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unsolvedjarin · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! If this inspires you, could you write a platonic fic where reader (who is around Charles’ age and is also teammates with him at Ferrari) is on the podium alongside him and Seb (this being set when Seb is at AM), but like that video or Lewis (that I can’t remember when it’s from) she already seemed exhausted while receiving her trophy, and when they exit the podium, she collapses onto Seb? Just hurt/comfort vibes from both drivers, really. Maybe Seb is close to her like a mentor, he’s worried about her? I think that’s it. Even if you don’t find it inspiring, thank you for sharing your fics. They’re really good. 😊💚

note: thank you for the kind words anon! i saw the word “exhausted” in the request and i kinda ran with it so this might have strayed from the original idea a little bit, but i hope it’s to your liking!

gif by overtake

THERE FOR YOU

pairing: (sebastian vettel x ferrari driver! reader, can be read as platonic or romantic) (charles leclerc x platonic! reader)

summary: you overwork yourself, and pay the consequences for it by passing out on the podium. lucky for you, a certain german driver has the means to catch you and take care of you.

word count: 2.1k

content warning: hurt/comfort, mostly fluff, not grammar checked writing because its 2am

You were going to throw up or faint any time now, you were sure of it.

“Are you sure you’re good?” A voice asked from beside you. You recognized it to be Charles, who was preparing for the race the same as you were.

“With this excessive asking I won’t be,” you retorted.

“I’m just looking out for you, amour. You haven’t been looking great.”

He was right, you looked awful. Everyone knew Spa was a tough track, but you looked like you had just gotten back from war— and the Sunday race hadn't even started yet.

You’d been feeling horrible all Saturday, but decided to ignore it. After all, Ferrari was counting on you that day to get a high position in quali since Charles was out in Q2.

You were starting in 4th today, Ferrari praising you for your good qualifying result. But the sleepless nights on the simulator along with the strain of being in a car going roughly 200 mph yesterday were detrimental to your health.

But of course, you were too stubborn to call in sick for Sunday— Ferrari was counting on you. And you couldn’t let them down.

“AND IT’S LIGHTS OUT IN SPA!”

The race was long and tedious, but eventually you managed to overtake Lewis and end up p3. Considering the heavy rain and how Charles spun out, you were surprised you even made it to the top 5.

You can’t remember how the race ended as you exited your car, weaker than you’ve ever felt before. The roar of the Tifosi was loud, cheering on your podium win. Whenever you won or got a podium they made you feel proud, a large grin on your face and goosebumps all over.

But not today.

Today, it was too loud. Too overwhelming. You could feel your head ache and pound at the noise. You felt a hand on your shoulder, Max coming to congratulate you. You think he had won the race but you couldn’t be sure, everything was too hazy.

“Congrats Y/N! Your first podium this season!”

You give Max a weak smile and a firm handshake, the pressure almost making your vision fade. God you needed to get out of there.

You looked around, there had to be an exit. Some place where you could rest your head for a second and regain your senses.

Thankfully, a guiding hand led you to the cooldown room, and you recognized it as Sebastian’s. He had gotten 2nd, that you knew, you were battling for his position earlier.

Once you got inside the cooldown room, there was no other word that could describe it but moist. The rain outside had moistened up the inside, barely enough to be noticeable, but to you, sweaty from the race and sick, it was enough to have you stumbling onto your chair.

Sebastian could sense something was wrong, he wasn’t stupid. To someone else you would’ve just seemed like someone who was simply exhausted from a race, but he wasn’t someone else. He knew you.

Before he could ask you about it, however, a man led all three of you out the cooldown room to go to the podium itself. You were moving with half-lidded eyes, and a really really sweaty body.

“And in third, the Ferrari favorite, Y/N L/N!”

You raise your arms as high as you can and put up two thumbs up, exerting all your effort to put up a show for the fans. They deserve it, you think.

Unbeknownst to you however, Charles was watching from the side with a worried look. He was the only one who knew about your sickness the past few days, and his concerned eyeing was not ignored by an observant Vettel.

The champagne spraying was everything but fun, the overstimulation getting to you. It was too much, everything was too much.

The sickness, the sweat, the champagne dripping down your face— you just needed to rest for a second, just…lay down maybe…

“Scheiße!” Sebastian shouted out, his voice not heard over the hollering of the fans. With all the chaos of the spraying of champagne and the bellows of the orange army, no one had noticed how you had fallen into Sebastian’s arms, passed out. He had dropped his champagne in the process, and the breaking of the glass was what had gotten Max to notice what happened. He discreetly ushered Charles, who was still watching from the sidelines, to help Sebastian pull your dull body away from the limelight.

People were starting to notice now, and there were worried glances among the fans and the teams, but were eventually calmed down by false reassurances of ‘everything is fine.’

It was not.

You were burning up, a fever so high it would put the sun to shame. Not only that, but Sebastian had noted how you seemed more physically worn than before. Not an unhealthy amount, god knows being an F1 driver wouldn’t allow that, but enough for it to be noticeable.

You were awake at this point already, but still weak. Lying down on a bed in the First Aid tent, your eyes threatened to close on you again, before Ferrari’s resident emergency doctor walked in.

“Well the good news is we don’t have to bring you to a hospital, you just have to get some food in your body and rest.”

That reassured Sebastian a little, but not enough. He needed to see you healthy and well, or he would be a nervous wreck all week. Thanking the doctor, he was left alone in the room with you again.

As much as he wanted to be there for you, Charles was held up by media duties, which meant that it was only you and Sebastian for a good while.

The German had always been kind to you. Not only was he your friend, but he’d also taught you everything he knew, and half your skills were something you had learnt from him. He was your support system, the one who always helped you when you were down, and the one who always had your back as you had his.

That’s why Sebastian didn’t understand why you hadn’t told him about your current ailment.

“When was the last time you slept?” Sebastian asked, the first words he’s spoken to you all day.

Shrugging faintly, you answer, “I don’t know.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“No.”

“Have you drank anything today?”

“Some Red Bull,” you mumbled, while attempting to slowly sit up on your bed.

Sebastian sighed. You weren’t taking care of yourself and it was killing him. “Why didn’t you sit this one out if you knew you were sick since yesterday?”

A beat of silence passes, and Sebastian could sense you contemplating if you should tell him the truth or not. He hoped you would do the former.

“…Because Ferrari is counting on me,” you finally answered meekly.

Of course. That was why. Your feeling of obligation to constantly deliver for your team was a feeling each driver shared with their own, but you always went above and beyond. ‘Couldn’t you see how you were much more important than some stupid points?’ Sebastian thinks.

Frowning, he sits down on a chair beside your bed, taking your warm hand and holding it with his own. “Schatzi, you’re hurting yourself. I know you want to deliver for yourself and your team, but this is not the way. If you keep going like this you’ll be sleeping at the wheel and end up worse than you are now. Please, I beg you, take a break.”

You wince internally at his words. He was right. You’d end up in a worse condition if you keep this up and disappoint your team even more.

“I just want to prove myself to Ferrari. Tell them I’m worth it to keep, you know? My contract is expiring soon, and I honestly don't know if any team would pick me up. I feel so— so lost and so hopeless— if I lose my seat I don’t know what to do. I mean I’ve built my entire life up to this, and now I just feel like a burnt out shitty driver.”

You had tears welling in your eyes, and Sebastian was quick to grab some tissue from the bedside table and wipe them away. He hated how you thought so low of yourself, he wished you could see yourself from his view, one of the best drivers and people he’s ever met.

“Your seat doesn’t measure your worth, Amore. Trust me, I know. After Ferrari I didn’t know what to do or where to go, my ‘golden boy’ status had faded and not a lot of teams wanted me anymore. But look at me, I’m here. I’m okay. And you will be too, just not like this.”

His words broke your composure, finally letting out all the stress and pain you’ve endured for days— weeks, even— in the form of full on sobbing. You were grateful for the privacy the room provided, as Sebastian hugged you tightly, not caring if he got your fever too. He whispered sweet words to you, stroking your hair and calming you down.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you darling. Just let it all out,” you hear him murmur into your hair. You’re sure he said more things, but you couldn’t really hear them over the sound of your own sobs.

Eventually the dam dried up, and you attempted to compose yourself and wipe away all the evidence of your tears. Sebastian still held your hand, rubbing it reassuringly, reminding you of his presence. He was always constant in your life. You were thankful for that.

You both sat in the comfortable silence, allowing it to calm you after everything that just happened.

“I’m retiring next year,” Sebastian says out of the blue.

Okay, now you’re no longer calm again.

“I just thought you should be the first to know,” he adds.

“Wh- what? Why? You’re leaving? But no— you’re a pinnacle of the sport! You’re Sebastian Vettel! You can’t leave! You can’t just retire and leave me and- and-” you were starting to see black spots again, your emotions making you forget you were still physically weak.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for him to say that out of nowhere, Seb thinks. But it was now or never, and he wanted you to know before everybody else did. He wasn’t going to tell anyone in advance, but you were special to him. He couldn’t explain it, but you made him realize things in life. The way you enjoyed the little things, the way you laughed at stupid dad jokes, it made Sebastian miss the freedom of just…existing without having to worry about race after race after race.

Silencing you by enveloping your frantic hand with both of his larger ones and shushing you, he replied, “Calm down Liebling, I’m not leaving you. You still have me outside the track, you can visit me anytime and I would gladly let you in. I wouldn’t dare leave your life just like that, I’d never do that to you.”

You smiled softly at his words. He’d never do that to you. That’s why you loved him, whatever type of love it was. He was always there; a constant figure, and that wasn’t about to change. Sure you’d see each other less, but the love would still be there, and that’s all that would matter.

“I would get up and hug you, but I think we’ve both noticed that my body has decided to stop working on me,” you joke. Sebastian rolls his eyes in response, “And who’s fault is that?”

Oops. He got you there. “Mine,” you reply bashfully.

Thankfully he takes pity on you, and adjusts himself instead. “Scooch.” You move aside, giving him space to sit up beside you in your First Aid bed.

Putting his arm around you, he rubs your shoulder gently as you rest your head on his chest. This was nice.

“Don’t you have media duties? Aston Martin will kill you if you miss those,” you ask softly.

Sebastian simply shrugs, “You are more important to me than some reporters milking me for content like I’m a cow.”

His wording made you giggle, and the sound of you happy again makes Sebastian smile. He was going to get a scolding later for missing his duties, and he was definitely going to catch your cold from keeping you this close too, but it was all worth it when he heard that sound of laughter leave your throat.

The next season may be rough, it may not be as kind as this one was. It will be different, it will be lonelier, and it will feel lacking without Sebastian. But right now, as you sit on a bed in comfortable silence in a First Aid tent in Spa, being cared for by a man you care for, you get the sneakiest feeling that yeah— everything will be okay.

#sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel imagine #formula one #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #writing #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader

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liketwoswansinbalance · 1 month ago

Text

Return of the Inagrotten

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

⸻

@heya-there-friends Here’s to another fic—since I remember you mentioned that you wanted to be tagged in the future. Cheers!

If anyone else would like to be tagged on my fics, just let me know!

Further, you might be surprised to know I’ve referenced this fic before, in this post and in this post, and that it is no longer a one-shot but two chapters long.

Additional fun fact: Some of the fic’s narration was probably slightly influenced by how I sometimes feel like I’m watching a surreal play, as a passive observer in front of other humans when they interact.

NO CONTENT WARNINGS: The violence is largely canon-typical.

And now, without further ado—I hope excessive eye contact and almost nothing entertain you.

Summary:

Rafal becomes what he hates most to “save” Rhian at a steep cost—himself.

Rafal puts on a grand “production” for Vulcan.

⸻

CHAPTER I: Eclipses, Ellipses, and Lapses in Judgment:

Right as Vulcan and Rhian stepped into the shaded clearing from opposite sides, an inkblot-like portent appeared on the horizon. Neither of them noticed.

Rhian looked chary, eyes welling with tears that threatened to fall, as his substitute swaggered up to him. What had he agreed to? And why—why a Trial that could potentially endanger one of his charges. And all because he wouldn’t submit and roll over for a takeover by his once charming traitor.

And now, his Evers would see him risk losing everything to, to this—this impostor School Master, this great boor of a man whom he never should have trusted! And Rhian hadn’t even been granted the chance to parley much further with the vile opportunist the last time, due to Vulcan’s burgeoning popularity among Evil’s students.

But Good always wins, he told himself. Simple. His side would win. It had to. He’d known all along and always would. He’d seen Good win the last few tales.

But he had everything to lose, a darker voice of sharp-edged rationale joined the chorus in his head. His opponent had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

He did not feel any better.

Swallowing bile and his pride, Rhian reached out to shake Vulcan’s hand when a tidal wave crashed onto the shores of Good, sloshing onto the lawn, dousing Rhian and everyone else, and forming a heavy fog.

Rhian dropped Vulcan’s hand like it had burnt him, and the two competitors froze as the fog began to subside, neither daring to move from where they were rooted in place.

Indeed, Rhian’s boots had already begun to sink into the grass, drowning in the muck. Muck! His white boots and swan-feather doublet would be soiled by muck!

He exhaled heavily. There was nothing he could do about it now.

The seawater chilled Rhian, dripping down from his collar, and his spine hurt, as if he had lost his balance and fallen—and yet, he didn’t feel afraid.

Vulcan on the other hand looked as if the living daylights had been knocked out of him, but shortly recovered.

Even the students backed up a bit, and some of the cowardly ones scattered away. Several remained and held their breaths, even the Nevers.

Rhian and Vulcan’s heads swung to the newly-arrived, amorphous… whatever-it-was, alien through the veil of fog.

It docked right before them, banging into the shoreline, as waves hauled it up and retreated, letting it skid further across the lawn, upturning sod and carving out a shallow trench.

It turned slightly, its long side facing everyone, and settled with a thud, halting just inches away from where Rhian and Vulcan watched.

It stood at an imposing height, a hulking block of pure onyx—upon closer inspection, a ship.

A ship that eclipsed them all with its broad starboard, its ever-darkening, looming shadow, that obliterated the sun, swallowed the students gathered around the warring pair, and eclipsed the clearing whole.

The ship stood still, as if watching for the School Master and his substitute’s next moves.

When no one moved, it lifted off the ground, levitating above the wet grass by about an ell.

Jaws dropped at the marvel, and more than a few students wondered if it would float higher or coast over their mute, little pates, and take off into the sky after this odd detour at the Schools as it surely had to be an unidentified flying object.

Instead, the ship righted itself, deftly rotating so its bow faced the clearing. It plunked down with half a hollow thump on the craggy, stone shore and half a squelch in the grass as it rocked and tipped forward marginally, mast angled, jutting out like a magician’s bow.

Cheeky, Rhian thought—assuming he were right in knowing what to expect from the vessel. Yet he still couldn’t stop his involuntary shaking.

It was the cold, wasn’t it? In response, his stomach lurched and roiled like the dark waters.

The ship boasted diaphanous, black sails and itself was rather solid-looking with an ebony hull, encrusted with sleek onyx and obsidian.

The clearing stood dead still, fragile. It was silent, except for the water lapping the shoreline with great, constant slaps. The only movement was the flapping of the sails, snapping, stiff against the cutting winds.

Would it leave? The students mused to themselves. Would it leave them be and return their daylight? Return them to delight in their sunshiny Ever picnics and resume their Never picket lines at the encampments?

No, it seemed.

Beyond them all, lighting split the sky, crisscrossing erratically, fracturing the silence like the shattering of glass—right on cue, as if orchestrated by a willing conductor.

Many students startled, already having anticipated the swell before a storm after such dreadful, broken silence.

Several more jumped and fled for their lives, hiking lengths on foot, as fast as mortally possible towards the cover of the treeline or Good.

They didn’t want to stay when everything fell to ruin, but Vulcan and Rhian remained firm despite the fog and the dark.

Rhian cringed. He couldn’t bear his own impotence. But he couldn’t do anything without assessing the threat at hand. Something or someone had changed the game.

Then, the last of the fog cleared, rolled away and swept to the side like the parting of theater curtains, as if creating an open channel for the bow of the great, anchored vessel.

The Inagrotten seemed to be commandeered by a boy nearly as alabaster-pale as his otherworldly crew.

Rhian squinted. He and Vulcan were forced to crane their necks up to meet the icy eyes of the visitor, unnerving eyes that skewered cleanly through Vulcan’s soul. Vulcan turned away, shaken, but did not flee.

Rafal? Or was he not—

Even in the supposed privacy of his own thoughts, Rhian faltered—his brother’s stare, it bore straight into him.

Yet Rafal looked as if he weren’t seeing. It was as if he were staring through, at the nothing beyond.

And after he’d been gone for so many months—it was approaching six months—Rhian knew. And—

He could only rub at his eyes and hope, hope that this sight, this apparition-like boy wasn’t a mirage, that this was his brother.

Rhian’s voice caught in his throat while Vulcan stared bemused at the Evil School Master, perhaps, a School Master no more.

He did… certainly, look as youthful as ever, Rhian assured himself. He had not aged. One less fear to harbor. They were still immortal. Probably.

But, the shadows carved into his face were deeper, like in his time apart from his twin, he’d seen a ghost or unspeakable, maritime horrors.

Yes—he seemed… rougher, somehow. He carried himself differently, standing there, at the bow, with a haunted look. His eyes seemed sunken, or perhaps it was the way the sun cast over him from above, the dark cast it produced, at his height far above the clearing, a clear-sighted gaze.

It was his usual hard-eyed countenance, the same as always… except not.

He was eerily still, more disarming than usual, creepier, Rhian dared think, as if he’d picked up the traits of his comrades, those creatures—from months at sea with them.

His movements, if any, were too languid, like his bodily systems had shut themselves down, constricted like ice. And he looked gaunt, veins and collarbone more prominent, and his face, angular, more so than ever, with those shadows lining his face, like he didn’t have a heart pumping blood left to speak of. Like he ran cold, colder than the rest, colder than ever, as a specter, a shade of his former self.

The iron stench of blood clung thick in the air, clung to Rafal’s strange, new garments.

Craning his neck even further upward at the barque, Rhian could’ve sworn his brother’s clothes smelt of blood, but he couldn’t see a trace of blood on them. Just, smears of—blue—a strange, deep, sapphire blue on his clothes, tinting spikes of his hair, a spray of the inky substance speckling his jawline and the side of his face, and streaks of blue on the… Night Crawlers, assembled in rough formation behind him.

By the Storian’s grace, were those real Night Crawlers? He’d never seen them outside of storybooks. It was like Rafal had dredged himself out of a storybook, out of the deep undersea, like a myth among myths.

Night Crawlers. Bad idea. Rhian winced and closed his eyes, starting to develop a migraine. Not Night Crawlers! Not Night Crawlers at Good!

Rhian would have concluded it was blood, but it couldn’t be, could it?

He opened his eyes in a flash. Yes, they were still there…

They flanked Rafal, falling behind him, like sentinels, even paler than their leader’s bloodless pallor, eyes ever-watching, roving, moving, momentarily eying him in his sodden doublet, spattered in muck, before sweeping from side to side, from person to person, as if in search for something more, or someone from the sparse crowd in particular.

All Rhian’s mind could grasp was the sensation of eyes, Vulcan’s glare, the Night Crawlers’—and his wet socks.

Then, finally, the last set of eyes flicked too-quickly over everyone in sight and once again settled on the restless pair below. Rafal’s.

But Rafal just as quickly lowered his gaze to a sash at his waist and then his black, cavalier boots.

Why yes! Rhian hadn’t noticed. His brother was shod with tall, new boots. It was a miracle in itself that Rafal wasn’t wearing the same, old boots as always. Albeit, these ones were rather scuffed and dripped blue ink.

Rafal tapped his foot impatiently, exhaled, as if waiting for something, then casually scraped one boot on the edge of the ebony deck, attempting to clean it off and dislodge a glop that had practically fused itself to Rafal’s sole.

Vulcan huffed and muttered, “Stupid snowman,” under his breath.

Rafal ignored the trespasser, and shook his booted foot tetchily until the indistinct gobbet of blue flew off his boot and smacked Vulcan in the bat tattoo, just missing the lout’s eye.

“Oops. Didn’t see you down there, peon,” Rafal breezed, blatantly lying. He swept his hand through his snow-white hair, cresting it with more of the blue from his hands without realizing it.

Rhian quelled his mysterious, rising sense of nausea. At what? The rich, blue stains that he thought should be laundered sooner rather than later?

If he hadn’t known any better, Rhian would’ve been sure that something smelt of rust, of blood. He had to be imagining things. He blinked at the Night Crawlers.

They stood motionless, stolid like statues.

Rhian frowned harder and realized that he had been frowning all along. And this new Rafal was slovenly! And blue!

Rhian glanced at the grisly gob sliding down Vulcan’s face as the man swatted at it blindly.

Squid ink, he decided, again, trying to set his nausea aside to no avail. Saliva coated his gullet. Rafal must have stepped on a squid. That was it. The substance was a squid with, with… ventricles. Ventricles? Wait.

The lurid, inky blob resembled some creature’s innards, Rhian reflected, sickened. Had Rafal—

About to burst from curiosity, Rhian started, “Wha—”

Rhian must’ve been addled. Rafal cut him off. “You must know, I have returned to reclaim my post,” he enunciated evenly, as if Vulcan were deaf or dumb, projecting his voice as if he were playing the lead role in a theater production.

Rhian shook his head vigorously, hand slicing the air at his neck, trying to signal to Rafal to stop talking in front of Vulcan!

Rafal paid his brother no heed and examined the blue underneath his ragged fingernails, having resumed tapping his foot on deck, stalling. He didn’t have a watch, but knew he had arrived on set early.

Even the birches stared at him accusingly as he looked out on everyone else.

Forget it.

Bah. Now he had to wait for everyone else to catch up, the blasted imbeciles. Nothing like—nevermind.

Vulcan fumed, his ears turning red, a pugnacious grimace crossing his face.

Right on schedule. Rafal nodded at him imperiously, eyes turned to slits, furtively glancing at the man’s ill-concealed pocket lump.

Placidly, Rafal rolled up his sleeves. He loathed this frilled tunic. It was too baggy, and therefore too impractical for his taste. How did the filthy, drunken idiots stumble around without catching themselves on their own cutlasses? The same critique went for the pantaloons—and the fussy sleeves easily soiled, but they were already soiled, so no matter. He could burn these ‘pirate’ clothes later and forget about the whole incident. Besides, his proceedings would be civilized, unlike those pests’ sorry excuse for discipline.

That was when the midday sun at last emerged and reached its summit. His next cue.

Finally. Rafal looked at it directly and smiled like a loon, frost-blue eyes glowing in the light.

Meanwhile, Rhian worried for his brother’s mental state as Vulcan grew more agitated. Why wasn’t he moving?

Rafal spared a glance at his incapacitated, seafaring crew. Unfortunate that they didn’t fare well under the sun. Now was not the time to lose composure—but it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. Yet.

The Night Crawlers—all of them veiled in such a funereal way, decked in wide-brimmed hats—hissed, and others recoiled into their cloaks, blinded by the brilliance of Good’s lit glass castle.

Rafal observed Rhian’s feather-adorned clavicle rise up and down as he heaved great gulps of air, the fool practically navel-gazing, contemplating the blue-tinged muck of all things.

Coward, Rafal thought lightly, suppressing a sigh.

Rafal gave a subtle hand signal, dismissing the students, who responded to his gesture eagerly.

A few waved back gleefully like they had their heads screwed on the wrong way. Pah. Children.

They ran for their lives, no longer a captive audience. But he hadn’t truly done them a favor. He had other plans in store to sort out the bad, rotted-through apples later.

The others, the better-shielded Night Crawlers, clustered together, like a malignant pox, and grinned, revealing fanged-toothed smiles, stained blue, that gleamed like slivers of upended crescent moon.

They stared greedily at Vulcan.

Rafal shook his head slightly, not wanting to err, and kept his eyes fixed on Vulcan. Almost.

A few slumped, and the rest rearranged themselves idly, like predators evaluating prey.

Not yet.

⸻

CHAPTER II: Salutations, Immolations, and Confrontations:

Expectant, Rafal continued to peer down at them, his makeshift puppets, his brother and the enemy—as if he were sitting in an audience, awaiting a grand performance from the mezzanine.

Then, he took note of Vulcan, shaping up to be quite the aggressor, and his lip curled at the cur in disgust.

“Well. What is it that you are waiting for?” Rafal coaxed sibilantly. “Stage directions?”

Rhian turned back and discovered everyone but he and Vulcan had left the clearing. Not a single student in sight.

“Rhian, it’s your move. And the show must go on. How ever will you deal with this dastardly stranger? Or is he not a stranger at all?” Rafal mocked.

On cue, Rhian immediately flushed red. He had frozen in place, holding his right arm bent at his side the whole time, wrist hanging limp! His hand dropped to his side instantly. Rafal hadn’t known about the Trial agreement? And the handshake! Had he?

Rafal addressed his brother again. “What are you doing, Rhian? Something rash? Something you'll come to regret? I suppose it's almost prophetic that I returned when I did, or else, you'd let our School fall to ruins, wouldn't you?”

Vulcan inched forward to face Rafal, straining his neck, not that could’ve stepped any closer to the Inagrotten without plastering himself to the hull like a figurehead. “Hah! Cold, Evil Master back, Duckling?” he boomed. “What does Duckling do now? Evict Lord Vulcan?”

Rafal’s scowl deepened at the term of endearment. Duckling? What conversations had he not borne witness to? Forget it. He gritted his teeth, setting his jaw.

His head was already devolving into a cradle for a pulsing headache due to this Vulcan character slamming down on his last nerves like a guillotine. This was exactly why he hadn’t hired the man the first time.

He turned to Rhian. “You liked this numbskull?” he called out.

Rhian, who still seemed queasy, shrugged and gave a little, diffident smile.

‘Lord’ Vulcan sneered, maniacally whisked his hands around in the air, then feigned some sort of hideous mock-terror, all while his eyes rolled back into his skull so the whites showed.

It must be amateur hour, Rafal groused. What a poor man’s impression of a true Never. A pathetic final performance. And such low production value.

“Or, will brother save Duckling and Duckling’s fat cats?”

Fat cats?

Rafal quickly dismissed the aberrant image of Rhian with cats, and turned his back for just a moment.

Through rustling fabrics and veils, and low, slurred, susurrated murmurs that approximated speech, Rhian made out something like: “You’ll get your prize soon enough, after I deal with the trespasser and my brother. Just fall back, and I’ll do the talking as always.”

It was as if his brother meant to-to pacify these killers, these man-draining monsters.

But the Night Crawlers never posed the problem, Rafal well knew.

And, naturally, problems the first and the second were still watching him confer with his crew from below in the clearing.

The Night Crawlers shuffled around, rearranging themselves once more, skulking behind Rafal, chastened but petulant. Most slipped below deck, several adjusting their hats.

The intrepid few kept watch. One in particular, with his black-gloved hand, pulled out a silver pocket watch and flipped its face open before clapping it shut.

Rhian couldn’t puzzle out the strange sight. At least they weren’t swarming.

Just then, Rafal leapt down from the side of the ship and stalked over to face Vulcan, stopping at a spot a few yards away, looking blasé.

Not yet.

Vulcan shoved a hand into his pocket.

Not yet.

Vulcan made to attack, eyes probing Rafal, dagger gripped in hand.

Not yet.

Rhian’s eyes widened as he caught on. He opened his mouth, about to call out and warn his brother to move—

But Rafal, as if stone deaf, reached into the depths of his long, coal-black, wide-cuffed greatcoat, and tugged at something.

A collection of bone-dry matches that had once been wrapped up spilled out of his pocket onto the wet ground.

At last, he pulled out a white handkerchief, flecked with the barest hints of blue, and raised it skyward, dismissing his brother’s shouts, brushing off Rhian entirely.

With the handkerchief, a few more matches spilled out of his pocket, skittering into the path of Vulcan’s forthcoming advance.

Vulcan raised an eyebrow at the gesture.

Not yet.

The lowly cheat stepped forth to check the limits of Rafal’s surrender, or rather, his resistance to pain—completely insubordinate to the universal gesture Rafal had just executed. He wanted to test the so-called Evil School Master. School the coward himself.

Not yet.

Vulcan feinted once with the dagger.

Not yet.

Moored in place, Rafal did not move, did not flinch, his neutral expression unwavering and handkerchief tossed aside.

Twice.

Rhian gasped.

Not yet.

NO, Rafal mouthed to Rhian.

There. The viper slung the dagger, aiming for Rafal’s heart the third time.

Now.

The Good School Master valiantly intervened anyway… He took off and dove, but overcorrected, launching himself too far, and straight into a patch of muck to Rafal’s far right, the sludge blinding him.

Rafal, for his part and parcel, simply stepped aside, two paces to the left.

The dagger whizzed by.

Silence.

Then Vulcan roared with the vengeance of a thousand suns and thrust forward with the intent to clobber Rafal.

Hurry up, clod, Rafal carped.

Vulcan slipped on the wet grass, and careened forward, landing onto the scraggly bed of matches.

Rafal laughed and laughed until his stomach started to ache and flicked his wrist in Vulcan’s general direction, scorching him to death by white-hot incineration.

The kindling was meager but effectively fueled.

His proper pay-off! And Vulcan’s send-off! Good riddance! At last.

And all at half past twelve on the dot—praise Adela’s soul! He almost regretted killing her with questions.

Ashes cascaded to the ground, and blew off, carried away by a sorcery-induced wind.

Deceitful designs paired well with dishonorable foes.

Disoriented by the sound of the blast, the puissant odor of charred flesh, and his brother’s psychotic laughter, Rhian groped blindly and used Rafal’s fallen handkerchief to wipe at his eyes. What in the Woods—

Rhian blinked back acrid, grey tears.

Plumes of smoke, cinders still asmoulder, raining down from the sky, and the odd, new Rafal in pirate garb swam into Rhian’s vision—a Rafal curled in on himself, still convulsing with laughter, silent spasms racking his narrow frame, until he straightened up and inhaled deeply.

All that remained of Vulcan was one blackened, steaming tract of lawn.

Rafal sunk into a bow, arms outstretched behind him like a wide ‘V,’ like the wings of a tainted, blue swan, hair glinting brilliantly beneath the sun.

The Night Crawlers broke into rhythmless applause from their places.

And Rhian? Rhian gawped, sat in his puddle, almost catatonic with shock, spitting blades of grass, taking in the scorched clearing and… his brother, the actor.

That squid dye or whatever-it-was would never wash out, Rhian mourned without a second thought for his once-substitute.

The Evil School Master strolled further into the clearing, irreverently stepped over his would-be usurper’s spot, and strode past Rhian, greatcoat flagging. He left his Night Crawlers be on the Inagrotten, fixed his sleeves, and headed towards his School, towards Evil.

Dealing with everything else would be trifles.

He paused in his half victory lap, half impromptu inspection-to-be of student quarters, and glanced over his shoulder at Rhian—poor, feckless Rhian—still agape and paralyzed by shame and the prospect of his own mortality.

Rafal smirked. “Rhian? Now that our Schools, plural, it seems, are settled, why don’t we have a chat? You still have escapades to tell me about, to catch me up on what’s gone on while I was away, don’t you?”

Rhian gawked at Rafal vacantly.

Three…

Two…

One—

Rhian shook himself, wild, golden curls bobbing, and clambered to his feet.

His blue blur of a brother continued across the walkway to Evil.

Rhian gathered his wits about him and wisely decided not to mention the deadly Trial he’d been about to agree to. His soles suctioned up some of the muck and sod as he frantically chased after Rafal.

Before Evil’s raised portcullis, Rafal came to a dead halt, and looked back at Rhian sprinting across the clearing as it sank with the seawater. It’d have to be drained another day. A pity his brother couldn’t fly.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” He crossed the threshold and peered at Vulcan’s great hall. How garish. He’d have to alter all of it.

Rhian arrived, panting, doubled-over in front of Rafal.

Rafal waited for him to catch his breath. “Good.”

Righting himself, Rhian began to enter the dim antechamber, but Rafal held out a hand.

“Wipe your feet outside. I don’t want Vulcan underfoot,” he said pointedly. “And I don’t want his presence tracked anywhere near my castle, much less within it. Oh, and here’s a lesson: I take care against inviting strange men in.” He eyed Rhian’s now-drooping, feathered doublet. “Indeed, you’re rather strangely dressed, but today, I’ll make an exception. Just this once—knowing it won’t bring about ruin.”

Rhian sighed and obeyed.

Rafal hastened down the hall, and Rhian sped past his brother to face him.

“It’s not what you think! Vulcan was a temporary replacement—no, not a replacement!” Rhian rushed to correct himself. “No one could replace you! An inferior. An inferior figurehead—he occupied the position of Dean, originally! I never meant for him to campaign to become a School Master, but the students! It was them! The students were so taken with him that he snaked his way into their hearts and, and—” he rabbited on, “Or, Hell! It may be what you think, but I can explain!”

Rafal tilted his head, vaguely amused, and thought to himself that the situation was looking to be exactly what he thought had happened. He knew his brother well enough to guess that Rhian had succumbed to a misbegotten bout of infatuation. If not that, then Rhian had run afoul of the Rules in some way—that was for certain.

And Rafal knew better than even Rhian’s slip into old patterns from his taste of Seerdom. He’d had to wait around for Vulcan, to sufficiently irritate and thus, provoke him, so the cad struck first—all so Rhian wouldn’t blame him for an unlawful Attack.

That way, he’d just be parrying back—however disproportionately the man’s fate had turned out, it’d needed to be done. And besides, Rafal thought the scoundrel had deserved worse.

He also made a mental note to ask Rhian for the names of the Nevers who’d backed Vulcan, who’d favored a weak-willed imposter of a Never over him, those traitorous, little ingrates.

All the while, Rhian kept jabbering about strawberry salads, and Marialena, the conwoman, and bats.

Rafal shut his eyes and inhaled, trying to regain some semblance of sympathy for Rhian, but couldn’t take the prattling anymore. “Rhian.”

His brother jolted to attention, wide-eyed, like a scolded child.

Rafal sidestepped Rhian and continued down the hall, a purpose in his step. “I swear, not another word, or I swear I’ll sell you off to Bluebeard. At a discount,” Rafal deadpanned, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

Rhian gasped and spluttered, highly affronted. “N-No!”

Rafal bit back a smile and shook his head. “It’s that or a fair trade with the Night Crawlers for their services. Your pick. What will it be?”

“No,” Rhian held firm, glaring murderously at the back of his brother’s partly blue-clotted scalp.

Rafal swanned further down the hall. “Well—I doubted you’d assent to that. Proves you’ve got more than cats under that crown of yours. Fussy, fussy, in all your frippery, hmm? Regardless, if blue or piracy are what you’d want in a companion or savior, I suppose you’d best stay here, with the Night Crawlers and me,” he offered with mock-gallantry.

“JUST LISTEN TO ME!”

Rafal stopped abruptly on his course, and spun on his heels to face Rhian, wet boots screeching on the tiles, as if for mercy, his soles slapping down, echoing. “I already know most of what went on without me here.”

“Oh, really? For Storian’s sake! Why did I ever want you back?”

“Well, it’s what you once wanted, wasn’t it?” Rafal accused sharply. “You despaired when I left. And let’s just say: I’m never leaving you again, if this, this revolting disorder, is how you running the Schools by yourself is bound to turn out.”

“Fine! Good even!” Rhian agreed far too quickly with vestiges of vitriol. “That’s fair and absolutely fine with me! I’ll gladly put up with anything as long as you stay,” he vowed, attempting to appeal to Rafal’s Good side. He didn’t bother to consider that he’d presently rue the words he’d just spoken ere long.

Rafal grinned roguishly. He’d extracted all that he’d needed to proceed with his plans.

His pace became more brisk by the second as Rhian hurried to match his brother’s gait and racing mind. “Lovely. I suppose you won’t mind it if I make some changes. I’d thought I’d have a harder time convincing you, but it seems you won’t break your promise. That would be dishonorable. And Evil.”

Hostage to his word, Rhian swallowed his retort. Rafal would hold him to anything he said from here on out.

“Now, the first of the changes I plan to implement is a curriculum around discerning Good from Evil. With challenges. We’ll rank the classes from one through twenty. Disguises are far too prevalent these days, and I don’t trust you or your students to know any better. Besides, you are in need of remedial lessons.”

Rhian tried to interject, but Rafal held up a blue-stained hand to shut him down, and continued staunchly.

“Not only that—I require a moat. It’d be another line of defense against trespassers. Higher ground, too, of course. Also, a place to bury our dead.”

“What dead?”

“I don’t expect all the students to last long. The Evers almost expired under Vulcan’s reign, it seems to me, from the state of them, quivering like that, and the Nevers won’t last long under me. You can be sure now that some Nevers will perish—even once they’re out from under my regime—there are always failures in the tales, every now and then, no matter how well they’re trained. Ah, and let’s replace Humburg with fresh blood. I can imagine that dolt did nothing to stand against Vulcan, did he?”

Rhian’s eyes had grown wide now, and he was effectively silenced by shock.

“Also, I was thinking of a torture chamber,” Rafal added as if it were an afterthought.

His brother let out a questionable, strangled sound, but Rafal paid him and his antics no mind, and kept outlining his plans.

Rhian couldn’t expand his airways any further, but again, tried to steel himself, tried to marshal all his verve to contradict Rafal now. No, wait, what was he thinking? Opposing Rafal? He couldn’t! Not after Rafal promised to stay. Who knew if Evil upheld promises? Rhian himself certainly hadn’t, when he’d hired Vulcan against Rafal’s wishes that had been expressed long ago, and he was Good.

But before he ever got the chance to summon up the will to challenge Rafal, he lost his chance.

Rafal spoke up, “That should consolidate my power, don’t you think? It’s worked itself out neatly—the arrangement I have in mind. The Night Crawlers will be paid with the blood they’ll have drawn from our mutinous, young charges. No need to hire the Man-Wolves after all, at the high rates they’re demanding. It’ll all be self-contained, and we’ll spare fewer expenses in the long run.”

He continued on blithely as Rhian paled increasingly with every word, complexion turning bloodless.

Rhian swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat.

“And, remind me to replace that Marialena, won't you? I just know—ahem—suspect that she'll sow more chaos if we don't keep a close eye on her, and I'd rather get rid of the potential complication altogether. If we don't rid ourselves of her soon, she could cause a rift between us.”

No, Rhian thought tartly, lungs burning, the new Rafal was doing that all on his own.

“Fortunately, I’ve removed the other variables that could come between us,” Rafal assured himself, picking at the congealed, inky blue at his wrists. “And I know now: the best solution is the proactive one. We'll be far better off without her, trust me. All Seers are meddlers at their cores.”

Determined, Rafal nodded at his new vision for Evil and all that he had armed himself with for the future, and set his hands clasped behind him.

Rhian nodded along weakly, a thin smile gracing his lips, following several paces away from Rafal’s heels, like a puppet tangled in wire, almost running to match Rafal’s ever-accelerating pace.

SLOW DOWN, Rhian desperately wanted to shout. Slow down with all these ‘improvements.’ But he couldn’t get overly excited over these matters—Rafal might call him ‘hysterical.’

He locked his jaw, numbly. It could always be worse.

Then, at last, the twin School Masters reached Evil’s rear entrance, which looked out onto the seaside beyond.

Huffing and florid-faced, Rhian leaned on the doorframe and coughed—what sort of Storian-ordained exercise had his brother done at sea?

He was glad his brother was back. Really. He was grateful to be alive, grateful they were both alive. Yet, he still feared the worst for Rafal's students.

But that was a problem for another day. Best to just give up for now.

Rhian plodded down the polished, black-granite steps, onto the ashen sand after Rafal, who stood facing the shoreline of the Savage Sea, and then, finally took in Rafal’s new attire as a whole, during his first moment of calm in hours.

He really did resemble a swashbuckler. In fact, Rhian almost didn’t recognize his brother. Almost.

Gone were fine, scholarly, gold-trimmed robes of days past, the olden days—an open, militaristic coat in their stead.

Gone were the starched, white shirts—now replaced with a poet’s shirt, no, a pirate’s shirt, loose-fitting, with flaccid sleeves, laced-up with string.

Gone were the crisp, pressed suits and triple-mantled cloaks. The iron-creased trousers and slim, elegant boots had been banished, replaced by pantaloons, tucked into high, bucket-top boots.

And for the first time, Rhian found he didn’t want a pirate. Not this pirate, setting the ‘ship’ the Storian had entrusted them with on a warpath. This one was more like the warden of a brig besides—keeping him prisoner! He just wanted the old Rafal back. His brother, the School Master, his equal.

But the new Rafal… this was the new Rafal… he was here to stay.

Rhian tried to clear his head.

The Inagrotten was docked at shore, no longer blighting the clearing in front of Good. How considerate of Rafal.

See? The new Rafal wasn’t that bad.

Rhian ambled down to the shore, where Rafal had dropped down to kneel with a twig in hand, black greatcoat splayed over the pale sand, like a flag of oncoming death… or a penitent’s mourning robes.

After his ordeal, Rhian thought he deserved at least one proper question, and yet… what changed? seemed… too complicated. He didn’t want to pry, if anything had gone wrong while Rafal was gone. Perhaps—“Rafal, why are you dressed like a pir—”

The twig snapped. “Not a word, Rhian,” his brother choked out drily with warning in his voice. “My old clothes had blood on them, this was all the Night Crawlers had, and that’s all. End of story.”

Rhian needn’t know about his brother’s recently-acquired status as a Woods-wide felon. Rafal inhaled shakily and returned to leaning over his sand drawing.

Rhian watched, silenced for a moment. “But—”

Rafal sat back on his heels. “Rhian. Nevermind all that. I’ve had a thought. Look.”

Rhian stared down at the twin swans Rafal had etched in the wet sand.

A School crest. And he was part of it.

Was this proof? That the new Rafal still cared about him?

Yet something still needled at Rhian. Leave it be. No more detective work. Rafal’s trip is done. It’s over, he urged himself.

It was low tide though. The tide drew in and washed the sketch away, forever.

But Rafal didn’t care about the sketch. Another thing of his was ruined. Probably broken. For all his spectacle and pride about being early, he had probably been too late. Rafal frowned, hands cold as death, now flattened against the sand.

The tide receded again.

He didn’t say anything for a long while, staring out at the waters, washing in and out, his eyes unfocused, seeing nothing but blue.

Rhian placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “O Captain—” he baited.

Rafal’s voice revived itself. “Shut it.”

But he smiled nonetheless, truly, and slowly rose to his feet.

Rhian looped his arm through Rafal’s and Rafal locked hands with his brother. One more thing he wouldn’t be caught dead losing.

The Good School Master leaned into the Evil one’s side for support, and the Evil brother slackened for once, tension draining from his muscles.

For now, Rhian was just glad to have his twin back. Safe and in one piece.

That was all that mattered in the End.

Right?

⸻

Note:

I think this fic probably has the most “understory,” compared to all the others I’ve written. But you know more than Rhian does as a narrator here.

More accurately, this fic could likely have been entitled: "Rafal Is Essentially a Primo Uomo, Murdered Three (3!) People, and Treats Rhian Harshly > 70% of the Time." Yet, I wanted the title to sound serious in tone, so ideas such as these had to be scrapped.

If anyone wanted to know, I referenced this short poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45474/o-captain-my-captain

Of course, it cannot be taken literally or in its original historical context, but the captain being cold and dead fits Rafal having hardened more inside lately, and become more deadened/more like the probable undead, like the Night Crawlers themselves.

It’s some sort of “heroism” at a personal price, I suppose. Had to be done.

I’d love to play the audience (and respond to) to any feedback you have—any thoughts, feelings, reactions, or concrit you have.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always willing to elaborate!

Did anyone catch any of the other references I made? Anyone catch wind of my… implications?

I imagine that you’re probably wondering: What happened to James?

Rafal sealed the deal and allowed the Night Crawlers to kill James, but James’ death started off so harrowingly slowly that Rafal decided to intervene and “mercy-kill” him before the Night Crawlers got any further in their feasting. He couldn’t retract his orders. Not after he’d gone this far. Not after James was bleeding out beyond the point of no return. So he let it happen. All to get back to Rhian.

It’s the closest thing to a Face-Heel Turn Rafal could undergo, given that he’s already Evil/grey, I’d like to think, while not being completely amoral and having lost his mind.

Also, please be sure to correct me about anything, if I got anything wrong. I suspect I overly manipulated the setting to fit story purposes, if I did forget certain details.

⸻

Playlist:

“TICKING - SLOWED VERSION” - TIN

This one is like something emerging into your line of vision, gradually? At least the start of it conveys that. I thought it could mimic the beginning effects and the tension. Or slow, dawning horror.

“Darkness Falls” - UNSECRET, Cece And The Dark Hearts

Similar to the atmosphere.

“Natus Vincere” - Future Heroes

The title translates to “born to win.” Seems fated. Also, gives off a time-is-running-out and triumphant, overcome-it-all vibe.

“Future Heroine” - Ecca Vandal

Some lyrics, not all, fit, I thought. Admittedly, the tone doesn’t fit well.

“The Albatross” - Taylor Swift

These lines were particularly relevant (partly ironically with “angel”):

“Devils that you know / Raise worse hell than a stranger”

“Spread my wings like a parachute / I'm the albatross / I swept in at the rescue / The devil that you know / Looks now more like an angel”

“He’s a Pirate” - Klaus Badelt

“Haunted” - Taylor Swift

“i am not who i was" - Chance Peña

Potentially, some parts fit Rafal’s unwritten, internal monologue, to an extent.

“Behind the Sun” - Helgi Olegov

Strikes me as epilogue-esque music.

60 notes · View notes

msbigredmachine · 10 months ago

Text

Power Couple: The Aftermath (Roman Reigns)

When the Tribal Chief falls, no one helps him back up better than you do. Set after the epic main event of Wrestlemania XL.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/OC

Warnings: Excess fluff and of course, smut.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Yes, I'm still in my feelings, and there was only one pairing I could properly convey my feelings with, because this has also been their story all along. For new readers, I strongly suggest reading the first two one-shots before delving into this one. Hope you enjoy!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs

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

1,316 days.

All wiped away with three slaps of the referee’s hand to the hard canvas.

Even after Cody rolled away from him, Roman could not move. Hell, he couldn’t breathe. Not when the air had been punched out of his lungs, literally and figuratively. It was only when Dwayne pulled him out of the ring by his pants leg that his body managed to kickstart itself into some sort of motion. And even then, all he could do was turn his head to look back and watch as Cody celebrated in the ring with his wife Brandi, holding his title belt aloft for the whole world to behold as the ultimate symbol of his victory.

It should have been you and him up there. It should have been him. Again. But it wasn’t. Because the one time he got careless in battle, it cost him everything. Throwing years of hard work down the drain.

And it made him sick to his stomach.

The sound of ‘Kingdom’ blaring through the Lincoln Financial Field Stadium was torture to the former champion’s ears. His legs felt like lead as he dragged his battered body up the ramp, ignoring Dwayne’s baseless, performative complaints about nothing, as he put distance to the tableau of triumph of his opponent. The weight of this defeat was heavy, suffocating even, and he was desperate to get the fuck out of there, to get out of Philadelphia, out of Pennsylvania and all its environs. As he reached the top of the vast WrestleMania stage, pain surged through his abdomen, forcing him to recoil into himself and double over in pain.

His Wise Man noticed his plight and paused to observe his charge. "My Tribal Chief, are you alright? Do you need-"

Roman shook his head. "I'm fine,” he snapped, willing himself to keep walking until he made it past the curtain. He leaned against the wall and bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

“What can I do, my Tribal Chief?” Paul implored.

“Just…get my wife on the bus and make sure everything’s ready to go. I’ll be there soon."

“Right away my Tribal Chief,” Paul replied eagerly, scurrying off to do as he was told.

It was a good long minute before Roman managed to pull himself back upright, staggering towards his locker room. Walking was so hard, his body hurt so much, but none of it hurt as much as the gut punch of failure. Much worse than any of the bumps he took was the shame, the disappointment engulfing him; so much so that he couldn’t bear to look anyone else in the eye right now.

Because he had failed everyone who cared about him.

He had failed you.

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

All good things come to an end. That’s how the saying goes, right? The interesting part of that was that on the surface, it was a throwaway little trope, harmless and benign, until something that meant a great deal to you got taken away in the blink of an eye, or in this case, a three-count. The moment the bell signaled the pinfall that confirmed your husband's time as the Undisputed WWE Universal Champion had come to an end, you knew he would never be the same again.

It wasn't unlike Roman to be a little on edge weeks before a big premium live event. And given the nature of the two main event matches he was locked in for the fortieth annual WrestleMania, you expected he would be grouchy. But this time around seemed different, and not in a good way. He’d been surly towards everybody, including you. He disappeared for hours working out obsessively. He’d even thrown out a female member of the press who had dared to boo him at the press conference on Saturday night. Now, despite the final match of the weekend concluding nearly an hour ago, Roman was yet to return to his tour bus. That only meant one thing; he was not taking this defeat well, and it was up to you to lift him up, like you always did.

When you found the door boasting your husband's name, Heyman was outside, pacing back and forth. The Undisputed title, which you had grown accustomed to seeing on his shoulders on behalf of his Tribal Chief, was missing; a stark, prickly reminder of the outcome of tonight’s proceedings.

"That bad, huh?" you asked, reading the Wise Man’s expression in a second. In fact, he looked on the verge of tears, his shoulders sagging with despair. The weekend had taken an emotional toll on him, too.

"He won’t come out," he informed you, his usually confident voice shaky and helpless. “He won’t let anyone in and he won’t speak to anyone…”

You raised your index finger to cut him off. "Correction, he won’t speak to anyone that’s not me," you stated, shooting him a warm smile, one among countless others you had shared with him since burying the hatchet after years of friction between you. "Go be with your family, Paul. I’ll handle my husband.”

“He’s my family, too,” he declared softly, the conviction in what you used to call his beady eyes, palpable and heartbreaking, “Both of you are.”

Touched and at a loss for words, you could only look on as he turned around slowly and made the lonely walk down the hallway. Turning back to the locker room door, you sucked a breath between your teeth and blew it out, mentally preparing to confront this task head-on.

You knocked timidly and stuck your head inside. If Roman was in as foul a mood as Paul let on, even you did not want to be there. It had taken a few unfortunate incidents over the years for you to learn that even a kiss from his wife wasn't enough when he got too stressed. It never stopped you from trying, though. Kissing was one of your favorite things to do with him after all.

"Knock, knock," you called out softly, listening for signs of movement as you stepped inside and closed the door. The room that was bustling just a few hours ago was now stripped bare and cloaked in dead quiet. It was an eerie contrast to the majestic, sweeping grandiosity that encompassed his entrance to the ring tonight. “Babe?”

Venturing further inside the room, you found him on the couch, his strong, broad back to you, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. An open bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table in front of him. His ula fala was draped over the headrest, where his title belt would surely have been.

This was the reality no one warned you about after a monumental loss. It plunged you into a cold, dark abyss, wrought with biting silence and dreary loneliness now that the show was over and the lights were no longer bright. The what ifs, buts and maybes crooning in your ear like a morbid symphony. It was an experience all too familiar to you unfortunately, and recently, too; you and your husband had traveled down this terrible road following the tragic miscarriage of your son in the summer of 2022.

Stepping in front of him, you wiggled into his personal space and made yourself at home on his lap. Gently wrapping your arms around him, you sighed with relief when he instantly melted into you and his huge arms enveloped your waist, holding on to you like his life depended on it.

“My baby,” you cooed soothingly, the sound of your lips meeting the side of his head piercing through the emptiness of the locker room. “My love.”

The audible hitch of his breath at your soft words was expected. In the course of your lifetime, those two little phrases had garnered a poignant significance. As words of comfort and solace first uttered by your mother when you were a child, you murmured those words regularly to Roman between sweet, playful kisses when he was courting you, basking in the bliss of newfound love, and again as part of your wedding vows as you became man and wife. They were the first words you whispered to Laleia the first time she was placed in your arms. They were the words that you had cried yourself to sleep with as you mourned the baby boy you had lost. You and Roman had seen each other at your absolute best and worst, and now, in the isolation of this room, with just the two of you and nobody else, this was another bad moment you had to overcome.

“On Matt’s birthday, too,” Roman finally spoke, wiping at his nose with a sniffle. “Fuck, man.”

“I know,” you replied, running your hand comfortingly up and down his upper arm. As he met your gaze at last, you saw that his eyes were bloodshot. Seeing him like this broke your heart afresh. You held him as close as possible, willing all his pain and his hurt into your soul, wanting nothing more than to take it all away.

"I fucked up," he breathed, his voice raw and choked with misery, "I fucked up out there, babe...I let Dwayne down...I let y'all down. I lost the title and I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what? Over thirteen hundred days as champion?" you countered, "Nine WrestleMania main events? Billions of dollars in revenue? A roof over your child's head and three square meals a day? One loss will never wipe any of that away, don't ever get it twisted."

He exhaled tiredly as he hugged you tighter, resting his head on your shoulder. "I really wish I felt that way right now," he mumbled.

"It'll take some time, but you will," you asserted, running his fingers through his loose hair before tugging it lightly, making him look at you again. "Roman, you changed the industry, just like you said you would when we started this. No one will ever, ever forget what you've done these past four years. Be proud of all of it. You've been through so much, you sacrificed too much to not be proud."

Roman nodded in understanding. He just wished he didn't feel so down. "Baby, I...I want you to know how sorry I am. I know how much you wanted this. And I've been such a dick to you lately-"

You kissed your teeth and waved his apology away. "Nah. That don't matter no more. And I don't care that you didn't win. All I care about is you being safe when you're out there. Being healthy for our family and our daughter, who will be very happy to have her Daddy home, by the way. So we took an L. Okay, we'll only come back stronger. We had one bad night. Guess what? I plan on giving you a better morning, if you know what I mean." You rounded off your words with a wink, your heart blooming when he chuckled in response. "See, there's that smile I love so much. Keep your head up, baby. You did so good tonight. I couldn't be more proud of you."

Roman leaned into you, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in and filling his head with your scent. It was like breathing fresh air. “I love you, Y/N. I love you with all of my heart. I don’t deserve you, I never have.”

The tears you'd been fighting all night resurfaced, but you blinked them away as you captured his lips with yours, your hand sliding over the back of his neck. He clung to you, a different emotion quickly overtaking him as he returned your kiss with a bit of aggression, his tongue whipping hungrily against yours, savoring your mouth as though he was tasting it for the very first time. You surrendered to his every whim, your other hand raking through his hair then caressing gently down to his chest, resting your palm over the spot where his heart pumped for you. You could feel how much he needed this moment of intimacy, and you had no qualms giving him anything he asked for.

With one quick tug of your legs, Roman had you straddling him on the couch, bringing you chest to chest with your lush backside resting on his growing bulge. He paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then sealed your mouths again, his tongue invading, probing, a moan rumbling in his chest when you matched his energy, the emotions take over this loving embrace. He could never get enough of you, of the passion that overwhelmed him by your mere presence, immersing him in a love and gratitude he would always feel for you no matter what state of mind he was in.

Eventually, you pulled away from each other, breathless, panting, lips glistening with each other’s saliva. His heart raced at the familiar gleam in your darkened eyes. You weren’t done with him, not just yet, and this was confirmed as you slowly slid off him and sank to your knees between his spread thighs, pushing the front of his shirt up to expose his newly honed six-pack abs.

“Do you know how fucking hot you looked tonight, Daddy?” you purred to him, leaning in to run your tongue over the ridges of muscle on his taut belly. “Last night? All week? Do you have any idea of all the nasty shit I’m gonna do to you on the bus?”

Roman’s dick jumped in his joggers as his imagination ran wild. He squirmed in his seat, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth as your tongue lapped at his belly, your mouth warm on his skin, all while you rubbed the fullness of his bulge straining eagerly against your touch. “Baby girl…” he choked out, as your fingers peeled the waistband of his pants, unveiling his big, beautiful brown dick.

“Hmm, commando. I like it,” you commented with a smirk, curling your fist around his turgid length.

“Babe, wait…ain’t Paul outside?”

“I sent him home. Plus, won't be the first time he's seen me suck you off.” Your small hand massaged his blunt, plum-shaped head as you licked a trail along the underside of his dick, enjoying the gasps of pleasure that he made. Licking up the pre-cum that had gathered at the tip, your mouth opened wider to take him in. He stared you down with an intense look in his dark irises, which soon fluttered shut as your lips wrapped tight around his flesh, his stomach tensing as he felt himself slide deeper inside. “Awww, fuuuck,” he moaned.

Pulling back for a second, you held his lust-filled stare and stroked his dick a little harder, giggling when it twitched in your grip. A defiant look clouded your eyes as you licked at his tip before pushing him back into your mouth. It was enough for him to nut by just watching you, the visual of your lips sliding slowly up and down his length, that sexy mouth of yours making sweet love to his dick. It felt so good that he sank further into the plush leather of the couch, his head rolling back lazily against the headrest, his toes curling inside his brand new Air Reigns sneakers. All the pain and punishment his body had endured tonight melted away and was replaced with much more pleasurable sensations.

“I love the way you suck my dick, wifey,” he praised you, forcing himself to observe you through his barely open eyelids. “Mmm, that slutty little mouth is warm as fuck…You so sexy, baby, keep lookin’ up at me like that...”

His raspy growls had you glancing back up at him, batting your pretty eyelashes as you sucked him off. Wetness pooled between your thighs at his famished expression. Completely aroused, you picked up the pace as your hands and your mouth worked in tandem, sucking and stroking his dick, pleasuring him from tip to base. His breathing became heavier as he throbbed against your tongue, his hands finding the back of your head as he got lost in the paradise of your warm, wet mouth.

“Damn, baby. I bet that pussy leakin’ for me right now. You gettin’ wet sucking Daddy off, beautiful?” he taunted, his tongue swishing over his bottom lip at the same time your tongue swirled around the base of his shaft. The little moan that escaped your throat told him he was right. Of course he was; he knew his wife better than anybody else. “Good girl. Keep goin', I want that pussy extra wet. I’ma lick all that shit up when we get on the bus.”

With another soft moan, you crawled closer to his body and bore down on him, bobbing your head up and down that long, fat cock. Scooping your hair up into his large fist for leverage, Roman rocked his hips upwards from his seated position, thrusting in and out of your mouth. You relaxed your throat to take him deeper, moaning around his dick and letting him know how much you were enjoying him fucking your face. You rolled his balls in your hand, caressing the heavy, tightened sac to send him over the edge. It was working, as he began thrusting faster, his husky groans of pleasure amplifying as he neared his release.

“Unnnhh, baby, here it comes…Fuck, open your mouth,” he gasped, not waiting for you to do so as he yanked you by your hair to free himself from your intoxicating mouth. You quickly opened wide as he grabbed his cock and jerked it desperately against your tongue. He caught sight of the glazed-over quality of your gaze, and he knew that your panties were completely ruined, your pussy dripping with your need for him. He planned to take care of that very soon.

It was a show more spectacular than Mania, the sight of his gorgeous face contorted with pleasure, his head thrown back, eyes rolled to the heavens as his orgasm washed over his big body. Your moans harmonized together with each spasm of his cum down your throat, making you swallow every drop he unleashed. His grip on your hair was tight and almost painful, but you were turned on anyway, aroused by the knowledge that no one brought him to this state of paramount pleasure like you did. Licking your lips, you scooped him back into your mouth to clean him up, released him with a soft pop when you finished, and tucked him back inside the confines of his joggers. You giggled as he stared dazedly at the ceiling, licking his lips to catch his breath, his big frame slack and helpless as he recovered from the intense orgasm.

"Goddamn, baby...Shit," he groaned.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stood up and sat back on his lap, welcoming the gentle press of his mouth to yours in a sweet, grateful kiss. “You feel better, Daddy?” you asked.

"Much better. I needed that so much. Thanks, baby," he smiled up at you, his stomach doing flips as you smiled back. He truly was the luckiest man in the world.

“Mm-hmm. Luckily, there’s more where that came from,” you assured him with another kiss before getting to your feet and pulling him up to his. “Come on, Daddy. Let's go home. We got a toddler to take care of. We'll figure out all the other stuff when it's time."

He nodded in agreement and squeezed your hand. “Okay, baby. Home it is.”

A new chapter in your story had been opened tonight, and the path ahead seemed uncertain and even scary. But you both took pride in the fact that as long as you kept writing it together, your love story was going to remain as beautiful as it already was.

But make no mistake about it; Roman Reigns was going to rule the wrestling world again. That was one story that was never going to end.

THE END

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

Thoughts? How sappy was this😢Was quite cathartic for me, loved writing it.

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

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neosero · 1 year ago

Text

[ 01:15pm ]

and sometimes you have to remind yourself they’re gods

p.ii | fontaine version

[ 12:30am ] and yet, you still resist

word count | 7.5k total

noteworthy warnings | gn!reader; excessive use of the word ‘you’ sorry lol; rushed fiction; dark themes [ ? ]; violent/gory descriptions [ ? ] ( venti ); false descriptions of the archon war, implied kidnapping ( zhongli ); false post-cataclysm descriptions; inazuma spoilers for new players ( ei ); implied sag!au ( nahida ); version 3.2 spoilers and beyond ( special mention o.o );

if you find any of these warnings uncomfortable scroll away. viewer discretion is advised.

THE ANEMO ARCHON Lord Barbatos | wc. 1.5k+

Venti had always been known to chug down one too many kegs of wine when given the chance.

Although he slurs about the price going to his tab, it is always you who has to fix up every mess. Whether it be ending fist fights, pleading with angry bartenders or paying half his tabs in compensation, the guy really knows how to ruin someone’s night.

“It wasn’t my fault this time.” Venti’s whining starts right off the bat, not caring that you have barely made it any distance from the bar. It's clear with the way he stumbles that he has long since past his limit. Your arm securely holds him by the shoulder opposite of you, an attempt to steady his wobbly footing although the sigh from his lips tells you he believes the touch is something else.

“I don’t need your excuses, Barbatos.” Your words are hushed but still harsh. His body deflates at the sound of his name used in such a tone, however he still refuses to relent.

“I promise you it wasn’t me who started it. The guy was…mouthing about everyone in there; he started saying nasty stuff about Brook’s drinks, called my music terrible and he then started…” saying things about you.

Well the guy attempted to until Venti stood from his stool, the force of the movement - or so he explained - must have tipped the drink over and spilled all over the poor guy’s clothes. Of course he got angry, who wouldn’t but when he started shouting about payment that’s when things took a turn. When Venti declined and left to grab another bottle the guy rushed him. It wasn’t his fault the guy was so drunk he missed the swing and stumbled off so badly he tripped and broke his nose. But it wasn’t like you were gonna believe a word coming from his mouth, he’s played the intoxicated card too much for it to have just been an accident this time around.

“I know you pushed him.” He opens his mouth to retort, “I know you pushed him because candles just don’t blow out within a closed bar with no windows, Barbatos. I know you pushed him because that man explained it felt like he was being shoved into the ground when he fell, Barbatos. I know you pushed him because this has been the same story with you for the last three weeks! By the gods, what has gotten into you?”

You’ve both gotten far enough from Springvale to talk freely, but hearing your voice carry in the winds of the quiet forest hurts a lot more than being scolded in front of the dozen or so citizens. You come across an abandoned supply wagon and take this as a moment to stop. By helping Venti up the back of the wagon to sit on its edge, you take the time to look him over. It is always surprising how he comes back unscathed from every encounter; not a single hair out of place, nor smudge of cheap alcohol anywhere on his clothes or lingering scent of said alcohol anywhere in the air - only noticeable when close enough to his lips. Venti sways in his seat, head hung low like a child who's been told off by their parents and sometimes it feels like just that. You sigh.

“I’m not upset with you.” The change in your tone makes his head raise and a noticeable color return to his face.

Yeah, just like a child.

“I just wish you’d fix whatever you have going on with you right now. I have a lot on my plate as is with the Knights of Favonius and getting everything I can with that Snezhnayain diplomat. I had to leave a meeting that could have been a pivotal breakthrough with them today because of you!”

You don’t see it with how you fix the legs of your armored plating, but Venti rolls his eyes. He knows about the plans of the Cryo Archon. He knows a lot more than what he lets on to the traveler or anyone else who inquiries about the matter; there's a reason he normally steers clear of the Adventures Guild’s Katherine. Still the more he relays the information to you, warnings upon warnings of caution, you don’t listen. It is demeaning knowing what little trust you have for your own god, let alone having to continue this conversation every night.

“...and you might not take this seriously, Venti, but it's really disappointing.”

“You're more disappointed that I ruined date night.” Venti had tried to hold it in, he really did but hearing you praise that woman Signora over giving praise to your own archon would make any one of Celestia’s chosen snap. He stands then, the most sober movement he has had all night and you scoff.

“Oh may Celestia take me now! This again? For the last and final time I am simply working with the women. It’s my job and whatever I do shouldn’t matter to you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you are a god!” The winds pick up, there is a clear green gleam in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “People offer prayers to you daily. They work and celebrate all in your name. You used to split mountains, Barbatos…What I do should be insignificant to the eyes of someone like you: our supposedly high and mighty deity.”

“It's high time you act like it.”

There is a heavy thudding in the distance, you turn around missing the clear shake in Venti’s hands. The wind rages on stirring the clouds above but you don’t care as you catch sight of a Mitachurl barreling in your direction. Clearly your shouting stirred it somehow and with how fast it's charging there is no room to run.

You draw your sword and stand in front of Venti as protection, “Damn. We’ll continue this later.” He’s gone quiet and when you dare to look away from the charging beast to see your archon, your skin runs cold. He’s bleeding in his right hand, fist balled so tight he shakes as he breaks skin and it runs down to evaporate before it hits the ground. His lyre rests in his left but it's different; the strings, once a vibrant glow of green, run a deep dark red almost the same color as the blood on his skin.

“Vent-” you begin to call out but the words are cut off by the heavy shout before you. You turn your neck quickly to see the Mitachurl with its ax raised high, about to strike. When had it gotten so close? You brace yourself ready to hold off the blunt force as best you can, turning again to shout for Venti to move.

But he strums his first note.

This sound is far different then what you’re used to. What was once a gentle, harmonic strumming of a lyre blessed in the winds, now feels dissonant. The sound is a deep vibration one that could only be described when hitting the wrong keys at the end of a piano in quick concession. A sound you feel breach into the roots of your lungs and pry out all the air you have stored.

You can’t breathe.

The sword falls from your hands as you frantically clutch your chest. Your legs wobble and your head is hammering, the need to breath is overwhelming but with every harsh breath you take in it all seems to be sucked out.

“Barbat-”

“You want a god. I’ll show you god.”

Barbatos strums his second note.

This sound has a higher pitch, the noise most quickly catches you as that of a violin when you bring it’s bow down with a little too much pressure against the wrong chord. There’s a force to this note, one you must assume was the same the guy at the bar felt as you are shoved into the wagon. The force of the blow leaves you more winded then you were before. All your strength feels drained from your body and your knees give out. There is no time to recover though…

Not when Lord Barbatos pulls at his third and final string.

You don’t register this one, the ringing in your ears and overall loss of oxygen leaving you closer and closer to the brink of unconsciousness. Even so you watch him toy with the string. The wind has picked up and now you notice the Mitachurl raised in the air, it struggles with its head thrashing about. Venti turns to you, a smile crazed and eyes dim.

Then he lets the string go.

It's hard to watch. Wind isn’t a visible thing, but in this very moment you pinpoint just where the breeze shifts and changes as it tears through the beast limb from limb. Arms and legs twist and bend, its chest constricts slowly and its head rotates like an owl with a chorus of loud cracks of bones; if it wasn’t for how close you feel to the brink of death yourself you know the sounds of the snapping and screams would have killed you alone. Barbatos stares still.

It doesn’t last long, the sheer horror of it all ends quickly as the Mitachurl is compressed into the origin of the tornado it's caught in until it blows in a rain of blood. The loss of oxygen finally gets to you as your eyes drift but not before seeing the finale of your oh so mighty deity.

He stands unmoving as the blood pours down in a shower along his face, eyes now closed, “disappointed in your god now?”

THE GEO ARCHON Rex Lapis | wc. 1.6k+

Six-thousand years ago, the start of the Archon War.

A long and painful four-thousand years of battle over a couple seats at the throne that was already predetermined. Four-thousand years wasted away killing friends and family and loved ones for power they themselves now wish to throw away. A lot of gods didn’t want to be a part of this…holy massacre - or whatever these scholars wish to paint it as - and you were one of them. You were given many names for your time: Theia, Anthos, Gia. The only thing that remains certain within all books of history is your ability to create elemental stones.

Ascension silver, within today’s terms, was a skill none could manage; for being a god who could bond to a multitude of elements at once was beyond even the original seven of Celestia. The gems you produced offered various needs opposed to the power of visions; pyro silver for warmth, hydro silver to be shattered and give rain, geo crystals for fortitude in times of terrible weather, dendro crystals to fertilize plants, cryo silver to cool in the warmer weathers and electro silver to strengthen weapons for combat. It all could be found in the midst of your domain.

Your domain resided in the Huaguang Stone Forest, within the underbelly of Mt. Aocang. It was just a large hollowed cave filled with crystals and home to a small community of humans. They traded off the crystals you produced, for food and supplies, holding festivals and village gatherings under your name. When they needed protection, your crystal walls provided and the Vishaps, organic creatures of your creation, helped protect those from outside.

All was good, all was at peace.

Until six-thousand years ago, the start of the Archon War.

Tremors grew in both number and extremity over time. Your people starved and scared as trade drew to a halt and more and more outsiders flocked for your domain for protection. The energy of fellow gods and people you once thought would grow old together die out like the stars one by one. However, within your domain all was good, all was at peace, all was protected.

Or so you thought until you met Rex Lapis, the self proclaimed God of Geo, four-thousand years ago during the Archon War.

He requests your assistance, he speaks of monsters and demons emerging from the earth of Guili Plains and that without you they would consume the earth and all within it. You were hesitant to believe him, not when he stormed in covered in the blood of gods and an army of yaksha armed tooth and nail to your fortress of peace. When you speak of the wellbeing of your people he promises to ensure their safety with a few of his yaksha, but when you question him further its General Musatas who warns you to watch your tongue when speaking to one of the chosen seven. Thinking back about it now that should have been the first sign of danger; putting your trust in a god fighting to be apart of the corrupt Celestia. But your people needed more help than what you could provide alone, and you still young and naive wanted to believe that the word of the god of gods was absolute.

So you leave and for a thousand years you fight for a cause you thought to be pointless. You watch gods die, your crystal shields only doing so much in the onslaught of war. Whenever you came close to being wounded it was Morax who protected you from harm time and time again. Taking the blunt force of claws and the heavy pummeling from Osial, all to keep you from harm's way. You had thought it was admirable…if only that same persistence was there for Guizhong.

When she perished on the battlefield you all were pushed back. In a last stand against the enemy you took hold at Mt. Tianheng, and it was there we prospered. Rex Lapis’ sheer power and battle strategy in command of the adeptus and five general yaksha pushed through for the victory and settlement of Liyue. It was then the god of contracts requested a binding: all remaining adeptus would stand to protect Liyue if danger ever stirred once again.

And once again you were a fool to trust the words of the god of gods.

For the others were allowed to roam as they pleased until called upon and you were to remain within Liyue Harbor forever at the side of your god Rex Lapis. He claimed it was for protection, your powers being the strongest he’s seen for a lifetime, however you could only recall being of no help to protect the ones you hold dear on the battle field.

You fight, complain and wrestle against his iron grip but the contract holds still. As the Harbor prospered and grew over the years, it left you with the stronger desire to see your people once again. A request with the yaksha would fall on deaf ears as they were still to handle the aftermath within the Plains, but when talk of corruption and madness spread among the masses you had feared the worst. Against your better judgment you left, you thought the wellbeing of your people is more important than the loyalty you have in some god.

When you return to the Stone Forest, you’re enveloped with a sense of home. You spot Cloud Retainer at the top of the peak, but she is gone before you can offer a wave. When you finally reach the door to your domain your heart drops. The Geovishaps who stand guard are nowhere to be found and the energy of your barrier left so long ago has run dry. Even with the clear signs, you still push forward and believe in the word of Morax.

Still so young and naive.

The domain is bathed in dried blood. There are bodies upon bodies of your people scattered along the floor, their blood painted over your crystals and the bodies of yakshas having killed everyone else looked to have turned against each other. Tears of pure silver fall from your eyes as you make way through your temple, a last ditch effort for hope of any survival…for anything.

Everything lays in shambles - crystal decoration of your own design shattered across the floor, Vishaps of all ages lifeless and unmoving just like the images of the gods all those years ago. What breaks you is what sits at your throne: the remaining villagers all curled together encased in a crystal prison. It was a skill you taught your strongest Vishaps just before your departure, never considering that they would need to use it you had no way of reversing its effects. You fall into a sob, pillars of crystals sprouting just where your tears meet the bloody ground. All hope is lost from you until you feel the looming presence of Rex Lapis.

At first, you're overjoyed.

He could somehow fix this. Given his ability to cleanse gods and shape islands with minimal effort, this could be done by the snap of a finger. You stand with some difficulty, the gems having crystalized at the bottom hem of your garments almost keeping you weighted to the floor as a warning. You pay no mind.

Then, all at once, you’re afraid.

When you reach him, smiling and happy for once to be in his presence, the weight around you feels heavy. The glare of Rex Lapis is stone cold, gold irises like slits of the dragon you witnessed decapitate so many of your old friends. The general Alatus to his left stands armed and ready, and to his right Cloud Retainer - one normally so proud and boastful, hangs her head low behind the god before her.

“You left.” His voice is calm, a stark contrast to the way he is looking at you. Glaring at you like the enemy. “Well yes.” You begin, a stutter to your voice, “the war has long since reached its close…and with n-no more danger I thought it would be alright to-”

“Danger is always upon us. You went against our agreement.” There's a bass in his voice that rocks a tremor through your body as well as the cave you reside in, its strength leaves Alatus to stumble his footing and Cloud Retainer to dip her gaze that much lower. You, however press on, “I had no plans to be gone long a-and with no word from my home I feared the worst. So I had to-”

His hand envelops your throat in an instant. Rough, scaled fingers grip tightly around you and when you make an effort to speak he squeezes harder. “You had to remain within the harbor. We had an agreement. You swore an oath to me, an oath that was never to be broken.” Frantic fingers grip at his hand, you try to pry him off of you but your body feels like it's being pulled by an unknown force that leaves you weak and him unmoving. He watches you struggle, and somehow in those eyes you see him pleased with the way you whither in his grasp.

“Should I take care of them, Master?” General Alatus’ mask envelopes his face, karmic energy flowing from his body. You shutter as his blade is brought to your sides. Rex Lapis turns his head swiftly, the first he’s looked away from you since he’s got here, and glares harder. In seconds the general is brought to the floor in a shout of pain. In the position he kneels, Alatus clutches the floor in a grip so tight you’d think he was trying to push against the heavy pull of the world’s gravity. “You will hold your tongue until I see fit for your suggestions, General.”

Alatus nods as best he can, body struggling just as much as yours to try and fight against the power of the god of geo. The glow of his scales dims, and the yaksha begins to breathe as he stands on wobbly legs. It is then the archon drops you. You swallow oxygen in desperately and cough it back out heavily as you gaze up at the man before you. When he reaches for you again, you scurry away but not far enough. This time he grasps your arm dragging you away breathless and reaching for what’s left of your home.

He scoffs at your sorry state, “your offense to me isn’t great, but you still will be punished for your disobedience.” You’re helpless to it all, too weak to challenge one of the chosen seven of Celestia. He snaps his fingers and just like all those years ago he takes you from your home.

Back then it was for a cause, an unspoken oath you had no idea would chain you to a man you don’t believe in; but now it's as a prisoner, a powerless god who watches their domain crumble right before your eyes.

THE ELECTRO ARCHON Raiden Shogun | wc. 1.1k+

“Leave us.”

For a moment, you think she sounds disappointed. The guards release you from your binds and you're quick to snatch your wrists away to rub the tender skin. They give stiff bows and with stiff, sharp pointed turns make way for the doors of the Shogunate’s chambers. When they leave the room, Baal and the kitsune Saiguu emerge from the panels behind the back of the throne. Baal is as calm as ever; she sits eyes closed, knees folded below her and her wagasa twirling in her slender fingers as if pondering something. Saiguu seems more openly displeased; her tail rests rigid behind her when she sits beside her own Shogun, she looks concerned as she scans your body and you notice she has left her cigarette holder behind.

You are in real trouble now.

Beelzebul had descended her throne before the guards even walked through the door. She paces in between you and her sister, her strides come to match the tempo of the thunder that increases in volume over the heavy rain from the outside world. When a particularly loud clash resonates through the skies, Baal stops her twirling. “Ei, you’re beginning to cause a stir amongst the people.”

She stops her pacing and so too does the thunder if only for a little. Beelzebul looks you over and it seems that fans her flame even more when her eyes rack over your body. Her gaze doesn’t match that of Saiguu’s though. “You’re wounded.” She finally speaks, it's more at you than to you. The wound is nothing serious, a small scratch to the arm that has left your garments a little bloody but it's really nothing that won't heal by the morning. She moves quickly for bandages, trying and failing to distract herself from imploding, but when she gets close with the adhesive you dodge around her touch.

The first clash of lightning strikes the seas.

Beelzebul sighs and stands, you watch the bandage begin to buzz and spark in her grasp. “Bleed out for all I care.” In an instant, the cloth blows and dissolves in a small show of flames. You flinch.

“Ei-” Baal begins again, her hair glows at the tips and you know she is fighting to calm the storm of emotion that continues to rage outside.

“What did you hope to gain by seeing her again at such a time? We are in the middle of a war of gods and you see it fit to chase a traitor.”

“Chiyo is no traitor!” You don’t mean to yell, but the way she spits the word ‘traitor’ has your blood boiling. Baal makes no effort to calm you down. “She had been trapped inside the belly of that beast for so long; months fighting her way from the inside out. That could turn anyone to madness…and when she finally emerges scared and confused you try to kill her.”

“She’s become crazed with madness. Something in that beast left with her and a blight like that can’t be cleansed. Saiguu knew the moment she saw her.” You break your gaze to look at the goddess.

Saiguu nods at you even without looking your way, “Not even a cleansing from the Sacred Sakura would have helped. Even being that close I could tell that blight ran deeper than her soul. I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head vigorously. There had to be something you could do, even if that meant caging her within the temple for an eternity anything would have been better than more death. “There was something we could have done. I know it. Rukkhadevata would know something; she knows everything. Let me go to Sumera and-”

A dry chuckle bursts from Beelzebul, “It seems you might have been tainted by whatever she had. If you think you are in the right to start making requests now I can assure you it won’t happen. Have you forgotten the current situation: we are at war, not just us but all the gods. You were only lucky enough to get to the forests before I had to save you from that beast.” The air around you feels static. The hairs on your body raise and the wound on your arm feels like it’s being pinched every so often. “Why are you so adamant on leaving my protection?”

“Protection?! Your protection! You keep me imprisoned. I cannot see anyone but who you allow me too. I am followed constantly and whenever I so much as breathe in the direction of the outside world I’m dragged away. You keep me here shielded like some precious doll while everyone else fights.” Baal’s gaze meets yours behind her sister almost there to push you on. “I am a soldier to this nation before anything else and would rather take my chance out there than to live knowing I sat sheltered and protected like a coward with you here.”

Ei’s stunned. A storm ripples through her gaze and for a second you think those purple hues of clouds show shines of rain.

Instead lightning clashes before you.

The blunt end of her blade is brought to the heart of your chest in a flash. The feeling of its energy pulsing so close makes the tales of its power in battle sound underplaying, stray bolts of lightning bounce off it and reach in to rub under your clothed skin. You jolt. Saiguu makes an effort to stand but Makato raises her hand to halt her advance.

“If you wish to die so eagerly, I will strike you down here myself.”

It's clear she means it; having already slain and severely injured two of her closest friends there would be no hesitation if you had to be next. Makoto finally decides it's time to intervene, her fingers curl along her sister’s shoulder and although Ei doesn’t break away the energy pressing into your chest does decline in pressure if only for a second. “Pain doesn’t last an eternity.”

They don’t even look at each other when she speaks, she just holds her there. You think it has to be something only they could feel as twin gods and hope Makoto wins the internal battle. The sword dissolves in her grasp and you let go of the breath you had thought to be your last. “You're both hurting and you might fight it but it's for the same reason. Chiyo was dear to all of us, so were Sasayori and the others but we cannot let their deaths bring about our own. What would they have fought for? Have died for?” Ei brushes the hand from her shoulder and walks towards the balcony in long strides.

Makoto does nothing to stop her, choosing it best to let her storm settle on its own then to try and guide its course. She does turn to you, pleading you to understand — her sister only cares for the best of you. You don’t respond, staying glued to the floor while your mind tries to catch up to your heart. Ei pushes into the storm outside that leaves the doors rattling and a chill to the room. Tearing your gaze from the ground you look to your god, she now stands on the ledge head turned up towards the heavy rainfall. She looks almost strangely content with the chaos outside, you could still make out the rotting corpse of the great serpent in the distance. There is a pain bubbling from your gut as your heart still hammers in your chest. Is this the weight you must bear under the care of a god?

THE DENDRO ARHCON Lesser Lord Kusanali | wc. 1.5k+

“Tell me: what do you think shapes a dream?”

You should have known something was wrong the moment Nahida had requested to see you personally. This wouldn’t be the first time one of the archons has requested something like this from you, however Nahida’s tone of voice somehow puts you on edge. The way it echoes in the hollow room she had led you in racks a chill down your spine.

“A dream is made solely by your emotions.” You recall this from your psychology class, the professor was so invested in the topic it was kinda hard to forget. “Whatever fuels that of your wishes, memories and abstract thoughts all tie into what can shape a dream when you fall asleep.” You’ve recited that line so many times before that final exam and still remember being so pissed it was never even mentioned within the test. “However, the worries that rest in the back of your mind might also shift the course of a dream as well.”

“Hmm. I had never thought of it that way.” Nahida curls her hand under her chin thinking, “would that be the same case for a nightmare?”

“I would assume so…yes.” There is a piece you’re missing in the puzzle of questions. Her curiosity is hiding something else, something that you can’t picture right out but you do feel it with every passing second. “But why would someone try to sleep with negative emotions moving through their head?”

If it weren’t for the fact that you knew this is a virtual world you would have been fooled to see Nahida as the child that she is. Her small frame looks up at you expectantly; being the only person in her world to ever know more than that of her vast case of knowledge, she treats you much more like a new toy to play around with than as the high god everyone else believes you to be.

That in and of itself is both a blessing and a curse.

“Sometimes it can’t be helped.” You try to not think about it but you tell yourself this everyday now. “It’s something we can’t fight…the negative emotions, they are always with us because we never know what the future will hold.”

“It's all a random chance of time. One day, you could find yourself on the receiving end of a terrible storm, you could walk straight into dog poop with brand new shoes or you could even walk into a meeting with all your clothes inside out…One day you could lose a loved one, you could walk into a store and see your house in flames on the news, you could even-”

“Be trapped with no way home.” Your eyes widen. Nahida’s head is tilted ever so slightly, eyes squinted and you realize she is studying your reaction, “y-yeah you could.”

“Fascinating.”

You don’t even realize it but your voice waivers, “What is?”

Nahida looks away from you to her holo-screen behind her. With delicate fingers she swipes through files and documents you can’t catch sight of until her little fingers stop on one. You can make out the screen and it looks like a video. She taps it.

A screen materializes before you and the video plays. Image looks like the holding cells of the Knights of Favonius headquarters, but the person within the cell looks like no character you have seen in game at all. It isn’t like you remember every npc within this world, however, each character has similar features that make it obvious in telling who is who. Could this be a new character? There is no knowledge of them in recent patch notes.

Nahida’s voice startles you.

“Oh…you must be curious? This is user 804897112. Although the name he chose at the start was Starlord, his real name is Chris.”

What?

“It took him four weeks before he slipped up. They hadn’t noticed him as the Creator of that server yet but when he went around sprouting drunk nonsense about the Archon War at Angel Share things took a turn.” You haven’t been watching the screen, too caught up on understanding what Nahida had just said but the scream catches you off guard.

That person. That real life person, Chris, is chained and on his knees before Jean, Rosaria, Kaeya, Diluc and Venti. Kaeya’s sword is jabbed into Chris’ shoulder, Rosaria looks to be trying to get him to cough up any information he knows but you can’t hear anything. Did Nahida only want you to hear that screams? There is a troubled look on Jean’s face like she’s reluctant to continue this, but Venti says something that rouses everyone in the room and pales Chris’ skin. He’s crying now, snotty and nasty as Diluc beelines to him with his heavy blade.

Diluc’s greatsword raises and you gasped in horror as its brought down on Chris’ head. Out of sheer fear you clutch your own neck. Blood seeps out in a sparkle of gold and they all stand as stunned as you, the poor boy’s head tumbling over in the pool of it blood. The video ends there.

It’s hard to breathe and you're given no time to recover yourself as another plays. “This is user 119876532, Diana. She asked questions about Scaramouche’s true origins to the Shogunate. Knowledge no one should possess and again before the establishment of her identity as Creator.” This one carries no build and is from a farther angle atop a tree, like from the perch in the eyes of a bird, but it's all so vividly clear. The girl is tied to her knees before the shogun, spilling out words too quickly for you read and understand. There is no need to though, Ei is as calm as ever. She listen to Diana’s rambling, and for a second you think she might believe whatever she’s saying. Five seconds later, you watch Diana die in the same flash of lightning as La Signora.

You can’t stand now, legs given out in the horror of it all. The videos continue like this until you can’t bear to look at the screen anymore.

User 908765342 crushed by meteorite hurled by Zhongli. User 743828950 — Sam, found dismembered by a pack of hilichurls. Robert gets mauled by a geovishap. Lee can’t take it anymore and…

“Why?” The tears fall from your eyes in heavy waves. “Why show me all this? Why tell me about all these people? I don’t-”

It all connects in seconds: they found out about you.

You move to stand hurriedly and make a beeline for the exit but your feet stay planted to the floor with the sight before you. The Doctor stands grinning from ear to ear. He clasps his hands together with a sigh of glee. “You ask why and it’s simple: you survived.”

He’s on you in an instant, tightly holding your wrists in his hands and preventing your escape no matter how hard you thrash. He breathes into your neck harshly and you sob. He whispers breathlessly into your ear how he has never been this fascinated, this drawn to a specimen before and promises to be gentle in your dissection. Nahida watches you with wide interested eyes as you struggle in hope of saving yourself. You cry out to them, to your guards, to Lumine or Dehya or Thoma. To anyone who would hear you even though no one can. But still…

You scream.

Cyno breaks down your door, his gaze looking over the room hastily to find the culprit to dare stir the peaceful slumber of the Creator.

It was a dream? It was a dream and yet your wrists burn, the images of all those people looked so real.

Was this a sign? Would that happen to you if any of them ever found out? Have they already started to suspect something? What if you don’t ever get out of here? What if-

“Your grace?” Cyno’s hand brings you back to reality, hard. His fingers feel almost frozen over against the skin of shoulder and you flinch away in such a haste it brings crease to his brows. You almost question why he runs so cold but with him looking at you with so much concern you don’t think it's him that is the problem. “Do I need to go get Tighnari? I will only be a couple hours but I could stop by our Archons domain just so-”

“No!” Your voice is filled with fright, but it’s obvious that the sheer volume of your scream is what stuns him the most. You can feel the sweat run down your temple and the pound of your heart so aggressively in your ears. It takes you far too long to compose yourself but you are grateful that Cyno listens and just stands by your side.

“There is no need for all of that. I’m just a little shaken.” He doesn’t seem to take your word for it but when you explain that it was only a dream and not some illness that caused this he is partially relieved. “The doctor won’t be needed for this and it isn’t like this is something of his expertise.”

Cyno offers a quick nod before he settles in a chair at your desk. He shuffles closer to your bedside with a cross to his arms and a tense raise of his shoulders. You can’t blame him for staying alert; dreams are a new phenomenon within Sumeru and with the few months you have known him, you know Cyno doesn’t do well with handling business he cannot comprehend for himself.

It takes too long for you to finally get calm within the safety of your own bed, but it does help that Cyno — as loyal to you as he once was to the akademiya — stays by your side the whole night.

It gets hard trying to keep your mind from blurring the line between your life outside and the one within this game. Watching Cyno sleep next to you, the steady rise and fall of his chest is far too detailed for your sensitive mind to keep considering these people aren’t real people. A Sumeru rose, a gift handed to you by a child of the city, loses a petal and you watch the leaf fall then blow in a spark of pixels. You’ve been here too long.

You need to get out . . . and soon.

THE EVERLASTING GOD OF ARCANE WISDOM : Scaramouche | wc. 1.2k+

You should have known this could have been another one of the Doctor’s tricks.

You are privy to his experiments and know just about everything there is to know about his latest desires as a man of knowledge…but it seems you have gotten too relaxed within his presence to suspect that you were the next pawn to be sacrificed within this long orchestrated game.

Being left to go through with the final reports on the Balladeer’s status without his supervision should have been the first and only sign needed to show you something else was at play here. The Doctor was always to see everything himself, deeming everyone else — even you — inferior to his intellect and prone to time consuming slip ups. Why you would ever trust an order like this for its face value you will never know. But now you can tell it was a mistake.

The laboratory has been cleared on the orders of the Doctor, and yet you feel like you have been being watched ever since you have entered the building.

Since you entered Sumeru for the matter.

Pushing away the chills, you check the sixth harbinger’s vitals. Everything looks to be in order but that is to be as expected; the Doctor had said this could be close to being his greatest creation and that would obviously show in his work. You hum triumphantly and quickly move on to the next task. The body of the Prodigal is kept in a separate room, with how massive the final product came to be it was bound to happen. It is still mesmerizing to know how much raw power is stored within a gnosis on its own. Crazy how an item so small is able to create mass destruction in the world.

Everything seems in perfect shape when you finally reach the test sight. The distant hum of the overhanging lights do little to add any glory to the giant machine before you. Even without eyes its looming figure looks down upon you as if it can tell the significant power difference between you two. Dottore had told you it was nonsense; the Balladeer would be in a state of hypostasis until his body finally converges with the power of the electro gnosis. He couldn’t possibly be able to tell a slime from a hilichurl let alone know when anyone enters the room.

You find it — much like everything else that comes with interacting with the Doctor — demeaning. He undermines everyone and if it weren’t for his rank you'd have thought he was just too full of himself. His genius could be on a par with the dendro archon but that's something you’ll never admit even to the nicest of his segments.

Data shows that Scaramouche is still stable. The gnosis too somehow remains with a constant flow of energy as it diverts power to the main systems. It still eludes you how someone like Scaramouche can handle power as strong as this for as long as he has. Though you do not know the criteria of the ranking amongst harbingers, his order in the hierarchy holds true.

So caught up in your own thoughts you hadn’t even noticed how close you had gotten to the body. If that presence was intimidating at a distance it pales in comparison to being up close. It towers above like the clock-house in Snezhnaya, arms and hands long and big enough to crush you whole. You shake your head from the thought.

Your hand reaches to touch the machine. The metal is cold to the touch but there is a sensation of static that travels along your arm the longer you linger there. By the time you move your hand away ready to depart to report back to Dottore, a sudden shock sparks from your hand. You pull it back with a wince. This must be an unforeseen side effect to the gnosis.

All at once your head throbs with white noise. It starts off faint but then rises to ring above all else. At first you believe it to be a faulty pipeline and look around for any signs of damage but yet again you see the perfectly unharmed lab. The sound is overwhelming and you can feel something pressing into the back of your mind. Memories not of your own flash before your eyes.

The sensations are too much to bear and you collapse when it's all too much at once. The moment you come too it feels different. The buzzing in your arm has spread throughout your body, and the noise that filled your mind is now gone, replaced by knowledge that leaves you weighted to the ground trying to understand it all.

The Balladeer…Scaramouche is��

“Was a puppet.” The voice is familiar and you cannot believe that its real. “A puppet that now wields a greater power than that of the god who chose to abandon him all those years ago.” He has ascended and so soon. Dottore’s notes were foolproof, everything down to the last decimal was precise so how could his hypothesis be false?

Scaramouche offers a snarl, and it's only now that you can register that he is inside your head with his reply, “because Dottore is a buffoon. He will always underestimate someone who he believes he could outsmart at any game, under any circumstance and do so without question. It’s that pride that will be his undoing in due time.” He walks around you, there are long pauses between every sentence and he speaks as if you will be overwhelmed by him just looking in your direction. You don’t know why you feel so grateful for it.

“Enough about him though.” He stops to kneel down to where you lay on the ground. His hand ever so delicately lifts your chin to meet his gaze and he gives you opportunity to look away. You don’t. “Let me see into you.”

Words filter through your head without him even needing to open his mouth. You’ve been connected to him by the soul, a pact between your compatible life force and his new godly abilities that were enforced the moment you touched him through the machine. You’ve been chosen as his first and whatever that entitles you don’t know but you do feel the tears roll down your eyes. Your mind cannot decipher if they are tears of joy or resentment of this new god.

Why are you calling him that?

Scaramouche wipes them away with a wicked smile. “No need for sorrow my chosen. For as your new god I will craft a world for you that leaves no room for those emotions to ever cross your features again. The Everlasting God of Arcane Wisdom will pave a way for your salvation and my glory to rise. So long as you put your faith in me and me alone.”

His hands fall from your face as he stands, but they still remain outstretched to you. The invitation hangs in the air and yet his smile never waivers like he knows what you will choose him over anything else. Like you will choose him over life itself.

And for a moment you think you will.

a/n: this is very dark of me and really shouldn’t be my comeback post but rewatching nahida’s introduction really had me in the mood to bring our archons back into the light. also yes i am formally back to writing so do expect more posts soon to come.

p/s: furina version will be up as soon as i catch up enough with her character.

#genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x male reader #genshin x reader #genshin x male reader #venti x reader #zhongli x reader #raiden shogun x reader #nahida x reader #scaramouche x reader #[ gem’s timestamps — ⌚️ ]#again sorry this is so dark but i just had to get this off my chest #gonna be thinking about prodigal scara so much now #also welcome back me

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artiststarme · 1 year ago

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Happy Halloween!

The first Halloween they have after the events of Spring Break is the best Eddie had ever had. He’d always loved Halloween with its mystery and secrets, the hidden horror found in the films, and the candy everyone passed out to the kids. He loved watching the kids of the trailer park dress in their second-hand costumes to pretend to be fairies, princesses, and pirates like he too had once before. But before 1986, he’d always been alone. He would smear makeup on his face and run door to door in the early evening before anyone else was out then he’d saunter home and hide from the bullies outside with a lap full of candy and the small TV screen playing a horror flick.

Halloween of 1986 though brought a new opportunity. Eddie could put on a mask and cease to be the boy that everyone in the town despised. He would no longer be a “known” killer that mothers pulled their children away from. He wouldn’t be the idiot that flunked out of high school after three tries. He wouldn’t even be the freak that people sneered insults at. That Halloween night, Eddie was able to just be himself with his friends.

He and Steve weren’t dating at that point, but he could feel they were close. Eddie saw the way his eyes never strayed quite too far away from him and felt how his hands reached for him whenever he turned away. It wasn’t different on Halloween.

Eddie’s face was covered with black and white paint and his hair was let loose on his back, the curls unruly and full. He was masquerading as a member of KISS, the only metal band that Steve could stomach to listen to for any period of time. Above all though, he wasn’t Eddie Munson.

Steve dressed as Ferris Bueller wearing a costume eerily similar to Tina’s Halloween Party several years prior and matched with Robin who went as his best friend Cameron Frye. The kids dressed in random costumes that meant little to Eddie beyond recognition that they were having fun.

The whole Party went door to door in Loch Nora for the full size candy bars then around the Wheeler’s neighborhood for some of what Dustin called, “the cheap shit”. When the night was over and most of the houses were out of candy to pass out, everyone headed back to the Byers’ house for the sleepover of all sleepovers. They carved pumpkins and ate pie, they made pumpkin seeds and cookies, they almost gave Hopper a heart attack when they started a food fight that wrecked the entire dining room (Eddie started it but he’s taking that with him to the grave).

When the kids were too tired and the girls had retreated to bed, Steve led Eddie out to his car where they watched the stars and smoked some cigarettes. They ate all of Dustin’s candy and traded secrets under the gaze of the brightened moon. Eddie’d long forgotten about his face paint up until the point where Steve’s lips met his in a light kiss that shot electricity through his bones. They kissed and hugged until their noses were cold from the chilly weather and they had no choice but to head back inside.

It was the best night of Eddie’s life.

The morning after was not. He woke up with a bruising jolt from Steve’s elbow making contact with his jaw. His stomach hurt from the excessive consumption of sweets and his lungs were tight from the chain smoking. Most of all though, his head hurt from the loud raucous of the kids finding his facepaint all over the lower half of Steve’s face.

He dealt with the outraged confusion of the kids, the stern ‘talking-to’ (more like screaming match) from Hopper for defiling his adopted son, and even the not so subtle looks from Robin and Nancy. Everything was worth it in the end when Steve carefully wiped off the makeup on Eddie’s face with nimble fingers and gentle swipes until all that was left was some slight staining of skin and his lips meeting Steve’s.

Halloween of 1986 was the best of many moments to come. It turns out that for Eddie, ‘86 was his year after all.

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#it was all fun and games until Hopper found them in the bathroom and threatened to pull a Vecna #after that they start making out at the trailer instead because uncle Wayne shows much more support (i.e. fake gagging but no threats)#the kids can't believe that Steve fell for Eddie covered in KISS makeup and he fell for Ferris Bueller #Robin can't believe that no one noticed her waking up in Nancy's clothes from the night prior but she's not going to bring it up #stranger things #steddie #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #dustin henderson

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varilien · 1 year ago

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(character uses they/it) i keep wanting to start posting my ocs over here again and then Just Not Doing It so uhhhh !!! some stuff from february, had a dream about knives that made me think of a plant oc with a constant power output so extreme that it generates a deadly radiation field around them. because of that they've been living alone this whole time, avoiding contact with other living things, and over the years they've learned how to suppress that output for short spans of time or "safely" pour out the excess in order to be safe to be around, though they ultimately prefer their solitude due to a history of bad experiences with humans. they're very blunt, spiteful, and curious

@whatever-you-can-give-me suggested lr would make good friends for them since they are 🤝 about being extremely hard to hurt lol

also! wrote like 2k about they and razlo's first meeting below the cut if anyone's interested in some good ol violence + gore :3

that was a fr content warning btw read at ur own discretion:

Chance encounters with violent strangers out in the open desert are nothing new to LR, even when Livio purposefully had tried to find the quietest possible route to travel. It’s not even necessarily surprising to run into someone a little to the left of human, someone a bit bigger or stronger or more durable than they really have any right to be. The Eye aren’t the only ones designing freaks on this planet, that much is obvious, evidenced sufficiently by the odder fights LR have ever gotten in.

And this one is shaping up to be one of their oddest fights yet.

Livio hadn’t seen the fucker coming, occupied as he was with the slow realization of why this stretch of road doesn’t see much use anymore: a creeping heat across his nerve endings unrelated to the overcast, evening suns, the taste of metal in his mouth, and a deep-rooted nausea twisting up his guts. Radiation sickness. He’s dealt with it before, and as unpleasant as it is, it’s hardly enough to slow him down too bad.

It’s damn distracting, though. A good enough excuse for not noticing them hiding up along the rockface above his head. Not a good enough excuse to keep Razlo from tagging in, especially after something’s pierced straight through the back of his neck, nearly taking his head clean off.

Razlo rolls for cover with a strangled sound, blood gushing from his forced-out throat and foaming at his lips. Even with his senses jarred and his vision blurred, it'd take more than a near-decapitation for his instincts to be overridden. He's slinging out a Punisher before he even knows what he's up against.

There's a blur of motion to his right as soon as his sights are raised. They're probably surprised Razlo's still standing, but so was everyone else who's gotten a lucky shot at him.

He can track their motion by sound alone. They're sloppy. Feet hitting the cracked earth in hard thumps, every one a warning that Razlo can aim a spray of bullets at. And by now Razlo's healed enough to notice and wonder why the hell his head is still so fucked up.

At least now he can mostly see them when he turns, hanging back a ways, out of Razlo's reach. Shorter than him by a head and a half, covered toe to tip in layers of sun-bleached rags, save for their face. That's hidden behind a tall, curved mask, shaped in a way that looks an awful lot like a tomas' crest, with the false eye markings to match. Even the glass for the lenses is opaque. The only part of them that’s exposed is their left hand, extended delicately aside to keep Razlo’s blood dripping off it from getting on their clothes.

Razlo physically tries to shake out the buzzing in his skull that only gets worse by the second, only to notice the foul smell of burning meat and risk an instinctive glance down at his arm, where his flesh has started to bubble and steam seemingly on its own. He looks between his arm and his opponent, the way their body tenses and head begins to tip, shaking hard, simultaneous with his skin boiling that much more fiercely.

Something clicks in his brain. There’s no way.

And no time to find out. This time when they dart in he’s expecting it; he takes a swing at their head, and they dodge right into his follow-through, slamming his Punisher into their skull with a crunch and a wet sound from their throat. They drop, like he’d expect them to, like anyone would. And like no one does, they just roll out of the way and onto their back, braced to spring back up again. Razlo puts his boot through their ribcage before they get the chance to. That should be the end of it, too, but the fucker just keeps kicking, trying to get away, the only sound they make being the gurgle of their lungs filling with blood, and they keep kicking.

At this point Razlo doesn’t even have a plan anymore. Needless to say, he doesn’t go up against an awful lot of guys who match him in the department of being a pain in the ass to take down. Razlo's just starting to come up with a new idea when those long arms swing up, claws digging into and making ribbons of his right leg.

Razlo curses and tries to pull away, which only makes them hold on even tighter. He's staring that four-eyed glare down when that burning feeling across his whole body raises in pitch again, and it's the sight of his flesh starting to disintegrate around their fingers that finally makes him back off.

Razlo rather gracelessly falls on his ass in trying to take a step back, not expecting his right leg to simply break off halfway down his thigh. He scrambles back a ways, ready to keep going, missing limb or no, but— they aren't following him. They're collapsed in the sand, limbs akimbo as they fight to draw a full breath. Razlo watches with morbid curiosity as his severed leg dissolves into nothing more than an off-colored patch of sand beside them.

All that angry tension has gone out of their body, leaving them limp and motionless except for the stutter of their chest, and Razlo can hear the damp gasps muffled behind their mask. By all rights, it should look like more of a struggle. They should be dead, really, but from where Razlo is sitting, it looks a lot more like they’re just taking a rest. He feels more sure of that when they roll their shoulders back a bit, arms braced in the dirt as they delicately arch their spine. There’s some sharp popping sounds, and a little exhale from them; setting their ribs, Razlo figures. He’s had to do the same thing before. Once they can move their arms more effectively, they start to gather themself up into a seated position, bones and joints still crackling like popcorn here and there as they go, til they’re all the way up, with their hands resting in their lap, looking far too fucking comfortable for the fight they’d just had.

"You're not dead."

Their voice startles Razlo despite being as soft as it is, and his gaze flicks up to that mask, just slightly tilted to the side, orange lenses glinting in the harsh sunlight. They don't move at all that Razlo can see. Even their breathing has evened out enough to have become imperceptible under their heavy shroud; if they're in any pain still, Razlo sure can't tell.

"Nope," is all he says, or can manage to say.

He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking hard a couple times to scrunch up his face in the hopes his nerves might start feeling right again soon.

Another wave of nausea hits him, but his stomach was empty before the fight even started, so he leans forward to put his head between his knees and dry heave for a while.

The whole time, he's aware of his little opponent continuing to sit in silence, watching and eerily unmoving, even when Razlo manages to sit up again and wipe his mouth with his wrist.

"The fuck's yer deal, anyways?" Razlo asks.

"'Deal'...?" They echo.

"Couldn't exactly kill you, either."

He wasn't expecting them to spill their life story or something, but he was thinking he'd get something more of a response than their head tilting back the opposite way. There's not a lot to work with here in trying to get a read on them, but Razlo feels it's safe to hazard they're probably just pretty damn confused, the same as him.

"You kinda smell like a Plant. M'not an expert, but I've met two others."

Now that gets something out of them. A tiny wiggle of their head that makes the pieces in their mask rattle.

"I wouldn't know. I've only met me."

“Huh.”

Whether it’s a confirmation or rebuttal hardly matters at this point. He’s feeling sure enough that his assumption was correct, now, anyways.

"You, uh…" Razlo has to pause for breath. Unlike the thing across from him, he's having a hell of a time getting his back. "You're the one making this radiation field?"

"Yes."

"Any way you could turn it down?"

They say nothing, though Razlo feels suddenly that he's being studied very intently. And shortly after, slowly, slowly the fire in his cells begins to go out, and he can spit the worst of the sourness off his tongue. Eventually he can't feel any radiation left at all, though his body's had a rough enough time from the dose he got, he'll be getting the sickness out of his system for a while yet.

Regardless, Razlo’s fingers twitch against the triggers when he hears that mask rattle again, and his eyes are on it in an instant.

"You didn't answer my first question," Razlo reminds, cautiously.

More silence, for a while.

"You wanted to hurt me."

There's no malice in the statement, at least that Razlo can tell. Just the simple facts. Still, he narrows his eyes.

"You started it. Figured it was mutual."

"That's true."

Razlo grins.

"So, what now? Regrow my leg, and get back to not killing each other?"

"If you'd like to."

That gets a laugh out of him.

"Nah, I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is.”

That much is obvious. They stay put, seeming transfixed on watching Razlo’s leg grow back, only a little more slowly than any of his other injuries, now that he doesn’t have the radiation to slow him down. It leaves him feeling itchy and achy all over, and he’s got a bad hunch that right ankle doesn’t have the best chances of coming back right. Once there’s enough of it to fuss about, he gets his foot in his hands and starts experimentally rolling it on its hinge, checking that the range of motion is right.

And still, those orange lenses glint at him curiously. They don’t flinch or look away when Razlo considers them in return; he guesses they don’t know it’s not polite to stare.

“What's yer name?" Razlo asks.

"My name?"

"Don't tell me you ain't got one."

The silence that follows is pretty self-explanatory.

“I’m Razlo.”

He can just make out the sound of them mumbling his name under their breath, like they’re not sure how it’s going to come out. Almost warmly, almost shyly, they manage to say: “hello, Razlo.”

#also you don't have to tell me their mask reminds you of tristamp zazie's everyone says that lmao #oc #oc: razlo's lil friend #razlo #razlo the tri punisher of death #livio #livio the double fang #cuz i've never read trimax chatting about lr n their lil friend just felt like the usual playing toys time of oc crossovers w friends lol #and for that reason i have not given any thought at all to them meeting any other characters jghkdjf #i figure i should probably post this now since i'm gonna be busy with the horror movie requests + halloween stuff for a while

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thewritetofreespeech · 1 year ago

Note

Could I request Toru Kirishima's s/o seeing his tattoos for the first time and getting inspiration for her art from it?

“Take your shirt off.”

Toru stopped dead in the middle of what he was doing for a second, then returned to it with a cheeky grin. “[Y/N]-chan, not here in the middle of work…”

“It’s not for that.” They replied with a stern look. Which in turn deflated Toru’s expression because this wasn’t going to be as fun as he wanted. “I want to see your tattoos.”

His expression perked up again, this time in surprise, at their request. No one, or at least no sane person, asked to see a yakuza’s tattoos. “Why do you want to see them?”

“I’m working on a series based on Sakuragi family tattoos. You’re the only one besides Ryota who has a decent one.” They explain as they opened up their sketch pad to get ready.

But Toru felt uncomfortable.

“I don’t think the boss would go for that. He doesn’t like our tattoos on display.” The boss’s rules were simple: you had to get them, and they had to be able to be covered. Toru had already been pushing the line with his arm & wrist tattoos. Discretion was the better part of valor for the boss and he needed soldiers who could blend in when he needed them to.

“I already cleared it with him. He said it was fine.” Shit. “He said as long as I don’t copy the actual tattoos, and use them just for inspiration, and don’t use anyone’s names, I could do it. Now take your shirt off.”

He felt backed into a rock & a hard place, but if the boss said ok Toru didn’t really have a means to refuse them. So he took his shirt off.

Standing there, with his back towards them for a while in silence, Toru finally spoke up, “you’re not doing the whole piece now are you? I’ll have to pick up the little lady from school soon.”

“I’m just working on a rough sketch. And it’s only been 5 minutes.” Toru sighed. “Did they hurt?” They then asked him. Seemingly out of the blue. “When you got them?”

“As much as when my ribs got broken by that baseball bat? No.” He told them. “But…yes, they hurt.”

“Why do it then?”

Toru had to think about it for a minute, over the sound of their pencil scrapping. Sure, the boss and families usually require it when you joined. But it wasn’t just that. “I wanted to belong.”

There were a few more moments of pencil scratching before [Y/N] announced, “I’m done. You can put your shirt back on now.”

“Why do I suddenly feel so dirty?”

[Y/N] chuckled as they came over to him and gave him a peck on the cheek while he buttoned his shirt. “Your support of the arts is appreciated. I’ll see you later.”

“I don’t even get to see it?” He asked incredulously.

“You can see it when it’s done.” They told him. “Just like everyone else.”

“I thought being the boyfriend of the artist got you perks.”

“It does.” They told him. “Your canvas gets to be bigger.” They kissed him again and then were off.

Toru didn’t see them for a while after that, but that was pretty normal. When they were working on their art they would disappear for days on end working on whatever project they had envisioned. Finally, one day, he got a call that the piece were ready and that they were going to do a small show at a local gallery and invited everyone to attend.

Everyone, of course, couldn’t come (that would be a little excessive for the small space) but Toru, Sugihara, and the boss all came to see what [Y/N] had been up to. They were right. His canvas was bigger.

“What do you think?” They asked. Slinking up beside him, like they were any other patron and not the artist.

“I don’t get it.” He answered honestly. “But then again I’m not an art buff.”

[Y/N] snickered at him. “You really don’t have any opinion?”

Toru stared at the painting some more. A large, black dragon. Imposing, intimidating, wailing with its jaws open at the sky in terror perched on a mountain. But then, at its tail, it looked at this it had been ensnared with sakura branches. Delicate, yet strong. The pink flowers a stark contrast to the bleak sky. The parts of its tail it had bound to slowly turning it white. “I like the flowers at the bottom.”

[Y/N] laughed again. “Always the direct one, eh?”

“How much is it?”

“I’m selling it to people who can actually pay me.”

“I can pay you.” Toru snarked back.

“I wouldn’t take your money.”

Toru huffed. “So my skin is good enough for you, but not my money?” Some of the more upper crust patrons gave them funny looks at their conversation.

“Do you really want the painting Toru?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll give you the original one.” They told him. “This is a duplicate. I always planned on giving the original to you, if you wanted it. I just didn’t think you’d be so up in arms about it.”

“I’m not ‘up in arms’.” He argued. “I just like the painting.”

“Then you should have it.” They agreed. Giving him a smile and squeezing his hand. “I have to go talk to some other people with money now. Don’t run off without saying goodbye.” Toru nodded and went back to staring at art and sipping his drink.

What was that old saying? He may not know art, but he knew what he liked?

“Do you think [Y/N] would be mad if I took this off the wall now?” He asked Sugihara when they were alone. To which Sugihara told him emphatically yes, but he still considered it.

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#kirishima #toru kirishima #toru kirishima x reader #toru kirishima scenario #kirishima tooru #the yakuza's guide to babysitting #the yakuza's guide to babysitting x reader #the yakuza's guide to babysitting scenario #scenarios #imagine #kumichou musume to sewagakari #kumicho musume to sewagakari x reader #kumicho musume to sewagakari scenario

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dearestceciliaa · 3 days ago

Text

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ - ᴊᴊ x ᴏᴄ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: It was no secret that my relationship (friendship??) with JJ was confusing at best- adding a missing father and sporadic treasure hunt, however, does not make it any less confusing. Interesting though? Absolutely. ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: JJ x Oc! Althea Aveline Routledge ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ: 1 of ? ch. 1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ... ᴀᴏ3 ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

[ᴀ/ɴ: This is a complete re-write of my old fanfic crawling, more authentically me and to my very core what I wish to write. Hope you will enjoy reading as much as I'm enjoying writing it.]

[ ▸ ] 🇨🇭🇦🇵🇹🇪🇷 🇴🇳🇪 [Althea's Point Of View]

Stitching up skin kind of had a gummy sensation to it, like piercing through a wad of hardened gummy bears. My eyes watched carefully as the needle weaved its way through, making sure the structure of the suture was correct- moreover making sure it would heal over quick and correctly to avoid a gnarly infection.

At the last loop I finished it carefully, cleaning up the excess surrounding it and pulling his hand back a bit to admire my straight stitches down the upper part of his forearm.

“You done admiring your work, Victor?” JJ teased; a wince obvious in his tone. The running joke of comparing me to Victor Frankenstein pulling a chuckle out of me, as usual.

After finally feeling satisfied with the results, I look up at him with a grin, my gaze tender as he sent me a small smile of assurance. Slowly I leaned down to gently kiss the outer part of his wound- he let out a relieved sigh as if the peck of my lips actually helped with the burning sting.

It was a routine of some sorts; I patched him up and left a kiss to magically rid of any pain he had lingering.

I didn’t mind it, any excuse to kiss JJ was a go in my book.

“So, I’m all patched up now, doc?” JJ asks, sitting up on the couch, wincing as he accidentally moved too much on the sore arm.

My hands gently help him to get comfortable, the rest of his body was fine other than the split lip- He had no bruises this time thankfully. The cut on his upper forearm was from shreds of glass piercing through his skin, result of his father’s angered throws of empty bottles.

We all collectively hated Luke, as in all of the pogues and everyone on this side of the island, but the wrath I had for that vile excuse of a man could cause him to die in agony if I had the power to do so.

“Do I have a yes on murdering your father yet?” I question, light smile on my face but by his amused chuckle we both knew I wasn’t joking.

He gently shakes his head, holding my hand and tugging as a silent plea to sit beside him. I abide, climbing over to sit next to the boy as he lays his head on my shoulder with a quiet relieved sigh. My hands rhythmically stroke his hair, timing his breaths to see whether or not he was still in pain. Guessing by the calm and steady breathes, I successfully stopped the cut from hurting even more.

“Don’t want his dirty ol’ blood on your hands, Avey.” He whispers with a soft breath, a grin forming on my lips at the nickname, familiar and comforting to the ears.

It helped that he was the only one to call me that, an abbreviation from my middle name Aveline- made when we were both nine with chipped tooths and wide grins on a bright sunny day.

Everyone else called me Aly, Alea or even Thea- a cute little nickname from my first name Althea. Anyone who I didn’t like or probably wasn’t familiar with usually called me Althea.

And my dad. My dad called me Althea.

It’s been months since I’ve heard him say it, months and months from the time I saw his eyes glinted with mischief and a cunning grin on his face as he calls out my name. Either to bribe me into doing something, or just getting me into all these kinds of adventures. My brother and I roped into all sorts of trips as we happily trailed after our dad.

Funnily enough JJ was always there too, an extra son as dad had called him. Not that any of us minded, he molded right in with me and John B- the three of us endlessly causing chaos that either left dad exasperated or impressively amused ever since we were all nine.

JJ sighs as he snuggles more into my side, healthy arm gripping onto mine- the two of us silently getting lost in our thoughts in the empty chateau. John B had left with Pope and Kiara, the three off to restock the fridge. After finding an extremely moldy carrot in the fridge (which was abominable because none of us even ate carrots) I had yelled at John B to go and shop with whatever money we had left.

“I for one am gonna be extremely pissed if they forgot my pack of marshmallows.” I quipped, a shrug as JJ pointedly looks at me.

“Avey, mama, your sweet tooth is a drug addiction.” He states.

“It’s why I’m tooth-achingly sweet.” My joke gains a mockingly exasperated sigh, turning into a quick yelp as I pinch his side.

He grabs onto my hand tighter, pointedly snuggling in closer as I look away with a smile. We let the silence envelop us, as we usually do whenever we’re left alone together like this.

In my humble opinion, having someone you feel comfortable with in silence is a scary thing. Knowing that they’re able to see through you like an x-ray, no words needed to slice right into you to dissect your thoughts and emotions.

John B is like that of course, but… it doesn’t scare me as much since he’s, y’know, my brother. My ride or die in every sense of the word. (I’ve tried getting rid of him before and it didn’t work, so the fear of him leaving pretty much doesn’t exist.)

JJ however? Scares me to death remembering how he knows me better than I know myself most times. How we can sit in silence, basically doing nothing for hours- even though both of us can’t stand being bored most of the time. Being bored together though? That’s absolutely doable.

I glance over at him dozing off, fatigue catching up to him after finally feeling safe again, hands lazily wrapped around mine as he comfortably leans into me.

After all the years I’ve known him, I know that whenever he gets extra clingy it’s like he’s asking for solace in anything I can offer him- anything to rid him the ache his father gave. (I would happily give him the moon and stars combined if it meant I could give him even a sliver of solace from his father, and life in general.)

I notice that his blonde waves seemed even more brighter as summer approaches, mouth all pouty and eyebrows scrunched as he’s seemingly deep in thought. Observing every feature on his face and letting myself soak him in has to be like stalker level weirdness- although I didn’t pay it much mind since I know he does it to me all the time too.

My eyes glance down to his lips, the reminder of what happened with his father rushing in at the sight of his cut. I hate that the wound on his lip came from his father, he probably hates it even more than I do. Thankfully the cut wasn’t that deep, a normal split that would most likely heal in a few days, I had disinfected it already too so that should speed up the process.

Seeing him like this always reminds me of when we were ten, scrawny and disheveled as he stood on our lawn with a sheen of tears in his eyes. His blue eyes all wet and wobbling lips covered in a coat of red, for a second there I had wished more than anything that it would all be a joke and he actually had lipstick on- when I ran towards him and smelled the distinct metallic scent though, there was no doubt that my wish didn’t come true.

He fell into my arms the minute I hugged him, thick tears as he sobbed and wailed, hanging on to me like a child begging for relief. And in a sense, he was just a child begging for relief. The two of us holding each other on midnight, anyone that passed by would be confused at the sight of two children just sobbing as they were entwined in the tightest of embraces.

Through stuttered words and hiccups, he had told me that the horrible wounds on his small frame were a gift from his father. I hugged him tighter, knowing what he meant and not wanting him to talk about it any further. Silently praying that my tight squeezes would deprive him from the memory of his father’s wretched hands.

“You’ve been patching me up since we were ten huh?” His voice breaks me from my daydream, lazily I turn to glance at him, big blue eyes watching me as he stares intently.

A smile graces my face, the coincidence in both of us thinking of when we were ten was kind of cool. “Yep, been playing doctor for all you dumbasses for like I dunno- six years now? Technically eleven since I’ve been treating Bree’s wounds since we were five, I think.”

JJ laughs at the imagery of me being a small annoying five-year-old, mouth running as I patched a solemn (and thoroughly scolded) five-year-old John B. “You have a knack for healing idiots, Avey.” He adorably teases, my laugh tapering off at the sight of his shining eyes.

See the thing is I read romance a lot, mostly fanfictions but that’s a problem for another day- and I know well enough that there were many cliches surfacing because of the blonde-headed dumbo in front of me.

Like brothers’ best friend or acting like I was bewitched anytime I looked into his eyes- it wasn’t my fault that his eyes had this oddly mesmerizing color of blue. Authors weren’t kidding when they said you could get lost in someone’s eyes.

I was a walking, and absolutely humiliating, compilation of cliches from all the romance novels I had read. (And that was only two of the abundant amounts of cliches that could be mentioned. Horrible.)

“You still cry every time.” Once again JJ’s voice cuts through my daydream, an amused grin meets my eyes as I turn with an embarrassed blush from being caught wandering off in my thoughts again.

I take a second to absorb his words, realizing what he said as I send him a soft smile. “I do not.” I whisper, a weak attempt of retaliation, his tender smile making my heart stutter.

“Like hell you don’t. You only just stopped crying now, Avey. Took you thirty minutes to stop hiccupping so you could stitch me up.” A laugh escapes him as I nudge the annoying dim wad, albeit it being true, there was absolutely no need to air out all my secrets like that.

The laugh dies down and for a moment my eyes latch onto him, his gaze unwavering as the soft smile still dances on his lips. Unknowingly to me, my own smile appeared mirroring his.

Despite all the teasing though, I was aware how my emotions helped him with his.

There was a time, like a long while ago, where JJ had drunkenly confessed that whenever I patched him up and cried (more like sobbed honestly) at the thought of not being able to completely rid him of his father, turned out actually helping him more than I realized.

I remember him slurring his words, twinkling eyes all dazed as he gave me a goofy smile. “Y’re not just physically healing me, Avey. Your small little chubby hands do heal me- BUT! Seeing you cry those big tears makes me feel like I’m not the ‘nly one hurtin, like y’re feeling my pain as if it’s y’re own, y’know? Mkay. Now. I think I’m gonna throw up Avey-”

I had always felt guilty about crying whenever I saw him like that at the hands of his father, but after hearing his drunken confession it was pretty obvious that it helped- JJ had always let me remove traces of his father with gentle hands and sobbing eyes because it helped him understand none of it was his fault. (And not just so I would stop crying, like he often said the reason was. Being in denial was just as much his thing as it was mine.)

The soft grateful smile he had on his face right now gave it away too, that my sensitive ass actually helped him feel like his pain was less burdening- because in some ways I was sharing the pain right along with him.

Our little moment was abruptly ruined by the sound of a slamming door, three noisy teenagers bursting into the chateau with some full grocery bags. JJ and I quickly looked away from one another, glancing up at the three with confused looks at the sheer amount of stuff in those bags.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but when you left for the grocery store, we were poor right?” I question, eyeing the few packs of marshmallow peeking out of Pope’s bag.

John B giddily nods, setting down the bags before rushing towards me. “No more stale bread for weeks, baby! There was a big sale since Todd’s is closing, so we booked a few bags and Kie chipped in to buy a few more!” He hollered, hands animatedly gesturing towards Kie, I glanced at the gorgeous curly-headed girl as she teasingly bows towards us with a satisfied grin.

“Thank you gorgeous, I’ll cook you up a nice yummy meal.” My words eliciting a few laughs from the boys, I glare at each of them as their laughs taper off into chuckles. “I can cook!”

“The closest thing to you cooking is making scrambled eggs.” Pope pipes up, sticking out his tongue as I glower, John B nods from beside me so obviously I smack him.

JJ laughs and softly releases himself from me, gently getting up as he pats my head, laughing at my pout. “Face it mama, you suck just as much as I do in the cooking department.”

I smack his hand away, slightly offended at the comparison even though it did harbor some truth. The four of us continued on running our mouths, one overlapping over the other as we tidied up the kitchen and finally restocked the damn fridge.

“What if I made sandwiches then?” I yelled, trying to prove them wrong about not being able to cook.

“I want to eat sometime today, Aly.” Pope remarked, both John B and JJ snorting at his answer, Kie lets out a cackle as I smack all three of them.

“Y’know one of these days I might end up as a renowned chef, and all of you will be wishing you were sucking up to me right now. You will rue this day, in the wise words of that geek from ICarly.”

“Stop referencing people you don’t remember-”

“C’mere Bree, looks like I didn’t smack you enough growing up-”

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captain-mj · 2 years ago

Note

I bring you the bones of my friends that are uneducated on lgbtq+ matters for

PrinceGraves x leader of Royal guard Price

Graves is ruling temporarily while the King is away on diplomatic matters and he drives the court insane. He's cocky, talks over advisors and thinks he can doe everything better.

After 3 days Price is so fed up with the spoiled Prince so he fucks him on the throne and tell him to behave.

Here ya go!! Btw, in case it's not explicit enough, Graves is very capable, he was just playing Price to get a reaction. It's not really paid much attention, we all know why we're here

Price watched the Prince speak and tried not to chew his own sword.

The worst part was Graves had good points occasionally, but he didn't listen and he always questioned everything. He didn't trust any of them and made that clear.

Price bit his tongue as Graves once again questioned one of the King's most trusted advisor.

"How are you sure of this? Where are your sources?" Graves looked right at Price as he spoke, a small grin on his face. He had asked that four times. In this meeting.

"Are you sure we should do that? I heard that those are flimsy..."

Price got up and left, going to the throne room. God that little brat pissed him off. As the leader of the royal guard, he knew he needed to keep on good terms with him. One day, Graves could be his boss.

God, he hoped not.

Price took off his helmet and ran his hands through his hair. Didn't help that he was so hot. Walking around barely dressed most of the time. Wearing sheer clothing and letting everyone just drool over him. When his father was here, he never acted like this!! What was his deal?

"John." Graves interrupted his thoughts. He only had some loose pants and his crown on. "You alright?"

"I'm fine, your majesty." Price glared at him but Graves did not seem moved.

After a few minutes, Graves tilted his head. "You know, it's polite to ask someone how they're doing back. I know you're a Captain, but that's not an excuse for bad manners."

Price gritted his teeth before drawing his sword and put it to his throat. He didn't have words. Three fucking days of this.

Graves blushed and looked up at him. "John. Remember your place. Kill me and the King will have your head. Relationship or not."

Price got closer. "I wouldn't kill you, Graves."

Graves looked intrigued. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Make you shut up." Price threw the sword to the side and grabbed him, placing him on his back on the throne. He pulled down his pants.

"Wait! The doors!!"

"Let them walk in." Price snapped at him. "Maybe it'll teach you manners. Get too loud and someone will come in."

Graves blushed and looked away, grabbing the throne. "Fine. I give you permission."

Price shoved Graves's knees to his chest and shoved a finger into his hole roughly. He spit onto his finger and shoved it in deeper. Graves started to thrash and eventually tapped him insistently. "Wait, there's oil. Please you're being too rough with me!"

Price grumbled, but he did it. He wanted to hurt the Prince but... not that bad. Tearing him seemed excessive.

Now that he had the oil, he forced his fingers back in, watching Graves tense to try to stop himself from moving. He groaned as Price slid a second one in, making him pant softly as he tried to keep quiet.

"Can't get through one meeting without you complaining about how long its taking or how many people are there or how you want to be doing anything else." He thrust his fingers in hard over and over again, needing him well stretched.

Graves whimpered and twisted, clearly not used to such rough treatment. "What else?"

Price frowned and got a third one in, groaning at how tight the fit was. "What else what?"

"What else do I do wrong?" He pushed back against him, biting his lip. His face twisted in pleasure and pain.

"You keep questioning me! I'm the Captain of the Royal Guard for a reason! You're such a royal brat." Price forced another finger in him and Graves's back arched.

"I'm sorry, sir." Graves panted out, putting his hands under his knees so Price didn't have to keep holding him. He threw his head back and rocked against him desperately. "So good, please."

"Shut up." Price forced his fingers in deeper. "So tight. So fucking tight. Shit."

Graves closed his eyes and looked away. Once Price was sure he was open enough, he picked Graves up. He then put him on the floor and sat in the throne himself, the great crowned prince looking up at him from his knees.

Price buried his hand in Graves's hair and pulled him to his cock, watching Graves's eyes widen. He tilted his head before running his tongues along one of the veins, grinning when Price groaned.

"Good boy. Finally putting that mouth of yours to good use."

Graves went to retort and Price yanked him down on his cock, making him gag. He held him there for a moment, feeling his cock convulse around him for a moment before letting go so Graves could pull back. He took a deep breath and then immediately went back down on him, swallowing. Price groaned and relaxed, letting Graves work on him.

"You seem happier on your knees. Like you wanted me to do this."

Graves looked up at him through his lashes, swallowing hard.

"You fucking brat." Price yanked him closer, making his eyes fill with tears. He swallowed and used his tongue, clearly trying to please him. "You're not going to be able to walk until the fucking King comes back."

Graves hummed in response and bobbed his head enthusiastically. Price pulled him off and he made a wounded noise.

"Yeah, Yeah. Get up here."

Graves did as told, grabbing Price's shoulders as he picked him up. He slid him down on his cock and enjoyed the little whimpers it got. One of his hands fit around Graves's throat and the other around his waist. He thrust up into Graves, watching his eyes roll back.

Price enjoyed him like a toy. Graves scrambled for a hold as he was slammed into mercilessly, hiding his face out of shame.

Well, that just wouldn't do.

Price turned him around so he couldn't, hands going under his knees to keep his legs spread apart. If anyone came in, they'd see Graves's face and the way his body took Price like a whore.

"Sir, please."

"Your voice is pretty when you're begging." He moved Graves instead of himself, making him bounce up and down. The new angle must've felt nice because he was a mess in Price's arms, tears streaming down his face.

Graves twisted his head to kiss his cheek. "So mean to me."

Price growled. "You like it."

Graves blushed and shuddered. "I like when you growl."

Price yanked him closer and kissed him, hammering into him now. Graves grasped him as hard as he could and Price could feel his legs shaking.

"Don't finish until I do."

"You fucking bastard." Graves huffed. "Hard to do that when you're fucking me like this."

"Try harder." Price smiled and forced his legs further apart.

Graves held on to him, painfully hard. He was clearly trying his hardest though and Price could appreciate that.

Price reached around and stroked him, feeling him tremble. "No, please, I won't last." He kept stroking Graves anyway.

Graves did not last. He came all over himself with a groan and his head fell back. He panted softly as Price fucked him through it. Price came in him and patted his thigh.

Slowly, he pulled out of him and set his Prince on the throne. "You look gorgeous." He didn't fix his pants, but he did fix his crown, looking at the cum running down his legs. "Act right in the next couple of meetings and I'll do this again."

"Don't you mean don't do this again?"

"Darling, we both know you wanted this."

Graves bit his lip. "Alright, yes sir."

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare ii #Phillip graves #John Price #Captain John Price #Price x Graves #Graves x Price

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v1trum · 2 months ago

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I've been reading lots of whump stuff cus I love it (in a writer way I'm not a freak) and the only characters ik well enough to write this way are tua characters. Only characters I have truly analyzed for probably hundreds of hours. Can't figure out who I wanna write.......

Comic five and Netflix five are very different... There wasn't any crafting of five during his time at the commission in the show, so I assume he didn't go through like. A bunch of pain.

He's probably gotten hella hurt in his 45 years in the apocalypse like . Spraining his ankle a week after getting there and having to deal with that w no medical care (this is sparking it's own fic helpme I love writing ppl spraining their ankles ig???) . Also there's hargreeves' whole tattoo thing making it clear he would make them withstand pain even when they were young so they could withstand it as adults.

So clearly he (and everyone else) have high pain tolerances, but most of them haven't experienced like fully on torture.

Luther got his entire body changed after getting hella hurt in a mission but like he was asleep during a nerve crippling transformation so he'd probably be easy ASF to break, but also, sorry Luther, I don't really wanna write a fic abt him 😭

Diego got shot and didn't gaf, same with getting two fingers chopped off, so clearly his pain tolerance is one of the larger ones and again, LOVE Diego but I kind wanna write a fic abt five or Klaus not any of the others cus I'm BIASED 😭

Allison knows EMOTIONAL pain all too well, but I feel like she probably 'rumor'ed things into not hurting lots of times so she probably doesn't have a crazy high pain tolerance. There was her getting her throat slit but that whole ordeal with how she acted was more "I can't believe I just got my throat slit and I'm gonna die now, also I can't talk" ,not being in multiple different forms of pain all at once. (Not Including emotional pain. I mean like multiple wounds)

Klaus. KLAUS. I reallyyy wanna break him bc he got tortured by cha-cha and hazel and literally didn't give two shits. He also was at war for 10 months I imagine he got some pretty hefty injuries during that. He also has multiple tattoos.

But with cha-cha and hazel I don't feel like they were very creative?? Maybe I'm just a little excessive when it comes to thinking of dif torture methods for characters but like. A few cuts, punches, and waterboarding?? They were in a hotel room so they were limited but holy hell I wanna write him actually getting taken back to the commission and to the torture department (we all know its gotta exist. It's the fucking commision) and getting ACTUALLY dug into. Time doesn't exist at the commission so employees don't age -- but you can very well die there.(As we know from fives little killing sprees with grenades ♥️). Head canon the torture section has like specific rooms where time is so fucked you can be tortured past the point of death but instead of dying you stay in that pain until you heal. (Makes no sense, but plot purposes, ok? 😭). Imagine a character (Klaus in this instance) staying in that terrible amount of pain for days, weeks, months until they heal and they're fresh to be cut right back into. After a while (several months, years for the character [Klaus] bc he was shoved in that room to heal for periods of time every day [commission time, not in-the-room time] to heal until they dug back into him the next day) they realize he genuinely doesn't have the information they want so they throw him on the doorstep of the academy. They would have thrown him there on the brink of death and not given a damn if he died but they were only a teensy but into their torture session when they gave up after months and tossed him on those steps. (Again, plot purposes, I don't want him dying so let's just say he wasn't on the brink of death just mildly injured when they tossed him on the doorstep)

But also I propose another fic where they keep him and have him brainwashed kinda and is forced to be back around his siblings without them knowing anything that happened to him to get information for the commission. If he tells them he's immediately killed but if he even unintentionally says something wrong he's shot with pain through some device they have on/in him so they have control of him like a damn dog with a shock collar . Anyways

So I'm thinking abt writing one of those OR.

Five. Would love to break him as well.

Same circumstances (almost) as Klaus except this is before he ever got back to his family. I also present: this is before he's old. I mean he can be 13 or 25 idc just younger. I'd actually really love to write it as him but like 16. And the commission takes him and has him doing all these things(assassinations and such). But they also like. Experiment?? On him? Like incorporating the whole every assassins genes thing from the comics but more in depth and with my own twist(s). Lets say they have a device that erases what happened to someones body , or parts of it, however much they want (except, for plot purposes five still remembers cus he has time traveling powers that somehow collide with the device making him still remember, but his body is rewound. Makes absolutely no sense but again, plot purposes.) that way they can experiment as much as they'd like without him just being that way permanently or dying. Example; extremely exaggerated like. Body mods? Like seeing what chopping his damn limbs off and giving him crazy cyborg limbs would do. If he would be an even better assassin if he was that way (he would. Obviously)

But I really wanna write him like not breaking at all until they start pulling at the "just one more test and we'll let you see your family" but what he doesn't know (at the time) is that 90% of the time they don't and when they DO it's not him being let free it's them showing him his siblings during their worst moments and him thinking their lives are just terrible and it's his fault and he shouldn't even save them he should listen to the commission and let the apocalypse happen and and and yeah

Okay guys... Erm...h... Also hope I don't get into another car wreck for writing some fanfics (I love milking that LMAO)

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #tua #ermmm what the scallop #five hargreeves #number five #tua s4 #tua season 4 #klaus hargreeves #five #apocalypse five hargeeves

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gayashelljatp · 5 months ago

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James Hook x Morgie Le Fay | You Look Like A Dumb Boy, My Favorite Type Chapter 3/5

Tags Fluff, Roommate, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Magic, Banter, Hook Is Flirty that's cannon btw , I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Boys In Love, Sad and Sweet, Short & Sweet , Himbo Morgie, Bisexual Disaster James Hook, Morgie Has Golden Retriever Energy (Disney), Oblivious Morgie (Disney), Boys Kissing, Love Confessions, No Beta Read we die like Brandy Cinderalla, 5+1 Things

Summary:

Hook flirts with everyone in a five-mile radius. That means the people around him are victims of his often excessive advances. Morgie, however, was unaware that he was Hook’s favorite for a special reason. Or 5 times Hook was flirting with Morgie and it went completely over his head and the 1 time it didn’t.

Content Rating: Teen and Up.

Wordcount: 2,871.

Notes:

Hi, I'm Ace. I decided to finally upload this fic to tumblr it took me a long time to finally finish formatting this. Originally it was going to be all separate posts. But I'm a very lazy author and I'm still very clueless on how to make a blog post that looks good. So I'm compiling it all into one. I suggest you read on AO3.

But here's the playlist that inspired this fic that you can enjoy:

Chapter 1

Another day, another hour of planning and scheming done in the Black Lagoon. Uliana was going on one of her spiels again on how to terrorize the freshmen. Hades and Maleficent were nowhere to be seen, probably enjoying each other’s company.

That left Morgie to either bug one of the VKs he wasn’t close with or talk to the only person he knew who seemed to be doing nothing. That would be Hook, his roommate at Merlin Academy and Morgie’s right-hand (hook) man. He was also the only person who truly gave Morgie an ounce of respect.

Hook was in the corner, polishing his golden hook, the one that replaced his right hand. It truly shined under the light, from its silver base to the golden hook. The process almost seemed methodical. He polished the hook in certain spots and constantly raised it into the light, making sure the hook on his right hand hit the light perfectly. To others, it looked like pure vanity on display, but to Morgie, it was just normal Hook behavior.

“What are you up to there, James?” Morgie asked, giving the pirate a bright smile.

“I told you not to call me James. It’s Hook, or else you get the hook,” the eyeliner-heavy teenager said, pointing his hook towards his friend. Despite the closeness of the hook to Morgie’s face, he wasn’t alarmed one bit; he knew Hook would never actually hurt him.

“Okay, okay, calm down. I just wanted to see what you're up to. Can’t a boy just be curious?”

“Polishing the old hook, you know,” Hook muttered, returning to his task.

A minute or two passed, and Morgie stayed idle, staring at Hook’s hook. His look was a mix of a dumbfounded smile and complete astonishment despite the rather mediocre and normal task.

“You're just gonna stare at me while I do this?” Hook asked after a moment, glancing up with a raised eyebrow, looking directly into the son of Le Fay’s hazel eyes.

“It’s better than staring at the ceiling,”

“You're enjoying the view, right?” Hook’s voice took on a flirtatious edge, his British accent hitting just the right spot, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“You look alright,” Morgie responded, completely oblivious to Hook’s suggestive tone and look. He was too sweet and too nice for this world, a sunshine among villains. But a menace when needed.

Hook smirked, shaking his head slightly. “You really are something else, Morgie.”

Morgie just laughed, the sound light and carefree, a stark contrast to the dark and scheming environment around them.

Chapter 2

Sharing a dormitory with Hook was certainly entertaining. Morgie’s side of the room was filled with wilted plants, sadly not by choice—dark magic just kills anything vaguely happy or alive. And, of course, a scatter of green and black clothing items.

Hook’s side was extravagant, to say the least. Opulence was the word Hook used to describe it. But it was still messy, with jewelry and designer clothing placed in certain areas almost like it was a treasure trove.

One downside to having a messy pirate roommate was lost items. Morgie had to learn that the hard way when he returned from his last class to the sounds of one frustrated Hook.

“Thank the seven seas you’re back, you can finally help me,” Hook said in a frustrated tone, clearly preoccupied with the task at hand. His British accent rang around the room. Morgie couldn’t even see where Hook was—the room looked like it had been reorganized by a seasick pirate.

“What did you lose this time?” The teen sorcerer asked, trying to figure out what he had just walked into. Hook’s side of the room had small gashes, probably from his hook. Jewelry was scattered everywhere, and Hook’s canopy was slightly more torn.

“My pearl necklace,” Hook replied. Morgie soon found Hook’s legs sticking out from under his bed. His blazer was discarded on the carpeted floor.

“The one you stole from the mermaid seniors?”

After a few seconds of searching, Hook popped out from under the bed and shook his head at Morgie’s question. “The other one, silly,” Hook said, grazing his hook against Morgie’s cheek almost affectionately.

Morgie smiled, oblivious to the flirtatious gesture. “Alright, let’s find this necklace. Where did you last see it?” Despite this task being purely based in vanity Morgie was willing to help.

Hook sighed dramatically. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be tearing apart our room, now would I?”

Morgie chuckled, starting to sift through the pile of clothes on Hook’s bed. “Good point. Let’s retrace your steps. Did you wear it to class?”

Hook shook his head, getting up and moving to his wardrobe. “No, I wore it to the party at the lagoon last night. I swear I had it on when I came back.”

Morgie nodded, now digging through a drawer filled with silk scarves and velvet gloves. “Maybe it fell off when you were changing?”

Hook’s eyes gleamed as he moved closer to Morgie. “You’re quite the detective, Morgie. Maybe I should reward you if we find it.”

Morgie, focused on the search, missed the suggestive tone. “Just doing my part. It’s probably here somewhere.”

Hook leaned in closer, his breath warm against Morgie’s ear. “I’d say you’re doing more than just your part.”

Morgie’s eyes widen, he started to feel a strange feeling but he kept his attention on the task. “The bathroom—Let’s check the bathroom next. Maybe you left it by the sink.” He stumbled on all of the words.

Hook followed Morgie to the bathroom, smirking. “Always so practical. You know, Morgie, you’re quite the catch. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Morgie glanced back, smiling innocently. “That’s sweet of you to say, let’s keep looking”

They continued their search, Hook’s flirtatious antics flying right over Morgie’s head. As they rummaged through their shared space, Hook couldn’t help but admire Morgie’s oblivious sweetness.

It was getting dark, and the two were beat. “We’ve looked everywhere. I want to wave the white flag already,” Hook said, lying back on his bed.

“We are probably late to wherever we’re hanging tonight,” Morgie said as he laid on Hook’s bed as well, his side-swept brown hair more disheveled than usual. He turned to look at Hook, who was already looking at him.

“Think Uli’s gonna be mad we’re late?” Hook asked, grinning as he batted his eyelashes.

“Doubt it. You're her favorite,” Morgie replied. As he started to get more comfortable on the bed, he felt something by his head. His fingers brushed against a cool, smooth object.

Morgie sat up, his hand grasping the item. “Hey, I think I found it!”

Hook’s eyes lit up, and he laughed heartily. “Of course, it was right under our noses the whole time, my dear lad.”

Morgie joined in the laughter, shaking his head. “Well, at least we found it. Let’s get ready to head out.”

Hook sat up, taking the necklace from Morgie with a flourish. “Now, the hard part: putting this on with one hand. Quite the challenge for a dashing pirate, wouldn't you say, darling?”

Morgie watched as Hook struggled with the clasp, the hook on his right hand making the task nearly impossible. “Need some help?” Morgie offered, stepping closer.

“No, I’ve got it,” Hook insisted, determination in his voice. He continued to fumble with the necklace, but the clasp kept slipping out of his grasp.

Morgie chuckled softly. “Come on, Hook, let me help. It’ll be quicker.”

Hook sighed, finally conceding. “Fine, but just this once.”

Morgie smiled, moving closer. “Here, let me take that.” Hook turned his back to Morgie, and Morgie gently lifted the pearls, bringing it around Hook’s neck.

The close proximity made Morgie’s heart race a little but he didn’t know why, but despite the distraction he focused on the task at hand. As he fastened the clasp, Hook turned his head slightly, their faces just inches apart.

“Looking as sharp as that hook,”

“Thanks, Morgie,” Hook said softly, his voice carrying a hint of something more.

Morgie’s started to feel a burning sensation on his cheeks, and he smiled. “Anytime, James.” Instead of the usual correction Hook just let that one slide.

They stood up, ready to head out. As they were about to leave, Hook placed his hand on the other teens’ shoulder. “Your looking rather nice tonigth.”

Morgie’s heart skipped as fast as a galloping horse, but before he could think of a respond, there was a loud knock at the door.

“Come on, you two! We’re late!” Uliana’s voice called out from the hallway.

Hook grinned, giving Morgie a playful nudge. “Saved by the knock.”

Morgie chuckled, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They opened the door to find the other VKs waiting impatiently. Uliana raised an eyebrow, looking them over. “Took you long enough. Let’s move.”

As they joined the group and headed out, Morgie couldn’t help but glance at Hook, feeling a strange mix of emotions. Hook caught his eye and gave him a wink, making Morgie’s felt a peculiar feeling once more.

Chapter 3

One VK was hanging out past curfew in the courtyard of Merlin Academy. While the rest of the villain kids were enjoying the night outside the confines of the school, one Morgie le Fay was by a bench, keeping to himself. Morgie often felt left out by the group, but it was a tale as old as time. Having a lot of alone time did come with benefits; it gave him time to experiment and work on his dark magic.

His mother had given him a plethora of magical textbooks to work from. Despite the rocky relationship between Morgie’s mother, Morgana le Fay, and the founder and headmaster of this school, Merlin, the old wizard still gave Morgie a chance to study magic. It was probably a bad move, considering how his mother turned out, but here Morgie was, determined to make the most of it.

Tonight, he was learning to summon a familiar. All good sorcerers have familiars, right? Whether it be a crow, a raven, an owl, or a bird of various sorts. It was no summoning and raising the dead like his mother’s feat, but it was a good start. Morgie, however, went with a more exotic choice: a puppy. Probably not the best choice considering the lack of flight and stealth, but he thought it was cute.

As Morgie reviewed the page over and over, making sure he was going to execute the spell correctly, he started reciting the incantations. His hands were trembling slightly as he muttered the words. Dark magic swirled around him, tendrils of shadowy energy forming shapes in the air. It was supposed to summon a creature of the night, a loyal companion to aid him in his schemes.

The shadows coalesced into a small, winged form. As the magic settled, Morgie blinked in amazement. Before him stood a magical puppy, with soft, golden fur that shimmered under the moonlight and tiny, delicate wings fluttering on its back. It was a golden retriever, its large, innocent eyes looking up at Morgie with pure adoration.

Morgie’s heart swelled with pride and joy. “I did it! I actually did it!” he exclaimed, reaching down to scoop up the puppy. It barked happily, nuzzling into Morgie’s chest. For a moment, everything seemed perfect.

But then, the puppy began to change. Its soft fur darkened, turning a sickly shade of green. The wings grew larger, more bat-like, and its eyes glowed a menacing red. The puppy’s form twisted and elongated, becoming more serpentine, scales forming where fur once was. Claws and fangs emerged, and a low growl replaced the happy barking.

Morgie’s joy turned to horror as he watched his creation morph into a monstrous creature, a grotesque amalgamation of various animals with a serpentine body, multiple limbs resembling those of a panther, and eyes glowing with malevolent intent.

The creature hissed, its fanged mouth opening wide. Morgie stumbled back, his mind racing to remember the counter-spell, but panic clouded his thoughts.

“No, no, no! This isn’t right,” he murmured to himself, his voice shaking. He tried to focus, but the dark magic was slipping from his grasp. The creature lunged at him, and Morgie’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he was frozen in place, unable to move.

Morgie turned to see Hook standing at the edge of the courtyard, his golden hook gleaming in the moonlight. Despite his usual arrogant demeanor, there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Hook, stay back. I’ve got this,” Morgie said, his voice strained.

Hook smirked, though his eyes remained focused on the creature. “Looks to me like you’ve got it under control. Need a hand—or a hook?”

“I said I’ve got this! You’ll get hurt,” Morgie snapped, frustration and fear mixing in his voice.

But the creature lunged again, and to Morgie’s shock, Hook was by his side in an instant, using his polished hook to fend off the beast. Morgie watched in disbelief as the prim and proper, vain Hook wielded his precious hook as a weapon. Hook’s movements were swift and precise, a testament to his fencing skills, but Morgie couldn’t shake his amazement.

“I told you, I don’t need your help!” Morgie shouted, but his voice faltered. Deep down, he knew he was in over his head.

Hook grinned, his charm undiminished even in the face of danger. “You’re always so stubborn, Morgie. Sometimes, even the best need a little help.”

Despite his words, Hook’s actions were anything but self-centered. He moved with purpose, deflecting the creature’s attacks and pushing it back. Just as the creature managed to land a swipe, Hook winced he looked like he wanted to scream but kept it in.

He continued to fight. Morgie watched in awe, his fear momentarily forgotten, until he noticed Hook’s slight limp.

With a final, powerful thrust, Hook managed to drive the creature back into the shadows and put it back to where it came from. The courtyard fell silent once more, the dark magic dissipating into the night.

Hook turned to Morgie, a teasing glint in his eyes. “See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“That could have ended way worse,” Morgie replied, still trying to catch his breath.

“The point is that it didn’t, and I would have never let it get that bad,” Hook said confidently.

“What was my little spellcaster trying to summon anyway? That was certainly a strange choice,” Hook teased, raising an eyebrow.

“It was supposed to be a familiar, but I messed that up like I mess up everything I do,” Morgie admitted, looking down at his feet.

“That isn’t true, lad,” Hook said, trying to reassure him.

“How’s your hook?” Hook examined it before he answered confidently “Still perfect not a scratch,” Giving Morgie a grin.

Morgie looked up, meeting Hook’s gaze. For a moment, he saw something deeper in those brown eyes, something that made his heart skip a beat. But then he noticed the small cut on Hook’s arm, dark magic seeping from the wound.

“James, that looks bad,” Morgie said, his voice tinged with worry.

Hook shrugged, keeping his pretty boy persona intact. “Don’t call me James!” he protested. “And it’s just a small scratch. I’m just mad the thing tore up my blazer.”

“Dark magic isn’t just a small scratch. Let me help,” Morgie insisted, moving closer to inspect the wound.

Hook smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. “Alright, Nurse, do your worst.”

Morgie carefully took his spellbooks trying to find a spell once he found one, he put his hands gentle and precise on Hook’s bicep. Hook watched him, a flirtatious smile playing on his lips. “You know, you look quite cute when you’re all serious and focused.”

Morgie face reddened, his usual naivety kicking in. “Just hold still. This might sting a bit.”

Hook winced slightly but didn’t let it show too much. “You’re doing great, Snakeyes. I knew I could count on you.”

Once Morgie finished treating the wound, he looked up at Hook. “You shouldn’t have helped. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

Hook’s expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on Morgie’s shoulder. “I’ve got your back, Morgie. Even if it doesn’t seem like it.” Morgie wished this side of Hook was seen more often, not the ridiculously cocky pirate.

“For real?” Morgie asked, searching Hook’s eyes for any hint of insincerity.

“For real,” said the eyeliner heavy-pirate, his voice sincere. “We’re in this together, alright? Just don’t expect me to play the hero too often. It’s bad for my bad boy image.”

“You’re impossible, Hook.”

“Maybe,” Hook replied, winking, “but people adore me.”

“Let’s get out of here before we get caught,” Morgie suggested, glancing around nervously.

As they walked away, side by side, Morgie’s smile widened, the warmth in his chest growing. He was grateful for Hook’s help, even if he’d never admit it outright. As they walked away, side by side, Morgie realized that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to rely on someone else once in a while.

Notes: Idk why anyone would read this on here it's so long. But I hope y'all enjoy if you made it feel free to give your your feedback of course. I'm still tryna decipher how tf Tumblr works.

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arachnixe · 8 months ago

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The Apex Predator

(Part 6 of Night’s Longing - Previous: Older And More Powerful)

Tears. I wondered if there would be tears. A bloodbag, a human girl—a vampire hunter by blood—dies. What does that mean to the vampires who called her sister?

I guess it means tears. That’s something.

“You can’t die,” Liz says. “Not already. Not like this.” Her tears streak through mascara and eyeliner, though she pays no heed to the mess.

Vicky’s cheeks are damp too, but her hands are balled in fists as she paces back and forth. “I’ll fucking kill them. They won’t get away with this.”

“Vicks, you can’t.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

“No, you really can’t! Ylio is stronger than us, and their allies will leap to their aid in an instant if they’re attacked. You can’t. I can’t. We can’t.”

“I bet Carmen could.”

Liz considers this proposal in silence.

“I’ve got her number.”

Liz sighs. “I don’t trust Carmen. You know, I checked the clan records, and I found nothing about her. 400 years old, and nothing in there? That’s suspicious.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s updated their name over the years. Not everyone wants to try moving through the modern world with a name like ‘Eberhard’ or ‘Milburga,’ right?”

“I asked Eberhard too, actually. Gave him her description. He doesn’t know her. 400 years is old enough to have known the Nine and all the other big players. Hell, everyone that age is a big player with deep political connections and rivalries going back ages. Vicks, she’s old enough to have potentially worked directly for Dracula and nobody has heard of her.”

“If she actually met Dracula, she’d be dead.” Vicky scoffs. “Unless she’s secretly one of the Nine.” After pausing to think for a moment, she muses, “or maybe that’s why nobody knows her. She could have fled the purge, hid for a while, changed her name. Could be why she was so keen to hear about his cult.”

“Hell of a trick to manage that when nobody else did,” Liz replies. “So maybe she’s interested in Dracula because she’s loyal to him, and maybe because she hates him, or maybe none of the above, but whoever she is, what reason would Carmen have to help us get revenge on behalf of a bloodbag, anyway?”

“She was really intent on learning about Hanna’s… the Boltman thing. You know.”

“Right. The Boltman thing.” Liz lets the topic hang in the air without further comment.

Vicky resumes her pacing, increasingly working herself up as she fails to find an outlet for her anger, which builds into a frustrated growl of outrage. “Stupid bitch. You stupid, beautiful bitch! You said you were durable! You said you could survive—” Her voice cracks.

”…a lot.” I finish her sentence with a weak groan, barely mustering the strength to speak. Ugh. My everything hurts. Did I fuck up that last-ditch lifeward, or is this really better than it could have been? I should have paid more attention to my theurgy lessons.

“No way.” Liz’s voice is a whisper of incredulity. “No fucking way. Your heart stopped.”

“Got better, didn’t it?” With embarrassment, I catch myself whining involuntarily with each exhalation. My ribs don’t feel right. Scratch that, none of my bones feel right. Neither do my organs. Nor my brain for that matter. “It does that when I die, but it eventually remembers how to do its job as long as I’m mostly intact.”

“Shit, is that why you butchered those hunters so excessively? Huh. I thought you were just being…” Vicky trails off, then shakes her head and kneels next to me. “You know what, never mind. Is it okay for us to move you?”

“Where…?”

“Uh, I just set you down on the floor of the apartment when I brought you here, so the bed, maybe?”

“You don’t move someone with a neck or back injury, Vicks.”

“Okay, yes, Liz told me that after I carried you here, which is why I’m asking this time. But also, in fairness to me, your heart had stopped.”

Yeah, okay.

“Probably can’t hurt me any worse then. Sure, let’s see if the bed makes me feel less like I’m made out of broken glass.”

My sisters carefully pick me up together and carry me to the other room. They’re as gentle as can be, but the pain still inspires me to scream and pass out about it.

---

“Let them think I’m dead.”

For once, I feel appreciative of my bloodline’s curse. Every last one of my bones healed correctly without anything like proper medical attention or real first aid. Two days after the fall, I’m able to stand on my own again, though not yet entirely without pain.

“For how long?” Liz asks.

“Until I kill them.”

“You can’t,” my sister objects, just as she did with Vicky, but I’m not in the mood to argue.

“I can.” My voice is firm. “Lizzy, I know it’s easy to forget, but I have specifically trained my whole life to do exactly this.” I stretch my arms in the air and lean forward to touch my toes, triggering some disturbing pops from my joints while I try to get my muscles to wake up. “You just need to smuggle me out of here without letting me be recognized. Let Ylio think the Hanna problem is solved, and Hanna will make sure the Ylio problem gets solved.”

“I won’t let you!”

“Liz.” I turn my whole body to face her head on. I want her to look at me. Really look at me. Read the outrage in my eyes and the determination in the set of my jaw. I stand my ground. But what I see on her face isn’t a mindless need for control, it’s just fear. She came close to losing me once, and I can see her doubt that she’ll ever see me again if she lets me go now. My voice softens. “Lizzy, please. If you don’t help me do this, things are only going to get harder. For all three of us.”

She weighs the options in silence, until, with a sour twist of her mouth, she provisionally accepts my point. “What are you planning to do out there?”

“Not planning,” I shrug. “I do my best work improvising. All I need from you is to keep an eye on them and message me when they next go out for a meal.”

“Ylio doesn’t leave all that much. They spend most of their time down here. That could be weeks, and you have nowhere to stay.”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

Vicky, who’s been looking increasingly unsettled during this conversation, butts in. “You’re giving us nothing. You’re shutting us out. Who are you exactly, and what have you done with Hanna?”

Ouch. I realize I’m going full vampire hunter mode here, practically acting like my father. It feels gross to notice, and I grimace in disgust with myself.

But it’s Liz who responds. “You ever need to wear a mask to get something unpleasant done, Vicks?”

“No.” She sighs. “I guess I really haven’t, I can only imagine.” Vicky rubs the back of her neck. “But I know how you get sometimes, Lizzy.” She softens and after a moment, she too relents. “Alright. I’m sorry. I think I’m just scared that you’ll get a taste for hunting vampires again or something.”

That’s too much. I can’t keep up this persona around my sisters. “No, Vicky, please don’t believe that.” Tears sting my eyes. I cross the room and sweep her up in a tight embrace. “I won’t. You’re my family. This is just revenge, I promise.” I pull away to look her in the eyes and hope the look of hurt on my face proves my sincerity. “And when I get back, you can make damn sure to remind me of the pleasures of being on the right side, okay?” I turn to Liz. “Both of you.”

“Of course.” With me losing my nerve for cold, calculated planning, Liz picks up the slack and puts on her own mask of professionalism. “But for right now, let’s find you a disguise and sneak you out of here.”

---

Plenty of safehouses to hole up inside while I wait for the notification. The weight of my old, familiar gear is a strange comfort, for all I loathe the people who taught me how to use it. The training equipment inside helps me knock off the rust, hone my reflexes again.

A meager bookshelf holds a few yellowed copies of classic hunter texts. Here I find Professor Van Helsing’s On the Nature of the Vampire and His Weaknesses, thoroughly hand annotated with notes and corrections. It’s an old edition, published in the 70s, without the forward mine had by Helga Vordenburg which warned the reader about exaggerations, mistakes, and straight-up lies and therefore also missing all her footnotes correcting the old fraud. I think the only reason anyone still teaches from this book is a misplaced sense of respect for the historical value of such an old piece of hunter lore.

More useful to me is Practical Theurgy: the Hunter’s Primer, a book that begins by belaboring some academic point about the distinction between theurgy and thaumaturgy and how the notion of practical theurgy really belongs in the latter category. I’ve never met a hunter who cares about that sort of thing, but after skipping past the author’s preoccupation with occult taxonomy, I find a fairly well-written refresher that even teaches me a few new tricks.

Still the wait is an agonizing, painfully dull slog to endure alone. I have been biding my time for days, and Ylio has yet to visit the surface. It might happen tomorrow night or six weeks from now. There’s no way to know for sure. What if they never do? How long should I be willing to wait before I decide on a back-up plan?

It’s no wonder that the message I receive presents an irresistible temptation.

I have my phone notification set as loud as possible, so receiving this message at three in the afternoon wakes me from a sound sleep. What the hell is Carmen doing up at this ungodly hour?

Wait, never mind. Is she asking me on a date? Is a four-century-old vampire with more charisma in her little finger than I’ve mustered in my whole life asking me on a date?

I should ask. Hold on. No, not like that Hanna, you idiot. She’s old and fancy. I can’t type like a slob at her.

Is it… okay to say yes? Will Ylio ruin this for me if I say yes? Will saying yes put my revenge at risk? My fingers are already answering before my mind catches up. No, no, fuck, at least delete the keysmash first. I don’t want to totally overwhelm her with the gay flirting conventions of the modern era.

No emote or anything, but I can easily imagine Carmen winking at her phone as she typed that last line. At least I hope I’m reading her right. It’s hard to gauge tone when someone’s typing like they’re from another era altogether. Which she is.

I can’t get back to sleep. Instead I get dressed in the best I have to wear: a black t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and my hunter’s boots. I give my shirt the old sniff test, and, well, it could be worse. I guess.

…No, I can’t go out smelling like this. I’ve got a sink, some dish detergent, and hours of time for the shirt to air dry, which I think should be plenty if I wring it out enough. Should I polish my boots? I’m going to polish my boots. Should I polish the sword? No, no, who brings a sword to an expensive steakhouse? That’s stupid. Oh, I hope Carmen doesn’t expect me to pay my half of the meal. I definitely don’t have the money for that. She probably doesn’t right? She knows I’m poor, probably, and she’s one of those old-fashioned Lady Gentleman types who will definitely insist on paying. I think.

Aaaa, I’ve never been treated to a fancy dinner date like this before. I never learned the etiquette for this stuff!

Breathe, Hanna. You already thought you fumbled her once, and look where we are now. I’m sure she’s not expecting me to be a perfect picture of a 17th century Victorian lady. I’m at least more sure of that than I am what century the Victorian era was.

It takes me most of the next four hours to calm myself down and feel at least as presentable as I can possibly make myself under the circumstances. My shirt is still a little damp, but I can deal with it. It’s time. I’ve heard the beep of her car horn. I just have to step outside and meet up with my date.

Ohmygod the suit Carmen’s wearing today is even fancier than the one I last saw her in. I don’t even know suit stuff, but I can tell that there’s extra tailoring happening there and a whole vest under the coat and a handkerchief in her front pocket folded in some origami-like design. Her smile is even more handsome than I remember as she opens the passenger door for me.

The car is just like her suit, way fancier than I know the words to describe and probably Italian. It’s a convertible, I know that much, and when we take off, I’m thankful that the wind finishes drying my shirt. You’d think inside the city there wouldn’t be much fun to get out of a sports car, but traffic seems to part for her the same way as the crowds did back in the club. She blasts through the streets as though there were no obstacles at all, and even the lights turn green just in time for us to scream through each intersection at top speed, or what I imagine top speed to be. Though I suspect any speed Carmen does is “top” speed, honestly.

Dinner is surprisingly chill. As promised, nobody bothers me about the dress code. One look from my date, and humans bend over backward to accommodate her every whim. It even makes me feel powerful just being in her company. The two of us enjoy light and flirty conversation that stays away from the topic of Dracula or murder. With the aid of some nice wine, I eventually manage to loosen up around Carmen and even forget to worry about which fork is which.

Vampires don’t eat much, and when they do, they tend to only have an appetite for meat, but Carmen surprises me. We split a massive porterhouse cooked black and blue, and she doesn’t just eat her fair share, she also samples each of the sides, commenting approvingly on the mashed potatoes, even. I surprise myself by devouring an entire salad, and I start to think maybe my body has been craving a lot more greens than I’ve had access to lately. I should really tell my sisters I need more veggies in my diet.

As if inspired by that thought, Carmen brings up the topic of my family. “May I ask about the nature of your relationship with Victoria and Elizabeth?”

I giggle at the question. It’s a fair one, though, if Carmen’s genuinely interested in dating me. “They’re my sisters,” I answer simply, though I soon realize that needs some clarification. “At least in private. Publicly I’m just Liz’s personal bloodbag.”

“Quite the age gap between you sisters,” Carmen observes.

“Well, I guess I’m an honorary sister, like I’m an honorary vampire. I drink blood with them, you know.” I waggle my eyebrows flirtatiously at my date. “Also we do fuck, which is probably not very sisterly behavior, but…” I let the sentence hang with a shrug.

Carmen appears puzzled. “Is this some sort of initiation rite before they turn you properly?”

“No, they’re just being— Oh, you don’t know.” My mood sinks at having to confront this topic. “You can’t turn vampire hunters,” I explain. “Cursed bloodline. Believe me, I’ve tried.” I don’t cry. I shed no tears. I refuse to. I’ve mourned my fate enough for one lifetime. “I would give anything to be able to join this family for real, but it’s never going to be in the cards for me.”

My last few words are quiet, practically a whisper. Try as I might, it’s impossible to fully hide my heartbreak.

“Never say never.” My date reaches across the table to put her hand on mine. “The world is full of mysteries and powers beyond your knowledge. Far fewer things are beyond mine, and even I do not know everything. Nevertheless, what I do know is this: Morris Boltman does not get to have the final word in the book of your life. There is hope for you yet.”

The tears well up and fall down my face against my will. I can’t look her in the eye right now, but somehow when Carmen says this, it doesn’t feel like the cruelty of false hope. I want to believe her. I want a future I can look forward to.

#empty spaces #my writing #Night's Longing #vampires #romance

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