Honey, magic isn’t real-“ his tone was so fucking gentle, like he was talking to a kid.

They let out a frustrated growl at the back of their throat “You want me to prove it? Will you believe me if I transform for you?” They snapped out before they froze. Did they really just suggest that? Fuck their temper, that would only freak him out! They should have suggested something else, they weren’t half bad at psychokinesis…

“Yeah,”

They blinked, eyes snapping back to meet his. He looked…calm. Well, at least he wasn’t screaming and calling the police on them yet. “What?” Oh so eloquent.

“Well yeah. If you transform into a freaking bear, I have to believe you, right?” He gave a small chuckle as he squeezed their hand. It just occurred to them that he’d never let go of them, he hadn’t even backed up. They swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. They hadn’t planned on shifting in front of him today…they hadn’t planned this far ahead. But if they didn’t do it…he’d totally think they were nuts.

“Fine, okay…let’s go to the living room. We need to move the coffee table. I’m…I’m not small.” They mumbled before tugging him out of the kitchen.

“I coulda told ya that, Hun. Though you won’t hear me complaining, especially those thighs-“ They gave him a tug that made him squeak, his words dissolving into soft giggles. “Sorry! Sorry! Right, this is serious.”

“You’re such a fucking menace.” They grumbled, reluctantly releasing his hand so they could pick up the coffee table, not bothering to take off the things that were on it before they placed it against the wall. They gestured to the couch. “Sit…please. And…don’t freak out.” Please don’t run away screaming…

“Bossy as ever, you know I love it~” He purred as he took a seat on the middle cushion. Guy wasn’t stupid, well Honey might beg to differ, but he could see how nervous they were. If he could try and get them to stop overthinking in that head of theirs, he’d tell all the stupid, dirty quips he could.

They pierced him with a withering stare before they started to take off their clothes. He couldn’t help but blank for a moment, heat spreading in his stomach despite the conversation they were having. He opened his mouth before they cut him off, “Swallow whatever perverse comment you’re thinking of. It might be magic, but it won’t save my clothes from getting wrecked from my form shifting….and I like this hoodie.” I bought them that one. Guy had enough brain power to register that thought.

They set their clothes on the floor. They gave him one last look, almost savoring the way his eyes were lit up as he watched them, glittering in that mischievous way of his. Why had they expected this gremlin to take this seriously? They almost wished they were a Telepath so they could just read his thoughts.

Before they could second guess themselves, they shifted. The magic changing their form, their bones reforming, fur flowing like a wave over their skin. Their jaw changing shape was always the weirdest feeling. But damn if it didn’t feel good, settling into a form so familiar it was almost home. Their head snapped up when Guy gave a quiet gasp, his eyes wide.

Oh shit, he’s freaked…please don’t run away, I won’t hurt you…you know that don’t you? Not anything more than my normal play hits anyway… Honey lowered their head, keeping their gaze on his. It was hard to look small in this form, though they tried to keep their paws with their long claws tucked beneath them. Keep their mouth closed so he wouldn’t see their teeth.

“Honey? You’re really…you’re really a bear…holy shit…I didn’t get attacked by a stray pizza peel, did I? Rosa almost brained me that one time-“ He paused when they slowly shook their head at his question. “Holy shit, you understand me? Of course you do, you just shook your head. Hey! Don’t give me that look! You’re a freaking bear the size of the living room! I don’t know how this magic shit works!” He rambled out after they gave him one of the stares they gave him when he asked a particularly stupid question. Guess it translated pretty well into bear form.

They quickly shifted back, starting to pull on their clothes. “Yeah, I can understand you, I just can’t talk. I don’t have the-“ They paused when they noticed him staring at their bare chest, their hand snapping out to flick his forehead “Will you please pay attention?” They grumbled before they pulled their hoodie back on.

“You can’t just suddenly appear in front of me naked and expect me not to take full advantage of the view,” He chuckled as he scooted over, patting the spot he’d been sitting in. They sat down beside him at the invitation.

“I could hope…this isn’t exactly easy to tell you.” They grumbled as they crossed their arms over their chest, leaning back against the couch. They jumped when his hand curled gently around their shoulder, turning to look at him.

“I know…and I have questions, like…a lot of questions. But thank you for trusting me with this…I know this must have been weighing on you. But you can tell me anything, Honey. Even if its crazy, I’ll still listen, you know? I want to be there for you…” His voice wavered with the sincerity in his words, and they couldn’t stop their heart from melting or the tears that welled in their eyes that they quickly blinked away. Still, it didn’t stop them from hooking their fingers in his shirt and pulling him in closer to press their lips against his. They could feel his smile against their mouth as he slid closer, his fingers curling into their hood. They pulled back for a moment, resting their forehead against his.

It felt…so incredibly right in this moment. No more secrets hanging over their head, his taste on their lips and his warmth at their side. Sure, they still had to answer his questions but the hardest part was over, right? He was still here, looking at them with that dopey smile, his eyes all soft as his fingertips trailed along their jaw.

“Hey…I have a question,” He whispered against their lips. They couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“You did say you have a lot of them. Hit me,” They pulled back slightly, ready to answer any kind of questions he had, even if they were asinine.

“Does this make you my Honeybear now?”

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fanfic #redacted guy #redacted honey #honey is a bear shifter #i feel so rusty #but i relate too much to Honey #and got brainrot

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sienne-k · 1 year ago

Text

how much should my longings fall like snow by Sienne

attack on titan | ereri | 2,8k chap 4/4 | fluff, winter vibes, canon compliant, set in s3

written for Ererimas event by Ereri Nation day 4, prompts used: [birthday], [knitting] and ["I've dreamt of this moment for so long but not like this."]

summary:

It is his birthday, and Levi is stuck in his office hard at work, no thanks to Eyebrows. At least Eren is there too, to keep him company... If only he would pay him any attention, that is. Levi might not be as patient and accepting of his lot as Eren, preferring to sulk petulantly, but he still gets his reward. And a double one, at that! Life's great for grumpy Captains, as long as there are Titan subordinates around.

full text under the cut. as long as yesterday, so might be better on ao3

Levi was sat behind his desk in his office, the usual mountain of paperwork divided into two smaller hills at each side. He was leaning forward between them, elbows on the desk while his chin rested on linked hands, completely ignoring his job in favor of observing his guest.

A guest who had invited himself in with a begging gaze that Levi had no reason to refuse, and who now occupied almost the entirety of his couch. He was fully immersed in whatever it was that he was doing, too, and paid barely any attention to the Captain. Even though it was his room he literally barged in. Albeit he did so politely.

“Everywhere else there are people distracting me, or Mikasa could walk in and see.” explained Eren without bothering to spare Levi even a stray look.

Brat, Levi thought half-irritated, half-fond.

Eren’s hands hadn’t stopped once in their movement, the swish-swoosh of the wooden sticks hypnotizing Levi into completely abandoning his work to focus on them. And on the long, slender fingers moving them with practiced deftness. The nails were trimmed neatly and there was not even a speck of dirt underneath. There were a few callouses from harsh training, but otherwise they were very nice fingers, attached to hands which were just as nice. Levi remembered that, as he held them tenderly in his just yesterday, the skin felt very smooth and warm, warmer than anyone else’s. That fit him just fine, as his own ran rather cold.

“Why is it such a big deal if she sees?” Levi continued the conversation, hoping to provoke Eren into paying him more attention.

“Because it’s a surprise gift! It’s tradition.”

There were no more words forthcoming, and Eren did not look at Levi, either. He pursed his lips, having half a mind to throw the boy out if he couldn’t even deign to indulge Levi in his own office, and on this particular day to boot.

But that would mean not having Eren there at all, to at least enjoy the sight of him relaxed on Levi’s couch. And it wasn’t like Eren knew it was his birthday.

Levi opened his mind to give it another try, but was interrupted before he even got to start.

“Um, I need to finish it today…” Eren bit his lip as his hands stopped and he (finally!) glanced at the Captain. He hesitated for a moment but then continued, “And I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, I know you said the Commander asked you to approve the new indoor training forms...”

Curse you, Erwin, Levi thought. For giving him more work on his birthday, but also in general, for being a pain in the ass. And curse you too, Eren.

It was a masterful maneuver. With one sentence, Eren implied for Levi to mind his own business and to stop being a nuisance so he could finish Mikasa’s gift in peace, while outwardly reminding him of the duty that he was supposed to be actually doing.

Levi was sure that on any other day, one that Eren wasn’t busy with his own thing, he would have bothered Levi regardless if there was any work request from Erwin; he would have simply pretended he was being helpful or that he didn’t realize it was important.

With a sigh, he capitulated and went back to his mountain of paperwork as Eren focused right back on his wooden sticks and colorful threads that were making a tangled mess on Levi’s couch.

Although he couldn’t help one last, bitter mumble. “And is there a gift for the Captain who tries his best to keep you alive and safe?”

“I thought you didn’t celebrate?” Eren replied innocently.

He was right, Levi didn’t. Thoroughly defeated, he took his pen in hand and once more focused on Erwin’s snobbishly elegant handwriting.

“I’m done!” Eren announced triumphantly, holding the finished scarf up in the air to properly admire it.

Levi put down his pen. “I’m done too, thank fuck.”

He put his hands up in the air similarly to Eren, but instead of admiring anything, he was only stretching his spine and shoulders. It had been hours and his back was killing him.

Levi looked at the scarf Eren had been toiling over for the whole day. He had to admit it looked rather pretty, all dark red like Mikasa’s current scarf, but with an elegant leafy pattern woven at the ends with thin silver and black threads.

“Didn’t expect you to be any good at sewing,” he commented, actually interested.

“Thank you,” Eren accepted his subtle praise, already a master at discerning what Levi wanted to convey.

“It’s actually knitting, not sewing. Mom would teach me whenever she wanted me to sit quiet and out of trouble,” he admitted sheepishly. His mouth twitched in a barely-there smile, eyes looking somewhere far away. “She thought it would keep me occupied for long enough to cool down from whatever angered me that time.”

Imagining a tiny Eren throwing around fists and shouting at whoever disagreed with him the way he still did with Jean… Yeah, Levi could guess easily why Mrs. Yeager might have wanted some peace and quiet. Even if the image was fucking cute… And Levi wasn’t in the business of using that word lightly.

“I’m sure Mikasa will be happy to receive it,” he replied awkwardly around the elephant in the house. He got up from his chair and reached for the finished paperwork.

“I just hope she will actually wear it and throw away that old, dingy thing,” Eren muttered. “It’s so threadbare and smelly even after washing…”

Levi pretended he didn’t hear that last part, though he couldn’t help the shudder that ran through his body. For such a well-kept girl, that old scarf truly was the only blemish on Mikasa’s perfect image. Thankfully Eren seemed to keep his clothes clean and tidy, quickly replacing what needed to be replaced. Even if he always got the same thing over and over.

Eren noticed Levi was away from his chair, collecting the papers he had slaved over for the last few hours.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you going somewhere?” He began hastily grabbing the messy, tangled threads still occupying most of Levi’s couch. Strangely, there were more colors than Eren had used for Mikasa’s scarf.

“Yeah, gotta give these to Erwin.” And then finally freedom for the rest of the day. Or, well, what was left of it.

“Oh,” Eren said awkwardly. “So you will be spending the day with the Commander…?” he trailed off.

He was clearly fishing for information, but Levi let him off with only a side look and a raised eyebrow, and answered truthfully without further prompting. “No, I will be going back to my quarters. I need some rest, not extra work. Or Hanji talking my ear off.”

“Oh,” Eren repeated, disappointed. “Then you won’t want to be disturbed?”

“Yes, Eren, I won’t want to be disturbed,” Levi said, exasperated. He thought he made it pretty clear…? Oh.

Levi cleared his throat, turning around and putting his back to Eren, and moved to the door. “But I won’t be too upset if just one shitty brat came for a chat.”

Eren instantly brightened, “Yessir!”

“Clear that shit up properly and lock the door behind you. You can give me the key back later.” With that announcement, Levi shut the door and hurried to Erwin’s office.

Perhaps his birthday was still salvageable.

He made quick time dropping off the paperwork at the Commander’s office, but once he arrived back in his quarters he had no idea what to do as he waited. No one had ever been inside, aside from Erwin coming to bother him about something he deemed important, or Hanji, who by now knew better and only came by to drag him out instead of inviting themselves in and chatting his ear off like they had done the first few times, before Levi had violently taught them better.

There was no last-minute cleaning to be done since he kept the room spotless, and there were no snacks in the kitchen he could set out to share with Eren. He did have a nice gyokuro stashed away for special occasions which this did constitute as, but would tea be enough? Eren was still young, and teenagers always wanted to eat. Would Eren expect to be treated to something? Well, even if he did, it wasn’t like Levi could just magic something into existence. Just tea it was, then.

A loud knock interrupted his frantic musing. He opened the door, instinctively looking up at the perfect angle to appreciate the excited shine of bright green eyes, accented nicely by blushing red cheeks. Or some kind of poetic shit like that.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” Eren said politely, hands folded behind his back.

Levi snorted. “No need to pretend I didn’t invite you.”

He crossed his arms and watched with hidden amusement as Eren replied, all the while trying not to look like he desperately wanted to sneak a peak of the inside of Levi’s private quarters.

“I did kind of invite myself…”

“Stop speaking like you’re Hanji and don’t understand what my boundaries are. Now get in.”

Perking up, Eren took a step forward, then froze. He smiled at Levi nervously, “After you, sir.”

That was suspicious, very suspicious. But it was Eren, so Levi figured there was nothing to fear, and anything he wanted to know he could pry from him once they were settled inside.

He heard the door close as he got comfortable on his couch, waiting for Eren to join him. But the boy only shuffled closer to the fireplace and kept standing there, shifting from foot to foot.

“Did you not clean your asshole properly or what?” Levi asked, suspicious. He had better not brought any uninvited worms with him…!

“What? No!!!” Eren refuted, thoroughly shocked. He shot Levi an offended and hurt look, like he couldn’t believe Levi would think of him so badly.

“What else am I supposed to think when you behave so squirrely?” Levi defended himself. “You keep squirming like your ass is itching.”

Eren coughed, face flushing a deep red. “I’m not… itching. Or at least, I haven’t got any worms,” he muttered petulantly.

“Oh, so you’re itching for something else?” Levi bit back a salacious grin, even as he couldn’t help himself from teasing further. If he didn’t like it, Eren could consider it a payback for ignoring him earlier.

Eren huffed and rolled his eyes, quickly getting back his cool. The deep red on his cheeks stayed, though. “I suppose you don’t want your gift, then. Sir.”

Levi straightened up from his slouch, sitting at attention. His eyes were sharp and focused, not moving an inch from Eren’s.

“I don’t observe the holidays, though?” he prompted, remembering their earlier conversation.

“It’s not a holiday gift.”

“Well,” Levi stood up and stepped closer when Eren made no further move. “Where is it then?”

“I don’t know, where you a good boy this year, Captain?” Eren snarked, clearly still offended at Levi’s earlier insinuation.

“Don’t push too hard, brat, or you won’t like what happens,” Levi warned in a low voice, standing close enough to Eren now that he could feel his breath. The teen’s eyes were glimmering brightly with determination and giddiness. Levi usually wasn’t one to share in excitation, but this time he couldn’t help the thrilling anticipation that welled inside him.

“Is that so,” Eren murmured, eyes lowering to Levi’s lips, glowing even brighter. “I suppose I have no choice but to relinquish my gift, then.”

“Quite so,” Levi informed him. But nothing more happened as they stood there, almost nose to nose.

Finally Levi could take the tension no more. “Should I close my eyes then, if princess is feeling too shy?”

Eren pursed his mouth, a movement which Levi tracked avidly with his eyes.“Yes, actually,” he said with more confidence than Levi expected from someone with cheeks as red as the mistletoe fruit.

Deciding he wanted his gift already, Levi closed his eyes obediently. Perhaps the present won’t be physical anyway, if one considered their current position…

And it seemed like he was right, because he could feel Eren lean closer, his breath and bangs tickling Levi’s face, closer and hotter and—

Something soft wrapped around his neck and shoulders and he quickly opened his eyes, not expecting the sensation. Clearly not yet ready for Levi’s gaze, Eren froze mid-motion, both arms hovering around Levi’s head, holding two ends of a… scarf?

“Um,” Eren said. And then nothing else came out of his mouth even as it moved open and close like a fish out of water.

“What,” Levi said.

And since he too could not come up with anything else, he regretfully took a step back from Eren, who let his arms fall at his sides. The distance was needed if Levi didn’t want to get any more distracted. And it helped him breathe more easily, too.

“Happy birthday?” Eren offered with a shy smile. “I know it’s not much… But I hope you like it.” He averted his eyes away from Levi.

Levi touched the scarf that was still only half-wrapped around his neck. It was very soft and smooth, knitted with thin yarn in a small, tight pattern. It was in a dark blue color with a grayish sort of tint to it, glimmering from the light from the fireplace like steel. It was clearly very carefully made, the various bumps and valleys all uniform in size, with short frills at the end giving the scarf a more stylish feel.

“Thank you,” Levi said quietly but sincerely, sliding his fingers along the scarf time and again.

It was very unexpected, both the gift and how much it affected him. But there was no hiding that he was touched, and a thoughtful present like this deserved an appropriate response in gratitude. So he stepped forward again and reached out one hand to grab Eren’s nape, pulling him down to his height.

Eren gasped lightly and shut his eyes tight as Levi’s face drew closer and closer to his. Levi aimed carefully and put his lips firmly on Eren’s smooth cheek. He stayed there for a long moment, much longer than Eren had dared that time under the mistletoe. He felt Eren breathe as it brushed over his own cheek, but finally released the teen’s neck from his grasp and took a slight step back.

He met Eren’s eyes. They were shining just as brightly as always, but Eren seemed frozen, not moving at all; not even to blink. Levi raised an eyebrow at him and it must have released him from whatever spell Eren had been under, as he chuckled quietly.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long, but not like this.”

Levi was not surprised in the least. He had imagined this moment many times, as well. He was curious what Eren had imagined, though. “Like what, then?”

Eren closed that small step Levi had put between them, smiling impishly as he grabbed him delicately by the hips.

“Like that,” he said, then pulled Levi in and lowered his head, closing his eyes and placing his lips boldly on Levi’s.

Levi couldn’t help taking in a sharp breath, thoroughly surprised. He shouldn’t have been, though, since he had been baiting Eren for long enough. His eyes fell closed as he enjoyed the soft feel of Eren’s warm, inexperienced mouth on his, letting him do whatever he wanted. They had time for more advanced techniques that Levi would teach him later. He was looking forward to it, too; he already knew that Eren was a hard worker and very ambitious, and that it always yielded high results.

He threw his arms around Eren’s neck as Eren’s arms tightened fully around his waist, literally and figuratively closing any remaining distance between them.

When they were later on sitting on the couch in Levi’s private quarters, Eren said quietly, as if sharing a secret, “At first I actually thought of making you gloves, since your hands are always cold.”

“Oh? And how do you know my hands are always cold?”

“It’s because you keep hiding them in your pockets.” Eren grinned, silently admitting to watching Levi all the time.

Levi hummed. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what,” he asked, eyeing Levi’s lips distractedly.

“Why didn’t you make me gloves,” Levi repeated without teasing for once, simply enjoying the embrace and being so visibly desired.

“Ah,” Eren laughed sheepishly. An embarrassed blush colored his cheeks lovingly. “I just thought there are better ways of warming them up.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, interested.

Eren ducked his head down, trying to escape Levi’s stare, but it proved fruitless, considering Levi was the shorter one. “I thought I could keep them warm with my hands whenever you wanted,” he finally admitted, his face so red Levi thought he might start steaming soon.

“Hoh? Not bad.”

He took Eren’s hands to pull him closer, closing the gap between their mouths to get thoroughly kissed again.

#attack on titan #aot fanfic #my fanfic #ereri #riren #eren yeager #levi ackerman #fluff #canon compliant

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ravinewreyn · 2 years ago

Note

"The son of snow queen"

I just love Wilhelm, can you please write a short story keeping him in focus?

I actually had to rewrite this a lot because I can't seem to find the perfect short story. So thank you, Helsa Discord, for helping me with this.

And also thank you for loving Wilhelm, anon! I'm so glad so many people love him so dearly.

Rating: T Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa

He was a sweet tooth, just like his aunt.

Hans had pointed out that she was also a sweet tooth and their son had inherited it from her, but the Queen was quite certain this particular trait came from her younger sister. Because as much as she did enjoy chocolate, she preferred the dark ones—ones with the hint of bitterness.

Wilhelm did not enjoy dark chocolates.

He had tried it once, practically stealing it from his mother’s dessert plate that she had brought up to her office for something she could snack on while working, not quite familiar with the differences just yet, and had scrunched his nose and spit the piece back out the moment bitterness was what he had tasted instead of the sweetness he had expected, whining at his mother who desperately tried to hold back her laughter.

After that, each time Elsa had brought a plate of chocolates with her, the toddler had glared at it—eyes full of resentment—until she had offered one he liked, and even then he still narrowed his eyes suspiciously before eating.

But even after that dark chocolate incident, Wilhelm did not resent sweets completely.

No, he was still pretty much obsessed with it just like any other child would, eyes bright and growing wide just as Anna brought in a whole cake to the Recreational room while the platinum blonde haired Queen stared in disbelief.

“Dessert!” the younger sister had simply declared when asked about it, grinning. “Come on, Wilhelm, I don’t think I can finish it all by myself.”

She could. She definitely could. Elsa would not even doubt it.

The two years old boy had excitedly run up to his aunt as she lowered herself to sit on the carpeted floor. He didn’t even wait for his aunt to spoon-feed him his first bite of cake, diving right in with his bare hand as he grasped the cake—frosting and all—and shoving it right into his mouth.

“Or we can do that, sure!” Anna laughed, but had the decency to stick to her spoon after her older sister had thrown her a warning glare from where she was sitting while she read a report in her hand. “Well, how is it? Do you like it?”

Wilhelm, behind all those frosting and cake on his hand and mouth, and giggled and nodded enthusiastically. “Cake!”

“Cake!” the princess agreed, nodding as she ate another spoonful herself. “Cake’s the best thing ever, right Wilhelm? Well, right after chocolates.”

Clawing for another handful of cake, Wilhelm had skillfully pushed himself up even with one of his hands occupied, turning and coming toward his mother. Elsa had also sat on the carpeted floor, as she had used the surface of the lounge to spread the paperwork she was working on while watching over her son. “Mama, cake!”

That was the only warning she received before said cake was shoved right up against her face. Most had reached the intended direction that was her mouth, but the force as well as Wilhelm’s own fingers had also made sure that frosting were to smear all over her chin and even the tip of her nose.

Anna’s laughter boomed then, loud and clear across the room, as she even almost tumbled back if she had not been holding onto the other lounge by her side for support. “Elsa, your face!” oh she so wanted to throw a cushion at her sister.

But it was Wilhelm’s own giggles and the look on his face that had stopped Elsa from actually throwing anything. He had looked so pleased, so proud, that he had shared his share of cake to his Mama. Beneath those frosting on his little face, he was grinning so widely that Elsa’s heart was suddenly feel so full and warm.

“We’re matching now, aren’t we, my love?” she chuckled, pulling her son into her arms as she kissed him on the cheek, smearing another layer of frosting between the two of them.

Because even when Wilhelm had shared Anna’s love of sweets, he had always been her son.

#helsa #hansla #iceburns #prince hans #queen elsa #hans #elsa #princess anna #prince wilhelm #hans didn't actually make an appearance #but he's there in spirit #frozen #ravine's fic

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thethistlegirlwrites · 1 year ago

Note

Accidentally falling asleep together and one washing the other’s hair for John and Robin, reading a book together for John and Emma (you know what book lol), and patching up a wound and/or caring for the other when they’re sick (possibly blood or bite withdrawals) for Sierra and Shane (why is this happening? How did this end up as anyone’s best option? Up to you!)

Thank you! 💚

Thanks for the asks! These got pretty long so I'm gonna stick them under a cut. Hope you enjoy the results!

Stakeouts are some hunters' least favorite parts of the job, but John doesn't mind them. Not as long as he has a stash of cayenne pepper beef jerky and a good partner to wait out the night with. Being put up in an air conditioned motel room is preferable to sitting in the car, and less conspicuous. Especially when they're keeping tabs on a Red Cross blood donation center across the street that's been hit by vamp thieves three times in the past four months. The enhanced alarm system the agency installed last week (which in itself is part of what they're monitoring, vampire-detecting alarms are the latest hot commodity on the market and every company wants agencies testing theirs so they can put that on their promotions) is programmed to alert his and Robin's phones if it catches anything suspicious. But in John's opinion, there's still nothing like the good old human eye. He hears halting footsteps, and smells chicory and coffee, and then a warm mug is tapped against his shoulder. Robin joins him at the window, pulling up a chair and handing John his mug before curling in over his own. His broken foot is healing, but John wishes the accident hadn't happened in the first place. Being on stakeouts is much less enjoyable when the reason for them is having a partner on medical reassignment. Because God forbid Robin take actual time off like a normal human being to heal. John chuckles at that thought, earning him a confused look from Robin. "Is the coffee bad again?" "No. Just...thinking." "Should I be worried?" "Hey!" John says, cheerfully. "I'll have you know, my thinking has gotten me out of at least as much trouble as it's gotten me into." Robin chuckles, then takes a sip from his mug, hunching over it. John leans over to turn down the chattering AC unit under the window. It feels fine to him, better than the sweltering humidity outside, but Robin has never done well with cold. Not since Arion. John scoots his own chair a little closer to Robin's, and Robin leans in to rest against his shoulder, soaking up the body heat. John puts his free arm around him and continues sipping his coffee. At some point, Robin's breaths even and slow, and John sets down his own empty mug on the windowsill so he can gently take Robin's now-cold one before it falls and wakes the kid up. When the relief team appears at four am, John waves them over to the other side of the room, then closes his eyes. The only thing waiting for him back at the agency is a pile of unfinished paperwork and Maira's death glare. he's perfectly happy to wait here till sunrise.

...

"What is this stuff?" John asks, holding up a gummed together chunk of Robin's hair. "Pine sap." Robin shrugs. "There was a kitten stuck up there." "I'm surprised it's not stuck in your hair now. Half the rest of the tree is." John shakes his head. "How do I get this out?" "Try with the oil," Robin says, nodding slightly toward the kitchen cabinet the Rowan is opening. "If that doesn't get it, you could use alcohol." "So much for that bottle of whiskey I was planning on taking home, I guess." "Not that kind of alcohol!" Robin laughs. "I have rubbing alcohol in the house." John takes the olive oil bottle a branch of the Rowan is holding out to him. "Okay, well, we'll try this first." John works some of the oil into the most matted strands of Robin's hair. It works better than he expected. The kitten responsible for the whole mess wanders into the kitchen, rubbing itself around John's legs and complaining at being ignored. "I'm working here," John says, shaking his head, but stops long enough to sort of awkwardly scoop the little pest up with his forearm to avoid covering it in oil, and set it in Robin's lap. The kitten settles into his legs, purring and kneading energetically. John winces, but Robin seems immune to the claws digging into his thigh. John shakes his head and continues working on the sap, until Robin stops petting the cat and looks up. "Um...he's got some sap in his fur too..." "Oh no. I draw the line at cats who try to bite my hand off when I touch them. He's all yours."

...

"Your great-great-whatever uncle was ridiculous," Emma says, absentmindedly petting Mr. Prickles where he's sitting on the arm of the couch. "Did he not think about the fact that there were people on the other side of that window?" "I mean, that side of my family does tend toward impulse decisions," John says, closing his battered, first edition, signed copy of Dracula and replacing it on the side table. "Like letting a vampire stay in your apartment while her club-which-doubles-as-apartment is getting repaired from fire damage? Which, I might add, is indirectly your fault." "It wasn't even Robin this time!" "My insurance company is already upset about the last time." Emma allows Mr. Prickles to crawl up her arm and snuggle under her chin. "At least this time most of the damage was water after the sprinklers kicked in." John flips the book open again. "Funny story, I was reading this as a kid and left it outside on the porch rail overnight, and I thought Dad was going to tan my hide for letting the dew get it. Probably would have if it was our good copy. This was just an early training manual, more or less. Already had blood on it." "So what you're saying is, water damage is inevitable with you." "Pretty much," John grins. "So, where did I leave us?" "Your great-great-great uncle at the height of human stupidity firing his gun through a window to the inside, because he saw a bat." "If you still think that is the height of human stupidity, I guess I haven't been doing my job right." "Okay. The height of human stupidity is setting a vampire's club on fire on three separate occasions. And then inviting her to live in your apartment." "Yeah, you're probably right." John flips the page over. "Okay, here it is, the second stupidest moment in human history..."

...

"This su..." "Don't say it." Shay grumbles, curled in on himself in the corner of the cabin. "Right." Sierra tugs the oversized sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands and clenches her fists in them so she's not tempted to scratch at the pinprick marks on her wrists. She doesn't regret it. They had a cover to maintain. Getting the information they needed to take down the people behind an underground vamp-fighting ring was worth it. That doesn't mean they're not both paying the price. And maybe it's only fair that if Shay has to fight through blood withdrawals out here, she has to handle the bite version. She's chilled from the blood loss, but the vampire saliva in her blood is burning like a fever. She wants more, she needs that fiery high. She's heard that vamp venom makes most people feel blissed out and docile, but however it mixed with the adrenaline from the escape made her feel kind of like the world was slowing down and moving at a different pace. It felt good. Now, it feels anything but. Shay makes a muffled sound from the other side of the room, and Sierra turns to see him with his face buried in a pillow. "You okay?" "Wh-oo-nk?" She doesn't need to hear the words to catch his meaning from his incredulous expression. "Sorry, stupid question." That seems to be the core of whatever it is they are. Stupid questions, questionable decisions, and messy aftermath. She takes a step toward the window and then stumbles, catching herself on the back of a chair. The dizziness is kicking in in earnest. "Need the bed?" Shay asks. Apparently whatever urge to bite possessed him is gone, because he doesn't sound like there's a pillow in his mouth. "No, you will in a minute." This might be Sierra's first time dealing with a bite, but it's far from Shay's first experience of withdrawals. They'd discussed what he'd be likely to start feeling on the way out. And if he's right about timing, he's about to get hit with the worst of it. Which is going to be a serious problem. She needs synth-blood for him. Which they don't have. Once she kicks her own withdrawals enough to drive safely, she can get somewhere with a signal and call for extraction. Pete's got to be worried sick, and he's probably already combing the Oregon wilderness for them. But until she feels like she's not going to swerve their stolen jeep into the nearest tree, they're stuck. "Then share." Shay pats the edge of the bed. "I've been sitting on it for an hour and it hasn't fallen apart. Can't say the same for that chair." Sierra looks down. She doesn't see anything wrong with the wicker-seated furniture, but Shay's hearing is dialed in well above hers. Any minor creak in the structure, and he'll know. "I don't think that's a good idea." He wants blood, she wants a bite. That close, they'll drive each other crazy. "Nothing about us is ever a good idea." Sometimes she hates how perceptive and honest he is. She had to get partnered with an infuriatingly emotionally intelligent vampire who can also be as dumb as a rock. "Fine. I guess if you bite me you can drive us to someplace with a signal." "That's the spirit." Shay smiles, a weak imitation of his usual one, which tells her how much pain he's already in, but he's trying. "Not that that's what I'm going to do." She wouldn't hate it. In fact, she'd appreciate it. But it would only be putting off the inevitable. She sits down on the edge of the bed, hands clenched white-knuckled around the edge of the mattress, her pinky finger brushing up against his. Sooner rather than later, he's going to get worse. But for now, she can offer this much. At least they can be miserable together.

Asks list here!

#asks #ask game #john stoker #angus robinson #robin #emma cole #sierra aguirre-stoker #shane barrett #magic & silver #compass

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saiilorstars · 2 years ago

Photo

Ch. 18: Okay in the End

[Story Masterlist] // [Aitana’s Masterlist]

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag @arrthurpendragon @anotherunreadblog @maaaaarveeeeel @stareyedplanet @averyhotchner @foxesandmagic

If you’d like to be a part of this OC’s taglist, let me know!

Warnings: Due to the nature of the series’ plots, I do have to rate this as ‘mature’ for constant mentions of rape.

It was evening at the BAU and it seemed like everyone might just make it out at a decent time tonight. Morgan had already taken off to meet some "honey" and Emily had been nearly behind. Spencer remained at his desk, finishing up a few more papers while Penelope and Aitana discussed potential cases in the latter's office. Rossi and Hotch had been in Hotch's office for the past half hour discussing, though judging by the day that was tomorrow, Spencer had a good suspicion about what the topic of that conversation was about. He would prefer to stick his nose in his paperwork than be a part of that conversation. He only looked up when he heard Penelope's voice carrying out. She was leaving Aitana's office with her usual solo-rambles about the 'to do list' she apparently had going on.

"You're still here," Penelope said once she caught sight of him at his desk. "Course you are. You're Boy Wonder, you don't need sleep cos you're super!" Spencer smiled as she raised a fist into the air. Penelope stopped by with a decent sized pile of papers in her hands.

"Lots of cases?" Spencer noted.

Penelope drummed her fingers along the edges of the papers. She hummed. "Something like that. Sprinkles over there couldn't keep her attention on this for more than 5 minutes. That's really unlike her."

Spencer glanced at Aitana's opened office. "Really?"

Penelope nodded. "I wanted to ask her what was wrong but I didn't want to go poking my nose this time. I'm trying to stop that with her right now."

A light smile came to Spencer's face. "Really?" Penelope pointed at him, eyes narrowed and warning him not to go using that sarcasm on him. His smile may have spread. "Sorry."

Penelope decided she was too tired to continue with him. "Have a wonderful night."

"Bye," Spencer gave a weak wave as the blonde hustled out of the bullpen. He spent a minute thinking about what Penelope had said about Aitana. He looked over to her office. He could see her putting things in her bag, getting ready to leave. She was in a hurry but even from his spot, Spencer could see her grim expression.

Ever since the case with Seaver, Aitana had been at opposite sides with herself. One moment she was confident about what she was doing, whether it was another press conference or an interview, but then the next moment she was back to doubting herself. She requested supervision when she interviewed families. Even talking to the local precincts became harder. It was a sight to see considering how far Aitana had come since her arrival to the BAU.

He was startled in his seat when Aitana came out of her office in a hasty walk, much like Penelope had earlier. Soon as she saw him, her lips curved into a smile; always polite she was.

"Have a good night," she said just as she walked past.

"Hey Aitana?" Spencer called before he even considered how he might go about his next words.

She stopped to look back. "Yeah?"

"Uuh, are you...are you doing okay?" That may not have been the best question he could have formed. He made a face once he realized how incredibly dull and vague it actually was.

"Yeah, of course," Aitana still went ahead and answered him anyway. She even seemed confused that he'd asked her. "Are you?" If anything, he might be starting a conversation because he wasn't entirely okay.

"Good, yeah," Spencer awkwardly cleared his throat. If he didn't say something quick and smart, he was going to lose the opportunity. Being 'smart' is what he did best! "I was just wondering if you were still upset...about the case with Seaver?" Clearly she was, he just needed a way in.

Aitana's shoulders shrugged awkwardly, like even she wasn't sure what to feel. "I, um, it's been a week."

"Yeah but you haven't exactly been yourself since that case."

Aitana sighed. She walked back to the desks and stopped by Emily's. "Is it that noticeable?" Spencer could only half smile at her. Yeah, it was. She sighed again. "I'm sorry. I know you guys must be getting tired of me and my weird mood swings."

"No, nothing like that. On the contrary, we're just worried," shrugged Spencer. "Penelope was just telling me about it too. You know it's only a matter of time until she starts asking you too."

Aitana chuckled. "I'm actually surprise she hasn't already."

"She's trying."

Aitana laughed again though it was short lived as it ended with a long sigh. "I don't know, Spencer."

"What's wrong?"

"Me, what else?" She lifted a weary gaze from the ground. She let her bag drop on Emily's empty chair then sat on the edge of her desk.

"But what does it have to do with Seaver?"

"It's not her personality, it's just the fact of what I missed around her."

Spencer cocked his head at her, for once not understanding at all.

"Before Seaver came, I thought that I was actually getting a good handle on this job. You know — finally. I still needed a little help but...I was starting to do good all on my own. But then I missed things that led Seaver to Drew Jacobs' house."

"Wait, wait," Spencer started waving a hand once he realized where this was going. "That wasn't on you—Seaver didn't follow the instructions Hotch left her with."

"I should have realized that the laptop was missing earlier," Aitana said, "If I had, we would've gotten to her far earlier than we did. I missed it, Spencer, and it just makes me think that maybe no matter how much I try to push through, no matter how much I think I've progressed since Witness Protection, I'll just end up right where I started." She swallowed hard. "Maybe I won't ever move on from everything I lived with Witness Protection. I can't be normal anymore."

"Aitana, you're doing a good job," Spencer said, hoping that he wasn't sounding snappy. He was making a fact, something he simply knew. "You were doing great before we met Seaver and you're still doing a good job now. You don't have to have supervision for every interview that you do and I doubt that you need any help to do press releases. You have the attitude for it."

Aitana found a moment to smile in her grief. "Remember Morgan's dubbed me 'Spicy sprinkles'?"

Spencer laughed. "You're doing good. Stop being so hard on yourself and most of all, give yourself a break. Everybody makes mistakes but you know what? That whole case—it wasn't on you. Seaver's still learning too and the mistake she made was hers, not yours."

Aitana nodded. "Yeah." She liked to think that way too. Her family had said the same thing. She couldn't be so hard on herself and expect herself to do everything perfectly.

"You gotta say it like you believe it," Spencer remarked, making her chuckle.

She agreed with him. "I'm going to try."

Spencer made a motion for her to wait. He then pulled his right drawer open and pulled something out. "Hope this helps." He held out a chocolate marshmallow lollipop to her.

Aitana laughed with the clown face wrapper. "Thanks," she took it from him. "I can't believe you actually keep these in your drawers."

"You did say that I was missing out on them."

"Well, thanks," she pointed at him with the lollipop. "You know, you should add 'therapist' to those multiple degrees of yours. And maybe start charging me."

"Actually, I have B.A. in psychology but you need at least a master's to be a therapist," Spencer said, nodding until Aitana's other words struck him. "Oh, and I would never charge a friend."

Aitana pointed at him with her lollipop again. "Gotcha, you can't be your friend's therapist. Not ethical at all." Spencer thought about it for a few seconds and realized she was right. Aitana smirked as she slid off Emily's desk. "I just got Dr. Spencer Reid!"

Spencer would admit his defeat where it was due (but if it'd been Morgan who bested him, it would've been a completely different ending). Aitana still kept her little game going with him and it was frankly fun.

"Ah, now it's a goodnight," Aitana grabbed her bag from the desk chair. "And, just so we're clear, exactly how many degrees do you have?"

"Uuh, B.A.s in Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy. I have Ph.D.s in Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics."

Aitana blinked at him, almost looking like she expected him to take back a few of them. In the end, she exhaled deeply and nodded to herself, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"It does?" Spencer gave her a look for her odd response.

Aitana shrugged. "Don't know. I never met a genius before." She slung her bag over her shoulder again. "But I'm glad I did. See you," she waved with a smile.

Spencer waved goodbye then smiled to himself afterwards. He was glad he met her too.

~ 0 ~

The next day, the BAU would find themselves one Unit Chief short. Only Aitana would question why since she wasn't aware what day it was.

"What do you mean anniversary?" she followed Emily towards her desk. "Anniversary for what?"

"No one's told you what happened to Hotch's ex-wife?" Emily knew the answer to that before asking it. It wasn't exactly something that was shared so easily.

"No, what?"

"A year ago, she was murdered by an Unsub we were tracking. It was a whole case and it was bloody and terrible," Emily would really rather keep the details out of the story. Besides, Aitana got the gist of it.

"Oh, how terrible," she swallowed. "Doesn't he have a son?"

Emily nodded. "Jack was there too. It's a bad time for them both. Hotch's going to be out for the next couple of days."

"Oh God," Aitana mumbled. "That's completely understandable."

Emily moved around her, gathering some papers in her hands to meet with Rossi. "I'm hoping that even though Hotch is out, Rossi will let me get this through."

"What is it?" Aitana curiously asked. She couldn't see anything defining from her pile of papers.

"Seaver requested for her remedial training to be here."

"Oh," Aitana's eyes flickered to Rossi's open office door, "I thought she was only clear for one case."

"Yeah but I was hoping that they would give her a second chance. I'm willing to supervise her."

"That's nice of you," Aitana smiled.

"She wants to prove herself and, really, everybody makes mistakes when they first go into the field."

Aitana could agree to that. She wished Emily good luck and hoped for the best concerning Seaver. As it turned out, Rossi would give the all-clear for Emily to bring Seaver for a period of time. And she would even get a crack at a case early on. Lucky for them, it was right at home so they could stay right in their neighborhood.

"Agent Serrano?" A woman she had yet to meet called her just as Aitana had gone into the bullpen. She was an older woman with shoulder length blonde hair.

"Uh...yes?" Aitana slowly came back to the doorway to meet the woman.

"Erin Strauss," the woman introduced herself, leaving it as that because Aitana should know very well who she was.

Yes, she did. Hotch was very detailed when it came to Strauss and the overall message Aitana had received was that she should be cautious. "Ma'am," she nodded dutifully.

"Given light of the situation with Agent Morgan's reputation on the line, I have opted for my office to handle the press."

"Oh, um, okay," Aitana said. The case was already tetchy due to the fact the primary suspect was the very criminal Morgan gave a positive review for parole. Morgan was under fire and if she could help in any way, she would do it. Plus, a break from the press was never bad. "I will put all my attention on the profiling then."

"Yes, about that," Strauss raised a finger, suddenly making Aitana feel like she was about to be told off by a teacher, "I understand you're tackling a liaison and a profiler job and while it's admirable, I feel like it would be best if you stayed off the case."

Now that took Aitana by surprise. "What? You-you want me off the case?"

"Nothing personal, you just need the experience and this case is life or death for this division. I'm also pulling the remedial agent you have here."

"Seaver?" Aitana could care less what else Strauss was doing but she could really do without the pity assurance that all was fair. "No, that doesn't make me feel better at all. How do you expect us to gain experience if you keep us off the cases?"

"Calm down, agent, it's only one case," Strauss shrugged her shoulders. "Feel free to use this time to go through what I assume must be a heavy load of potential cases for the future."

"But—"

"That will be all," Strauss cut her right off. "It was nice meeting you." She turned away, leaving Aitana with her cut up words.

"But I...what…?" The brunette spun around towards the bullpen, eyes wide and soon to be filled with anger.

She stormed into the bullpen, making a beeline for her office without so much of a glance at the others. She assumed her position at her desk and grabbed a pile of cases, not even taking the care to see which ones she had gathered. It would only be half an hour later when someone dared to knock on the open door.

"Potential cases?" Rossi asked with a knowing look on his face. Aitana's smile was rather sour but at least he knew it wasn't directed at him.

"Something like that. Apparently, this is my only job today."

"Strauss told me what she would do," Rossi came in with a caution to his steps, as if Aitana would explode at him for his confession. "I'm sorry that I couldn't stop her."

"Rossi, I really doubt you are at fault for any of this." Aitana closed the file in front of her. "What's her problem with me? I never even met her."

"It's not a problem towards you," Rossi clarified. "This case just blew everything out of proportion, especially for Morgan."

"I know," sighed Aitana. It was the only reason she hadn't made a scene about this arrangement. Morgan was desperately trying to find out whether or not the man he helped get on parole had murdered again. She could only imagine Strauss was breathing over his shoulder. "How is he?"

Rossi gave a shrug of his shoulders. "You can imagine by now what Morgan is like to know the answer, right?"

A small smile marked Aitana's face. "Yeah, I think so. I'd love to help but Strauss took me off completely. This—" her arms gestured to the piles on her desk, "—is what I'll be doing today. For a liaison, that's fine but this isn't exactly what I studied to be."

"Do you not like it?" Rossi asked.

"I do," Aitana nodded. "I mean it was really challenging at first and, yeah, I still have some problems but I can see why JJ liked what she did here. The only problem is that being a Liaison isn't really what I studied to be. Being this full time...I wouldn't be able to handle it. I wanted to be a full time profiler."

"So let me ask you this, if you hand this liaison job over to someone else and stick with the profiler side, would you?" Rossi posed a good question and he could see the conflict in Aitana's eyes to answer it.

"Oh, Rossi, why do you have to go and do that?"

Rossi laughed lightly. "That's my side of the job, you know." He got a small laugh from Aitana in return. "Tell you what, kid. Why don't you grab a pile of these cases and go home."

Aitana raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you telling me to go?"

Rossi's hands went up in defence. "Absolutely not. But I also think maybe having a nice glass of wine—do you drink?" Aitana nodded, barely able to keep her chuckle in. "Excellent. Go home, have yourself a nice glass of red wine. Peruse the files and when we're done here, you'll have our cases."

"Is that an order?" Aitana half joked with the question. Rossi had yet to make it clear.

He bobbed his head, making noises of thoughts. "More like a suggestion, an alternative that brings you more comfort."

Aitana couldn't help but chuckle. "I commend your talent with your word choices."

"Thank you," Rossi did a mock salute. "Seriously, take the day off, kid."

Aitana relented any disagreements. Who was she kidding? She'd rather be at home than be stuck inside her office all day. "Will Strauss give you any heat for it?"

"Nah," Rossi said. "I think right now, you're the least of her worries."

"Then off I go!" Aitana resolved. She grabbed a few piles of cases to take home with her, at least to have something when the case was done, and deposited everything in a larger bag. She grabbed the last of her things then headed out.

"Hey, where are you going?" Emily called as soon as Aitana came down the steps into the bullpen.

At her question, Spencer looked up from his desk to see the decent bag slung over Aitana's shoulder. "Are you going home?"

Aitana nodded at the pair. "Yeah, Strauss wants me and Seaver off the case because of the situation so Rossi has been kind enough to give me the day."

"What? She wants you off the case?" Emily's face scrunched with utter confusion. "Why would she want that?"

"Because she thinks I'm not experienced enough, she doesn't want to take the risk."

"What?" frowned Spencer. "That's not true. You've proven yourself many times."

Aitana smiled at him. "I can't blame her. The case is really tough and if it'll help Morgan in the long run, I'll do it."

"But—"

Aitana raised a hand to stop him. "I'm fine, trust me." She was sure that he was thinking about their conversation the other day and while it was sweet of him to be that concerned, she'd rather not delve back into that in front of Emily. Fortunately, Spencer seemed to get the message and said no more.

"I'm sorry," Emily said, seeing there was nothing else to do for the moment. "We'll keep you posted, though."

"Please do," Aitana nodded. "Because if you guys really need me, I'll be here whether Strauss wants me or not. I hope Seaver takes it well."

Emily made a face. She'd check in on the woman later on. "What are you going to do?" she curiously asked. "Because if I'm sent home without pay, you sure as hell can bet I'm not doing work."

Aitana laughed. "Well, I don't know about the pay thing yet but, I don't know. I think Angel has the day off or something so...maybe we can do something together today."

"Oh," Emily's eyebrows raised at the mention of that name. As soon as Spencer saw her glance heading his way, he dove his face into his paperwork. He wanted absolutely no part in the conversation now. Emily was good at keeping her expressions in check with Aitana. "Well, sounds good then."

Aitana agreed with a nod. "Mhm, I'll see you guys." She headed out afterwards.

"Oooh," Emily sank back in her chair, this time letting her full gaze land on Spencer. "Have we verified if that's the boyfriend?"

"I don't know and I don't care," Spencer promptly said. "And neither should we. It's her life and we have no business prodding it."

"I wouldn't say 'prodding'..." Emily did quotation marks in the air, "...just…"

"Emily," Spencer said, motioning to the quotation marks, "That pretty much says it's wrong. Let's leave it alone." Emily agreed with a sigh. They did have a lot of work to do anyway.

#ocappreciation #fd: criminal minds #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fics #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fics #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds oc #oc: aitana serrano #fic: against all odds

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icariathebard · 1 year ago

Text

The Arkham Hellion: Year One

Chapter 2: The One Where Everything Goes Wrong

Warnings: Violence, swearing, murder. hospital setting, prison setting. Dark, criminal, and adult themes. 16+

Characters: Connie Inviglio (oc), Emril Griffith (oc), Harvey Dent/Two-Face

Word Count: 1.2k

AN: See this is the chapter where we start cooking with peanut oil

_____

Every Arkham breakout made a sick feeling settle on Connie- as it did most of Gotham. It also made her angry--once someone dangerous was put in the asylum, they were supposed to stay there for good, until they were safe to be around other people--but Arkham was so poorly run that it was only really a matter of time before someone slipped through their fingers. This time, it was Harvey Dent, who since his accident preferred the title Two-Face; and because it was Two-Face specifically, she worried.

Harvey Dent was once friends with her father, when Dent was Gotham’s District Attorney, and Mr. Inviglio worked for him. Mr. and Mrs. Dent would go out to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Inviglio, and it wasn’t uncommon for the Inviglio family to be invited to an event Dent was hosting. Mr. Dent was over ten years older than Connie, but Connie still saw him almost as a friend. She had fond memories with him in them, and with Gilda Dent, Harvey’s wife. When Dent was scarred questioning a criminal on the stand, Connie found herself worrying for her father’s friend.

And now that Dent had gone insane, and escaped the asylum he had been sentenced to, Connie found herself worrying again. She tried not to let it get to her… of all the things Two-Face would wish to pursue, her family couldn’t possibly be one. As she served herself and her loyal dog breakfast, she tried to forget how her dad had been the prosecuting attorney against Two-Face. As she grabbed her keys and head out the door, she tried to forget that Gilda might be one of his targets. As she drove through Gotham, she tried to forget that he was out there, and that something could happen at any moment.

Her positive psychology class helped boost her mood, and passed without a hitch. Afterwards, though, she was needed at Arkham. When she reached Arkham, she was forced to remember it all as she was faced with the aftermath of the breakout.

“Griffith!” she called as she entered Intensive Treatment. “What the hell happened last night?”

“I was at home, it was the damn night staff.” Griffith scowled, not so much at Connie but at the ever-incompetent system at Arkham.

“It’s always the damn night staff,” Connie grumbled under her breath. “You’d think that with us basically living out of Wayne’s pocket, the money would actually get put to some good goddamn use around here.”

“What, are you gonna take it up with Mr. Sharp?”

“Y’know, I just might.”

Griffith scoffed. “Like that’ll do any good. Save your breath, love. We’ve got to check in with the patients, see if they know anything.”

“Well?” Griffith asked, five hours later.

“They know two things,” Connie announced as she flopped into the chair across from Griffith. “‘Jack’ and ‘Shit.’ No one saw anything… they were either out of their mind, drugged to hell, on the other side of the building, or perhaps just too scared to admit anything. I’d honestly stick around, but I wanna check in at GCPD; the station is probably hell right now.”

As Connie logged out her hours, Griffith reached across, took the pen and signed it off.

“You told security everything, yeah?”

Connie raked a hand through her hair, and sighed,“Everything I could. But it's a little late to do any good, y'know?”

“Well, saying anything is worth something, eh?”

She hummed, and readjusted the bag on her shoulder.

“Ey, Inviglio?”

Connie looked up at her friend, and mentor.

“Stay safe, luv.”

An understanding silence settled in between the two, just for a beat.

“Thanks, Griffith. You too.”

Sure enough, the GCPD was completely on edge. She had paperwork to do, so Connie tried to tune it out and mind her own job. She didn't have a shift on Fridays, but she wanted to be here today. She just wanted to get everything in order, and be as helpful as possible. One of the other forensics, unfortunately, interrupted that.

“Hey, intern!” she called. “You work at Arkham, yeah?”

Connie turned around, and glanced over the speaker. She was short, maybe 5’2”, with her straight black hair neatly cut straight above her shoulders. A single barrette kept her bangs out of her face, and her beady black eyes stared pointedly at Connie. She remembered this lady - her name was Alicia Kemp.

“Yes ma’am. Can I help you?”

“How’d he get out?”

Connie sighed.

“I spent all morning trying to figure that out. I wasn’t there, and only the guards he beat on the way out saw him. None of the inmates know how he got out of his cell, or where he was planning on going.” Before Connie could turn back

“Shouldn’t you know these sorts of things?”

“I’m an intern there, just as I am here. And like I said, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know.”

Kemp turned to her colleague, and started whispering. He whispered back, but when she responded, Connie could here it.

“Arkham’s incompetent. If the inmates are just going to break out every other week, they should just bulldoze the place.”

Connie spun around in her seat to face Kemp. She turned back to face Connie, and arched an eyebrow.

“Arkham is not the greatest establishment known to man, but with the resources we have and the number of fucking psychos we have to deal with on the daily, Arkham is the most competent aspect of Gotham.”

“Really? You really believe that? This city is practically built on Wayne tower, and anyone with half a brain knows no one working at Arkham is even really trying anymore.”

Connie was on her feet instantly.

“You wanna know something? There are dozens of hardworking nurses at that asylum. And some of the most hardworking people I know are there. There are guards who genuinely do their goddamn best at Arkham, and they get shit on for it. So why don’t you save us all some time, shut the fuck up, and go unfuck yourself.”

Kemp glanced at her colleague, then back at Connie.

“That’s a lot of harsh language, intern.”

“My name is Caroline Inviglio, and Gotham is a harsh town. I can speak however I damn please. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got work to do, rather than just stand around and gossip.”

Kemp rolled her eyes as she turned away, as if Connie wouldn’t see it, but Connie could tell. It made her blood boil. Only after Kemp and her colleague had turned their backs did Connie take her seat, and turn back to her desk. Her temper hardly overwhelmed her like that, she worked hard to keep it under control, but this seemed to be an exception.

Friday night didn’t have any course classes, and Connie didn’t have to go to her self defense class that night. She was exhausted and bitter and on edge from a long day, so as soon as she got off work, she went home and collapsed onto the couch.

Arkham wasn’t a good establishment, but it was all Gotham had. It was all Connie had, too, and she refused to give up on the gloomy asylum. There was some good to be done there, some good to be found, even if Connie had to bring it to life herself.

When she finally went to bed, sleep came to her all too soon.

Four days later, Alicia Kemp was found dead in her home.

When Connie found out, she was almost sick to her stomach, but she couldn’t dwell on it. She worked for Gotham City Police, so homicide was no stranger. She just had to keep her head down, and keep moving forward.

taglist: @arts-and-sharks @burnthashbrown27 dm or ask to get added to the taglist

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